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peacockstop2024-10-15 09:00 pm
TDM 06
【 Thank you for choosing the Golden Peacock, 5-star resort and casino. You are currently registered as a WILDCARD in our system.
On behalf of the house and resort, we would like to advise all Game 52 players to exercise caution around the Golden Peacock for the next few weeks. The veil between 'what is' and 'what has been' grows thin and the threads of fate have tangled in unexpected ways. We are currently observing how these two phenomena behave when they occur simultaneously and act in concert.
We advise that all guests monitor their physical states until the veil thickens once again and the threads of fate return to running parallel. If you find yourself undergoing any strange transformations, please report to the Broken Wing clinic for observation. We will do our utmost to make sure you are comfortable during this time.
You may also notice other strange phenomena around the Golden Peacock while the veil is thin. Please continue to exercise caution. New wayward spirits have joined us during this time. While spirits are crossing, it is possible for guests to get swept along into the ghostly realm.
As always, please let us know if there is anything we can do to improve your stay. 】
HEADS
TAILS
MAIN LOBBY
BACK HALLWAYS & STAIRS
MONSTER MASH
THE VALE
SMOKED EGG
BALANCE RETURNS
OOC NOTES
▶ All characters on the TDM are WILDCARDS, which means they have not yet been assigned a card value. Suits will not manifest until characters are accepted into the game.
▶ All TDMs are game canon. This TDM acts as the game's October event. Changes to the above locations will ICly be present from October 15th - November 3rd. All supernatural phenomenon will increase in strength over time, culminating in peak activity on All Hallows' Eve. The days following Halloween will relax, leading into eventual normalcy. Some locations are spared the supernatural frenzy, so players can play as normal if they wish to avoid these tropes/prompts. Players may assume that the supernatural come and go in the above specifically incorporated locations.
▶ Current characters may top level on the TDM. Any current characters posting to the TDM should note they are current in their subject header.
▶ The top level directory is for new characters only. We want to make sure new characters are prioritized and receive attention! If you would be interested in a game invitation, you can note that in your comment header.
▶ If you aren't satisfied with these prompts, please feel free to check out our LOCATIONS to explore more of the resort!
▶ Smut threads that take place on this TDM can be used for rewards. If both parties in the smut thread join the game, you may retroactively apply the character's initial card values to your 52 bank. If one character does not join the game the thread will not be applicable toward rewards (as that character would not have a card value). The character that does join would still receive a small payout for the encounter. Hopefully it was a fun thread regardless!
▶ We ask you to kindly add content warnings to your threads as appropriate. This TDM in particular has the potential to get real wild, so we want to emphasize this request!
▶ If you do not currently have permissions and kinks listed in your character’s journal we suggest leaving a note in your top level of any limits or boundaries for other players to reference.
▶ Go forth and let your freak flag fly!
monster hunter
"Fine, fine. You got me."
And Fuuta comes slinking out of the shadow of a nearby cluster of trees. Yes, he's been caught red-handed, and yes, he was following this guy for just a little bit, but -- like, not maliciously? It's just that his transformation's made his eyesight a lot better in the dark, and it had been kind of novel, being able to stalk through the darkness and watch this weird-looking guy make his way down the hall.
But now that the gig is up, he's fine with facing the guy head-on. He doesn't look that dangerous anyway.
A thick, black, reptilian tail swishes idly behind him as Fuuta just looks Pinocchio over for a moment, his visible eye glowing faintly in the dim lighting. Between the tail and the jagged horns protruding from his skull, it's obvious he's been transformed into something dragon-aligned; further confirmed when a stray ember slips from his lips alongside his next words.
"You don't look like the type to make dirty jokes like that, though. Is that why you're bothering with all that dumb monster-hunting stuff? 'cause you're looking for some action?"
no subject
He has been playing the Game long enough to trace the context, but not long enough to inherit a natural-born human's sense of 'decency', nor sense of shame (that is, by the sorts of standards his creator would approve). The brief saccades of eyes shining in the dark, more interested in his risk assessment than salvaging any illusion of propriety. He is a thin veneer of 'gentleman' painted over a feral weapon, the vehicle of his creator's ambition.
"No thank you," he retorts, a little more brat than cheeky, "I already ate."
The wisp of ember glowing as it drifts from the other boy's lips should concern a puppet. He's been burned before, he doesn't fear it, but he doesn't exactly invite a repeat performance, either. Planting one end of the pole to the ground, he leans against it.
