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⬣//GROWING WILDLY OUT OF CONTROL.
September 23rd—conference day. In the hours preceding the meeting, beta testers are supplied with information on how to access the virtual conference room and offered a set of conduct guidelines. Testers are urged to read them thoroughly and instructed to sign their name on the bottom of the page to confirm that they’ve read and understand the following guidelines:
1. All questions will be addressed. Do not interrupt speakers or other beta testers when they are asking questions or having their questions answered.Players are generously allowed one hour to filter in and find their seats, review the guidelines, and discuss the questions they’ve prepared with their fellow beta testers.
2. Conduct yourself professionally and appropriately. Do not curse, shout, or otherwise engage in disruptive behavior. Violators will be muted and their speaking privileges revoked.
3. No eating or drinking. Keep your virtual space clean and free of debris.
4. Remain seated. Excessive movement or inappropriate behavior will result in restriction of your avatar’s movements.
5. PvP is disabled in the conference room. Weapons cannot be drawn and your Fragment inventory is unavailable during the duration of the conference.
One hour comes and goes. The room remains occupied only by the beta participants, CyberConnect Corporation’s flashy logo spinning idly on the conference room’s 80 inch display. Restlessness begins to settle in, idle chatter turning to frustration as one hour becomes two. Still, no one from the Corporation shows.
The conference room remains devoid of purpose, some forty-odd people sitting alone in a sterile conference room, a locked room, should anyone grow so restless they try to leave. Any attempts made to break doors and windows will fail.
The door is locked, as are the windows, the world beyond their stark white blinds a slurry of purple and black. Thunder crackles in that dark, endless void. Even if you could leave, where would you go?
It’s painfully evident after three hours of silence that no one from CyberConnect is showing up to the conference, but you knew that already, didn’t you? This mandatory meeting was fishy from the start, some would argue, while others may yet hold out hope.
That ends the instant anyone tries to log out and leave. Everyone who attempts to leave will be met with the same error Shoka was some weeks ago, but this time, the error is permanent. This time, there is no connection between mind and body anymore, and any attempt to “reach” your real self will fail.
You feel no one on the other end. You no longer feel the weight of your headset on your head or the keyboard beneath your fingertips. All your worldly aches and pains have drifted away only to find you here in your new reality, every sensation so real that Fragment no longer feels like just a game. Fragment is reality.
Three hours pass from the start of the conference. The boring white walls and rickety office chairs shudder and shake and give way to the Mac Anu everyone knows. You’re back where you started, more or less. What you do from here is up to you.
Some menus remain online. Players retain the ability to send and receive friend and party requests, access their inventories, spells, and weapons, and so on, but a few notable items are missing.
Players can no longer toggle their pain sensors on and off. Every blow you take is one you’re forced to suffer through, and what’s more, your health no longer automatically regenerates when idle. You’d better keep a stash of potions or a pocket healer handy.
While you’re at it, try not to die. The sharp-eyed among the group may notice that the respawn information nestled in the menus is no longer accessible to them. The respawn counter now reads as a series of zeros instead of the typical 20 minutes. Now is probably not the best time to continue testing Fragment’s death mechanics, but nothing’s stopping you from trying. No one’s going to save you, either.
Good luck, players. The real test has begun.
2/2
A switch flips. The white of his blade rapidly fades, replaced with inky black.
And Barrett -- Mr_Misteaks -- spreads his wings with a guttural, open throated yell, like the roar of an animal on the attack.
Whatever reason and plan he's had before this moment vanishes. All he sees is red. All he feels is pain and hurt and anger anger anger anger, and everything that moves suddenly becomes a target.
Misteaks bares his teeth as his spear starts to rip apart the enemies in front of him with an ease that was missing moments before. Blows against him are glancing, his HP barely budging. But light has left his eyes, and his attacks are hardly efficient. He tears and tears and tears, and when something else throws at him, his hands are just as involved as his weapon, snapping limbs under his grip, tossing enemies into trees.
It's mindless. A ravenous, empty pit left in him of nothing but fury.
Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up--]
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Maybe he would have rethought pressing on if he knew what was meant to happen, but he didn't know, and he drops down just quick enough to miss the haphazard thrust of Barrett's vantablack lance into a body just by him.
