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entrancelogs2017-03-10 12:12 pm
beatupgrass) wrote in entrancelogs2017-03-10 12:12 pm
[OPEN] Ooo 5, 6, 7, minus 9 lives
Who: Rocket and YOU...
Where: True Lab, aka The Traumatic Memories Theme Park
When: All through the event
Rating: PG-13 for Rocket's mouth and any mention of his Trauma
Summary: LOOK AT THIS CUTIE... no don't. he will bite your fingers off. (Pretend I have appropriate icons for this. Or just look at pictures of baby raccoons. It's great.)
aka Rocket is unfortunately teensy, is having Half-World flashbacks, and hates everything.
The Story:
ᴀ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴀᴏꜱ, ɪᴛ ᴅᴇꜰɪᴇꜱ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
[nononoNO NO NO.
It's all he can think when he first wakes up. It's unusual to wake up to a nightmare, rather than from, but he should have expected this. He knew that stupid message from that Alice kid was going to bite him on the ass. He just didn't know how bad.
He has to take stock of himself in a hidden corner, trying to parse together what the hell has happened to him. He doesn't have any of his augmentations- well, not true. He has a few. His throat is still raw from where they installed the cybernetic implants to his vocal chords to turn his vocalizations to actual speech and the scar over his neck is still raw like they put it in only days ago.... Days? It's been years.
Everything else though... Those came later. Not much later for some, but later, which makes him all but useless. In a place that reminds him a little too much of where he came from, and all these people milling around does nothing to assuage that feeling of fear and dread at the pit of his stomach.
He stays hidden, waiting, and when the door opens, he bolts out of hiding lightning fast- a brown blur zipping by- only to realize he isn't accustomed to his legs working quite like this. It's like atrophy, except they're perfectly healthy legs for a juvenile raccoon, but to someone whose been operating with cybernetic limbs for several years, they're pitiful.
He gets through the door before it closes and then trips, falling flat on his face for a few seconds, before trying to get back up and running to the next hiding space. No one saw that, right?
Aw fuck. Someone saw it.]
ʙ. ᴅᴏ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴜᴄᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ- ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀꜱᴇ
[The Amalgamates may be harmless according to that network post- which he avoided because he doesn't even want to look at the person responsible for this shitshow when he can't even do anything to them except claw and bite pitifully- but he's still much smaller and dogs and whatever the hell he is (raccoon or otherwise) do not mix well. He's observing someone else dealing with them from the top of some equipment (and hating every second of it, because being this close to some of these things is making him anxious- not that he hasn't been anxious this whole time), and watching what they do.]
Look, I'm the last guy to be advocatin' for not shootin' things that look dangerous, but leave 'em alone.
[It's unmistakably Rocket's voice coming from the shadows of the wall, even if he's blending in really well and too small to see clearly, especially with the fog] They didn't ask t' be made.
ᴄ. ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪ'ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇꜱɪꜱᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ
[Finding the weapons cache is a stroke of luck and Rocket wastes no time in clambering up the wall and picking up something small enough he thinks he can use, only to find that he lacks the augmentations to his skeletal structure to even hold it properly.
Great. He's anxious, waiting for the hammer to drop, and now if any of those white coat bastards decide to crawl out of the woodwork- and he's convinced they will (he knows they will. they always do.)- he can't even defend himself.
Which is why anyone who happens to pass by will get the semi-hysterical, but mostly depressing sight of a tiny raccoon grumbling over a small pistol with way more fury than that tiny body should be able to handle.]
ᴅ. ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ꜰɪɢʜᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴜʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
[This isn't creepy at all...
The vats are new- nothing like that ever existed on Half-World, at least not that he ever saw. The prevailing sense of dread and wrongness, however, has amped up to eleven and he's wandered so far on so much adrenaline that he's getting exhausted, but now that he's here, he has to find something. He knows he does, deep in his animal hindbrain.
It's difficult, however. Every sound sends him scurrying towards the shadows or growling low in a way that his cybernetic vocal chords can't quite translate. Eventually, he finds what he's looking for- a single vat and in it... himself. His better self, he has to agree, reluctantly. He may have hated every minute and never asked for any of it, but dammit he's used to those augmentations now. They're his.
Now how does he break himself out of there...
