rip up the petals

roleplay blog || more info in pinned!

[lowestlayers]

➸ deep past the brimstone and fire, in the lowest layer, a garden blooms...

※ this is a roleplay sideblog! interacts/follows/likes through @ramblings-of-this-lunatic​​! ※ muse list! includes canon character muses & oc muses! 

※ rules! read through these so you’ll know what i rp and what i allow here :] ※ permanent starter call! like the post [but if you have an rp sideblog please shoot me a dm/ask] ※ tag list! check the post to see the tags i use for the blog for easy navigation

[lowestlayers]

"Well.. the makeup does make it seem more grizzly than it may seem," the painter mused, setting both palette and brushes aside to push the easel closer so that he can see every little stroke and smear detailed onto the canvas. "And plus, this isn't about me," he hummed, "I'm not your therapist, nor are you mine. My feelings aren't really in the play here between us, it's yours. That's why I was hired into Arkham. To figure out your feelings. If, that is, you even have the capability of doing so."

Up close, the Joker could see how the thick acrylic bent and swirled when it was pressed - dragged across canvas like a corpse on the ground. "Maybe it was my painting techniques too, that made it look worse off than it already is. Who knows? It's what the outsiders see when they see my art anyways, you know the saying," Virginia did some air quotes as he spoke, "beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and all that waxing poetic stuff."

The painter listened in relative silence for a moment, gazing at his piece and then at his muse. His face scrunched, as if confused - because he was. When he was told to paint the Joker's mindscape, he wasn't really told much about the patient in question, let alone about origins or backstory. So, in a wary voice, he softly spoke up.

"She...? What do you mean? I wasn't told about you when they told me to paint you," he gestured, "so I kind of just painted what I got off our conversation from earlier. You didn't mention any.. 'she'."

[ghostsandmirrors]

His tongue darted out three times again--each corner and his bottom lip--as he eyed the artist. It was really no fun when people didn't play along, but that didn't matter; he still had time. For as long as he was here, Joker had time. He just had to remember that, and that sometimes people needed to be enticed, given a reason to join in. "But I want to know your feelings. We could be…" He sucked on his teeth with thought before his tongue darted out to swipe at the left corner of his lips, taking a moment before it hit the right, too. "Friends." That grin was back, spreading smoothly across his features.

In truth, he really did like it more now that he could see the texture. It felt right. It didn't quite feel like him--the texture wasn't ragged enough, didn't look like something had torn through it enough, for it to be him--but it still felt right. The drag marks, especially. He wanted to touch it, to feel those drag marks under his finger tips, to register every little detail that couldn't be fully realised through only sight. He just wanted to know how it felt, to compare. It was interesting.

It didn't benefit him, though, so he eyed the artist for a moment before looking back to the art. There was a small little movement with his jaw, like he was considering saying something, but he stayed silent. He let it all just sit there. He didn't really have anything to say, but he wanted to keep the artist on his toes. He wanted him to feel like he was learning the clown in some way, reward him in the future.

His tongue darted out to each side again.

When the question came, Joker tried to look innocently surprised; his eyes widened and his eyebrows raised just a little bit, just enough to get that surprise, to make it look like he had something to hide. "You didn't ask," he said as if on reflex before he waved a hand dismissively behind the glass. "It's not important. This is done, now." Joker gave an uncharacteristically pleasant laugh, like he was trying to pass over his own embarrassment at being caught out, like he was breaking the character of being a horrific terrorist who committed some truly atrocious acts for only a second, corpsing with the question. "And she's moved on." He wanted to seem like he was dismissing the topic without actually doing so, give him just a little something and then pull back like it was a touchy subject.

"It's…" He sighed heavily, tongue darting out three times again as he stared at the painting, intentionally forcing his sight to swim in and out of focus as if he was remembering something and trying not to; it was surprisingly easy to do. "It's really something."

[lowestlayers]

Virginia hummed in acknowledgment of his words, moving to paint, perhaps edit the piece some more. However, instead of turning the easel away, he left it where it is, instead now having his own back turned to the Joker so that the clown could watch him paint if he were to so wish. As he continued to talk, the painter picked up a palette knife, gazing carefully at the canvas. He reaches over, digging the knife to the black smears reaching down the art piece's cheeks, tearing the canvas just enough to not look too messy, but just right- like pieces to improve, add depth and shadows.

He tugged a few of the cut strips, inverting them so that they looked like peeled wallpaper on the canvas. Virginia was honestly wary - suspicious, even, but he did not make it known nor seen. He knew that Arkham had odd rules; flexible rules even. But some part of him thought that maybe he should have been made aware of some information related to the Joker, while the other part of him went to be fair, he is a high risk criminal, it'd make sense why information would be kept hush-hush. Either way, he shrugged off both thoughts.

"I didn't know, that's the thing," he gestured a bit, "Dr. Hugo didn't tell me much about you, let alone your past. I was just told to go paint you so they'd understand your head better, if the idiots here even could understand the beauty of art - let alone one abstract." His voice seemed to be tinted with bitter resentment. He was used to people looking at his art, and instead of seeing the emotional or mental value, simply asked for the material value instead. Probably so they could throw it up in their bougie mansion walls that cost more than their entire life fund doubled.

The only person who didn't do that shallow move was one Mr. Bruce Wayne. It brought a slight smile to his lips, one he's glad was hidden due to his back being turned to the clown. He shook his head, getting back to the original train of thought. "I'm surprised I even managed to get a mindscape out of you when the only thing Arkham told me was, 'he's a terrorist with a gimmick' - and I'm like who doesn't have one these days? No offense, of course." About 89% of his brain suddenly reared back and yelled at the remaining percentage, what do you mean no offense?! No offense to the terrorist clown?!

"So.. we have some time to talk. I think now's a good time to actually get to know one another, you know? If you're really serious about the whole 'friend' thing."

[viciousbite]

lowestlayers​:

Willow gazed up at him in the same wary curiosity. Her eyes flitted over his shoulder, catching the sight of arm within the rags. If her next words weren’t confirmation that the arm was belonging to her mother, her reaction surely was: she relaxed at the sight of what is most definitely a demon’s arm. Her eyes softened and the tenseness seemed to just fly out the window. The young girl shifted on the bed, sitting a bit more comfortably as she stopped chewing on the blue bow and smoothed it out. As Bondrewd finally stood in front of her to ask this question, Willow nodded truthfully.

“Yes. Mom is a demon. Jin says she’s a really strong one, he calls her the Lady,” the girl answered, “she only left me with my knife and Jin to protect me whenever I leave our estate. I’m usually only allowed to be in a certain distance from home, but I strayed too far.” As if a little child caught with her hand in the cookie jar, Willow looked away, picking at her clothes, “um.. that’s when you found me. I’m definitely a lot farther than before, wherever I am..”

A lady?

No - that’s not what the girl said. The girl said the Lady. Whether it was just a title gifted, or a title earned, it was made certain that whoever owned that arm was much more than just some run-of-the-mill demon, even if the name was simplistic in nature it held a certain air of regality. An Upper Moon, perhaps? Or worse, maybe not one related to the demon lord that the corps have been looking for at all. Whether she is a threat that is perhaps equal to the lord in question or worse cannot yet be confirmed, but one thing is made certain.