Barrett's safe for the moment - a quick glance at his HP confirms that - but the rest of him clearly isn't. He's never seen him like this, even an echo of it - firm as Barrett can be, he always postures like someone willing to bow their head. )
Barrett—
( It's his instinct to grab and reorient, so he does; he finds Barrett's hands, fresh from snapping bones and near red-hot with that same fury (or is that putrid blood?) and he grabs him by the forearm, yanking him suddenly, as if that might snap him out of it.
It's always worth trying, right? )
Barrett, stop—
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There's a grip to his forearm. Sensation, just like the rest, just like the whipping cuts through the air and the bites and claws at his body. His reflex is immediate, a snarling intake of breath as the back of his spear whips around to attempt to punch out one of Mithrun's legs (18). In the same momentum, one hand grabs for his shoulder, twisting and slamming him back against the nearest tree with the crack of bark (16).]
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His breathing shudders, but his mind races quick - beneath Barrett's unfamiliar gaze, not warm but searing, he knows there's no snapping him out of this. He wonders - and he will wonder this again - if Barrett were always capable of such anger, such intensity, or if this were a factor introduced? Could he always find it in him to peel him apart, piece by piece, and tear into him raw?
Fortunate for them just this once, what few monsters remain still follow the lure of Brandish. Three Living Deads take advantage of Barrett's distraction to lunge at him; two to cling, one to attack, as if heralding the arrival of one particularly eerie monster that has come with the mist of the forest: a Magatumkuro of twisted visage and a war hammer to attack.
Whether Barrett engages or not, Mithrun takes advantage of the flicker of distraction to knock back another potion, which takes him back up to 75% - around when Basque would be pestering him to drink another, but he doesn't have that time. He attempts to snap free out of Barrett's grip (15) if he hasn't let go just yet, seeking to put distance between the two of them. Dealing with the monsters could come after he kept himself from death's grip, no matter how familiar its hands. )
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The bite that aims directly for Misteak's face, however, isn't as kind (5).
It's brief, how he falters under the vibrantly sharp and unpleasant sensations - pain, without a name, without a shape. All he knows is reflex, and reflex tells him to make it stop.
Mithrun's shoulder is released as Misteaks grunts in pain, turtling his back as he struggles to brace against the combination of bodies dragging him backwards. One hand comes up to grab his aggressor by the neck, ripping the creature off in a trail of blood and teeth marks as he throws it to the ground with a sickening thud, before following suit with the third in a low sweeping upward stab of his spear, repeated over and over until the creature's grip fades.
His attention doesn't draw back to Mithrun immediately. But his frenzied breathing persists, eyes flicking to the side at the flurried movement of Sky Fish in their remaining clusters, like a rabid and hungry animal. The shine of wings is a more immediate draw than the body at the tree, and Misteaks pursues as though the pain and his 40% health are both of no consequence.]
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He staggers to the side once released from the pressure and the weight and the pain - but the pain radiates back at him like a wave crashing against a wall and returning to shore, and his attempt to move his arm shoots pain sharp through his arm and neck and chest. Fuck. But he doesn't have to care about pain, anyway. A broken shoulder's bad enough, so it doesn't matter much if he makes it worse.
Barrett's HP is erring low, besides, and Mithrun knows he doesn't have the HP or defense to find a way to force a potion into him. DPS would just have substitute as healing.
He hefts up his claymore into both hands, again, setting aside his pain perception and ignoring his faltering grip. The Magatumkuro advances on Barrett while he's distracted with the skyfish, and it's a big enough target that Mithrun doesn't need precise aim - so he dives in, stringing together a combo of every harmful skill he can muster to whittle it down, his gaze flicking back to Barrett's HP with regularity, tracking it.
If Barrett's not done with the fish by the time Mithrun's done with this one, he'll consider joining the fray himself - but he's keeping out of spear's length for the time being, because a max stack of potions won't matter if Barrett knocks him down to zero before he can get one out. )
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Mithrun will see Misteak's HP hovering around 35% by the time he's doubled back into the heart of the forest, a full speed charge - not at him, but at what remains of the Magatumkoro, wings buzzing in an almost piercing frequency as he takes a flying leap to stab the creature in the shoulder. Its current low health due to Morgan's efforts don't seem to make much difference. This large thing is upright and in his way, a threat, a menace.
He will repeat the stab as many times as he can before the undead bodily tosses the Partizan to the side, crashing through tree limbs and hitting the dungeon wall hard enough to blow the wind from his lungs. Misteaks staggers, health creeping into the red. But he's not down yet.]
