EVENT - Ripple and Warp IC log (part 1!)

[pluviosamods]

ripple and warp

Hello and welcome to the IC log for Pluviosa's Fourth Wall event, Ripple and Warp!

In addition to providing information about how characters arrive on the new deck (whether they're existing passengers or not), this post also serves as a place where Fourth Wall characters can post top-levels without joining the game community.

Further information on Fourth Walls in general and the other accompanying OOC updates to the game can be found on the OOC information post here. This post also serves in lieu of a regular between-events Test Drive.

Finally, you may now start sending in your applications to keep your AU, CRAU, and so on characters around after the Fourth Wall! Be sure to note the minor changes to the Applications page (namely, the addition of an "AU information" section).

Without further ado - How did you get here? And more importantly, where is 'here' anyway?

existing characters

Whether or not characters remember falling asleep on the evening of Day 37, they wake up somewhere different on Day 38, lying on a couch in an almost-familiar room. The couch is similar to the ones in the lounge, though those with keen noses will note that the cushions don't smell the same - there's no scent of your fellow passengers, or of the faint hint of an unknown, arid place that first accompanied the clean furnishings the Ship dragged out.

The room isn't one you've been in before, either, but it's still clearly on the Ship somewhere - there's the familiar motion of the legs moving, and the overhead emergency lights (the only source of light initially in the room) are the same as the ones in the hallways on Fern that the Ship has been working so hard to restore. However, that doesn't mean that it's hard to see - indeed, considering the contents of the room, the low lighting might be a blessing in disguise.

It's full of mirrors.

Not only the sorts of mirrors that character would expect to find, the ones that have been missing from the Ship's bathrooms and other expected places, though there are certainly plenty of those in the room - but the walls, the door, and the ceiling are also all mirrors. Mirrors hang on a portion of the larger furniture in what appears to be the living room of a suite. It's not as dramatic as it could be, but aside from the couch characters wake up on, it's pretty close. The floor, at least, is not reflective mirrors, though it's not much less shiny - instead of the usual hotel-esque carpet of the suites, there's seamless stone tile in stormcloud grey, slight variations in the color indicating marble. And all of those reflective surfaces are perfectly clean - although it's possible to find dried spots of decay on the backs of the mirrors, overall, it seems as though time doesn't have claim on this part of the Ship, much less the Growth.

And of course, where there are mirrors, there are reflections.

Some of them - probably the majority - are normal, perfect mirrors of the person the character expects to see. Some of them are distorted, but in a normal, mundane way - funhouse mirrors among the panels on the walls, making you wide or skinny or warped.

And then some of them show reflections of you that are distorted, not as in bent, but as in there being something different about the you that's in them. Different clothes; different hair; different age; different species. Added scars, or missing ones; limbs missing, or replaced with something else. A completely unknown you in the mirror.

For the most part, these altered reflections act the way you would expect, imitating the movements of the rest of the reflections in the room. But sometimes they don't. Sometimes they climb out of the mirror - and whether they're friendly or not remains to be seen.

There's a note on the mirror-topped table next to the couch. In backwards writing that needs to be held up to a mirror to be read easily, it says:

Thanks for visiting! I'm sorry I couldn't be there to meet you, but there's just so many people here today!

I wonder if you'll get a chance to meet the real you?

Good luck!

new characters and visitors

For those who are new around here, the method of arrival is... a bit different. This applies equally to characters who are just here for the fourth wall (alternates of existing characters etc) or those who will be apped as permanent residents - there isn't a distinction to these categories until the end of the event.

These characters arrive with a first sensation of being pressed against a hard, glass surface - not unlike the whispers of sensation that haunted the existing passengers over the last few days. The difference is that this time, the glass you're pressed against isn't a horizontal floor or bed - it's vertical or at least mostly vertical, and you can tell which way is down.

Or, put another way: Newly arrived characters start their boatride on the wrong side of the mirrors that are packed away into the unknown deck. They are facing towards the real world side, the way they would if they were reflections made physical, but turning around and looking behind them is nearly impossible.

Indeed, there's a growing pressure forcing them against the glass barrier. It grows harder and harder to breathe, almost like drowning, or being crushed by water pressure -

Until, just when you think you can't survive any more, something gives way, and you stumble out of the mirror into the real world. It's not the glass breaking - it's more like forcing your way through a soap bubble or the membrane that sits inside an eggshell that separates the hard pieces from the white. Water, too, cascades down out of the mirror with you, splattering all over the floor, but it's just water, and it doesn't seem to have left more than a bit of surface dampness on you.

However, when characters turn around, they will find that while the glass is still in place and unbroken, the mirror will no longer reflect anything - not even the shine of light cast on the glass - rendering these mirrors completely black. This reflectivity stays on the puddle of water around your feet instead, which aggressively reflects the area around it even if taken elsewhere - even if poured into a cup. In motion, it's too transparent to be taken for mercury or silver, but when pooled undisturbed, it does not ripple in response to the motion of the ship. Only the actions of characters or other forces can cause ripples. Otherwise, it appears to be normal water.

Characters who are alternates of each other might come out of the mirrors while they're literally being reflected (a certain surprise for those who are on the normal side of the mirror doing the looking), but they might also just appear in rooms all by themselves, or in the presence of someone else they know (or think they know). Those who don't have any immediate connections among the current passengers are more likely to appear in some empty room, but ultimately this is left to player discretion.

shallower reflections

Not all reflections are as potentially friendly as those played by those of us on the player side of the screen, however. In addition to the "deeper" reflections played by real humans, who have or at least appear to have personalities and histories of their own, there are also "shallow" reflections. Unlike the Fourth Wall arrivals, shallow reflections can't be of characters who aren't present at the time - they only appear in response to characters looking into mirrors (whether those characters are existing residents or new arrivals).

