Cyan is starting to get really tired of enduring 'once in a lifetime' trauma over and over again.
TW for Descriptions of Gore, Vomit
It should have just been a normal work day. He should have just gone to the computer classroom, but oh, no, bleeding heart fool he's become- he can't help but investigate.
It's odd. intuition was not his strong-suit, being observant, in fact, had always been something he was relatively terrible at, compared to many of his other more present and polished skills- it had taken him months to figure out that Sissy liked him- and it had taken until it was too late to realize that Gia had too. His hand finds the hanging thumb drive among the other jewelry around his neck, still present even dressed more 'academically'- it was a comfort, 'the more things changed the more they might stay the same' the saying goes, and maybe that's the only reason he notices something off, today.
His fondness for routine, yes- that had to be the reason he was observant enough to catch the way the gym seemed. Different. There was usually at least one door open, right? A light on, certainly. It was part of the routine, to cut through the gym for a shortcut to his classroom, the doors in the back closer than weaving hallways, the acoustics nice enough without anyone else present that he could practice some of the melodies the band had been working on.
It's pitch black when he nudges the door to the gym open, though- even the scant emergency lights that he knew should be on turned off- something that was only done on purpose, flipping all the switches off instead of the few the faculty tended to. Then he's met with the smell.
He's more familiar with it now- Rusty's been teaching him to hunt, Sissy's been trying to walk him through prepping meat for meals and storage- through preserving pelts to turn into leather, blankets, clothes- The bitter, coppery smell of blood is something he's able to recognize easily, now- it still makes his stomach turn. "What, some kids break in and play Carrie last night? Jesus." He mutters to himself, using the thin light filtering in from the hallway through the now open gym doors to find his way to the light switches. He makes a distasteful sound, as his foot squelches in something as he's making the short trek, pulling his radio from his belt and flicking to the ranger line.
"Hey, Uncle Rusty? You around?"
"About t' hang it up for the morning and head to Jack's to get a little sleep in, what's up, kid?"
"I'm just wondering if Duck's said anything about any animals at the high school? Something that likes gnawing on wires or something? It's dark in the gym, smells like a slaughterhouse and I think I just stepped in shit." There's a laugh, on the other end of the line, and Cyan's not sure if that's Rusty or another night ranger. He rolls his eyes- finally settling his hand on the light switches and throwing them back on. "yeah, yeah, yuck it up, I'm gonna have to wash my shoe, I've only got the one nice pair and-"
The crumpled body of someone lies on the floor nearby as he turns around, a sticky river of sanguine streaking polished floorboards. He can't recognize who it is- if that's because he didn't know the guy, or because where his head probably should be is now a fleshy amalgam of blood, bone and hair, Silas isn't sure. He does know one thing, suddenly the smell makes sense, and the visual- paired with the realization that what his foot had flattened was a smear of gray-matter now clinging to the toe of his shoe- is enough to send him doubling, his coffee, toast and eggs of the morning coming back up in one sudden blow- his walkie clattering to the floor nearby in the blood.
"...Mallard hasn't said anything about anything getting into the school, but he and Hobbes don't really deal with anything much smaller than a squirrel when it comes down to it, could be mice- Cy? Silas? Kid? you still there? Somethin' pluck ya off the face 'a the earth?" The walkie chatters away at his feet- Cyan's breathing quickens, and panic sets in. His fist balls, striking at his upper chest and shoulder roughly, the stim doing little to help him catch his breath, as he staggers backwards- reaching his unoccupied hand to the mess to retrieve his walkie.
Cold blood sticks to his fingers, stains his palm, as he weakly presses the button. "Still here. Hold on." He turns the knob at the top, the oddly cheery robotic voice listing off the numbers of the walkie channels until he stops on the one for the Police Station.
"Um. This is." between his stomach struggling to empty itself again, and the blooming pain from a desperate, last ditch attempt to self-soothe- it's hard to speak. "This is Cyan Chiyoda- I'm at- I'm at the high school for- for the start of my shift- I- I was cutting through the gym like I always do and- f-fuck they bashed his fucking brains in what the fuck?" There's confusion, on the other side of the line.
"Just- send somebody! Fuck! Anybody who's not me to fucking deal with this and don't let any of the fucking kids leave for school today, alright?"
"Cyan, are you saying there's an attack victim in the gym?"