"If you can convince them, though, I can be persuaded to split my reward." How does he feel about lying? Is the risk worth half a large payout? To his credit, the puppet doesn't think he's offering so much as being provocative, and two can play this game.
no subject
"'Split the reward?' That'd sure work out good for you, wouldn't it. I do all the hard work of persuading them, and you get to walk off with a fat paycheck while I gotta sit in that holding pen like some sort of animal. What do you think I am, some kind of idiot?" Fuuta speaks emphatically, each word growled out with thinly-veiled aggression and punctuated by a swish of that tail behind him; it whips to one side as he continues. "And besides, I'm not going with you. They can come get me themselves if they wanna lock me up so bad."
The prioritization of 'risk assessment' is mutual. He'd also been eyeing that pole, looking Pinocchio over to try and gauge how much of a thread he'd be, but -- he really doesn't look that dangerous? Not with those frilly, fancy-boy clothes. Trying to run could get annoying though, and he's not raring to draw any more attention from stray hunters with a chase, so.
Time to try and argue his way out of this.
"It's unethical, you know. What you 'monster hunters' are trying to do." He doesn't bother with the gesture, but his air-quotes around the phrase still come through loud and clear, followed by a click of the tongue. "Trying to hand us over to the staff so they can lock us up for ... what? What're you saying I even did, huh? You're hunting down an innocent man, you know that?"
no subject
"It's another game," like the Hunt.
It is, but not for everyone.
Dark lashes sweep his cheeks, freckled face seemingly unbothered. The lantern light betrays the skip of his eyes to the side as if thinking twice. Once, he was disturbed by the readiness of other players to go along with things he had thought strange and exploitative. Has he become like the people he used to doubt?
"...At least, when it comes to someone like you."
That's a rather mysterious and vague statement to make; he straightens, leaning the pole across his shoulder, and already the tone has shifted. It shows in his posture, a conciliatory drop of the act of cocky defiance. Still stands like he's one breath from a fight, feet spread apart and shoulders squared, but for the moment, he appears to be engaging in this with sincerity.
"For the ones who have lost their minds to the change, I..." he pauses. The puppet is, perhaps, a little more haunted by his own encounters with monsters — in another time, another place — than he realizes. He lifts his chin, voice firm. "I don't want them to do something they regret."
no subject
Even better is that pause. It's the sort of thing that he normally might miss, too headstrong and brash in his attempts to win arguments, but his senses feel sharper right now; Fuuta's gaze flickers bright when he senses that blip of hesitation, some animalistic instinct telling him to keep it in mind, and he barely lets the other finish speaking before shooting back a retort.
"And how's that your decision to make?"
The moonlight's effect had already given him a confidence boost, but the fact that he's being listened to instead of promptly dismissed only makes him more belligerent. Fuuta shifts his weight on his feet, removing one hand from the pocket of his hoodie to waggle a finger in patronizing fashion.
"Listen up -- what people decide to do is their responsibility. I dunno who you think you are, but it's not your job to be telling anyone 'you should do that' or 'no, you can't do that.' If they do something that they end up regretting, then that's their problem. You gotta be responsible for your own mistakes, you know. And --" Yes, he's still yapping away, hand gesture and all. The puppet truly doesn't deserve this, sorry. "-- what if someone's about to do something that works out for them, huh? What if you end up stopping someone from doing something good while all this is going on. Unless you can see the future, how d'you know you're only stopping the bad things?"
no subject
He doesn't feel compelled to be understood, because so few bothered to challenge their notion that puppets are unfeeling, unthinking automata, built only to serve. But more than that, he's interested.
Perhaps Fuuta's confidence is usually this high. Perhaps it's an effect of his transformation, perhaps he's become strong and with it, more bold. More likely, he speaks with the passion of past experience, and equally likely, he has underestimated a puppet deliberately designed to be.
But... lectures.
"Stars above!" he interjects with a disbelieving flash of teeth. It carves a boyish dimple in one cheek, "I thought you'd be scary, not a nag."
The levity, too, is a gentle obfuscation of a bloody truth; if he went mad like his frenzied, manufactured brethren, he would wish on every star there was someone who could stop him. But... not every player of the resort's Game has hailed from a world with stakes so high. It's not just a lie, either, but a provocation; he's trying to get a rise out of him.
no subject
"Haa?! What, you want me to be scary? You think I can't?!"
