Imeeji Profile
Nov. 19th, 2037 10:24 pm
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twicebondedtwicebonded
( Clothes )
( Room description )
( Physical: In his room )
( Notes )
( Hidden behind the secret panel in his closet )
( Hidden behind the rotating section in his wall )
( Physical: In the hideout )
( Physical: Elsewhere )
( Physical: Always on his person )
( Fanmail )
( On his phone )
Aibou:
This very good bird
( Room description )
( Physical: In his room )
( Notes )
( Hidden behind the secret panel in his closet )
( Hidden behind the rotating section in his wall )
( Physical: In the hideout )
( Physical: Elsewhere )
( Physical: Always on his person )
( Fanmail )
( On his phone )
Aibou:
This very good bird
Stats and Permissions
Oct. 4th, 2034 07:59 amContact
Name: Asidian
Other Characters at Imeeji: Lumen
Other Characters at Other RPs: Was Janaff and Lithuania at CFUD and Mitsuru and Howl at Sabra la Tau.
Email: asidian.morris at gmail
Discord: Asidian
Plurk: asidian
Timezone and Usual Activity: PT, weeknight evenings and weekends
Preferred Method?: Discord, please. Feel free to PM me for anything. o/
Stats
Name: Jacob Cross
Profile Name: Hurricane
Age: 15
Sex: Male
Eye/Hair Color: Hazel/sandy blond
Height: 5'5"
Build: Wiry and lean, like a swimmer or a martial artist
Other: See appearance notes.
Current Injuries: Raw sores all over the place from partially-healed sword wounds. His port is janky and probably needs surgery.
Permissions
Touching? Jacob is a very touchy person. If he likes someone, they know; he feels free to grab people by the hand or arm to drag them around places, sling an arm around their shoulders, touch their stuff, etc. He'll be happy if anyone else does the same. Hugs are A+++. Post betrayal game, he is even more touchy. He is trying to scale it back to pretend he's okay, but he missed people so much. If someone touches him, he accepts it gratefully and probably leans into it a little.
Fighting?: Anytime!
Torture?: Also anytime!
Death?: Let's talk first. o/
Squicks: Hardcore mental control and forced emotional responses.
Other: If anything's not covered above, please poke me on Discord! I am generally pretty easy. I tend to enable almost anything. /o/
Name: Asidian
Other Characters at Imeeji: Lumen
Other Characters at Other RPs: Was Janaff and Lithuania at CFUD and Mitsuru and Howl at Sabra la Tau.
Email: asidian.morris at gmail
Discord: Asidian
Plurk: asidian
Timezone and Usual Activity: PT, weeknight evenings and weekends
Preferred Method?: Discord, please. Feel free to PM me for anything. o/
Stats
Name: Jacob Cross
Profile Name: Hurricane
Age: 15
Sex: Male
Eye/Hair Color: Hazel/sandy blond
Height: 5'5"
Build: Wiry and lean, like a swimmer or a martial artist
Other: See appearance notes.
Current Injuries: Raw sores all over the place from partially-healed sword wounds. His port is janky and probably needs surgery.
Permissions
Touching? Jacob is a very touchy person. If he likes someone, they know; he feels free to grab people by the hand or arm to drag them around places, sling an arm around their shoulders, touch their stuff, etc. He'll be happy if anyone else does the same. Hugs are A+++. Post betrayal game, he is even more touchy. He is trying to scale it back to pretend he's okay, but he missed people so much. If someone touches him, he accepts it gratefully and probably leans into it a little.
Fighting?: Anytime!
Torture?: Also anytime!
Death?: Let's talk first. o/
Squicks: Hardcore mental control and forced emotional responses.
Other: If anything's not covered above, please poke me on Discord! I am generally pretty easy. I tend to enable almost anything. /o/
Memory 36: Expensive
Mar. 19th, 2022 02:12 pmThe phone screen’s full of horror movie monsters, cartoony but sinister, all sharp edges and jagged teeth. There’s Dracula, and the wolfman, and a mummy, and three different ghosts. They’re making their slow way up the path toward the haunted house, where a little girl is up on the rooftop, peeking out periodically with frightened blue eyes.