He tries to climb up on the vat, but the surface is too slippery, and he's past the point of his temper being the first thing that blows when he gets frustrated. Right now, he's just genuinely scared. As he slides off the vat and onto the floor, it's with a frantic, desperate whine, he yells:] A little help here?!
Where: True Lab, aka The Traumatic Memories Theme Park
When: All through the event
Rating: PG-13 for Rocket's mouth and any mention of his Trauma
Summary: LOOK AT THIS CUTIE... no don't. he will bite your fingers off. (Pretend I have appropriate icons for this. Or just look at pictures of baby raccoons. It's great.)
aka Rocket is unfortunately teensy, is having Half-World flashbacks, and hates everything.
The Story:
ᴀ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴀᴏꜱ, ɪᴛ ᴅᴇꜰɪᴇꜱ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
[nononoNO NO NO.
It's all he can think when he first wakes up. It's unusual to wake up to a nightmare, rather than from, but he should have expected this. He knew that stupid message from that Alice kid was going to bite him on the ass. He just didn't know how bad.
He has to take stock of himself in a hidden corner, trying to parse together what the hell has happened to him. He doesn't have any of his augmentations- well, not true. He has a few. His throat is still raw from where they installed the cybernetic implants to his vocal chords to turn his vocalizations to actual speech and the scar over his neck is still raw like they put it in only days ago.... Days? It's been years.
Everything else though... Those came later. Not much later for some, but later, which makes him all but useless. In a place that reminds him a little too much of where he came from, and all these people milling around does nothing to assuage that feeling of fear and dread at the pit of his stomach.
He stays hidden, waiting, and when the door opens, he bolts out of hiding lightning fast- a brown blur zipping by- only to realize he isn't accustomed to his legs working quite like this. It's like atrophy, except they're perfectly healthy legs for a juvenile raccoon, but to someone whose been operating with cybernetic limbs for several years, they're pitiful.
He gets through the door before it closes and then trips, falling flat on his face for a few seconds, before trying to get back up and running to the next hiding space. No one saw that, right?
Aw fuck. Someone saw it.]
ʙ. ᴅᴏ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴜᴄᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ- ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀꜱᴇ
[The Amalgamates may be harmless according to that network post- which he avoided because he doesn't even want to look at the person responsible for this shitshow when he can't even do anything to them except claw and bite pitifully- but he's still much smaller and dogs and whatever the hell he is (raccoon or otherwise) do not mix well. He's observing someone else dealing with them from the top of some equipment (and hating every second of it, because being this close to some of these things is making him anxious- not that he hasn't been anxious this whole time), and watching what they do.]
Look, I'm the last guy to be advocatin' for not shootin' things that look dangerous, but leave 'em alone.
[It's unmistakably Rocket's voice coming from the shadows of the wall, even if he's blending in really well and too small to see clearly, especially with the fog] They didn't ask t' be made.
ᴄ. ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪ'ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇꜱɪꜱᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ
[Finding the weapons cache is a stroke of luck and Rocket wastes no time in clambering up the wall and picking up something small enough he thinks he can use, only to find that he lacks the augmentations to his skeletal structure to even hold it properly.
Great. He's anxious, waiting for the hammer to drop, and now if any of those white coat bastards decide to crawl out of the woodwork- and he's convinced they will (he knows they will. they always do.)- he can't even defend himself.
Which is why anyone who happens to pass by will get the semi-hysterical, but mostly depressing sight of a tiny raccoon grumbling over a small pistol with way more fury than that tiny body should be able to handle.]
ᴅ. ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ꜰɪɢʜᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴜʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
[This isn't creepy at all...
The vats are new- nothing like that ever existed on Half-World, at least not that he ever saw. The prevailing sense of dread and wrongness, however, has amped up to eleven and he's wandered so far on so much adrenaline that he's getting exhausted, but now that he's here, he has to find something. He knows he does, deep in his animal hindbrain.
It's difficult, however. Every sound sends him scurrying towards the shadows or growling low in a way that his cybernetic vocal chords can't quite translate. Eventually, he finds what he's looking for- a single vat and in it... himself. His better self, he has to agree, reluctantly. He may have hated every minute and never asked for any of it, but dammit he's used to those augmentations now. They're his.
Now how does he break himself out of there...