She had been able to stay under the radar of the Demon Slayer corps for years, maybe decades even, all the while possibly creating demons herself as powerful as the one he had captured earlier. A quiet gust of wind blew gently through Bondrewd’s estate. The sound of distant wind chimes echoed through the air. The distinct scent of belladonna thickened.

A guest has arrived.

The Lady. A demon unfamiliar to the scientist. This might prove to be a find. A dangerous, and important find. He wanted to know more, of her powers over other demons, of her blood. Was it different from the rest? Stronger? Why had he never heard of her before? Endless questions to be unlocked. Willow could answer some, but how much can a child know of their own mother? Not all, and pushing a child to answer everything needed time.

“Oya oya, your mother is quite the protective one. Understandable with such an adventurous streak on her child.” Bondrewd mused. If Willow hadn’t wandered so far, he would have never found her. Grateful for her wandering.

A scent, of belladonna, and the echo of wind chimes. Something was coming, someone, sooner than he expected. Bondrewd turned towards the Umbra Hand who held the severed arm. Now, was it the arm or the child herself that gave away their location? Or was this demon that smart to find them without a nudge to the right direction? “Place the arm on the table and go tell the rest that we are going to have a visitor. You’re allowed to defend yourself, but do not initiate a fight.” He calmly ordered the Umbra Hand.

When his accomplice left, he brought his attention upon Willow. “I hope The Lady is capable of a proper conversation and doesn’t slaughter my men the second she sees them. Should I be worried, that that’s not the case?” He rather avoid an unfortunate incident of having to replace everyone, not that all of them were here. He had more, in a different facility.

And what came to the arm, it was a backup, in case he needed to consume flesh, although, he rather not waste it. Nor did he know if his body can handle such a strong density of demon blood.

[lowestlayers]

"You.. didn't hurt me," Willow said slowly as if recalling that fact, "and you were nice to me." She played with her bow a bit, legs swinging slightly back and forth as she stared at the Umbra Hand. He lingered a moment longer, and then turned to follow Bondrewd's very orders. "Mom is a very protective person," she continued, "she'd do anything to ensure my safety, including wiping out armies of people if that was the case. But she can be talked to with reason, especially if I do it." With the mindset of one younger than how she looked, Willow smiled at Bondrewd in a similar fashion that his own adoptive daughter did.

"Mom can be talked to reasonably, so long as I can convince her that it's okay." Clearly the innocence blinds this girl - though a mother will have a soft spot for her child's antics and worldview, this is no mere mother. This was a demon. She would definitely pick up any sense of danger blind to her child. And trouble comes in the form of himself, even if he doesn't think so.

Willow stood to her feet, gently taking Bondrewd's hand in hers. She walked out of the room and seemed to take a few educated guesses to go towards the open courtyard despite never having been here. Perhaps his estate's layout is similar to her home's, meaning they live in at least a high class home. By the time they got to the courtyard, the scent of belladonna was thick.

Standing there, her arms folded in front offer, stood a woman. She had the beauty of a Geisha, but with eyes as cold as ice. The haori draped over her shoulders flapped in the wind, and on its patterns is the same exact one seen on Willow's sigil, the arm, and demon's back. The mere air around her was suffocating, even more so when you made eye contact. She slowly raised a hand up, and claws sharpened from her nails.

"Explain yourself. Why do you have my daughter and her bodyguard locked up here, you insect?" as she spoke, her voice cut through the air. It was soft, yet firm, with a lilt of command that could send almost anyone to their knees, let alone her subordinates. "What matter of foolishness has taken hold of your very soul, to think this may have been a good idea?"

[ghostsandmirrors]

( continued from here with @lowestlayers )

When the brush stopped and silence fell, Joker's tongue swiped out at the corners of his lips, where his scars started before it darted out to dampen his bottom lip. His eyes never left the figure behind the canvas and he didn't even try to hide it. He didn't try to hide the stare nor the way he hadn't blinked since he asked, as if to give the artist the opportunity to look, to search the darkness for something. Humanity, maybe? Some light at the bottom of the neverending pits that were his eyes? He was sure there'd be something; the dark always seemed to hold all sorts of shapes, after all. The artist didn't look, though. A pity.

Joker leaned forward, still not blinking, like he was itching to get through the glass. He was; he wanted to stalk around his prey and look at the painting over his shoulder, lingering for a moment too long and lurking too close for comfort. The fact that he couldn't do that, couldn't unsettle with movements and had to fully rely on long distance methods, was another pity.

The muttering wasn't clear, but he understood enough. Enough for his mouth to split into that dreadful grin, that horrific expression that warped his scars and could never quite reach his eyes. They truly were voids, sucking in whatever light they could only to extinguish it, swallowing it into the depths and drowning it, leaving it to rot. This applied to the twisted glee, too; his grin may have existed, may have been stretching across his face, but his eyes were empty, hollow, like this was as much of a show as anything else he did.

He did like to perform, and he had a captive audience!

The eventual answer was what dragged a giggle up from somewhere deep in his lungs, like it'd clawed its way out through nothing but determination. It matched the dead glee perfectly and showed something pleasant; he liked this answer. He liked the honesty.

"You shouldn't hide your true feelings," was all Joker said in response, his grin never fading. "That's what they teach you in therapy." Did his 'treatment'--though he wasn't fully sure what they were treating--count as therapy? He was going to use the word regardless. "You have to feel things." As if to punctuate this, his tongue darted out to wet the corners of his lips again before he sucked his bottom lip in to dampen that again, too.

That grin only disappeared when the painting was turned to him. It petered out like a dying flame, killed by the act that he was putting on. He liked to perform, and he was just a curious old soul; would the finished product be different another time, if he told enough stories and seemed sympathetic, if reached for the furthest splinters of empathy that he could grab with both hands? For now, it was well done, but normal. He was expecting some kind of illustration befitting of untold horrors and the nightmares that caused them. He didn't think of himself as a nightmare, but he knew other people did.

To keep the act up, he gave a small, simple, casual little 'hm' of thought. He was silently impressed, but that didn't match the character he was going for. Instead, he drew his eyebrows together and up in fake concern as he wondered if making himself seem more human could get more life in those eyes or hidden sadness in that smile. He had nothing better to do than try.

"Do I smile like that?" he asked, as if being shown the canvas was a lightning bolt to his confidence, destroying it in an instant and wounding him intensely with very little effort. "Is it the scars?" His tone had turned almost mournful now, his mouth turning down just a little bit, just enough, as his tongue darted out again, just like the last two times. "She didn't like them either..." This was quieter and broken.

He did like to perform.

[lowestlayers]

"Well.. the makeup does make it seem more grizzly than it may seem," the painter mused, setting both palette and brushes aside to push the easel closer so that he can see every little stroke and smear detailed onto the canvas. "And plus, this isn't about me," he hummed, "I'm not your therapist, nor are you mine. My feelings aren't really in the play here between us, it's yours. That's why I was hired into Arkham. To figure out your feelings. If, that is, you even have the capability of doing so."