The shallow reflections come out of the mirrors just like the Fourth Wall arrivals, but there's always something a little off about them. Some of them stay reversed like a reflection; some of them don't make any noise when they move and cannot speak; some of them come out of the mirrors with the funhouse-esque warped reflections and stay that way. Like their more 'real' counterparts, the mirrors the shallow reflections come out of turn completely flat, unreflective black; unlike their counterparts, they don't really hesitate in striding out, much less stumble and potentially collapse.

What do they want? To shove whoever they're a reflection of into the black mirror they came from. What happens if they succeed?

You die. I mean, probably. There's no way of knowing unless one of them does succeed, after all. If you want your character to die in this fashion, please let the mod team know. While we cannot guarantee that interesting things will happen to all characters (and those who are only here to visit for the Fourth Wall are not eligible), this may have permanent consequences for your character, take them out of play for longer ICly than a typical death, or impact other characters in the game beyond the typical levels of emotional harm. Or some combination of all three.

Fortunately, the shallow reflections only have physical strength on their side - they do not possess any powers of those they take the shapes of, and they can be killed in largely the same way as unremarkable flesh and blood humans. A killing blow causes them to collapse into the same hyper-reflective water as described above; the mirror they came out of remains black.

??? deck

The deck itself is open fully to character navigation. Like the lab specimen storage of Zinnia, this deck - whose name is not posted anywhere for characters to find easily - is clear of any signs of Growth, and manages to feel chilly even if you get up to the top deck where the sun is shining.

Or... Should be shining. Regardless of the weather on other deck dimensions, the skies above this deck are
always, at best, a cloudy, half-stormy grey. The air above hangs tense, like the clouds are waiting for something to happen. Unlike the other instances of Ship weather, you don't need Neuvillette's particular affinity with water to sense it - any character with empathic or telepathic powers will be able to feel the sense of looming, helpless frustration in the clouds.

The most notable feature of this deck, of course, is that it's full of mirrors. Indeed, it's not only the mirrors that are missing from the suite bathrooms, the public restrooms by the cafeteria, and so on - there are far more mirrors than the Ship would reasonably need to outfit the decks it has, even including the multidimensional nature of it. Mirrors hang from the walls, and then more mirrors lean against those, or against the other furnishings, or even against each other (since some of them are standing mirrors), and the groups against the walls are often five or six panels deep with the largest at the back the side of the glass panels of the Ship's sliding glass balcony doors. (Yes, those are also replaced by mirrors, reflective in both directions.) Tabletops are reflective in their own rights, and then littered with even more, antique-looking hand mirrors and makeup compacts and those little circular mirrors sold in bags by the dozen at the craft store, only an inch across.

Considering all the reflective surfaces, it might be a good thing that there is only emergency power supplied to this deck - enough to keep the guide lights on and ensure that the sliding doors (though not the elevators) are working, and that whatever system pumps water through the faucets and showers is still going. The water is all cold, however, and there isn't any food available on the deck so far as characters are able to find. In the place where characters are used to finding the cafeteria, there is instead a terrifying mirrored bar filled with empty bottles and glasses as well as - well. Take a guess.

With the exception of the sliding glass doors in the suites, the glass of windows and so forth seems to be what it should be - though it's more reflective than seems natural, too. Like Zinnia, the cleaniness of this deck means that characters have full run of it, all the way down to the lounge on the bottom of the Ship - which is the only place that isn't completely clean on this deck. The super-reflective water that pours out of the mirrors seems to have flowed down here at some point, where it sits, unaffected by the motion of the Ship, about an inch deep across the entire floor. This water is the only feature down in the bottom lounge - there is no furniture, in contrast to its Zinnia counterpart.

And on this floor, at the very bottom, and only this floor, the reflective water has the smell - only the smell, not any other qualities - of fresh blood.

The Ship will not answer characters here - although the terminals in the residential deck that can normally be used to communicate with it (in whatever limited capacity) are present, their screens are (of course!) mirrors, and unresponsive. There's also no signs of drones about, not even the basic roomba-like cleaning drones; there's no evidence that they've been here recently, either.

A follow-up log, in which the Ship manages to make contact with characters wherever they are, will be posted later (mod goal time is 2-3 weeks from now). That log will take place on Day 40 and will bring with it food (for everyone who has gotten very hungry by then) and drone assistance, but whether characters actually manage to escape at that point or later on on Day 42 is left open to the opinions of you, the players! Both current players and visitors will be able to vote in a Discord poll on the matter, to be posted in the Discord announcements channel tomorrow (after you've had the chance to sleep on this post and let it cook in your brains a little).

Happy playing! Questions can be asked on Discord or added to the usual questions header below this post.

Comments

Executor Federico Giallo || Arknights || About a day or two into the event

[sanktawithashotgun]

(This is all happening soon after. This. Federico is running through the mirrored maze at full speed, breathing frantic, eyes wild and unseeing. The normally composed, clinical sankta's face is drenched with tears.