All along the path, little waystations of defense do their best against the monsters. A giant slingshot stakes the vampire. A series of fans turn on and try to blow away the ghosts.
But the mummy and the wolfman, they’re at the doorstep.
Hurricane checks his points – 500, then 600 as another ghost bites it. He taps the equipment button and an array of monster-fighting gear shows up as an overlay. In the background, the mummy and the wolfman keep coming, not paused.
“Ah, dammit,” says Hurricane.
“That’s what I was going to say,” says a voice, and Hurricane starts so hard he almost drops the phone.
( Continue )
All along the path, little waystations of defense do their best against the monsters. A giant slingshot stakes the vampire. A series of fans turn on and try to blow away the ghosts.
But the mummy and the wolfman, they’re at the doorstep.
Hurricane checks his points – 500, then 600 as another ghost bites it. He taps the equipment button and an array of monster-fighting gear shows up as an overlay. In the background, the mummy and the wolfman keep coming, not paused.
“Ah, dammit,” says Hurricane.
“That’s what I was going to say,” says a voice, and Hurricane starts so hard he almost drops the phone.
( Continue )
Memory 35: Rot
Mar. 10th, 2022 03:22 pmThe walls are plastered with posters for monster movies and cartoons, tilted at odd angles. The comforter on the bed is dark blue, covered in blocky grey robots with wide eyes and pincer hands.
Hurricane is lying on top of it, flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling. His curtains are pulled closed, and the afternoon sun drifts in underneath them, catching dust motes in swirls and eddies.
For a long time, the scene doesn’t change; the ceiling stays the same, for maybe an hour, or two, or four.
A couple of times, he opens his mouth, like he means to say something – closes it again, and doesn’t, in the end.
The little beam of light has disappeared by the time he finally props himself up on one elbow and turns toward the door.
“Ma?” he calls, voice raised so that it will carry down the hall. It’s a much younger voice; it belongs to a child of about ten years. “You awake?”
There’s no answer.
( Continue )
Hurricane is lying on top of it, flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling. His curtains are pulled closed, and the afternoon sun drifts in underneath them, catching dust motes in swirls and eddies.
For a long time, the scene doesn’t change; the ceiling stays the same, for maybe an hour, or two, or four.
A couple of times, he opens his mouth, like he means to say something – closes it again, and doesn’t, in the end.
The little beam of light has disappeared by the time he finally props himself up on one elbow and turns toward the door.
“Ma?” he calls, voice raised so that it will carry down the hall. It’s a much younger voice; it belongs to a child of about ten years. “You awake?”
There’s no answer.
( Continue )
Memory 34: Hostage
Jan. 7th, 2022 10:08 pm"Take another step and I'll kill him."
There's a knife pressed to the kid's throat, to back up the threat, and Hurricane doesn't take another step. Instead he raises both hands, in the universal symbol of surrender.
"Hey," Hurricane says. "We're here to help. You don't gotta hurt no one."
The chances of the woman with the knife hurting no one is next to nothing. The room is pitch black, the only light that of the moon shining in through the hole caved in the roof. He can't pick out what's on the floor, among all the rubble, but his HUD has identified human figures: informs him, in red block text, that there are no signs of life.
"I'll kill him," says the woman. "I know what you are. They're inside him, just like they were inside me."
( Continue )
There's a knife pressed to the kid's throat, to back up the threat, and Hurricane doesn't take another step. Instead he raises both hands, in the universal symbol of surrender.
"Hey," Hurricane says. "We're here to help. You don't gotta hurt no one."
The chances of the woman with the knife hurting no one is next to nothing. The room is pitch black, the only light that of the moon shining in through the hole caved in the roof. He can't pick out what's on the floor, among all the rubble, but his HUD has identified human figures: informs him, in red block text, that there are no signs of life.
"I'll kill him," says the woman. "I know what you are. They're inside him, just like they were inside me."
( Continue )
Memory 33: Knot
Jan. 7th, 2022 10:05 pmIt's 1 am, and they've got to be up for training at 5, so Hurricane doesn't expect to find anyone in the gym.