He tries to climb up on the vat, but the surface is too slippery, and he's past the point of his temper being the first thing that blows when he gets frustrated. Right now, he's just genuinely scared. As he slides off the vat and onto the floor, it's with a frantic, desperate whine, he yells:] A little help here?!
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[another shelf down. then another. finally, he's cautiously hit the floor on all fours and moving slowly.] This place is run by a nicer class of scientist, then. Back in the day, if you were a mistake you ended up dead.
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None of them can die. [Too late, it occurs to them how that might sound. Like they've tried. They have tried, to no avail. Even if they - ha ha. They know how that feels, don't they?]
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he steps slowly out of the shadows, tiny and insignificant and apprehensive in the face of the giant dog-beast that could probably snap him up in one bite if it tried and him without a way to defend against it other than by being faster.] I dunno how much good it'll do 'em to live like that.
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It's not a lot of fun. [If they sound like they're speaking from experience, it's because they are.]
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and the encroaching dread at the back of his mind is threatening to fully consume him and leave him a panicky mess. he shakes his head, as if trying to brush it away.] I gotta get out of here...
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[A Bad Memory worming its way in between their fingertips, sliding into their pockets, into their INV, into the list of numbers running hot in their head. And one by one, the Memoryheads begin to fade, as though they were never there.
They don't want to - look at him directly, not if he's afraid. But there's still an unmistakable, apologetic look to their gaze, when they half-turn.]
I'm sorry.
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No, no, nonono... There's a way out. There's always a way out. [he's been told prisons are inescapable before. he was told Half-World protected by its gridlocked wall was impossible to break free of, but he still did it.]
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He sounds like he's panicking, and the longer they look, the more edged his outline becomes. Something furred, something small, and they've heard that particular inflection on the words before.
They know him, don't they?]
It'll be over. [They adopt as soothing a tone as they can.] Just - just a few days. That's however long these events last. Right?
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Somethin' bad's about to happen. [there's a strangled note in his voice.] I can feel it.
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They know panic. They know it entirely too well. Keep their voice steady, low, and level. Nothing to worry about right now, like this. Just keep him present, even if he looks nervous, looks about ready to claw his fur off.]
Like what?
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[he struggles to find the words or an experience he can relate it to. and he can only find one and it makes him make a guttural pained noise.] Like when you can hear them down the hall and you know d'ast freakin' well they're coming for you, but they're taking their sweet frickin' time gettin' there.
[the last sentence is sound through gritted teeth, muffled as he tries to pull himself into a tight ball of frustrated anxiety.]
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[Keep their tone low and even, as soothing as they can. Slowly, they hunker down so they're level with him, small as he is. Making themself small is easy. Making themself look less like something capable of the destruction that they are.]
Breathe.
[To start. Just breathe. Slow, and even.]
There's nothing else down here. Just the Amalgamates, and you, and me.
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[it's a minor quibble, but it doesn't sound panicked at least.]
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[They say it simply, evenly, like it's a pronouncement of hard fact, irrefutable. If he doesn't want people to see him like this, then they won't. They'll make sure of it.]
I'll make sure they won't.
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slowly he gets back to his feet- instinctively trying to get up on two legs before he has to fall back on four.] Thanks, kid... I really owe you that stun gun now.
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It's okay. We... [How's did Mick put it?] We can pay it forward. Help each other out.
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[he just... didn't expect it to be this sort of moment.]
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How about...we keep helping each other out? No matter what. We don't have to owe each other anything.
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[it sounds fake- not owing anyone anything- but okay.]
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The puzzles might give us a way out. Or...maybe just somewhere nice than here.
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[These ones aren't quite the same as those that they're used to seeing and using, Underground, but it doesn't matter. Even without Chara's help, they can put together some jigsaw pieces.]
Are you?
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[he starts to say something and then cuts himself off, grimacing. puzzles, as it turns out, are a nice way of testing manual dexterity on newly augmented hands.] I ain't done it in awhile, but I can kinda eyeball it. I got good eyes.
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I already have two. Back home, there were only four.
[So they're halfway there! Not...living on any prayers, though.]
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oh. that's actually exciting, really.] Keys! You mean the stupid keys. I haven't even paying attention to 'em, 'cause I've just been waiting for other people to open the doors for me.
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