Maybe you see him run by. Maybe he clips you on the way down the hall, the momentum sending you both spinning a bit. He just shakes his head, muttering something unintelligible and keeps running. Those are some ways to encounter this frazzled sankta…as for what happens after the inevitable collapse:)

Aftermath (TW: Grief, Major Character death themes, near panic attack):

His body won’t stop shaking. His breath stutters, raw and uneven, catching on the sobs that still won’t fully subside. His fingers twitch where they press against the cold, uneven floor, grasping at nothing, grasping at something—anything—to ground him. But there’s nothing. Nothing except the awful, suffocating silence where Sunday used to be.

Sunday is gone.

The thought slams into him again, relentless. His stomach lurches, his chest tightening around the reality of it, squeezing his lungs, making each breath feel shallower. The burning in his throat won’t fade, and his face is damp—too damp—but he refuses to acknowledge it.

He had failed.

His fingers flex and curl, clenching into fists against the ground as if the pressure will somehow steady him. It doesn’t. His body sways slightly as he pushes himself upright, his limbs weak, trembling. He’d been running too much, his still healing body taking too many hits. He lacks supplies, lacks a place to regroup. He grits his teeth against the exhaustion weighing on him, the sharp grief, forcing himself back, inch by inch, until his shoulders hit the icy surface of a mirror. The impact sends a dull jolt through his frame, reverberating painfully through his chipped wings, but he barely notices.

His blurred gaze flickers sideways, catching movement, a shape—his own reflection. It’s unfamiliar. Hollowed-out eyes, pale skin streaked with dirt and grime with clear tracks breaking it up, lips parted slightly as he fights to get his breathing under control. The background is filled with figures, blood, failures, the face staring back at him numb and worn.

He looks—

Federico rips his gaze away, his stomach twisting. He refuses to look.
Instead, his hands fumble for his weapon. His patron firearm, snatched up in his haste. He’d lost his cloak, but as long as he has his weapons, his ties to The Law, his duty…there. He finds it after a second, fingers locking around the familiar weight of his shotgun. His grip is too tight, his knuckles aching from the pressure, but he doesn’t loosen it. The steel is cold against his skin, solid in a way nothing else feels right now.

He needs to hold onto something. He needs to keep watch.

He cannot afford to break down any further than he already has.

He draws his knees up slightly, curling in just enough to brace the shotgun against his chest, cradling it like a lifeline. His wings twitch, shards of black obsidian glass curling inward, instinctively folding around him as if to block out the suffocating press of the mirrors. The air feels too thick, too heavy. His ears ring, the silence unnatural, deafening.

If someone were to stumble upon him like this—

A lone, crumpled figure, huddled into himself like a wounded animal, wings drawn tight as if trying to make himself small, trying to disappear—

He would look utterly lost. A battered soldier, clinging to any shred of control over the situation he can.

He knows he needs to rest. It’s logical. A necessity. A body pushed too far will falter, no matter how strong the will behind it.

But there’s no good place for it. He hasn’t found one. No sanctuary, only mirrors as far as his weary eyes can see.

This will have to suffice. A corner of this wretched, twisting maze, his back to something solid, his weapon held close.

Sunday’s last request.

Keep himself safe. Keep the others safe.

He needs to find them. He needs to get back up...

His fingers twitch around his shotgun, his grip going lax for a moment before tightening again, alerted by the soft noise that makes. He blinks hard, the sting in his eyes sharp, his vision swimming. His body aches, exhaustion dragging at his limbs like lead. He blinks again. His head tilts forward slightly before he forces it back up, a small, jerking motion.

Not yet.

His breath evens out, just slightly. The unbearable sting behind his eyes softens, the tension in his shoulders dulling. The cold pressing against his back becomes distant, muted.

His grip loosens again. Just for a second.

His breathing deepens without him realizing. His wings slump, no longer curled so tightly, his entire body sinking into the wall behind him.

He fights it.

He loses.

Executor Federico Giallo keeps his vigil.

And unwillingly, gradually—he fails even that, as he slips into an uneasy sleep.

A Dream (Closed to Chirithy):

Uneasy sleep brings uneasy dreams. Somehow, Chirithy finds their way into one…

They'll find themselves in a small room, dimly lit by the flickering light of some candles. There are children’s toys and drawings strewn about, an unmade bed to the side, and an ivory cello propped lovingly on a stand against the wall.
The atmosphere is warm, quiet, broken only by soft sniffles and sobs, and the quiet scratching of crayons over paper. A single lamp pools soft light onto a desk, illuminating scattered papers, stubby crayons, and the small, furrowed face of a child hunched over his work.

A little boy, no older than seven, grips a crayon too tightly, pressing it to the page with a seriousness far beyond his years. The paper is already filled with jagged, overlapping shapes—some sharp, some curling inward like they're caving in on themselves. A tangle of emotion he doesn’t quite have words for yet.

Behind him, a slightly older girl in a black dress sits at the desk's other chair, her shoulders shaking with quiet, hiccuping sobs. She has turned slightly away, curling into herself, as if trying to disappear. Her long, dark hair falls over her face, hiding the blotchy redness in her cheeks, the way she clutches at her sleeves like she wants to pull them over her hands and vanish into the fabric.

She doesn't speak.

The boy glances at her, frustration flickering in his too-still expression.
Mirrors line the far side of the room, reflecting the scene at odd angles. Some of them are clear, capturing the quiet intimacy of the siblings in their small world. Others are subtly warped—distorting the lines of little Federico’s face, twisting his scribbled emotions into unrecognizable knots. One mirror, tucked away in the corner, does not reflect the room at all. It is dark, opaque, waiting.

Waiting for something.

Or someone.