He's usually got the place to himself this late – an hour or two to run through some routines on the balance beam and the parallel bars, without anyone around to remind him of combat maneuvers for a change.
It helps him clear his head. If he stays in motion long enough, sometimes his brain will shut up and turn off for a while, until all that's left is the thrill of motion and the static buzz of exhaustion behind his eyes. And most days? Most days that's better.
When he pushes open the door today, though, the light's already on, and there's Sasha sprawled out on the weight bench. He's not lifting anything, though; he's still and he's quiet, eyes closed and face locked in a grimace.
Hurricane's calling out before he can think better of it: "Dude, you okay?"
Sasha's eyes come open. He sits up, and then winces. "Is nothing," he says.
"Kinda looks like something," says Hurricane, crossing the gym to stand beside him. It's weird, looking down at Sasha; usually the other boy towers over him, but he doesn't rise from where he's seated, this time, and Hurricane gives him a quick once-over to check for injuries. "What's up? You drop a free weight on your head?"
( Continue )
He's usually got the place to himself this late – an hour or two to run through some routines on the balance beam and the parallel bars, without anyone around to remind him of combat maneuvers for a change.
It helps him clear his head. If he stays in motion long enough, sometimes his brain will shut up and turn off for a while, until all that's left is the thrill of motion and the static buzz of exhaustion behind his eyes. And most days? Most days that's better.
When he pushes open the door today, though, the light's already on, and there's Sasha sprawled out on the weight bench. He's not lifting anything, though; he's still and he's quiet, eyes closed and face locked in a grimace.
Hurricane's calling out before he can think better of it: "Dude, you okay?"
Sasha's eyes come open. He sits up, and then winces. "Is nothing," he says.
"Kinda looks like something," says Hurricane, crossing the gym to stand beside him. It's weird, looking down at Sasha; usually the other boy towers over him, but he doesn't rise from where he's seated, this time, and Hurricane gives him a quick once-over to check for injuries. "What's up? You drop a free weight on your head?"
( Continue )
Memory 32: Rust
Nov. 8th, 2021 07:38 pmThe chain-link fence is still standing, bowed but upright. In a city that's mostly rubble, that's a practically a miracle.
It's held closed with a length of chain at the gate, pocked and rusted, sealed with a padlock. Whoever locked it up kind of half-assed it, though; they could have doubled the chain back around two or three times and made sure it was secure, but the way it is now, there's a gap about as wide as Hurricane's palms together, side by side.
At ten, Hurricane's narrow and wiry and great at getting into places he shouldn't be; it's plenty.
He wedges one shoulder into the gap and turns sideways. He takes a breath in and holds it – presses hard and wriggles through.
Hurricane's standing on the other side in less than three seconds, kind of proud, and mostly tired, and trying really hard not to hope.
It used to be a gas station, once upon a time. The ground is paved over with concrete, but there are cracks here and there, deep black things thick as Hurricane's arm. Hints of grass have started to poke their way through.
One corner of the roof is caved in, but most of the building is still standing, and the gas pumps out front look ready for the next customer to pull up.
( Continue )
It's held closed with a length of chain at the gate, pocked and rusted, sealed with a padlock. Whoever locked it up kind of half-assed it, though; they could have doubled the chain back around two or three times and made sure it was secure, but the way it is now, there's a gap about as wide as Hurricane's palms together, side by side.
At ten, Hurricane's narrow and wiry and great at getting into places he shouldn't be; it's plenty.
He wedges one shoulder into the gap and turns sideways. He takes a breath in and holds it – presses hard and wriggles through.
Hurricane's standing on the other side in less than three seconds, kind of proud, and mostly tired, and trying really hard not to hope.
It used to be a gas station, once upon a time. The ground is paved over with concrete, but there are cracks here and there, deep black things thick as Hurricane's arm. Hints of grass have started to poke their way through.
One corner of the roof is caved in, but most of the building is still standing, and the gas pumps out front look ready for the next customer to pull up.
( Continue )
Memory 31: Static
Oct. 22nd, 2021 03:01 pmWhen he opens his eyes, the world is upside-down.