Shoulders squared and tail lashing behind him, he's puffed himself up like an animal trying to make itself bigger. But at the same time, Fuuta doesn't exactly lunge forth to start that fight, remaining where he's standing with his feet still firmly planted on the ground.
The transformation might have boosted his confidence and made him brash, but the changes hadn't been that drastic, after all; he's still a coward and a non-combatant at his core. Not to mention -- even setting aside the pole, Fuuta gets a weird feeling about this guy. Between that old-timey way he speaks and his odd clothes, the man standing before him feels a bit too weird to just hastily lunge at.
Despite that bristling, Fuuta ends up settling back down after a moment of glowering, visible eye narrowing as that tail lashes behind him.
"It's only idiots and monsters that go straight to trying to solve problems with violence, you know. You really think you're gonna be doing the right thing by trying to take people in by force? Why d'you even care so much about this monster hunting anyway? All just so you can earn a few bucks?"
no subject
Maybe he just likes the attention.
Fuuta puts on an imposing display (and not the least because that fire brimming behind his jaws could turn a puppet with oil in his veins into a candle with legs) and Pinocchio stands his ground, tipping up his chin, daring him to act.
"Got me pegged, do you?" says the puppet, starting forward one deliberate step after another, closing the gap. His unhurried stride belies the threat of violence; the pole remains propped across his shoulder, right arm draped over one end. If he did intend on using it, he'd have to make broad, obvious motions. "Think you have me all figured out?"
He wonders how close he can get before this stops being a conversation, why his heart pounds at the question. What he hopes to gain at all. Pinocchio's been cold for so long, perhaps he can't resist the heat of a flame.
"What's your name?"
no subject
Tch. And here, he'd been thinking he might be able to talk his way out of this encounter. Not that he thinks he'd lose the fight! (He would absolutely lose the fight.) But, like -- he doesn't want to get bonked by that pole, is all? It'd hurt, and it'd be terribly uncool? That's all! He just wanted to save them both the trouble, and look at this asshole spitting on his generosity! How ungrateful!
The puppet starts stepping closer, and Fuuta holds his ground for all of one step before falling back an equal number of paces, tail lashing behind him in caution. And while his eyes narrow at Pinocchio's question, almost like he doesn't consider it worthy of acknowledging, he does answer.
"And if you're gonna ask for someone's name, it's only right to introduce yourself first. Don't you even know that? It's basic manners!"
There's a certain hilarity to Fuuta talking about manners, especially when the transformation's rendered him even pricklier than usual. Though more importantly -- Pinocchio might note that the inside of Fuuta's mouth is lit up with simmering flames as he snaps that response, so bright that the glow's starting to penetrate through the skin of his throat. If it's warmth that he's tempted by, then he's about to get a big dose of it.
no subject
Pinocchio is pushing a man already afraid (he should be). He doesn't want to be feared, but he's brought this on himself. The escalation manifests in the brightening behind Fuuta's teeth, and the light of flames illuminating his throat from within prompts a soft murmur.
"Careful, now. You're burning up," except he's not a puppet, humans don't combust when they can't regulate their internal temperature. Neither has this prompted him to stop his pursuit. Inevitably, he tests Fuuta further than he should.
no subject
"You think I'm gonna get hurt by my own fire, dumbass?"
The heat building in his chest is starting to reach its peak, licks of flame starting to spill past jagged teeth even if he tries to contain them, and the jagged tip of his tail whacks into the floor behind him as one, final, unspoken warning. Fuuta's next exhale comes black with smoke, his eyes bright with concentration, and the moment that Pinocchio raises a foot to take another step towards him --
it actually is an impressive display he puts on, a deluge of flames exploding forth from his throat. Though they lack in density or heat, lacking the sheer destructive force of something like a flamethrower, it's still more than enough to scare off the average person. After all, what kind of person wants to risk wide-spread second-degree burns just for the sake of a few chips?
hey turns out when oil runs through your veins you're p flammable
Thank modern-day fire-retardant technologies.
His body, highly resistant to environmental hazards, is sturdy enough to handle something like this at the best of times. But he's never gone this long without maintenance (or a death that's reset his condition), there's no telling what the level of compromise clockwork seized for months by petrification might have. No one's opened him up to check.
