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Event - Aftermath

Aftermath

➥ Handle With Care

Six photographs arranged in two rows of three photos each depicting tanned hands performing a variety of shadow puppets.
(cw: arachnophobia, entomophobia, chirophobia, elafiphobia)

There is a reason Dogtown has been boarded up. The wicked do not rest and while the majority of ADI's manpower was out of town, those remaining were stretched thin. There simply weren't enough eyes to keep on the park. With too few people, the things that crawl inside crawled out. Most of them have been hunted down and dealt with, but not all. Not nearly all. Though it might not be apparent at first.

The weather is hot and a bit of humidity brings the bugs about. They might all be horrible, but some aren't so bad. Butterflies flit about in the air, their colorful wings offering an aerial show on your walk. Every now and then, however, one or two might catch your eye: there appear to be a few with an odd wing shape that seem to jerk and plunge in their flight. Keep an eye on these odd bugs and you might just finally place the shape: four long, spindly segments. Hands. Interlocked at what would be thumbs, fluttering sets of hands no bigger than the rest of the butterflies flutter about. Some land peacefully, some don't seem to land at all, but just dance about like a perverted wave from no one. Others still, like to land on faces and what a delight it is to be blessed with the gentle legs of a butterfly on your nose as it spreads and stretches its wings! At least until those wings clamp over the eyes under them.

You don't even have to go outside to find things that skitter and hide. Perhaps you've settled down to work on something or read or even check your phone. It'll only take a moment, really, but it has your attention. Enough so that, when you feel a gentle tickle at your neck, you might not even think much of it or reach up to scratch the spot. Except it happens again, slower, more careful; to the point it doesn't tickle, in fact, it feels almost like something is...stroking your neck? Like a tiny hand running along your skin. If you're fast enough, maybe you can brush whatever it is off, or maybe you simply turn your head to look at your shoulder and into the multiple eyes of an eight-legged friend. No, make that six. Six legs and two, long, arms ending in thin-fingered hands.

On the other hand, there are also those things that go bump in the night. Well after sunset, some areas of Gloucester titter with laughter or carry the steady sound of feet hitting the pavement, while some darker corners patter with a rhythmic slapping sound. Following the sound might just lead you through echoing alleyways until you come across the recognizable shape of a deer. A deer whose legs end in hands. Where they start is at the top: curved, gnarled, fingers jut from the top of its head like a perverted crown. Antagonize it or stare too long, and that slapping sound may turn your way, the charging deer aiming for you grasping-fingers-first.

➥ Shipping and Handling

Photo of a the underside of a bridge with a river flowing under it. There is an upside down, discarded bottle in the water and scum-like foam around it.
(cw: underwater threats, drowning, refuse/filth, squirmy things, human-caused environmental damage)

Known locally as the Cut, Blynman Canal in southwest Gloucester connects Gloucester Harbor to the Annisquam River. For over a hundred years the Blynman Bridge has spanned that opening, a busy drawbridge that has nonetheless been left to rust. The Cut is a deceptively treacherous little waterway, and it's not unheard of for locals with too much time on their hands to go down to the canalside and watch the boats in the hope of witnessing an entertaining misadventure or two. There's more than one local legend of boats going down in the canal, though no record of it in recent history, and people claim the water is a lot deeper than anyone might expect. But that's not quite why it's caught ADI's attention recently.

No, it's the wretched sobbing from under the bridge at sunset that's new and concerning…and the reports of boats striking something in the canal where there should have been open water. Several owners have reported thumping on the hull of their boats as though they were struck by some furious creature, but the official story is that they simply struck litter and debris that has recently clogged the canal's entrance. It's not a lot to go off of, but with the recent Dogtown troubles, any sudden change at locations of potential significance is worth an investigation.

In daytime it's difficult to see much of anything in the water, and investigators are discouraged from intruding too obviously on the scene during hours when locals are more likely to be present. As the sun sets, though, the water roils and crashes under the bridge for minutes on end. The motion dies down, the water calms, and the lamenting cries begin. There are no words, only broken sobbing in a human voice. Looking into the water in the dying light, one can see something down there, just below the surface now. Is that a face? Did a hand just breach the surface, reaching pitifully skyward before slipping back under?