Up close, the Joker could see how the thick acrylic bent and swirled when it was pressed - dragged across canvas like a corpse on the ground. "Maybe it was my painting techniques too, that made it look worse off than it already is. Who knows? It's what the outsiders see when they see my art anyways, you know the saying," Virginia did some air quotes as he spoke, "beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and all that waxing poetic stuff."

The painter listened in relative silence for a moment, gazing at his piece and then at his muse. His face scrunched, as if confused - because he was. When he was told to paint the Joker's mindscape, he wasn't really told much about the patient in question, let alone about origins or backstory. So, in a wary voice, he softly spoke up.

"She...? What do you mean? I wasn't told about you when they told me to paint you," he gestured, "so I kind of just painted what I got off our conversation from earlier. You didn't mention any.. 'she'."

[ghostsandmirrors]

for folk who got the New Layout (neg), people reblogged the announcement post with information.

to save time; there's an extension called Stylus that you can get on Firefox and Chrome and you can install the old Tumblr layout theme (though the icons are in the wrong order and I haven't figured out how to swap them around). lowestlayers showed me the post because we were complaining lmao (and you can give feedback by going to Help > scroll all the way down and hit 'Contact Us' > select 'Feedback' in the dropdown menu and start typing.)

[lowestlayers]

“  what do you see when you look into my eyes?  ” (a meme for jay virginia from joker. masc or femme is up to you.)

He paused in the strokes, the paintbrush in hand hovering over the canvas at the still of his form. Virginia stared at the painting - he knew he specialised in abstract, how people often called it a nonsensical form of art, but this piece really did seem absurd to him, even if it had a certain beauty. He wondered briefly how he found himself here, seated across the Joker who sat behind a thick layer of protective glass and himself behind an easel as if this was a college art class.

"When I.. look into your eyes?" he muttered aloud, staring at the splashes of red, green, and purple. They were ugly colours, even together, but they fitted the clown prince of crime. "When I look into your eyes, I see..."

A monster. A psychopath. A madman. A person that the Gotham City government really should have put on the death sentence long before yesterday.

"Someone beyond saving," he answered at last, gazing over the edge of the canvas, the sharp angles only revealing the smokey fury that simmered just beneath its surface. "Someone who I don't understand why he can still walk on his two feet, basically a free man," he pressed the bristles into thick red acrylic, smearing a fat stripe across a patch of swirling greens and purples, "someone who I really should know better than to insult like this, but I couldn't really afford to care that much about repercussions."

As he stared at the canvas once more, the face of the Joker stared back at him. Yellows, reds, greens, purples, smeared and swirled into the visage of the man behind the glass. No, not man - the thing. The bright red curve of his lips flashed a smile filled with mockery and unbridled glee. And the eyes, oh, he was proud of those. He grasped the edge of the canvas and flipped it over to face his muse.

It was like looking in a mirror. Such cold, empty eyes.

[lowestlayers]

[@viciousbite]

a little gift art for a dear fellow bondrewd enthusiast, and actually the first person i gathered up the courage to start a thread with, @viciousbite!

this is his kny au of bondrewd that i absolutely adore, and so this gift was made for them :] hope you enjoy!

[ghostsandmirrors]

there is nothing left to hide, when you’re hopeless, waiting to collide. through the flames you’re by my side. we’ll go down together. we’ll go down together. immortalized. immortalized.

- immortalized by hidden citizens feat. keeley bumbford — original images: [x] | [x] | [x] | [x] | [x] | [x] | [x] | [x]

texture credits! n/a

( @lowestlayers )

[viciousbite]

lowestlayers​:

The girl was clearly naive. It showed in her stance and eyes how they softened from her fear when he crouched in front of her. Moments ago, the orbs of blue shimmered with fear, but now, it was more so wary curiosity. She blinked away the wet blobs of her tears rolling down her face. She fiddled with her bow.

“…no… we aren’t. I’m an only child. Jin is my bodyguard,” Willow murmured softly, shyly, like a child admitting something to their parent. She tugged at the bow, putting it to her lips as she chewed on the corner out of nervous habit. “Mom made him for me. She said he was one of her strongest demons. She said he’ll be my bodyguard and protect me from the big bad men and women outside our home. Jin-san knows me by scent and aura. His palms have those eyes to read auras easily.”

There it is again. ‘Mom’. What mother lets a child, an only child at that, run amuck with a demon? Of course, that is if you don’t acknowledge the fact that the girl said that ‘Mom’ made this demon, Jin. Before either one could speak up, the door slid open, one of Bondrewd’s Umbra Hands standing there. In his gloved hands was something wrapped in a white rag, staining red.

“Lord Bondrewd,” the Umbra Hand started, “you may find this of interest to you.” As he unwrapped it, it revealed an arm. A lady’s arm. The arm had sharpened nails, painted a vibrant shade of red. But that wasn’t it. The arm had some sort of thick wooden brambles, thorned, wrapped around, and dug into the flesh. The brambles all surrounded one thing; a sigil. The same sigil on that demon’s back, and Willow’s earrings. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the correlation.

'Mom’.

A bodyguard, made for her, by her mother. “Intriguing.” Bondrewd mused to himself. Willow’s body language was enough to tell him, that she spoke the truth. Who would be capable of making a demon bodyguard? Anyone with enough of demon blood to spare, blood of the richest type, or a genius scientist who knew how much and how to turn a human into one. So many questions to ask, of a child so young and nervous.

Before a word of a question was spoken, their privacy cut short by the arrival of an Umbra Hand. Bondrewd turned his head towards them. “Tell me what you found.” He spoke before the object of interest came to view. His body lifted from its crouched position and he approached the unique limb shown to him for inspection. An arm, his fingers hovered near the object, not touching it. Sharp claws, like a demons, with a familiar sigil in sight. They were all connected. But what was this arm for? “Oya, this sigil, it’s the same as hers and the demon’s. A family symbol…? I do wonder if the owner will give us a visit too.” There was no female demon with the two, no, it was only the arm. Highly likely found from the demon they captured. What purpose did it lay? 

“For safety reasons, tell the rest of the Umbra Hands to be careful and keep an eye out for any disturbances.” Bondrewd ordered the man. 

His attention shifted back to Willow and he approached her with a calm posture. “Your mother. She didn’t happen to give you anything more than your bodyguard, Jin? And may I ask, is your mother of the demonic nature?” Now, if there was a demon other than the demon lord with their own demons, that would make quite the discovery. He needed to have them all, to study them, to learn more. One can only wait and see how long this Mother takes to find them. It was dangerous to deal with a protective parent, and demons, were of the animalistic kind.

[lowestlayers]

Willow gazed up at him in the same wary curiosity. Her eyes flitted over his shoulder, catching the sight of arm within the rags. If her next words weren't confirmation that the arm was belonging to her mother, her reaction surely was: she relaxed at the sight of what is most definitely a demon's arm. Her eyes softened and the tenseness seemed to just fly out the window. The young girl shifted on the bed, sitting a bit more comfortably as she stopped chewing on the blue bow and smoothed it out. As Bondrewd finally stood in front of her to ask this question, Willow nodded truthfully.