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He sees the red and he dives in while Barrett staggers, still not yet shaken from the anger possessing him. He runs knocks the warhammer from its grip with the hilt of the sword, the impact running electric up his arm and feeding directly into the bone-split, but it doesn't stop Mithrun from following it up with a brutal slash. It claws at Mithrun with a grip that rends flesh, and that knocks his HP down again - but he's undeterred, the pain unrelenting but unimportant. That was Calamity, and now: Death Bringer. He swings his blade back around for one horrifying sweep into it that slices it right in two, given Barrett had left it already with so little HP - the critical Mithrun lands is enough to dispatch it cleanly.
He stumbles back, breathing hard, and turns his attention fully to Barrett - recalling only at the last second to grab another potion. He has to shift his claymore into his good hand and search with his bad shoulder because he refuses to sheath it - one eye trained on Barrett - and that grits his teeth and fumbles his grip; it's going to take him too long to extract a potion like this.
He could just quit the Area - but would he leave Barrett like this? His weight on his heel as he attempts to rummage, he's like to run if Barrett recalls he exists again. )
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As he stumbles forward with the world coming back into a reddened, furious focus, the creature in his immediate vision collapses. No longer a threat. No longer moving.
All that remains is the howling, and the rustle, and the cold, the mud, the brick, and--
The stumbling motion of only one other left snaps Misteak's head forward. Gaze sharp and vibrant.
The status has not stopped.
With a scrape of metal against dirt, Misteaks stumbles forward, intent on pursuit, like a cat chasing a mouse. Whether he attacks or not depends on whether his quarry starts to run - though he's starting to charge just as before, Lord Partizan are nowhere near the fastest class.]
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If there's one thing Edge Punishers can boast besides DPS at the expense of all else, it's speed. He sees Barrett coming and he's poised to run, so he kicks back the second Barrett starts his imposing advance. It's reminiscent, almost, of their romp as a lion and rabbit; one bad move and Mithrun would probably die.
He doesn't intend to, though.
He darts away behind a thicket of trees not unlike how he'd darted behind the Telophoroi furniture, keeping an eye on Barrett through the branches but not slowing his pace so long as he's being pursued. He swaps off his blade to his other hand; the weight hurts and the pain radiates, but he ignores it. He shoves a hand into his inventory and extracts a potion, bringing him a little up beyond 50%, and lets the glass shatter into the red-barren earth. He'll try again for another potion as he goes, but his priority remains keeping out of Barrett's grasp. )
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At the pause in motion punctuated by the crash of glass, Misteaks pinpoints on the sound to make a mad rush through the thicket despite the damage it causes. The spear is momentarily forgotten as he reaches out with an open hand to blindly grasp for any part of his prey's body that he can reach (12).]
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It's not a bad strategy, until there's not an obstacle to dart behind and pivot his path off of; there's a soft patch of decay at his heel that catches his step, and Barrett's already on him by the time he realizes why his footing's stuck.
He slams quick into a tree to avoid Barrett's grasp (19), but the sharp crunch and curt hiss that follow suggests he rammed his body directly into his broken shoulder, the shockwave of injury awful enough that it dizzies him and forces him to slump, and he drops his weapon in pained reflex. No time to retrieve it - Mithrun looks pale; the broken bones still swelling and taking a toll on his body even as he ignores it, injury worsened by the way he force his body to use what was already broken.
He tries to snap out of it. He kicks off from where he is haggardly - but his heel sinks into the thicket he's in again, still stuck, and his brows furrow in grim annoyance in the shadow of Barrett's raging form. Fuck. )
Cw: strangulation
His blade gets caught in the tangle of the thicket, but with his quarry so close, Misteaks doesn't think twice about abandoning the weapon entirely in favor of the chase. A near dodge. A rebalance. As Mithrun attempts to struggle his way free, a dangerously strong grip slams at him from behind, taking hold of the back of his head and shoving him prone to the ground. The Lord Partizan practically pounces on him a split second afterward, the weight of his body pressed down messily on all fours, one knee digging into Mithrun's ribcage as both his hands dig tight against his neck, as though unsure whether to strangle him or rip him apart.