"No. I'm saying there's a fucking murderer on the loose, and they just knocked off somebody else! Fucking send somebody to do their job what the fuck do they pay you for to ask stupid questions?!" Cyan sighs, realizes, after a moment of pause, that nobody at the station speaks 'frantic, panicked japanese' as a second language. "Someone was killed. it wasn't the ghosts. I know it wasn't."
"... Alright, Cyan, just, sit tight, alright?"
"I'm not staying in here with the body." I'll stand outside the gym- make sure none of the other teachers or s-staff stumble in if they don't catch... whatever announcement." He releases his finger from the radio button- stomach turning, as he notices clinging red against pale skin. he isn't sure if they'll count this as evidence, and so, carefully, he places his walkie, and toes out of his brain-slicked shoe just off to the side of the scene. One he's stumbled into.
He's really getting tired of being a potential suspect at these things.
(Or, What the ContainAtrocity muses are up to post Event.)
DUCK has been restricted to bedrest and is doing his level best to recover, with his kids, Claire, Z, and Lucy visiting and sticking around to keep him company, he's gotten in touch with his hobbies a little more than he was willing to over the last while, working on a DND campaign, playing music, and getting back into his favorite video games on his dusty old playstation, to name a few. He misses work, and feels like a burden- but slowing down has done him some good. He can walk short distances, but this has to be supplemented with a cane and his knee brace.
RUSTY has similarly been forced to stay home, largely looked after by Sissy and Cyan, he's agitated with his inability to function as he normally does, making him more snippy/argumentative than he'd like to be. He spends his free time practicing his marksmanship now, much to the chagrin of his niece and Cyan, and has a tendency to push his luck, trying to go back to work, or make his way to help with Reggie's injuries.
ABSINTHE has found himself at a crossroads, untrusting of Raziel and his intentions for the commune he convinced Ondine to take Joei and leave for town, after coming clean about his true nature: He's Abel Fulci, an exorcist, a priest- a weapon, not an unfortunate wanderer. Temptation and anger paint his hours at home, and he's spending a notably larger amount of time at the chapel and the site of his fellow priests' deaths to try and organize thoughts- and avoid the ghost from their past.
CYAN Has been doing his best to restore the intranet around the town between looking after the Boone house and keeping Rusty from running off, and helping Sissy ready up for the winter. He has similarly been working on convincing G to calm down about the earthquake, when Unnamed Garage Band gets back together for a few hours of normalcy.
KB Has once again retreated into the safety of the radio station, but this fact is largely because his home was damaged, some structural issue inside causing the rune to be dysfunctional. As he tries to puzzle out what's going on there, he's thrown himself back into trying to integrate into town- terrified instead that he might die alone, instead of at all. He's returned to doing children's puppet shows and book readings at the libraries on specific weekends.
GABE has retreated into one of his his more harmful beliefs, that he is physically incapable of suffering any harm. He is regularly scratched, bruised, or banged up in various regards, largely from spills and foolishness he could have avoided. Despite this minor backslide, he's doing his best to help with rebuilding efforts, keeping in touch with the weirdlings, Unnamed Garage Band, and Declan between attending to the apartment he shares with Edgar and assisting his roommate with his recovery and looking after the rats, as his hands are still recovering.
MERCY Having a terribly out of character change of heart, he's thrown himself into assisting with the construction efforts around town, and has proven particularly knowledgeable about making the best of minimal, or damaged supplies. While his attitude seems to remain largely self-serving, the earthquake seems to have shaken something less cold loose within him- though navigating his grandiose demeanor and cruel tongue to find it remains difficult.
WREN has stepped into the Deputy Game Warden position to pick up the slack from her father's absence, and has placed her cashier position at the food market on a temporary hold- unless asked to fill in for a coworker. Still prone to overworking herself, she's managed to find a balance, though this is likely due to the constant presence of people in and out of the Romero house lightening her load enough that she feels comfortable enough to actually take some time to herself with her friends- or get some well-needed sleep.
ZIGGY has been assisting with efforts to rebuild, doing his best to attend to the minor issues of the townspeople that mean a lot- damaged belongings that can be fixed with a little care and attention. In the spaces between work, he's been visiting Bri and gathering the courage to ask Nattie to speak with him in private- rather certain he's worked out exactly who she is after their encounter at the festival.
OCTOBER has made himself comfortable at the Commune, using his stature and personality as a cudgel against people foolish enough to ask him to mind his manners or pull his weight. While he's playing along for now, picking up chores as required, he's grown to treat the common areas like his space- simply because no one in the commune is going to stop him. He continues to hover around Quinn- who's association with Raziel means the trio are often seen together- Much to October's general chagrin.