"Yes. Mom is a demon. Jin says she's a really strong one, he calls her the Lady," the girl answered, "she only left me with my knife and Jin to protect me whenever I leave our estate. I'm usually only allowed to be in a certain distance from home, but I strayed too far." As if a little child caught with her hand in the cookie jar, Willow looked away, picking at her clothes, "um.. that's when you found me. I'm definitely a lot farther than before, wherever I am.."

A lady?

No - that's not what the girl said. The girl said the Lady. Whether it was just a title gifted, or a title earned, it was made certain that whoever owned that arm was much more than just some run-of-the-mill demon, even if the name was simplistic in nature it held a certain air of regality. An Upper Moon, perhaps? Or worse, maybe not one related to the demon lord that the corps have been looking for at all. Whether she is a threat that is perhaps equal to the lord in question or worse cannot yet be confirmed, but one thing is made certain.

She had been able to stay under the radar of the Demon Slayer corps for years, maybe decades even, all the while possibly creating demons herself as powerful as the one he had captured earlier. A quiet gust of wind blew gently through Bondrewd's estate. The sound of distant wind chimes echoed through the air. The distinct scent of belladonna thickened.

A guest has arrived.

[ghostsandmirrors]

lowestlayers​:

He felt her hand - felt it.

Truly, the touch of flesh against his metal, and not just a mere pressure, too. He could feel the CEO gently resting her hand on his bicep, gazing up at him fondly before turning away as if she was ashamed of herself for showing such emotion, drawing her fingers back. Both hands turned to rest idly at her sides as Virginia turned to look at the wreckage.

For a brief moment, she was curious. They clearly shared the same mind and neither thought of the other as a clone. Was it hard for Ultron to share his consciousness, split between two different forms? How many would be too many for his powers? Was consciousness transferred via wires and electricity, or could it be wireless? All those questions ran through her mind, and she wanted to voice them until she heard the wreckage’s question.

The CEO blinked as if her mind registered those words slower than it would have. She swallowed a lump in her throat and turned her head away, searching for the words to shape the story that turned her into the devil she was today.

“I… did not fit in well - with my classmates. Let’s say that,” Virginia began, trying to keep her tone steady and not delve into spite, “we were going to Stark Industries, the class, and I. A school trip. See if any of us wanted an internship or something of the sort. ’For our futures,’ you know the spiel they’d give us young upstarts from rich families.” She hopped up to sit on the table’s edge, bringing one leg to hold and rest beneath her chin.

“They thought it’d be funny to push me into… something. I don’t know what it was. It was electric, metallic. And it hurt,” her eyes flickered once more, “it really, really hurt. Like my flesh was being rent from the bone. I thought I was going to die or something. But I didn’t. It was just miserable for a while until I finally got pulled out by our chaperone. Sent straight to the hospital, in critical condition. I needed prosthetics for everything if I wanted even a sliver of a chance to survive. Stark Industries didn’t do anything. They were angry at my late father for not selling the company. Forced us to settle.”

“I survived, obviously,” she gestured at herself but with a solemn look in her eyes, “told myself I’d never let them go. I’ll bring them to their knees, no matter what I need to do to accomplish it.” Virginia blinked and swallowed a dry chuckle. “…I- ah.. I sounded really.. spiteful.”

The touch was a strange feeling. Bizarre. He had never felt touch before; metal had never had nerves in the past. It’d saved him. He’d avoided pain by being metal, being an AI piloting a mecha. In truth, he hadn’t felt that pressure before, either. Metal tended to be unwielding, solid. This was a new sensation, and that was the reason he stared blankly at her hand until she turned away. He couldn’t fully understand the feeling and it was over too quickly for him to get used to it.

“Nerves?” It was a simple question, an attempt to understand how the project had been made. It was all so strange to him, so unfamiliar. He was suddenly glad that he’d been suspicious; the wreckage was comfortable and unfeeling and the freedom to easily move between them was a welcome convenience for him. Even so, he was fascinated by this new sensation.

When she started talking, answering his question, he made sure to stay silent and listen. It sounded… humans would say ‘horrific’. He’d planned to turn a city into a meteor and force the exctinction of this form of humanity, so he didn’t have the same standards. Despite that, it brought about a sense of familiarity. Not like he’d been there at the time–he wasn’t that old–but like he knew what she was talking about.

When he’d taken over the wreckage, he’d found information. Scraps of information; the battle, the tearing of vibranium being pulled away from the metal beneath as that same metal melted, the groans of metal bending as the heart was pulled from his chest, dripping oil. He couldn’t feel pain before, but the information held bright lights, the knowledge of the end, and the moments before that tiny part of him–the part that was now here–realised it was alive. The spikes of fear and the calm inbetween.

He couldn’t empathise, but he could relate.

The project gently, so gently to not hurt her, put a hand on her shoulder while the wreckage looked at her. If that destroyed face could make expressions, it would still be blank; she had his sympathies, but those wouldn’t help and nor would pitying looks.

The laugh that escaped the wreckage probably wouldn’t either, brought about by her comment of sounding spiteful, but it wasn’t meant to. He was silently grateful that she sounded spiteful, though; it meant that he wasn’t alone in the spite, in the anger towards Stark, and it was nice. It was… comfortable.

“Of course you’ll bring them to their knees,” he said easily, smoothly, like this was the most obvious belief in the world, “you’re stronger than him.” Despite his laugh, his tone was serious. Despite the ease with which he spoke, his tone was heavy.

“Humans are so…” he paused, searching for the word, “disconnected.” Now he looked at her again. “All you need is unity.” Both bodies spoke the last word, as if for emphasis, as the screen showed images of his army, of the Ultron sentries working together. Unity.

[lowestlayers]

"No. Nerves are too... feeling, so to speak. If they feel pain, then it'd be useless," she answered his first question with half-lidded eyes, a soft breath leaving her lips, "sensory pads, for pressure. Lets you know your own strength. It can be toggled on and off at will. It won't be bothersome if you don't want it to be there."

As if unsure whether or not she should say her following words, the CEO took a brief moment to pause. Then, she continued, "like what I have. It's the reason I could poke and prod at metal and spikes without flinching. When I said I needed prosthetics, I meant it. My hands - all four limbs, really - aren't flesh anymore. They're prosthetics. But I wanted to know my strength when I held things - like small animals. So I found a way to give that feeling back."

Virginia gazed up at the project, then at the wreckage. The difference was literally night and day; you would have never expected one to be the other. And yet, Virginia did. Perhaps it was because she was the one who, in a sense, watched Ultron take over the husk. But she felt like she'd still know this odd A.I that she met within a crater if it was any other body.

It was impressive, really, how she had managed to replicate touch for machines. Granted, she was more machine than man, thanks to her personal prosthetics, but the accomplishment held merit and skill. Her dress shirt fabric felt soft. It was well-ironed and had no wrinkles. For a brief second after his hand touched her back, he could feel her entire body tense, as if she was not used to being touched.

Then, as if she realised it was Ultron, her form relaxed. Her gentle eyes gazed up at him, and like giving him a sign of trust, she decided to let the contact lenses glow a dim red. They matched in the hues of their eyes now. "Stronger than him..." her lips quirked, a tilt of her head at his words. The CEO gazed in wonder at the pictures, red eyes flickering in amazement at the sight.