Anyone who tries to enter the water will feel detritus brush against them, all manner of sunbleached plastic debris clogging the canal. The walls go straight down under the bridge and the water is deep. It won't be long before one finds oneself not just swimming in trash but entangled in it. It drags even the strongest swimmer down, snaring arms and legs. Fight and cut yourself free, hope for a rescue…or await the end.

➥ Say, Say, O Playmate

Photo of two little girls reflected in a large mirrored door. The younger girl's reflection does not match what she is actually doing.
(cw: hallucination, disorientation, synesthesia, altered mental states, breaking and entering)

There is someone in the mirror. They appear when you're alone. A childish, friendly face, or what you would consider friendly, interesting, someone you would be willing to play a game with… or at least entertain the possibility for. Your new playmate has something to show you. It's something good, and you should follow! Even those who might not usually be inclined, will find themselves drawn in. This playmate seems to be tailor made for you, someone you could get along with. Someone who whispers into your mind and no one but you can see, even if they have their own playmate.

There are too many reflective surfaces in Gloucester, and you'll find your playmate flitting easily between them, like they're stuck in a world beyond the glass. Maybe they are. They might even tell you that's the case. Help them, please! They've been trapped here by some monster for so long.

Those drawn into the chase will find themselves directed to all sorts of places around Gloucester, from publicly open buildings to private residences to other buildings they really shouldn't be going into without a very good reason, like the police station. Maybe try getting in there under the cover of night? Your playmate is insistent that wherever they're leading you, it's important to the trail. And you can feel that they really mean it. This is important, this is vital. It might be harder than usual to say no. Maybe you can make yourself believe this isn't as dangerous as it seems. That's far too easy.

It's a trail that does seem to have an end for those willing to stick it out… and who aren't arrested in the middle of all this for breaking and entering or trespassing. A tiny mirror shard, something no bigger than a fingernail. That's what you've been looking for. Grab it! Grab it! Those unfortunate enough to take their playmate's advice will find themselves experiencing sudden and intense disorientation followed by a 24-hr bout of synesthesia. Ever wondered what gray smells like? What flavor your favorite song is? The color of a burger wafting under your nose? All yours for the price of a mirror shard!

Destroying smashing the shard to even smaller pieces seems to end the disorientation, at least, but synesthesia is something that persists for at least a day after. One thing that becomes immediately apparent, though, as soon as you find the mirror, whatever you do with it, your playmate disappears.

➥ Let's Have a Tea Party

Photo of a smiling caucasian woman holding up a smiling babydoll that is partially destroyed and covered in sand.
(cw: death; drowning; choking; claustrophobia; nausea; emetophobia/vomiting; disorientation/vertigo; body horror)

It begins with a news headline: Lost Baby Dolls Cry Foul On Beach! The article details strange new visitors to Gloucester's beaches, and the residents making efforts to clean up the dolls along with other debris from recent 4th of July fireworks displays. The leader of the local non-profit, I Love a Clean Gloucester, leading the clean-up is quoted as saying some volunteers have been experiencing some unpleasant side-effects from contact with the dolls, clearly indicating there may be something toxic in them. Paul Rudder encourages everyone to be vigilant to pollution and wear thick gloves when assisting.

But ADI digs deeper. It seems those 'toxic' effects aren't what they first appear. There is something supernatural going on. Two dedicated beach clean-up volunteers have been found dead in their homes, drowned on dry land. The police are puzzled. The lungs of both bodies are filled with seawater.

ADI takes over investigating as a stretch of beach is closed to the public. Perhaps you're brave enough to check on these dolls for yourself. Perhaps you're just here to try to bury the things deep where no one can reach them. Those who pick up the dolls, even those wearing gloves, will feel a strange, rocking sensation that grows more intense the longer they hold and manipulate the dolls.

Regardless of actually touching the dolls, those who visit the beach will find themselves dreaming. They are out at sea, exhausted, struggling to keep afloat, their articulated ball joints ache. They can feel the last of their energy reserves bleeding away, their mouth, something they can never close, filling with water as they sink down, deep, deeper, the weight of the water pressing in around them, constricting their body.