The boy’s sky blue eyes flicker, catching movement, and he looks to Chirithy. He’s never been very expressive, but it is more obvious when the eyes of a child widen with surprise, perhaps even wonder.

“Soror…” he whispers, nudging the girl beside him, pointing. She looks up, tearstained face lighting up a little.

“Gattino? H-How’d you make it in here?”

A Will:

A.) Once he recovers adequately, Federico can be found in many places all around this strange mirrored floor. If he spots you, he’ll likely neutralize any threats you’re facing and escort you to safety. If you know him at all, you’ll probably notice he’s even quieter than usual, operating more like a man on a mission than a lost passenger.

The instruments…they’re likely in his room. He cannot reach them here…

He seems a little lost in thought. And very tired. But who isn't, here?

B.) Fou-Lu, whatever you’re doing, wherever you’re found, there is a very determined sankta approaching you. He’s stone-faced, but there’s a grim energy about him. Good luck.

C.) Federico can also be found in the mirrored bar, picking through the glass cups, deeply considering something. In regards to this part of the will, he can also be found just watching the sky through the windows. He just. Stands there. Like he’s waiting for something. (This part of the will is for Neuvillette.)

The man named Aventurine…he needs to provide council. Somehow. A difficult prospect when he himself is barely holding it together.

D.) As for the Prayer book…

“…would that also be in his room? Or would it be on his person?” he murmurs, trying his best to navigate his way back to where…it happened. “There was no body. If it was on his person, is it possible to burn? Perhaps Aurelia would know…”

At a distance, he makes for a fascinating contradiction. An Executor so focused on the will in his care, all other details seem to fade around him. Being so focused he’s distracted.

[nightmareofdivinity]

Fou-Lu is himself looking a bit panicked, a hand over his chest. He's busy dealing with the fact that he can feel his other half again, and is trying to make his way to him before he spots Federico heading towards him.

He stops. There's something about him that feels... ominous. His eyes flick to meet the Executor's and -

"What doth be the matter?" He's hesitant, shaky - but whatever's going on, he needs to find his other half quickly.

Oh buddy. Oh I'm so sorry.

[sanktawithashotgun]

Federico blinks at the nervousness this man is already exhibiting. "Are you well...?" he asks, hesitant. To many that may seem like an attempt at small talk, but it's more he's checking to make sure the man (draco...?) isn't in danger as well.

Still, he sucks in a breath, steadying. He'd never used to hesitate for this procedure. He presses a hand over his heart, where the will is stowed. The will of the deceased.

The deceased, who happens to be important to both of them.

"Forgive me for interrupting your day. I am Executor Federico Giallo. I come bearing news of an...unfortunate incident. It regards the death of a passenger on this landship." He looks up, meeting the dragon's eyes. The sankta looks...haunted. "As an executor, I deal regularly with matters of death. I understand it is not a comfortable topic for many. Are you prepared to receive this news?"

Normally he'd just barrel right on in. But he's. At least trying to be delicate, still processing it all himself.

[nightmareofdivinity]

"'Tis a... a personal matter, I suppose. Someone... someone I doth sense upon the ship now." He'll have to find him, but - ... but...

A passenger. And the only person who someone might need to inform him of the demise of is -

No. No. He takes a steadying breath, trying to regain his regal composure, but it's difficult. Why does everyone he care about die?

... He's heard death is not the end here. Maybe - maybe he'll be back? "... No. But deliver it anyway, messenger, though I doth suspect I know of what news thou wouldst inform me of."

[sanktawithashotgun]

"I see." He does, in a way. One such presence he could once perceive is now irrevocably extinguished—
Well. At least Fou-Lu is not in immediate danger.

He observes the way the dragon stiffens, as if bracing for impact. Perhaps he already knows.

Executor straightens.

"Understood. I am here to formally deliver notice of the passing of one Sunday, no surname." His voice falters, just slightly, as he speaks the name. That never happens. That never happens.

"Before his passing, the deceased entrusted me, as Executor, with the duty of carrying out his final will. As such, I am to deliver what remains of his personal effects into your possession."

From a reinforced bag affixed to his belt, he retrieves an article of clothing—carefully, almost reverently.

"The deceased made the following declaration: 'If anything of mine can be recovered, I ask that it be placed in Fou-Lu’s hands. I cannot bear the thought of leaving him with nothing to remember me by—nothing to hold dear. Namely: my clothing, jewelry, or my phone. My halo is also acceptable.'"

Executor presents a single white glove, smudged faintly with dirt.

"This is all that could be recovered. His body... could not be retrieved." The words are precise, factual. They land with a finality that even he is not fully prepared for.

"I--regret that I was unable to procure more." His professionalism fractures on those last words. His breath is too tight, his voice not as even as it should be.

He should not feel the weight of this duty. And yet.

Aftermath

[helborn]

Casper can smell death. And even if this one wasn't physical, the other's crumpled body is evidence enough that something has gone wrong. He sits down across from Federico, raven on his shoulder. He's silent, ignoring the false him appearing behind the sankta in the mirror.

"... You don't have to tell me what happened. It's clear you're upset. ... But there are people here willing to help you."

He ignores the false him on the ground with hollow eyes, the pale skin. The look of death that he knows all too well.

[sanktawithashotgun]

Federico's breath hitches, a quiet voice drawing him suddenly out of an uneasy doze. His grip tightens on his firearm, more out of reflex than any actual sense of danger. A surprise, unexpected presence, he should be prepared-

Federico raises his head, tears dried on his face. "Cas-" He scrubs the back of his hand against his face, trying to clear his vision. Yes...it's Casper. And Bob. Passengers. Safe. Good...