Flames lick around him as he bursts out the other side of the deluge, blue eyes flashing with the feral focus of a predator locking onto prey. Locks of dark hair smolder, his shirt smudged by the heat. One foot lands first, he turns his heel, redirecting his momentum, about to run him down. But the steely left arm he cocks back is ablaze, and perhaps a canister inside the hydraulics of his arm has suffered a slow leak, perhaps a gasket for an oil line has come loose.
The cause can be discovered later. His prosthesis bursts apart at the forearm with a sound like a gunshot, a bright bloom of ignition. He drops on a knee and the other hand, mouth agape in surprise. There's a shard of steel — part of the plating that had formerly covered his forearm — jutting from his side. The stink of oil fills the air.
whoopsie teehee
He promptly whips around where he's standing, shifting to position himself defensively when that blur of movement explodes out of the side of the blaze, teeth gritted in frustration. What the hell is this guy? He's seriously raring for another go? Fuuta backs off a step, starting to gather another gout of flames at the back of his throat. Is he going to make it in time? Hard to tell. But there's no way he's going to just roll over and admit defeat. He has to at least try --
then there's the sound of shattering steel, accompanied by an explosion of flames that he didn't cause.
A combination of the noise and the blast of hot air has Fuuta falling on his ass in shock, a panicked squeak escaping him as he frantically drags himself back away from whatever the hell is going on. The first thing he sees, of course, is the gout of fire still spewing from the remains of Pinocchio's arm. Then he sees that shrapnel shard protruding from the guy's side.
"... a-aah --" Flames escape him once more, but it's just a sputter this time, choked out alongside a horrified gasp as he backs off further. "-- th -- that wasn't my fault! I didn't do that!"
cw: body horror, immolation
Pinocchio's as much part of this as he is, and the puppet, with pain an old friend and to death, the one that keeps getting away, turns his gaze towards him. Without the aggression, replaced now by horror, Fuuta looks small and... kind of weak. It's not pity that spurs the puppet to think of his safety, it's a little more central to the core of who he has become.
A slick of black is blooming around and down from the metal jutting from his side, the reek of machine oil and smoke beginning to billow out from him. The sparks and sputters from his ruined prosthetic catch, eagerly licking up the oil he's asperating around the shrapnel embedded in him. He spasms, biting back a sound, as he feels himself ignite from inside. There's not much time now, the fuel lines that deliver Ergo to every part of his body have ignited. Synthetic skin begins to bubble and char, starting with his side and climbing up his collar. All he can hear is a whistle-shrieking roar as all the things that make him what he is boils and burns at the same time.
"Get up," he demands. Black smoke curls from his mouth and nostrils. His voice stutters, a crackle, like static, and from his darkening eyes runs something like burnished gold. The lifelike skin around it chars and curls, burned by molten material, "Run."
no subject
Fuuta watches in unmasked horror as that stain spreads from the puncture point, too dark and too acrid to be blood. The billow of smoke through the air is starting to sting at his eyes, clogging up his throat, and his next panicked breaths cut off with a hacking cough; his hands, clammy with anxious sweat, squeak against the flooring when he reflexively drags himself back another step, away from the mess that he's caused. But he can't seem to tear his eyes away from it. Even as skin crackles and warps, even as the doll's body jolts in place from misfiring connections, even as he finds himself shaking his head in desperate denial, Fuuta stares with eye wide and jaw clenched in terror.
It's really more reflex than conscious thought that even has him responding to that guttural demand.
He stands not because he wants to, not because he's heeding Pinocchio's words, but because on some level, his body registers it as the only way to keep himself safe. And though it takes him far too much effort to tear his gaze away from the growing inferno and the crackle of flames, he does eventually manage to look away. Pinocchio won't have to repeat himself -- Fuuta runs like his life depends on it, and doesn't look back.
👀👀👀 oof love that tag
Pinocchio can't tell if he's been heeded. His sight has gone dark, he hears only the shrieking whistle and thunderous roar of fire ravaging his body until his hearing, too, burns up. All the rest is a riotous symphony of agony playing one catastrophic note that stretches on for an age.
Tock.
In the column of flames where there was a boy, blue motes of light begin to swirl into the air, like sparks from a campfire, like luminous spores.
Tick.
The hands of time rewind. Elsewhere in the Vale, these specks of blue light coalesce, gathering in a single spot, beginning to piece him back together, untouched by smoke and flame.