Waking up might just be nauseating or a violently unpleasant affair as you'll find the ground still lurching like you're trapped out at sea for minutes or even more than an hour, or hacking up seawater. Repeated visits to the beach worsens the effect, and if the clean-up volunteers are anything to go by, too much dedication might well be deadly.

➥ Mod Notes

GENERAL - Players are welcome to play background NPCs for themselves when they are needed in a thread. If you need more information on general behavior for these types of NPCs, please feel free to ask! In general, the information provided in the prompts should be sufficient and ordinary people will act like… ordinary people! Although, the people of Gloucester seem to be becoming more and more aware of supernatural phenomenon and they are frightened by it. You're welcome to make up any details beyond that for your specific scene. Also, please remember that character deaths are permanent and plan accordingly!
HANDLE WITH CARE (16-20 July) - All creatures can be killed similar to their normal counterparts, but smashing the butterflies or spiders will result in smashed blood, skin, and bone (on whatever instrument you use to smash them with). The deer itself can cause potential harm as it will attempt to gouge, scratch, or even strangle those who threaten it.
SHIPPING AND HANDLING (28-31 July) - From above the water it will not be possible to make out the full shape of whatever is in the canal regardless of the quality of light. Anyone who enters the water and keeps their eyes open will get an impression of a long, eel-like creature with a human-like face; it also has many hands on short, jointless arms all down the sides of its body. It is the garbage, not the creature, that drags characters down–the creature also seems to be entangled.
SAY, SAY, O PLAYMATE (16-25 July) - Your character's playmate can interact only with your character, no others. But two people might see different playmates in the same reflective surface who could be telling them wildly different things. The playmate is someone who will be specifically tailored to appear as non-threatening and friendly as possible to your character. If that means they're a small scared child claiming to be trapped in the mirror, or an older teen or young adult with a rakish air and charming wink. This is about your character's perceptions, not any consistency. Their appeals to 'play' will also be tailored to your character. They might be requesting help, asking for a favor with the promise of a payback, encouraging some silly game, or whatever might motivate your character. The mirror shards will continue to induce synesthesia and disorientation if they are not destroyed. Any shards brought back to ADI will be examined and then ordered destroyed. The playmates will all disappear when all of the shards have been collected, whether your character has successfully collected one they were on the trail of, or not.
LET'S HAVE A TEA PARTY (16-31 July) - Not every doll induces the rocking sensation, but many do. Characters will have a hell of a time trying to pinpoint any source for the dolls. More of them keep washing up, seemingly at random; though, they definitely seem to be coming in batches, and any time a stretch of beach is fully cleaned up, more appear, like something has been watching and waiting to unleash more of the things. Multiple visits to the beach may result in significant lung damage, akin to what you might experience from having partially drowned.

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“Did you experience any symptoms those times?” he asks, pulling a long sleeved tee and a pair of slacks from the closet. “Something you would have written off as minor or something else?”

"Vertigo, dizziness, a kind of rocking? Like being on a ship." He shudders. "And the dreams started right after the first time. It was just a dream then though."

He should get dressed too. He's in pajamas, that's something anyway, but... God, he's tired, and it feels like so much effort.

"So if we had known what to look for, there were symptoms right from the start. When I was investigating the beach, I found a guy who seemed disoriented and woozy. I thought it was heat exhaustion. It could have been this, though; he was picking up dolls."

“That makes sense,” Neal says. It’s starting to sink in, psychologically, the fact that he was drowning in bed. It’s also starting to sink in physically as the adrenaline ebbs. He’s tired. He’s very, very tired. Neal sits down on the edge of the bed, staring at Malcolm as he gets ready to go.

Malcolm changes his shirt and moves to the dresser to grab underwear, but realizes Neal isn’t moving similarly around the room. He looks for him over his shoulder to find him sitting on the bed.

“Get dressed,” he says, “we have to go.” A beat and then his eyes go wide. “Oh my god are you going to pass out if you get up?”

He actually laughs in surprise at that—something he doesn’t do that often, for all his smiles. He holds out both hands, inviting Malcolm over to him.

“No. Tired though. Very tired.”

Malcolm goes, in his outside shirt and pyjama sweat pants, letting himself be coaxed to sit on the bed.