"Casper. I..." His breath shakes a little, for a moment. "I...do not think there is anything that can be done. I don't..." He. May still be waking up a little. Also since the dead boy is in the reflection behind him, he does not see it.

Perhaps it's for the best.

[helborn]

He freezes slightly at the firearm, but lets out a long breath when the other lets go. "I know that look. ... I've seen it all the time." Casper scoots a little closer and reaches into his pocket, pulling out some... toilet paper? Look, he's been a little sniffly.

"Here. ... Do you want a hug? You don't have to, I... I just know sometimes after someone loses someone else it... helps."

Casper's a very sweet boy...weeps

[sanktawithashotgun]

The boy flinches. Ah. The gun. Normally he'd...holster it. Put it away. But he can't seem to bring himself to do that. Not after being too slow to save--

"Look? What..." A glance in the mirror next to him. A thin, distraught version of himself looks back. Is that what he looks like...? Or is it another distortion...he looks away, to see some offered bath tissue. He blinks, confused for a moment. Still, he takes it, staring at it like it holds the answers of the universe. It's...oh. Some people use this for handkerchiefs, don't they? His were stored in his cape...and that's been left behind with...

"Thank you," he murmurs, pressing it to his face, to his nose. Casper's not the only one who's been sniffly, apparently. Being separated from their meager supplies in this new place already, Federico would argue that the boy is quite wise to keep something like this on him. If he had the energy.

He blinks. Looks up at the offer. Hug. That's...Arturia asked him for those when she was upset, lonely she said. After the children at school were cruel to her. Even avuncle asked him for them on occasion. Federico never quite...understood how it helped. Embracing changed nothing. Sunday's still gone.

(He remembers Doctor Medli wrapping her arms around him when he delivered his report on Sanctilaminium Ambrosii...he didn't understand then either. But. But...it softened something...and hugs steadied Sunday...)

He swallows, probably taking a rather long time to seriously consider this kind offer. But then... "I. Would not...mind. I don't..." His chest tightens. He presses on. "I do not know how it'll "help" as you say but. I don't...know what else to do..."

So technically a yes.

A Dream

[yourguidingcat]

A dream. Someone it knows is dreaming, someone it knows is hurt, is reaching out... It isnt hard at all to follow that pain to the dream, to the nightmare. Nightmares are what he's supposed to eat, after all. But this dream...

This isn't just a nightmare. This is something else.

"Federico?" he asks. And then, since he can guess why he's here, he follows that with... "Are you okay?"

h. here's more abstract dream stuff

[sanktawithashotgun]

It is indeed a nightmare, but in its early stages. A scene he knows, a wake of a different tragedy that goes hand in hand with what's happening now. The boy blinks, eyes widening. He...he'd not been asked that. Not once, when they were preparing for Amita's funeral. He was trying to help Arturia. She's not okay. Is he...?

"I..."

There's blood on Arturia's hands. She'll be a fugitive for this. He couldn't stop her and he can't stop her now- why why why- Why is she smiling??

What...? No, those are just tears. She didn't mean to. He'll draw it out for her. Then it'll all make sense. It has to...

Things...flicker with Chirithy's question. The reflections in the mirror warp to other scenes, too quick to make out. Federico, older, sitting in a chair with a young girl huddled, scared, in his lap. Another where he's standing over a man, dying in the arms of some sort of statue- another still, where a sankta like him kneels next to him, helping him salvage a singed, fragile flower-

Richele asked him that, back then, didn't he...Federico didn't know how to answer then either. Why did he even ask...?

Little Federico distorts as well. It's as if he himself is the drawing for a second, the lines inside and out twisting and crossing in confusing, agitated patterns. His breath shudders. Arturia disappears. Now tears drip down his face.

"I don't know, Gattino. It's...never hurt this much. I do not know h-how to make sense of it."

The black mirror isn't...quite empty anymore. Some silvery, torn feathers lay on the floor inside, otherwise empty and still and silent. While the other reflections flicker away quickly, that one in particular, stays.

[yourguidingcat]

Only one person on this boat - that Chirithy knew of, anyway - has silver feathers. Seeing them on the floor like that feels so... lonely, and sad. Chirithy presses a paw to that mirror, even though he should definitely be paying attention to his friend...

"What never hurt this much?" Chirithy asks, aiming for gentle wondering, and not quite-prodding to get their friend to think things through. They have an idea what it might be, but some conclusions are better dealt with when you come to them on your own.

[sanktawithashotgun]

It's alright. More tears spill down the boy's face as he watches the little cat place their paw against the empty, empty mirror. As if keeping him company. Is he lonely where he is...?

"I don't..." Federico scrubs at his face, his breath hitching. The tears are getting on the paper. That'll mess it up... "When Mamma and Papà died, I cried like this a little. But then...then I became an Executor like them, and then I wouldn't have to cry anymore. Crying doesn't- doesn't fix anything." Things hurt less at a distance, when he didn't understand it. Even his Amita passing was overshadowed by determination, to bring in Arturia for causing it-

But for Gerald? Clement? Sunday? He was right there. He should have been able to stop it. But...

"Failure, I suppose. I-It hurts. Sunday was my friend, I should have been able to- to..." He doesn't know what he could have done. And yet it still hurts.