His eyes stay frenzied. Furious. Nails dig crescents of red that will easily start to bruise under pulse and breathe and bone and muscle. Shut up. Shut up. He can't take it anymore. Stop moving. Stop talking.
Leave his family alone.]
cw: strangulation
The knee ground up against his ribs winds him. The tighter Barrett squeezes, the thicker the walls of sensation press up around him; sounds get quiet, his vision goes dull. He feels so acutely the strength behind the hands that had ripped whole creatures in two, the grip hotter than he knows it, Barrett's expression a terror's visage, but - is it so unfamiliar, now that he sees its hazy edges again?
He can't move his bad arm this time; any impulse meets a cry of pain that stops it. He tries instead his other hand, swinging haphazard up to grip one of Barrett's wrists. It's resistance, which is strange for him, but it doesn't amount to much. Maybe Barrett's anger comes from something in him, twisted by grief, but - he wouldn't want to kill Mithrun, Mithrun knows.
Ah, well. If he has to go, Mithrun would've preferred if Barrett tore him up with his teeth, at least, but no chance of it now - not before he passes out. In the twisting haze of his consciousness fading beneath the beast crouched over him, he doesn't - wish he'd at least been able to kill the professor, as badly as he wants it. He doesn't know if he wishes he had more time, either.
Barrett's the only thing in his vision, so his thoughts stay simple. They'd made plans, hadn't they? )
... We still... ( He inhales a sharp hiss; his voice, a rasping wheeze, ) ... have to go to the movies...
( Like they'd meant to. )
1/2
He presses harder. Stop. Stop.
From behind them, a blade of black slowly turns to white as a timer click to an end. "Enraged", as suddenly as it came on, blinks out of existence next to Misteak's username.
...]
2/2
He feels the fading pulse under his fingers. The wheeze of breath. Recognition swings in just as fast as realization, sickening and brutal, of just what he was trying to do.
Barrett goes completely pale as all his fingers loosen and yank free, scrambling his weight backwards as his breath starts to quicken in his chest, expression drawing wide and terrified with intense distress.]
I... M-Morgan...
[An apology can't even form. He can feel blood, taste blood, see how mangled Morgan has been left on the ground. He sees how low his HP currently sits. He remembers.
He knows it's because of him. And he feels completely and utterly sick.
Eyes travel Morgan frantically as Barrett begins to tremble - wanting to break the distance, wanting to help, wanting to get him to safety... but feeling very vibrantly that he's still the loaded gun. The nails on the chalkboard.
The blood on the concrete.
So he stays frozen, agonized, until his guilt can't take it any longer, on his knees next to Mithrun, hands gentle, expression anchored with so much concern that it might rip him in two.]
Morgan... M-Morgan, stay with me--! Morgan?!
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Or, almost through, anyway.
His brain lacks that instinct to ask for air. As Barrett falters, hesitates, the neurons whir, wondering without conscious thought if he has opportunity now to breathe; recognizing, in some primal way, the first utterance of his name. It's when Barrett rouses him again, desperately, that he finds reflex to breathe again; a moment of stillness, of nothing, and then - he coughs violently, his bad arm twitching, his good arm coming up so he can reach up to his throat, the violent reds blooming already into the start of awful bruises. He coughs, and coughs, and tries to breathe, not unlike he'd done after he'd come up from the dunk tank, but everything hurt so much more.
His vision's still blurry, and he isn't fully himself again, but he thinks he's awake, and he thinks Barrett is close to himself again. A little blindly, his grip swings around to grab him, hooking onto his arm and holding - not tight, he's a little too weak for that, but holding on. )
... Back— to normal—?
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Overwhelming relief floods him when Morgan suddenly jerks and chokes for air, having to hold back the burn in his throat. Barrett carefully guides him onto the side of his body that doesn't look to be crushed, even if just slightly - he'd seen this enough at practice when his teammates would take a little too hard of a hit.
He swallows between his own hard breathing, allowing the grip to linger. Fuck.... fuck, he looks so out of it, how long had he been...]
Yeah, I... I'm here... I'm here now, Morgan, I...
Hold on. Hold on, I-- let me-- [It's a panicked stumbling of words that can't quite form as he looks around for his-- ah, there it is. He leaves Mithrun's side for just a moment, just long enough to throw his abandoned spear into his inventory ans crouch back down to try and size up Mithrun to be picked up.]
We... we need to get you out of here. Can you hear me? Can you move at all?