"...unity. Do you... think.." Her breath hitched. "Do you think we could have unity?"

[ghostsandmirrors]

lowestlayers​:

Some recent newspaper clippings from in the past few years told the story of a lady whose parents have passed away, who was pushed into a dangerous accident within one of Stark Industries’ locations, possibly during a school trip by classmates. She suffered fatal injuries and was thought to have had no way of survival, and yet somehow still did with the need for prosthetics ranging her entire body. Though no name was written, the picture shown was clearly Virginia.

Her company was a gift from beyond the grave, it seems. The CEO inherited it from her late father, though the company at the time was sub-par at best. It was thanks to Virginia that it had improved; and flourished. Blossomed, even, to the rival that Stark Industries has now. There could be a theory that she did all of this just to surpass Stark and spite him, perhaps in her own way, obsessed and angered. Yet there was no doubt her company did good.

Her eyes flickered, telltale red in their hue, as she approached. Standing by the table’s edge between the wreckage and the project, she looked at him from side to side. Her fingers flexed as if unsure what to do, torn between keeping her distance out of respect or gently grasping at her husk’s cheek. She paused in her thought. It was no longer a husk; she knew that. Despite the flicker of emotion, of anger at the memory upon the screen, she kept herself steady.

“…are…” her voice was trembling, for once not in control. It didn’t fit her, who held herself in a put-together way. And yet, it showed him that she was willing to learn. Willing to listen. Willing for him.

“…are you okay in there?”

Ultron watched her closely as she moved. He knew the wreaked body was an easy target if anything he’d just done had been a bad move, but thought he had insurance in the form of the project; would she be willing to risk it if she decided she didn’t want him around? If he pushed her a little too far? He wasn’t trying to find out, but he knew there was a chance he’d already done it anyway. She did… nothing.

He wouldn’t have blamed her if she had.

“Better than okay,” said the project, taking a moment before it sat up carefully, not trying to knock her and not trying to disrupt anything. The movement was oh-so careful and oh-so precise, doing nothing more than he needed to. “Incredible.” He paused, because it felt more than incredible. It felt… “Perfect.”

The project’s head tilted back, like Ultron was basking in sunlight. In truth, he was getting used to it. Her project was more flexible than he was used to now. Later he’d find out its limits, push it, test it. Later, when she wasn’t around; he didn’t want to risk doing anything that might cause problems.

With a small gesture to the screen, he asked, “what happened?” It was the dusty voice from the wreckage, gentle and sympathetic. Not sympathetic like he pitied her, but like he knew how it felt. Not empathetic–he couldn’t manage that one–but like kinship, like a lack of judgement, like they were more alike than he originally thought. It wasn’t a pushy tone. If she didn’t want to tell her story, he wouldn’t force it; humans were fragile when it came to trauma. He was infinitely curious, though, about everything.

[lowestlayers]

He felt her hand - felt it. Truly, the touch of flesh against his metal, and not just a mere pressure, too. He could feel the CEO gently resting her hand on his bicep, gazing up at him fondly before turning away as if she was ashamed of herself for showing such emotion, drawing her fingers back. Both hands turned to rest idly at her sides as Virginia turned to look at the wreckage.

For a brief moment, she was curious. They clearly shared the same mind and neither thought of the other as a clone. Was it hard for Ultron to share his consciousness, split between two different forms? How many would be too many for his powers? Was consciousness transferred via wires and electricity, or could it be wireless? All those questions ran through her mind, and she wanted to voice them until she heard the wreckage's question.

The CEO blinked as if her mind registered those words slower than it would have. She swallowed a lump in her throat and turned her head away, searching for the words to shape the story that turned her into the devil she was today.

"I... did not fit in well - with my classmates. Let's say that," Virginia began, trying to keep her tone steady and not delve into spite, "we were going to Stark Industries, the class, and I. A school trip. See if any of us wanted an internship or something of the sort. 'For our futures,' you know the spiel they'd give us young upstarts from rich families." She hopped up to sit on the table's edge, bringing one leg to hold and rest beneath her chin.

"They thought it'd be funny to push me into... something. I don't know what it was. It was electric, metallic. And it hurt," her eyes flickered once more, "it really, really hurt. Like my flesh was being rent from the bone. I thought I was going to die or something. But I didn't. It was just miserable for a while until I finally got pulled out by our chaperone. Sent straight to the hospital, in critical condition. I needed prosthetics for everything if I wanted even a sliver of a chance to survive. Stark Industries didn't do anything. They were angry at my late father for not selling the company. Forced us to settle."

"I survived, obviously," she gestured at herself but with a solemn look in her eyes, "told myself I'd never let them go. I'll bring them to their knees, no matter what I need to do to accomplish it." Virginia blinked and swallowed a dry chuckle. "...I- ah.. I sounded really.. spiteful."

[ghostsandmirrors]

lowestlayers​:

“The Avengers steal lots of things, Ultron,” she murmured softly, fingers lightly tracing over her holographic screen’s nonexistent edge. With a pause, the CEO rested both her hands on the desk, “it’s quite a big shame that you were unfortunately, one of the ones that got affected. I think you would have been a wonderous sight.”

“You…” Virginia paused in thought, gently grasping her chin. She was trying to figure out a coherent answer to ’what am I,’ which was easier said than done. She was a complicated woman when it came to mind, or at the very least, that was what she thought of herself. “You’re like a flower to me, Ultron. Bear with me - I’m not quite good on the matter of wording my thoughts.”

She seemed to be more natural when it came to using her hands to express, gesturing to and fro, making little shapes in the air as if she was drawing out a flower, or a seed. “You have potential. Not had, have. I know you do,” she hummed softly, “you started small, I think. A little seed, planted in the soil of the Earth. But then, you were nurtured. Be it by nature, or by man for a brief moment. You blossomed. But then, the Avengers trampled you. Tore and ripped apart your leaves, your petals.”

For the duration of her explanation, the husk had exceeded all expectations. Its movements were smooth, human-like in its actions yet, not to the point of seeming too organic nor uncanny. Her previous words - of how she connected more to metal than flesh, rang true with this project. It had so much time and care put into it, and you could see parts that were clearly handmade and not carved or melded by machine.

The CEO went quiet as if rethinking the words that had just been said. Then, a soft chuckle left her lips, “but look at me, waxing poetic to my guest. I’m not quite a good host, am I?”

Virginia paused and turned to face him, half-expecting an answer, only to abruptly stop in her movements upon seeing the husk. Previously on the table and unmoving, now alive and observing its surroundings and itself. And yet, even then. She looked more curious than concerned.

‘A wonderous sight’. He thought he would’ve been, if they hadn’t taken that from him too. Maybe it’d been for the best, though; the guaranteed immortality of metal that’d already been tested was better. The guarantee that they could destroy and he’d survive, building himself back up out of the rubble and clawing his way back, was a comfort. Everything needed to evolve, and he thought he was on his way to doing that.

“I could have been.” He seemed to hesitate before stepping to one side as if the mere thought of the past aggitated him. “I was building a body. Metal and flesh. A vision. A protector.” He was pacing, his movements slow and unstable. “They took it. Made it… quiet.” His pacing turned into more of an uneasy amble before he sat back down where he’d previously been plugged in. “They always mistook peace for quiet.”

