featherduster | ( limelight ) overflow

The room is large, but relatively unassuming. It smells like rubber and sweat, as any gym does. But instead of weight lifting equipment and treadmills, there are padded walls and floors and a rack of weapons: guns, blades, whips, maces. A man with an unusually severe face stands in front of it, clipboard in hand, poised to take notes.

You’re standing in a line with your peers -- your twin brother, Van, to your left; your best friend, Cori to your right. You flex your right hand, some phantom pain lacing through it. The man says, simply, “Again.”

Cori explodes into movement first, darting out of sight. She’s the best at this, you know that, but she also has the most to prove. You feel the backs of your knees cave out from a sudden strike, and you reach out to shove Van backward, out of the way. Which is not what you’re supposed to do. You know that too.

Cori drives the head of her baton between your shoulder blades, the pain arcing down your spine and across your shoulders. You twist, ignoring how it drags the pain sideways, and see Van move; he strikes out as if to give Cori a blow to the head, something that would almost certainly free you from your own predicament.

His hand, the training dagger clenched white-knuckled in his fingers, stops short. For a tense second, no one moves. Adrenaline and fear pump suddenly, in a way the fight didn’t inspire.

When the stillness is broken, it’s the severe man with the clipboard, backhanding Van across the face. He staggers back; you and Cori remain frozen in place, like prey animals trying not to be seen.

“That’s a fail for all three of you,” he says, calm as anything.

The weapon pressing into your back retreats, slowly, and you stand, equally slowly. There’s some sick combination of fear and relief -- if all three of them are being punished, it’s less bad than Van alone being the target.

“Left hands this time.”

“Yes, sir,” you all say in unison, stiff and obedient. You remember the last round -- right hands, fingers crushed and broken, then healed back together, then crushed again, over and over. Too much reaction meant more rounds.

You, Van, and Cori present your left hands.

Edited 2025-04-20 18:40 (UTC)

An older man with salt-and-pepper hair and Acidia robes sits in his leather swivel chair, one leg crossed at the ankle, one elbow on the oversized arm of the chair. He looks distracted, exhausted. You don’t feel bad for him, and the idea of sitting yourself never even occurs.

He taps the paper on the desk in front of him, then slides it over. There’s a name -- Eugene River -- and a photo, likely snatched from some social media somewhere. Your stomach constricts, that way it does when you want to panic but you know that’s not a luxury available to you.

“Just make it quick,” the man says, like delegating one of a thousand tiresome tasks on a given work day. You read on -- details on his home address, work address, places he’s been regularly sighted within the past month. You’re suddenly thankful you haven’t met up with him in that time.

“Why?” you hear yourself ask. You’ve never asked that before.

The man looks up, exasperated.

“Did we raise you to ask fucking questions?”

You say nothing, feeling a phantom pain in your fingers.

The man waves a hand, like he’s dealing with a toddler who won’t stop asking obvious questions. “He’s been running his mouth. Nightshade wants it dealt with,” he gives you a long look. “So deal with it”

You take it for the dismissal it is and hurry from the room, letting the door close behind you. You can feel your heart hammering in your throat, the physical sensation the only tell to what your emotions might be doing. You rarely check on those. They’re not even supposed to be there if you want to survive, or at least keep your bones unbroken.

Why Eugene? Yeah, he runs his mouth. But he’s a good person. He makes this world better, which is more than he can say for any of the miserable fucks in Cordionna.

Oh, but you do recognize this emotion: resignation. Not that you’re going to do it -- absolutely fucking not -- but that you aren’t, and what that will entail. You’ll lose the only home you’ve ever had. You’ll be separated from your brother -- god, what would you even say to him? You don’t even know how long you’ll survive what will most certainly be the Family’s vengeance, or at least their desire to tie up loose ends.

Eugene will be alive, though. And you’ll be out of this fucking place.

You suck in a breath and set your jaw, moving away from the office door; you’ve got some research to attend to.

Imgur album

• idk man he ain't right

Imgur album

• There's an evil twin and weird religious cults and his arm is a nuke and there's blood everywhere but more importantly
• gay

Imgur album

• Aloe and his twin brother(?) Knives who is not Eriks(???) discover a lab where their older sister was studied to death along with the preserved remains of her corpse
• Clearly all three of them are not human
• Knives passes out and Aloe attempts to hunger strike to death because the idea of living with humans is so intolerable
• A murder-suicide attempt and a pep talk later he gets better... ish

You're transplanting plant grafts into little nursery pots when you glance at the clock -- 11:15 -- and then at the door, wondering if Mr. Mechanic will wander in again. He comes in around 11 almost every day, but at quarter past, maybe not today.

You return your attention to the plants, until you catch sight of movement you hadn't noticed before, just outside the shop windows: Mr. Mechanic, crouched with his back to the glass.

You frown, concerned. Is he hurt? Did he drop something, or fall? You approach the door, and it brings the cat into view: a skinny little stray who's been haunting the alleys around the neighborhood lately, occasionally dragging her little kittens around with her. Mr. Mechanic seems to have brought a bowl for her (two, you realize later -- one for water, too) piled with cat food, which she digs into greedily.

The glass muffles many of the words, but the low sound of his voice is obvious. You lean in enough to realize it's a lecture on the importance of keeping up strength and nutrition to look after babies.

You stifle the desire to laugh fondly, creeping back from the glass before Mr. Mechanic notices. Best make sure the sunflowers are well stocked and easy to find; they seem to be his favorite. They're on the house today, though he won't tell him why.