BUTTONS has resumed the roles she's always served, a quiet place to rest, a listening ear, and a problem solver. She has busied herself with providing care packages to the injured of food, sweets, and various other home remedies she can provide, and making certain that the mischief around the people trying to get better is kept at a general minimum. She continues to offer childcare services to those who need them around town, especially those with young children now working to help care for townsfolk, or putting town back in order.
LEX continues to be the town's cold, silent observer, judging and watching those around him operate. He has made it clear that his services are available to any suffering trauma in the aftermath of the earthquake or people possibly recovering from head injuries, and his touch is notedly gentler in the wake of something fresh. He continues to drink a coffee with a splash of milk and two sugars every morning like clockwork at the diner, and being a general miser.
ROBIN Romero has been tossing things into the big ol' hole in the middle of town. He's pretty sure he's worked out where the bottom is through science. While he stays a good several feet from the edge, his fixation on it seems to be to avoid his upset about his father's 'near-death' experience.
oh and my love // Did I mistake you for a sign from God? // Or are you really here to cut me off? // Or maybe just to turn me on.
Cyan Canne: Kitsune Spiritcaller
-Mask from img 1, and a set of 'tails' styled after the whisps on the mask clipped to the back of his costume, with dark shadow/kohl inside the eyeholes to hide his skintone.
-Top, belts and jacket from img 2
-Leather pants and belt set/books/straps from img 3
He really hadn't planned to dress up, but under pressure from Sissy and well aware that making his pregnant girlfriend sad was maybe not the best way to engage with the faire, Cyan scrounged together parts and pieces from high fashion left over from his time in LA to make something resembling a fox-trickster costume- the mask something he already owned as well, strangely enough. Spending much of the event with Sissy, Val, and G, he's got nothing to vend, and will be simply enjoying his weekend without sweating his ass off in his usual garb.
the prodigial son and only heir to the Chiyoda tech fortune, some claim Silas Chiyoda is something of a messiah, beckoning in a new era of tech advancement and a future something like a utopia- the Japan-Born Silicon Valley transplant claims he's a herald- but not of a golden age.
Cover Story By Milena Corbin, November 2018
It's a clean white mansion that greets the taxi that drops me off, modern and sleek with a family crest emblazoned on the gates. It's one of the many summer homes of Aoi Chiyoda, the owner and figurehead of tech powerhouse Chi-Hyu Technology, but it's not the 48 year old CEO and mastermind that I'm here to meet, and that much is made clear when my interviewee steps out of the house. He is asynchronous to the house that built him, dressed in black from head to toe with long dark hair pulled into a bun, struck through with pins bearing the visages of Japanese fox spirits, matching the dragons and koi swirling across his arms. Where Aoi demanded sleek, clean, chrome lines and white, granite blocks, his son perhaps has embraced the visual context of being a black sheep- something that tabloids have painted his history with since the now 22 year old was little more than a child.
A recluse of few words outside of parties and public appearances, Silas Chiyoda's position as a 'nepotism baby' is one he's acknowledged time and again, his vehement refusal to be someone people look up to often punctuated by lengthy, angry tirades on twitter- and typically- refusal to speak with the press. But today, he motions for me to follow him inside, past perfect marble floors and gold-inlaid furniture, to something that more correctly fits the man himself.
He makes himself at home in a beanbag chair under blacklight and neon, a bay of computers and monitors spread across one wall- a pile of schematics that he quickly hides on an opposite desk. It's only after the mouthpiece of a hookah pipe is hooked into the corner of his mouth that he allows me to speak to him at all, motioning one ring clad, dark-painted set of fingers as if to encourage me to 'get on with it'.
"I'd like to thank you, Mr. Chiyoda for taking the time out of your day to speak with us, from what I understand, you don't tend to like to speak to the press."
"I don't like to talk to tabloids. Given that you're here to talk about my work, I can make exceptions- I'm only 'famous' because of who my mother is, only rich because of my father. This focuses on the things I do that I actually care about."
"Yes, you and your father recently collaborated on an updated chipset for phones and computers that allows for more seamless communication between multiple devices, was this something important for you to achieve within the current space for smart devices?"