A tragedy (a will)

[order_dove]

Robin has only recently recovered and is wandering the halls fuck... Still a little sore but it'll do.. best I can make it on a rush job and with such limited resources..... Now where is Sunday.. she managed to ping him and another entity a little while ago and has been heading in that direction I would have thought fedi-federico... Would have met back up with me by now... He seems strong so he better keep Sunday safe... she keeps having to stop herself from making little nicknames for these people she encounters they are not your friends robin... They are pawns twords Sunday... No no they are people they.. should be respected

Eventually after what feels like forever she finally gets another ping.. only one... weird.. maybe Federico sent Sunday back twords me... I can't ping across the entire ship so he must just be out of range as much as robin hates to admit it she's developing a soft spot for the soldier...

Then he turns the corner... It's Federico... Alone

"Federico where is Sunday?? Could you not find him??"

There is slight agitation in her voice.. fucking.... Ugh.. why do I have to do everything all the time...

As he gets closer something seems... Off.. he.. he doesn't look to hot.. his eyes look exhausted.. has he been sprinting around the entire ship???

"Federico where is Sunday... Why isn't he with you? I sent you to protect him I figured you'd be able to find him"

She wouldn't consider any other possibilities for the situation at the moment, Federico must have overestimated his abilities and got lost... Aeons fucking damnit.. where is Sunday...

He's got nothing but bad news ma'am

[sanktawithashotgun]

Executor can sense her approaching. A similar, painful frequency that he allows to clash with his. So similar to the one that's deafeningly silent now.

Perhaps...he allows it to resonate more painfully than usual. All while he watches the mirror in front of him. Two figures are reflected in it. One like him, another like Arturia...they seem to be working on a musical score together.

Robin approaches behind him. She asks where Sunday is. His shoulders tense, his wings going eerily still. He knew he'd have to face this eventually. He knew....but she's not in the will. So he...made it a lower priority.

But he doesn't run now. In fact, he just looks even more haggard, his shoulders bowing slightly with an incredible weight. He watches the mirror a bit longer.

Then she asks again. His head turns to her, his posture straightening. He doesn't quite meet her eyes.

This used to be easier, when he didn't...feel. When he wasn't personally involved. He's too close to this.

But Sunday entrusted his will to him. Told him to protect the others. His last wish.

"I found him, Signora," he rasps, the words heavy. "I did not find him in time, however."

It's now he turns to her, to properly relay this. "Signora Robin. I regret to inform you that your brother, Sunday, is now dead."

Oh no

[order_dove]

Robin is getting ready to spin him around fucking face me when I address you she reaches out her hand ready to grab him-

"I found him, Signora, I did not find him in time, however."

"What.."

She can already feel the dread icing her veins no..nononono!

He turns

"Signora Robin. I regret to inform you that your brother, Sunday, is now dead."

Robin failed
Sunday was gone
No
They both failed
he's... Gone?... No no no .. robins face darkens as her eyes close tears can be seen forming in the seconds before however no no no no no I failed... No.. HE FAILED I told him to protect Sunday... Stupid fucking bird why would I not do this myself. Sunday needs a delicate and firm hand to hold him.. not a fucking soldier... No..why... Is... everything...so... Hazy.. breathing...is ...hard.. her eyes open slowly, only he is no longer looking at the beautiful emerald eyes of the Oak family head...not how he knew them at least.. there was pink in them now mixed with the standard green, a pink very reminiscent of the eyes of the bird in the mirror, the eyes of a nightingale.

"I gave you one job.. and you failed..."

She looks away trying so desperately to contain her fury until she had more answers.

"Explain exactly how this happened... Or this breath might be your last.."

Her threat was drenched in venom as all of her wings open to their full extent, the eyes of the nightingale staring deep into him. He could practically feel THEIR presence but.. this time it's different... It's almost impossible for him to figure out just who THEY are.

Welp she asked

[sanktawithashotgun]

Normally he'd meet her eyes. It is proper social etiquite to make eye contact with people you are speaking to no matter how uncomfortable it is. He knows this. He's studied it. But it's...extra difficult now...

He bows his head in respect, in shared grief, when he notices her tears forming. But her breathing...a panic attack? "Signora..." he says, soft, tentative. Not the voice of a soldier or an Executor. It's just a man, who's lost someone important, trying, trying to comfort those left behind. "You must breathe."

He looks up again when she speaks, then freezes. Her eyes...is she going to use Arts?

She speaks of his failure. Robin is...not his superior in any sense. And yet he knows what she says to be true. And the statement still hurts. "I did." No excuses. He did fail.

He winces when those eyes bore into him once again, as if searching his very soul. His head hurts. It's been hurting so much.

He does not fear his own death. Not even as some...unseen force claws through and wrenches his pain and fear to the forefront. No. What he fears is continuing to fail...

His breath shudders. A report...he forces himself to straighten up, to look right at her, at the eyes, even as it makes the world spin slightly-

"By the time I found Sunday, he was being accosted by a...reflection of himself. Its goal was to put him...in the mirror, it seems. I tried to stop it." His fingers brush at his firearm. "It used him as a shield. I could not fire. Not at the risk of hurting Sunday." He swallows, feeling nauseous having to recall this in such a setting. "There were other reflections lying in weight. They hindered my progress. I couldn't...reach him." He forces his voice to remain steady.

"Sunday ordered me to depart. To protect myself and the others. Those were his last words. His final request before...before the mirror consumed him."

Aurelia!

[aureliasharr]

As Federico has his own extra senses, so too does Aurelia and her own senses tell her that a blooming pulsing sun is hunting for her through the ship. She can almost taste the heat on her skin, the dark purple glow hovering just out of sight.