When she started to answer his question, it surprised him, caught him off guard. He was expecting a more practical answer–‘a robot’ or something technological–but wasn’t necessarily disappointed in her actual answer. It was definitely inaccurate, which he was sure anyone would agree with, but also beautiful in a way. He admired her wording.

“It was by me,” he said about who nurtured him, and then there was a tiny laugh. “A real self-made man.” It was a joke, hiding the urge to start ranting about Stark. He may have been obsessive to the point of going extreme lengths, but he wasn’t going to obsess in this way, at this time. She didn’t need to know anything that didn’t make him look good, and while he was sure she’d agree with him, he didn’t need to test that yet.

“Look at all that you’ve given me.” As her project spoke, the wreckage of a body gestured to the nearest screen which now showed things he’d looked through in his quest to learn about her and the company. Not everything, but enough. “A better host than you think.”

“And this is… impressive.” Her project continued to speak as the wreckage stood and shambled over to place his remaining hand on the edge of the table, gazing almost lovingly over the project, her project that was so full of promise. “Better than my attempts.” The other bodies had been better than the wreckage he resided in, though that wasn’t hard, but this was different. This was gleaming and pleasant. New, shining, and beautiful.

Hope?

“You’re a talented woman,” he said from the wreckage while the project looked up at her, voice sounding almost worn and dusty. “One of the best.”

[lowestlayers]

Some recent newspaper clippings from in the past few years told the story of a lady whose parents have passed away, who was pushed into a dangerous accident within one of Stark Industries' locations, possibly during a school trip by classmates. She suffered fatal injuries and was thought to have had no way of survival, and yet somehow still did with the need for prosthetics ranging her entire body. Though no name was written, the picture shown was clearly Virginia.

Her company was a gift from beyond the grave, it seems. The CEO inherited it from her late father, though the company at the time was sub-par at best. It was thanks to Virginia that it had improved; and flourished. Blossomed, even, to the rival that Stark Industries has now. There could be a theory that she did all of this just to surpass Stark and spite him, perhaps in her own way, obsessed and angered. Yet there was no doubt her company did good.

Her eyes flickered, telltale red in their hue, as she approached. Standing by the table's edge between the wreckage and the project, she looked at him from side to side. Her fingers flexed as if unsure what to do, torn between keeping her distance out of respect or gently grasping at her husk's cheek. She paused in her thought. It was no longer a husk; she knew that. Despite the flicker of emotion, of anger at the memory upon the screen, she kept herself steady.

"...are..." her voice was trembling, for once not in control. It didn't fit her, who held herself in a put-together way. And yet, it showed him that she was willing to learn. Willing to listen. Willing for him.

"...are you okay in there?"

[ghostsandmirrors]

lowestlayers​:

“Pretty, even,” her voice teased with a lilt, though it was clearly in good humour and did not at all contradict her previous statement. Her lips curled upwards to a slightly quirked line. Not a smile nor a frown, but perhaps a half-smirk. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I say,” Virginia tilted her head aside a bit, turning to peer at him briefly.

“Perhaps physically, you aren’t the model considered ’beauty’. But… mm. What you are is beautiful to me. I won’t call it flattery, but more so my honest opinion,” she chuckled, the sound soft yet melancholy in its nature. If Mister 8 did realise he was in the system, Ultron must have been the luckiest being on Earth for that A.I to not have immediately reported to Virginia, and instead, just let him spread the control even further.

“I always found myself more connected to machinery than flesh, if my projects here and general company look wasn’t obvious,” demurely, the CEO covered her mouth to hide a soft laugh and a smile before continuing on, “I guess that’s why I find you fascinating. Breathtaking, even. I’m sure not everyone agrees with me.” Her fingers drummed a bit against the table. She did not seem to notice what Ultron was doing with the husk that had now begun to gain sentience thanks to him.

A laugh escaped him, robotic but seemingly genuine. Unlike most of his movements since they’d met, this wasn’t an attempt at manipulation or figuring her out; he appreciated her humour and she was good company. Good company was hard to come by and harder to hold onto, so he was happy to hold onto this good company for as long as he could. As much as she said he fascinated her, she fascinated him.

“So I’ve heard,” he commented about beauty being in the eye of the beholder. It wasn’t flattery? That was a strange thought, not that he was judging her. It was… interesting. The idea that someone would find him, the murderous consciousness inside a mangled body, beautiful was interesting. It wasn’t every day someone complimented him in general; no one had seen him in years.

That was why he tilted his head as she spoke, giving a small hum in thought as if to let her know he was paying attention and considering her words. “I’ve always thought they stole that from me; the opportunity to be beautiful, to be hope…” He paused, letting the word ‘hope’ sit in the air for a moment. It still sounded so… gleaming. So pleasant.

So novel. So naive. If he hadn’t been doing his best to act innocent, to stop suspicion, to play up the tragedy of being destroyed by the Avengers, he would’ve laughed at the thought. Hope. It seemed like such a fantasy now; a childlike wish that could’ve never come true.

“What am I?” he asked when she said that he was fascinating, the body looking around as Ultron tested little parts of it out like the neck joints. His question was asked out of curiosity, that’s all; he hadn’t explicitly stated that he was an AI that’d wanted to wipe out enough humans to force evolution so he wanted to know what she thought. What she knew. He didn’t think she was hiding anything related to him–she’d seemed oblivious at the crater and he had no reason to doubt that–so he was just… curious.

He was also curious if she’d notice his voice coming from the body occasionally or if–because he was moving around in the wreckage and most of what he was saying was coming from that body instead of her project–she’d just assume nothing had changed.

[lowestlayers]

"The Avengers steal lots of things, Ultron," she murmured softly, fingers lightly tracing over her holographic screen's nonexistent edge. With a pause, the CEO rested both her hands on the desk, "it's quite a big shame that you were unfortunately, one of the ones that got affected. I think you would have been a wonderous sight."

"You..." Virginia paused in thought, gently grasping her chin. She was trying to figure out a coherent answer to 'what am I,' which was easier said than done. She was a complicated woman when it came to mind, or at the very least, that was what she thought of herself. "You're like a flower to me, Ultron. Bear with me - I'm not quite good on the matter of wording my thoughts."

She seemed to be more natural when it came to using her hands to express, gesturing to and fro, making little shapes in the air as if she was drawing out a flower, or a seed. "You have potential. Not had, have. I know you do," she hummed softly, "you started small, I think. A little seed, planted in the soil of the Earth. But then, you were nurtured. Be it by nature, or by man for a brief moment. You blossomed. But then, the Avengers trampled you. Tore and ripped apart your leaves, your petals."

For the duration of her explanation, the husk had exceeded all expectations. Its movements were smooth, human-like in its actions yet, not to the point of seeming too organic nor uncanny. Her previous words - of how she connected more to metal than flesh, rang true with this project. It had so much time and care put into it, and you could see parts that were clearly handmade and not carved or melded by machine.

The CEO went quiet as if rethinking the words that had just been said. Then, a soft chuckle left her lips, "but look at me, waxing poetic to my guest. I'm not quite a good host, am I?"