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Well, he must be fine enough if he's able to coherently self-criticize. He feels dizzy and unsteady, but he's alive, whatever that looks like. Barrett's voice comes in and out, the shapes of his expression coming into vague definition. Oh, he barely has the words for this normally - never mind right now. )
... I can walk...
( He coughs, with some shaky effort trying to push himself up with one hand, maybe too soon. )
... Stay... Stay with me.
( He speaks this with certainty. He'd heard an I'm here, and he thinks he heard a now, and he's not chancing it. )
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The guilt digs, harsh and immediate. An echo of words that he no longer hears, but still feels deeply. He shouldn't be here. This is his fault. His fault. Look at what you've done.
He feels so sick. Morgan asks for him, direct and wanting, and all he feels is dread.]
...I... I can't. I shouldn't. If that happens again, I'll...
[...kill him.
This is just another reason not to trust me.
He swallows, trying to lean Morgan's weight against him from his new sitting position, as though he means to try and pick him up.]
We need to find a healer. I... I'll get you to one. I won't leave you here.
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He lets Barrett shift his weight against him and into his arms if that's what he needs. He's returned to ignoring his own pain, so, while his body may flinch if his arm (and thus shoulder) is jostled, Mithrun won't really acknowledge it.
But, while Barrett sets to work on that, Mithrun interrupts his effort - he takes his face by both sides of his jaw with one hand so Barrett is looking him in the eye, Mithrun's fingers curling pointedly into the bone. This is, in part, for Mithrun - he can see guilt's fault lines running through Barrett's expression better like this. )
But you'll leave me?
( After he gets Mithrun to a healer, he means. He sees you, Barrett. )
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The gentle and shaking work of his hands says "No. I don't want to. I'll take care of you. Don't leave me, either." But it's impossible to ignore how unsteady his own breathing is when they are this close together, something that's already making him feel dizzy. He feels himself tilting inwardly, like a seesaw with uneven weight.]
...I need to.
[It's a small and quiet answer, torn up by panic, eyes screwing shut.]
For... just for a little bit. I need to.
[He stays very still under his own answer. He knows it's not one Mithrun will like. He knows he'll just continue to be hurt. But he feels on the verge of collapse.
He can't do that here.]
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... I forgive you. ( And he'll hold onto that for Barrett, the way he holds onto Barrett being enough. ) I forgive you for hurting me, even if you don't forgive yourself.
( And it wasn't Barrett's fault, but he doesn't think that detail's going to matter much to Barrett right now. When Mithrun had hurt Tylor, though it'd been in error, what had frustrated Mithrun most - as Hani had to see and tell the both of them - was that there was no acknowledgment of wrong.
He lets go of Barrett's face. He can't stop him from leaving, angry as that makes him, but he'll be angrier, still, if Barrett comes out thinking he's lost the right to be vulnerable with him. )
... Come back soon. I'll be looking for you.
( "Waiting" is too passive, so he doesn't use it. He'll be at the door Barrett's hidden himself behind, peering under and clawing at it, just so he doesn't forget he's there. Run all you want, but he isn't letting you disappear yourself into guilty obscurity. )
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It's not something he expects. Forgiveness.
Maybe Morgan was just saying it to make him feel better. There was no way. No way he could be okay with this.
...
His face still cracks with emotion under the statement. Wether he means the nod that accompanies it as an acceptance, or as an agreement to Morgan's request... it's harder to tell.
He still shifts Morgan into his arms as best as he can, the crushed shoulder facing outward. He's brought to his discarded sword long enough to get it into his inventory, before sprinting off to the dungeon - he couldn't force them both to disengage without finishing the Area, after all. They might both be in the red for health, but at least Barrett could still do this much.
Empty of enemies as the area now is, Barrett takes a second to send off a message to the first cleric he can think of. But there's no response, even by the time they make it to the end.]
...Hector's still not replying. [Shit.] One of the clerics has to be around somewhere.
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He tries to keep vigilant as they progress through the tower, but he's clearly faltering. Fortunate that there's no enemies to worry over right now. )
... Clerics are... ( Reciting: ) ... Hector... Hien... Nanashi...
( Not sure about the rest, but that's an amount of people who exist, presumably. )
... Don't use Hien. Try Nanashi.
( He's lower level, but he'll be easier to work with than Hien, assuming Hien would bother help at all. )
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