She evades.

She flees, if she’s being honest. (And she isn’t). She avoids any hint of it and continues combing through the new ship for any sign of her (Not loved ones don’t think that) … her people. But even she can not evade forever, and it’s in the mess hall that the sun finally shines on her and she hides a wince as she turns and see’s…

Federico, clearly grieving, the taste of it heavy on her tongue and his absolute faith in setting it aflame. She nods to him, resigned. “What is it Executor?”

Aurelia, expecting a hunt or something. Federico, a lost puppy; help please...

[sanktawithashotgun]

It had taken him much longer than expected to find her. Yes, this floor of the landship is a twisted maze of mirrors and tricks. He's gunned down many hostile reflections, for himself, and to protect...everyone else. All he can.

Executor had grown resigned to just...not finding her until they found a way out of here. It wasn't until he'd turned to other parts of the will that she- oh. There she is. Is she in pain?

"Signora Aurelia. I-" His voice is rough from disuse. He clears his throat. "I have been searching for you. I...require your assistance on a matter pertaining to..." The grief threatens to swallow him for a moment. He needs to focus on what he can do now.

And Executor Federico was never one to beat around the bush.

"Sunday has died. He has entrusted me with his will, and I...do not know how to fulfill the part regarding you as things are now." He looks up. There is loss painted across his face, however minute. Loss of a friend. Loss of direction.

He knows Aurelia is capable of many strange and magnificent feats. "Thus, I've come to request your assistance."

Please.

Light Brain washing, you sure are getting a lot of this lately?

[aureliasharr]

Oh

Oh no.

Aurelia grabs the feelings that Sunday’s death, or the news of it at least, and tosses them into the back of her mind for the hunger to hollow out and swallow. She doesn’t need those right now. There’s work to do. There’s always work to do. Aurelia looks away from Federico for a long moment, gathering her thoughts and arranging them neatly. Plan of action. Step one, get Federico to stop burning like the sun. Step two, gather more information. Step three, devise new plans of action.

“Federico. I will assist you, but you must listen to me.” She starts, tone firm as she returns her gaze to the grieving young man. She points at a nearby table, issuing a single order. “Sit.”

She expects him to listen, she’s heard much of him from Dr. Ratio and her own conversations with him have drawn neat conclusions. Federico is a man who takes orders very well, and feels lost without them. It’s all too easy for her to manipulate that tendency, directing him to sit across from her at the table and then ordering “Look into my eyes, then tell me what happened.

Does Federico know of her abilities? The way her eyes can steal away the thoughts and will of others? She restrains herself, even as she stares into the hazy blue gaze and extends her will out to brush against his mind. It’s easy for her to grab his thoughts and pull, wrap clouds over his feelings. To block away any thoughts of “Duty” or “Faith” and convince him to only focus on “Here” and “Now”.

It lessens the burn on her skin at least. Step one. Step two is to listen.

It is wise to get one's brain semi-regularly cleaned, right? Like going to the dentist!

[sanktawithashotgun]

Aurelia is always someone who is abnormally still. And yet she turns and seems to freeze for a long moment.
...Executor knows she heard him. But he also understands needing time to collect one's thoughts. So he bows his head, and waits (which is, unfortunately, another act of faith in its own right. Sorry about the brights.).

She says she will assist him. That's...a great relief. His wings droop slightly as he raises his gaze, listening as instructed. He can collect supplies for a ritual or search for more belongings or-

Sit. Sit? He can sit. He's sitting now. The chair scrapes as he follows the simple instruction, something actionable, something to do. He ignores how it's a relief for his overly tired body to land in any sort of resting position.

Look into her eyes? Is it a respectful custom for her, to keep eye contact while reporting? He feels a vague sense of dejavu when he meets her blood red eyes. There's...a deepness he wasn't expecting. And-

There's a tugging sensation and...oh. He's heard of this. He's heard Djall use similar methods in "therapy sessions" and the like. He's...not quite sure if that's what's happening. Is she sure she's not sarkaz...? This should be concerning...yet no such alarm bells sound. The circling thoughts, the endless ideas of what to do, what he needs to do, he shouldn't be resting when more could be dying right now-

Silenced. Smoothed out, into neat little sections where they belong.

Tell me what happened.

He can do that. He wants to. Especially since it...oddly doesn't hurt to recall anymore. The pain and exhaustion are distant now. He doesn't notice himself sagging forward in the chair, coming to lean on his elbows against the table, unable to break her gaze. All that matters is what he needs to tell Signora Aurelia now. Blessedly simple after...after...that thought unravels and drifts away. It doesn't matter.

"Sunday is gone," he says, simple, as if he were just speaking about the weather, if a bit worn down. "There are reflections that emerge from the mirrors on this floor. Some have a form of sentience, a..." A slow blink. "Goal...? Yes. One seemed very determined to trap Sunday in the mirror from whence it came. I could not reach him in time. So the reflection succeeded." His brow furrows slightly. There was...a problem with that, wasn't there?

aftermath or thereabouts, fedi's gotta be running ragged no matter what

[unihilism]

"Whoa, hey, hey."

There are hands steadying Federico so that he does not fall over as he nearly passes out again. Malos has no trouble steadying the other man, but he's wary, he's confused. They know each other's names, but not much else about each other.

"You look like shit. Are you - oh, I see. Hang on."