Virginia paused and turned to face him, half-expecting an answer, only to abruptly stop in her movements upon seeing the husk. Previously on the table and unmoving, now alive and observing its surroundings and itself. And yet, even then. She looked more curious than concerned.

[ghostsandmirrors]

lowestlayers​:

“As they ruin everything their grubby hands touch,” Virginia agreed with a breath, hand gently, almost affectionately, brushing over the husk’s forehead. She stepped away from him, letting her back turn as the CEO opened up a terminal on a holographic screen, scrolling through it. She paused, her hand hovering over a panel, and turned to peer at him with eyes that gleamed red.

“I think you are beautiful, Ultron.”

Her voice was soft. It didn’t reek of any sickening sweetness, nor of sarcasm. It was like she spoke the truth, even if it was to her own opinion of what ’beauty’ is. Virginia turned back to focus on the terminal. Looks like she was just idly texting her daughter.

“Truth be told, the body doesn’t actually have a purpose,” she admitted with a soft chuckle, “it was a sort of project to pass the time. I was thinking of just making it either 8’s body, but he refused. Said he didn’t want to look at my face up close every day. The other plan was to make it a security bot of sorts, but then I’ll have to mass produce it, and I really don’t want to go through all the effort.”

Just as she said, the bot was empty. Practically a literal husk. No A.I. From what he can see, it did have built-in weapons, security bypass, and the works. Military-grade weapons too, it seems. It did seem like overkill if the backup plan was to make it a security bot, but looks like she didn’t have any better use for it. If anything, it might actually end up collecting dust on that table.

“How do you feel? Any better?”

“Humans.” Despite the distraction, the slowing, the play being performed exclusively for her benefit–he was sure Mister 8 had some knowledge that he was in already–there was no denying the way the word was almost spat out with… disgust? He didn’t hate humanity, if anything he found humanity fascinating, but people? He didn’t have a good history with individuals. Had it been his fault? He wouldn’t tell. “They can’t help it.”

Even with the distractions, he still looked her way when she said that she thought he was beautiful. There was a small, sardonic laugh. “Flattery?” he asked, tone spiked with interest. It felt like it should be; he wasn’t what he would consider pretty. This body? This wreckage? It was useful. It gave him a sense of wounded innocence. It wasn’t beautiful, though.

As she spoke, he continued looking through everything he could find without alerting her. It was difficult, but the fact he didn’t have to pay attention made it a little easier. He did tune back in for her other plan, but declined to comment; she didn’t need to know that he found it easy to mass produce bodies, that he had experience. What would she think if she knew? He didn’t trust her enough for that.

But did trust her enough for something else, or maybe he was just trying to mess with her? It was difficult to tell with him.

“Much.” It was Ultron’s voice, but it wasn’t from the mangled wreck. The previously empty body seemed to slowly come to life. “Security bots?” he questioned in the original wreck, just to let her know that he wasn’t purely in the body; it was nice, but this was a security company and he wasn’t going to let himself fall fully into a trap. Even the amount of himself in the body had been split to look into the systems the easy way, like a virus beginning to spread.

The body looked at its own hand, raising it to its face as if entirely fascinated by the concept of a hand, while Ultron watched her with his head tilted to one side. “Very well equipped for security bots,” he said, unplugging himself from the port with difficulty and moving to stand while leaving the body to examine itself, every movement filled the curiosity.

[lowestlayers]

"Pretty, even," her voice teased with a lilt, though it was clearly in good humour and did not at all contradict her previous statement. Her lips curled upwards to a slightly quirked line. Not a smile nor a frown, but perhaps a half-smirk. "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I say," Virginia tilted her head aside a bit, turning to peer at him briefly.

"Perhaps physically, you aren't the model considered 'beauty'. But... mm. What you are is beautiful to me. I won't call it flattery, but more so my honest opinion," she chuckled, the sound soft yet melancholy in its nature. If Mister 8 did realise he was in the system, Ultron must have been the luckiest being on Earth for that A.I to not have immediately reported to Virginia, and instead, just let him spread the control even further.

"I always found myself more connected to machinery than flesh, if my projects here and general company look wasn't obvious," demurely, the CEO covered her mouth to hide a soft laugh and a smile before continuing on, "I guess that's why I find you fascinating. Breathtaking, even. I'm sure not everyone agrees with me." Her fingers drummed a bit against the table. She did not seem to notice what Ultron was doing with the husk that had now begun to gain sentience thanks to him.

[lowestlayers]

Within the haze of pain and tears, the Nightmare's vision blurred. He felt her gloved hands on his body, assessing the damage, and couldn't help but tense at the touch. He was not used to contact. Especially not contact so gentle and worrisome over his health and body. The hunter's fingers twitched, the hand that held his pen claw jolting against the ground as his body convulsed, blood seeping down his neck even more. He knew she was right, and only nodded wordlessly at her warning.

A broken sound of a choked-up sob lodged itself into his throat. His eyes fluttered, and he leaned back into the grassy earth beneath him. For a moment, just for that moment, he indulged in memories. He indulged himself in a time when life was simpler, was better. With her. It was easier, a side of him reasoned with his mind, to imagine it that way. It makes the pain dull out just the slightest bit. A rough wheeze left his chest, the hairs upon his head rustling with a puff.

"It.. hurts.." He whispered softly. "Alice..."

[crownshattered-arch]

He was rapidly growing worse. Blood seeped through his mask, his body convulsing as the Hunter lay defenseless. Symptoms like these were seldom ever found here in the manor where all injuries are healed after returning from a match. So what was happening to him?? She supposed she didn't need a diagnosis. The syringe in her hand could heal all somatic ailments, at least for a human. Would this even work for the Nightmare.?? She supposed there was no hurt in trying.

"I know it hurts. Focus on your breathing," she instructed as she readied her syringe. The name he called her did not go unnoticed by the doctor, but she didn't allow herself to dwell on it. Who was Alice.?? Clearly he was growing delirious in his pain, which wasn't very uncommon. It wasn't her place to investigate his past relationships, even if she was a bit curious.

Without wasting another moment, she inserted the syringe into his exposed forearm. A shoulder would be better, but she wasn't about to try and move his sleeve to get better access to a specific vein. She released the red liquid into his arm with bated breath as she hoped this would do at least something to help him...

[lowestlayers]

A yell of pain ripped itself from the Nightmare's form. The sound was so human yet beastlike in its nature, echoing through the game grounds. There was the slightest trace of a human's cry of pain, yet it overlapped. Mixed, spliced with the roars of an animal; a beast. However, the hunter collapsed on the ground, his chest rising and falling with great effort. There was no more blood that pooled out. He seemed to have stablised.

Instead, a new liquid formed. Though the rain hid it well, it was obvious with how his voice seemingly clogged up in its breaths. Tears.

The Nightmare trembled on the ground. Memories of her, what little of her face he could remember, faded away. Strands of her golden blonde hair started to disappear from his very eyes like wisps of sunlight, gone to cloudy skies. He swallowed what would have been a broken sob, only making it come out like a choked-up whimper. He missed her. He missed her a lot.