"Well, that could just be fatigue from disturbed sleep but it's potentially a dangerous side effect of choking on sea water and whatever the vertigo everyone seems to get from it and I really think we should let them check," he says anxiously, rocking faintly in his seat.

“Okay. All right.” Neal gathers himself and gets to his feet. He flashes Malcolm a small smile. “Help me?”

Maybe it will help the other man calm down a little, too.

Malcolm gets up when Neal does and Neal does understand how well distraction works on his anxiety. He goes to the closet to find something for Neal to wear.

“Are you still dizzy?” he asks, pulling out a shirt.

“A little,” Neal admits. “It’s not… dizzy, exactly, it’s more like I imagine seasickness must feel like.”

He’s fortunate enough not to have ever dealt with that before. Neal peels off his pajama shirt and pulls on the one Malcolm brings over. It’s nice, the help, the care, though he’s uncomfortable saying as much aloud. Instead he kisses Malcolm when the other man gets close enough.

And promptly winces at the realization that his mouth probably tastes as bad as it feels.

It doesn’t. Or maybe it does and Malcolm doesn’t notice. He lingers in Neal’s space for a moment when the kiss breaks, then moves to grab a pair of pants for him.

These are, to his embarrassment, actually difficult to put on. His balance keeps shifting, keeps slanting sideways, and he nearly falls over twice before giving up and leaning on Malcolm for help.

“Sorry,” he says, slightly queasy.

Malcolm looks confused.

"What for?"

“For needing so much help lately.” There’s supreme discomfort on his face at even clarifying the apology.

Malcolm's brow creases.

"It's not... some kind of... imposition. Do... do you feel like I don't want to help or that... or that I can't?"

“What?” Neal blinks. “No, I don’t think you can’t. I just—”

He stops again. Quietly, reasoning through it as he speaks (and finishes putting his pants on)—“I don’t think I’m used to the willingness. I feel like… I need to pay you back for it.”

"...Pay me back for caring about you?" Malcolm pauses. "But. You care about me. Isn't that the reciprocation?"

Neal opens his mouth. Closes his mouth. There's a surprise on his face that he tries to hide--but only for a moment. "Oh. I guess it is."

Malcolm shrugs a shoulder as he works on changing his own pants.

"Why would anyone need anything more than that?"

Neal doesn’t know how to answer that, or if it even really needs an answer. He kisses Malcolm again instead of trying to think of something to say. After he’s gone to the bathroom to swish a little mouthwash around at least.

The exam is… disconcerting. His blood oxygen levels aren’t ideal, and he starts coughing more than once during the deep breathing instruction. It hurts, like sucking air through broken glass. Heart rate too fast, temperature too high. Acute lung injury, they say. Neal doesn’t want to stay overnight, but the doctor is persuasive—and won’t let them take an oxygen mask out of the medical wing right now.

Edited (spelling…) 2022-08-04 02:18 (UTC)

So Malcolm will stay, despite how uneasy medical still makes him. He won’t sleep; he can’t wake up in restraints here again.

He pulls his chair right up beside the bed.

“I should have brought a book to read you.”

He hadn’t expected that they wouldn’t release him.

“Hopefully once my oxygen level comes up they’ll let us go.” It’s muffled behind the oxygen mask, to his annoyance, but he is breathing a little easier with it on. He reaches over to give Malcolm’s hand a little squeeze. “You don’t have to stay. I know how you feel about this place.”

“I can’t leave you here,” he replies with a sharpness that gives away the uneasiness he’s trying to hide.

It’s a terrible place; he’s not going to flee and leave a man behind.

He takes a breath, closing his eyes for a second before looking at Neal, cowed by his own internal reproach. “Sorry.”

Contrary to Malcolm’s apology, Neal lifts his hand and presses Malcolm’s fingers against his own forehead in a kind of compromise of a kiss. The reaction makes him feel weirdly safe.

“Thanks,” he says quietly. “Thank you.”

Malcolm staying for him means a lot. More than he’s comfortable saying around other people.

Malcolm glances around, like he’s on watch.

“I’ve had my fill of sleep anyway,” he says in an awkward joke. “And you cracked my case so I’m free.”

Event - Aftermath

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