"Collaborated is quite the word for it- but yes, the chip I designed and we're seeking production on is intended to be upgradable for several years, eliminating a substantial amount of tech-waste in the industry, and allowing for less incidents with the strangely... quick obsolescence that comes from a lot of companies today- iPhone, Android, Windows- they'll all be using some form of our architecture, which will allow repair shops to work in a more comfortable, less proprietary space. A phone a year isn't sustainable for most people- this slows down the feeling that one has to update the moment a new piece of hardware releases, and simply requires a replacement chip."
"You seem very passionate about this, was it your father who got you invested in technology?"
"My father named me after his first ever operating system, the NEON. It was less that he shared an interest with me, and more that it was the one way to get him to pay any attention to me- now, of course, the eyes on me tend to be pretty set on watching me fuck up, including my father's- but I'm still rich, I'm still a genius, and most of my detractors will die drowning in student loan debt or forgotten by the annuls of time. Bad press is press nonetheless, and in some part I'm thankful for the distraction from my actual work, it's allowed me to kinda, control where my ideas and innovation go without people trying to throw money to me to make it theirs and theirs alone."
"So you want this to be available to as many people as possible?"
"I want my work to bury the bullshit that society's been barreling toward. Planned obsolescence, government surveillance, copyright claims burying hobbyists alive. I want to do one thing that slows the cogs down before the teeth tear themselves off and leave us grinding to a halt. Innovating only for the sake of money is destroying the planet, our rights to privacy, our ability to create- People insist that what my father does is the future, the way he pushes out the next big thing every quarter for another drop in the billion dollar bucket. I want it slowed down. We should perfect what we understand before inviting more ghosts into the system."
"So this isn't about reaching for the future for you, but suspending things in the now a little longer?"
"Think about it this way. Everyone who's ever lined up to kiss my ass on social media thinks I'm some kind of wizard, some cave-dweller with a thousand-point IQ and the ability to grant their wishes, but these assholes don't need an AI girlfriend who can interface with their smart kitchen, they need to get off their asses and learn a fucking skill for once in their lives. We are so hell bent on getting to the 'utopian future' that we've been promised we're ignoring the way we're sliding toward the other option. There are weaknesses in every system, and the more we try to make new systems, the more gaping holes are left behind- this is a bandaid on the hull of a sinking ship, and as soon as it comes crumbling down, the only people who are gonna take the blame are the people who don't deserve it. So let me state this simply: when we hit the point that makes Y2K's fearmongering look pitiful in comparison, it'll be on the head of my contemporaries, my father, and his boardroom of yes men. But not me. And not the people who inevitably work out how to hack your car, when you buy the Night Rider the second she rolls off the lot."
He's harsh and set in his ways, and the way he talks about technology, not like a blessing but a devil deal he's made and is now struggling to understand, is commonplace in his few public speaking appearances- something that's likely led to his father keeping his connection to Chi-Hyu rather hush hush- or his volatile public image, fraught with arrests, addiction, cycles in rehab, and highly publicized feuds with former girlfriends- many of them famous in their own regard, most recently seen paired off with the lead actress of Blood Ties- only to be arrested at her LA apartment after a domestic dispute ended in shots fired- Keeping him behind the scenes of a company reliant on the clinical white image of the mansion he's chosen to take this interview in. His stipulations for agreeing, of course, that I couldn't ask about the cycle of arrests and bail outs, about the girlfriends met in rehab easily twice his age- about his public fight with his father, the purple-gray scar on the side of his neck already covered up with a new tattoo of Eve's hands reaching for the apple of knowledge.
"Many people have stated that your father is going to usher in a golden era, technology pushed to its limits, it sounds a lot like you aren't in agreement."
"What good's a golden era for only the 1%? I could press a button and have a german sports car delivered to my garage. There are people on the sidewalks outside the high-end clothing stores I buy my wardrobe from begging for change to afford dinner, much less a house. We revolutionize. Fine. Surveillance will go to the richest. Corrupt industries will corrupt further, squeeze tighter for another drop of blood from a stone. My Father's a herald of something, but it's not a promised land. I'm a horseman of the apocalypse, a trumpeter signaling the end times, and nobody'll heed those warnings until it's too late- because for now I'm flashy and exciting, and my hard work gets you into a game of candy crush sooner. The future is now, you know? But it's gonna be a lot more Hal 9000 than people are willing to accept- my greatest sin is being honest about what me and all these other tech bro douchebags are up to- and being too smart for them to force me out of their boys clubs."
I'm the worst at letting go
To the scars I loved the most
Will they bury me, bury me now?
Running from the worst in me
Left me broken, wondering
Will they bury me, bury me now?