He doesn't even need to ask if the man plans on taking a nap before he sees the problem. He eases Federico so that he's steady - either to the floor or against the wall - and then he starts tipping the mirrors over. He's not trying to break them, but neither does he seem particularly concerned if they break or not. All he's trying to do is get them face down to the floor. No reflections can come out, that way. No reflections can watch you, either.

"This is worse than the fucking plants, I swear," Malos grumbles. "But I wouldn't want to shut my eyes around them, either."

He sure is!! And keeps trying. Even if Malos has already helped alot weh (TW: light body horror??)

[sanktawithashotgun]

He- he didn't even notice he was falling until large hands are suddenly engulfing his shoulders. Executor blinks, bleary and rather startled. When did...

"Signore Malos."

He exhales sharply as Malos steadies him, but the breath is too thin, too controlled—like he’s holding something back. His posture is stiff, his jaw locked tight, as if sheer force of will could keep him upright. When Malos eases him down to the floor, Executor just lets it happen.
Not because he wants to. Because he has to. It seems his legs have decided to cease supporting his weight.

He barely registers the motion of the mirrors tipping over, though his eyes track them with a distant sort of focus. It’s only when Malos speaks again—grumbling about plants and reflections—that something in him flickers, some thread stretched too tight fraying further.

"Are...the mirrors worse...?" he murmurs.

For a moment, he isn’t here. He's remembering—Flamebringer on his knees, body wracked with pain as vines burst from his shoulder. The sickly glow of his Arts trying to combat it. The way Federico had barely—barely—saved him.

His fingers twitch.

He had found a solution. Had fought for it, made it happen, no matter how desperate it had been.

But now—

Sunday being held against the glass, swallowed whole. Federico reaching out, too slow, too late, watching the light in his eyes vanish into an abyss of glass and echoes.

This time, there was no saving--

Another mirror down. Another. It's...easier to stay in the present with less distortions moving about. ...Also the reminder that Signore Malos is quite strong is rather reassuring.
Executor's breath, a little unsteady, leaves him in a slow, controlled exhale, but it isn’t enough to steady the pounding in his skull. It's not enough. It never is.

“Perhaps...you are correct,” he mutters, though the words lack conviction. His voice is still even, still analytical, but there’s something wrong with it. Like it’s a breath away from unraveling.

His fingers curl into fists on the floor.

"It doesn’t matter," he says, quiet but firm. "There is still more to be done. His will is...I can still--"

He tries to push himself back off the floor, but, predictably, wobbles and sinks back down, unsure if the tilt of the room is Malos's efforts or his own warped perception. Pathetic.

i guess this is before he bumps into N (<- things that matter to me and me only)

[unihilism]

Federico mumbles about mirrors and Malos - can't keep his mouth from running. "Yeah, well, if a plant wants to eat me then a plant wants to eat me, that's just nature. I don't think the mirrors get to spit out weird and actively hostile reflections of me, you know? I was literally just a sword in one. Talk about fucked up."

Maybe the noise helps? Sometimes it helps - to make sounds - just so that someone else knows that you are still there.

Malos puts the last mirror down, then turns to squint at the Executor. "...whose will? What?"

And then he discards the thought.

"Look, no, shut up, sit down. I don't - even know if you're human, sorry, didn't ask, that might be rude - but look. Sometimes you need the rest. If don't rest then you won't be sharp enough to keep doing whatever it is you need to do. You're going to let people down if you run on fumes, alright?"

Jin used to do that all the time. Heh. 'Used to.' Looks like Malos is getting used to thinking about Jin in the past tense. That's not a thought he wants to examine, too closely.

"You can't achieve your goals if you pass out after three steps," Malos tells Federico, as he gently pushes the man down by the shoulder, so he's sitting again. "You need to rest."

if it matters to you it matters to me (nods nods)

[sanktawithashotgun]

The fact of the matter is that it does help. Federico blinks, bleary, looking around as Malos responds. He'd...been patrolling with his own thoughts for so long he'd...really not expected answers...plants eat to survive. It's in their nature. Mirrors...more blinking, wondering if he heard that right. "You...were a sword?" Is that a normal reflection possibility? Is Federico just a gun in one mirror somewhere? (No, bud, there's more to it than that...)

The noise, the mirrors being removed, shutting off distracting strange movements...Federico is slowly being coaxed out of his spiraling thoughts.

Then Malos turns to look at him, inquisitive. Who's will... "Sunday. He...he trusted me with-"

Shut up. Sit down. There's a satisfying pattern in those two orders. Simple, efficient. Malos isn't his commanding officer...but...Federico stares at him, mystified. Exhausted. Slowly processing what he's being told. "M'human. And sankta. Human is a broader classification..." Not the point.

Rest. He's right. But... "Rest is necessary. I. I know. But..." 'You're going to let people down if you run on fumes, alright?' Federico shakes his head, his breath going unsteady. "I...already have. Even with rest...it wasn't enough. Without, with, he's...they're both...gone..."

Still, he tries to get back up. And a large firm hand lowers him back down, each time. Not painful, but firm and unyielding. The sankta grits his teeth, his wings curling in around himself, his knees drawing up slightly. He knows he should rest. But the very idea of it sends him spiraling again, logically, that he's missing something, that he'll be too late. It's like his body has had enough, but his mind refuses to shut down.

Federico holds his aching head for a moment, tugging on his hair, then looks up at Malos, looking a bit more like a lost soul than an Executor for Laterano. "I'm...sorry, Signore Malos I don't- I don't know how. You're right- incredibly so, I just. Can't seem to." Even quieter, a soft realization. "I don't...know what else to do."