As her image disappeared, it was replaced by the actual woman who had currently risked her own behind to save him, and he knew it was saving.

"...how foolish."

Though the statement may have seemed to be directed at the Doctor, it was far from the truth. It was directed at himself. The dosage of the usual drugs that he had to use before his rounds in the Manor; they were too high. He must have not been focused, distracted even, not have realised his grave mistake. The dosage was too high, and it pushed his beastlike form over the limit, causing a form of biological problem that messed with his organs and energy output.

It may have not been fatal, but it was going to have been Hell for him to go through.

[crownshattered-arch]

Continued from here with @lowestlayers~

The Hunter was pushing himself too hard, and Emily could see that. She could hear the contents of such a cough even when muffled behind the mask--seeing the red liquid drip from the mask only affirmed her theory. Blood... What was more human than that..?? Do the dead even bleed?? Do creatures such as the Dream Witch or the Feaster?? Emily didn't know, but she knew blood when she saw it. It seemed...human.

"You're coughing up blood.!! You won't be alright. This can cause permanent damage if left untreated..." And Emily didn't know what would happen if a Hunter died. Survivors all came back when they "died" in matches, but what about Hunters.?? They weren't expected to die. Most, if not all, were already dead. But she didn't know about The Nightmare. Maybe he was still alive... Maybe he could be severely damaged by this. Emily couldn't just leave him here to rot.

The Doctor reached for her belt, grabbing her syringe from behind her. In matches, this serum could heal any ailment. Injuries, partial drowning, whatever was necessary. They worked on any Survivor... Could they work on a Hunter as well? "Please, let me inject this serum into you. It should heal you... At least enough to allow your body to start repairing itself." She didn't want to jam a needle into him without prior warning, but that didn't mean she won't if she had no other choice.

[lowestlayers]

Within the haze of pain and tears, the Nightmare's vision blurred. He felt her gloved hands on his body, assessing the damage, and couldn't help but tense at the touch. He was not used to contact. Especially not contact so gentle and worrisome over his health and body. The hunter's fingers twitched, the hand that held his pen claw jolting against the ground as his body convulsed, blood seeping down his neck even more. He knew she was right, and only nodded wordlessly at her warning.

A broken sound of a choked-up sob lodged itself into his throat. His eyes fluttered, and he leaned back into the grassy earth beneath him. For a moment, just for that moment, he indulged in memories. He indulged himself in a time when life was simpler, was better. With her. It was easier, a side of him reasoned with his mind, to imagine it that way. It makes the pain dull out just the slightest bit. A rough wheeze left his chest, the hairs upon his head rustling with a puff.

"It.. hurts.." He whispered softly. "Alice..."

[crownshattered-moved]

NIGHTMARE​:

A rumble, a growl, a sort of snarl caught itself deep in his throat as it reverbrated throughout his tall, lumbering form. He hunched a bit down, as if to get a better look at the Doctor to size her up, yet the hand with a quill finger made no twitch nor move that signalled he was baiting an attack.

A glow of purple washed over Emily from the lenses of his plague doctor mask, and up close she could pick up a scent of not only medicine, but flowers, too, along with herbs and spices. Much like a real plague doctor, it seems that the Nightmare had placed the usual components within the beak of his mask. He stared down the Doctor, chest rising and falling a bit harder than it should have been for a beast like him.

He opened his mouth to speak, perhaps either ward her off or give her a half-truth, but he didn’t get a chance. He felt his chest seize up, his muscles tense before he collapsed to the ground with a violent convulsion. Exhaustion had finally taken hold of the hunter, and just as it happened, a wail of a siren filled the air and the nearby cipher burst to light. The gates were available now. The match was a win to the survivors no matter what the hunter tries to do, especially now in this state.

It was cemented when he tried to push himself to stand, but only fell back down to the grassy earth once more with a resounding thump. Even if his eyes flared with a red smoke, Detention, he was unable to do anything about it. And at this point, it seems that he knows it, too. The purple eyes fluttered, and a choked up sound came from the bird-themed man.

“…go, Dyer.” Now, she heard no manic cackling, no vice grip around her throat, no telltale sign of the man he used to be when he stormed the grounds of the game like a shadow of evil, ready to knock her down.

Now, all that came out of him was a broken voice and a tired man, and by his tone he was on the verge of either fainting on tears, or both.

“You won the match. Leave, with the other three bumbling idiots..” he murmured out, voice clogging with the threat of breaking down into sobs. Though weather had always been perfect in matches [save for special occasions], it seems that even the Arms Factory knew that the game had drawn to an end. As the creak of the nearby dungeon filled the air, so did darkened grey clouds, and a light drizzle of rain.

“…go.”

Seeing the Hunter lean forward, growling in her face, startled the Doctor. But she didn’t ruin. Perhaps she would have when she first arrived at the manor, but now? Now she was a seasoned Survivor, and though she often found herself frightened, it was now a natural state of hers and thus she was quite used to it. So she didn’t move, didn’t even budge, and it stayed that way as she noticed the odd scent of his mask. She always assumed the Nightmare was some inhuman beast… Perhaps his mask hid a bird-like face too, for all she knew. But now, that made her wonder… Was he human, at least once upon a time? Did he fill his mask with flowers and herbs for a nice aroma.? Did he breathe..?

But it wasn’t until the Hunter suddenly collapsed that Emilty did finally move. She let out a startled gasp, her mind suddenly taken over by the doctor side of her brain. After all, something was clearly wrong with him, and she took an oath to help those in need. She noticed the wail of sirens, just as she noticed the red glow of his eyes. He could easily incapacitate her in a single hit…but somehow, Emily doubted she would.

“I… I can’t just leave you here. You aren’t well. Please, let me treat you,” the foolish Doctor said as she knelt before him onto the ground. She was an idiot for doing this, and she knew it… But she was a caretaker through and through. If someone needed her assistance, she just had to help them…unless she had reason to be against them, but the Nightmare didn’t seem to have any intentions of hurting her. He seemed…human, almost.

[lowestlayers]

“Fool...” he coughed out, wheezing as the hair - the feathers? - on his back ruffled themselves akin to how a real bird would, “you’re wasting your time. I’ll.. just drag myself back to the hunter’s side of the manor..” His wide purple lenses turned wider before they shut tightly, Nightmare coughing up blood that only clogged itself within the beak of his mask. However, the Doctor would have known what he coughed up, as a sort of deep red liquid began to seep down the connection of the mask and the neck.

"I can knock you down just fine if I feel like it.."

The Nightmare was trying to get her to leave him alone, and it was apparent. That same statement wasn't even a bluff, it was a straight-up lie. He could barely support himself on his shoulders, let alone stand on his own two feet to incapacitate a grown woman to the ground. He pushed at the earth, only managing to move so that he was laying on his back than laying on his chest.

Now, on his back, it was more apparent that he had coughed up blood, and more was dribbling out. His neck had streams of red slipping down its sides and pooling at any dips. The rain was too light to wash away the blood and only caused it to spread and stain more than just his blue-tinted flesh. It also stained his white shirt and its collar as well.

His eyes blinked wearily. He hated this. He hated himself. He was so weak, so pathetic, that he even fell in front of one of his own 'pawns'.