The city is laid out far below him, a perfect miniature, and down there in the streets, something's on fire. There are still people running for cover, but from this height they look no bigger than ants.
Hurricane licks at his lips – tastes blood.
"Pull it together," he mutters to himself, even though he's not sure what he's meant to be pulling it together from. He remembers deploying to Nagasaki. He remembers the trip out, and Nemesis next to him in the back of the supply truck, stealing his Pretz right out of the box. He remembers suiting up in an unfamiliar hangar, Yoshioka's habitual presence nothing but a voice on a radio, this time.
And then… nothing. He doesn't remember anything at all until just now, when he opened his eyes.
Probably a concussion, if the throbbing in his head is any indication.
"Hey, guys?" he says, into the comms.
There's no response – just a harsh burst of feedback and then static.
( Continue )
The city is laid out far below him, a perfect miniature, and down there in the streets, something's on fire. There are still people running for cover, but from this height they look no bigger than ants.
Hurricane licks at his lips – tastes blood.
"Pull it together," he mutters to himself, even though he's not sure what he's meant to be pulling it together from. He remembers deploying to Nagasaki. He remembers the trip out, and Nemesis next to him in the back of the supply truck, stealing his Pretz right out of the box. He remembers suiting up in an unfamiliar hangar, Yoshioka's habitual presence nothing but a voice on a radio, this time.
And then… nothing. He doesn't remember anything at all until just now, when he opened his eyes.
Probably a concussion, if the throbbing in his head is any indication.
"Hey, guys?" he says, into the comms.
There's no response – just a harsh burst of feedback and then static.
( Continue )
Dungeon Crawl: Trial Run
Sep. 19th, 2021 11:41 amWho: Nemesis and Hurricane
Where: REAL ESCAPE ROOM
When: Day 402
[The cheery blue brick facade and bold overhang proclaiming this a REAL ESCAPE ROOM greets you when you arrive, but the escape rooms aren't what you came for]
[The basement is where you'll find your real destination]
Where: REAL ESCAPE ROOM
When: Day 402
[The cheery blue brick facade and bold overhang proclaiming this a REAL ESCAPE ROOM greets you when you arrive, but the escape rooms aren't what you came for]
[The basement is where you'll find your real destination]
Memory 30: Reflect
Sep. 11th, 2021 12:44 pmTheir suits catch the light as they descend: red and black, grey and seaglass green, mirrored in the panes of skyscraper glass that are still unbroken. Behind them, the sky's reflection shows, too: a roiling mass of clouds the color of blood that turns the afternoon sunlight an eerie shade.
Hurricane's eyes aren't on the reflections, though, or even on the sky above them. The clouds still set an icepick in his stomach and twist, every time he sees them; he can't shake the memory of another ruined city, half a world away from this one. But today, there are more important things to worry about.
He rotates his mag-lev boosters, the way he practiced with Yoshioka in the trial runs – guns it, to put on another burst of speed. Behind him, there's an earth-shattering blast as Nemesis lobs off the grenades she spent last week bragging about, and the sound of shattering glass as more of the windows give.
He hits ground level way before she does – the benefits of stripping off most of the armor for a speed boost – and he comes in hard and fast, slicing through a creature that looks something like a Chinese dragon, if a Chinese dragon were gelatinous and black and had at least three dozen eyes. It falls to the ground writhing, its open wounds spewing black ichor, and Hurricane touches down beside it, slicing through another with his blades.
A third goes down, and a fourth, and overhead he can hear the high-pitched whine that indicates Nemesis is charging up her heavy guns as she covers him.
But for a second, all of that fades into the background: the noise, and the chaos, and the sickly blood-light of those otherworldly clouds.
Below the overhang isn't crouched just the sole woman he spotted from up above, running for cover; it's a sea of fear-pinched faces and eyes turned his way. They're mostly men and women in business attire: salarymen in suits with slicked-back hair and office ladies in crisp businesswear and heels. There's a trio of boys in school uniforms tucked into the back, there, though, and an older woman clutching a toddler who can't be more than two.
He takes a shaky breath in, and says into the comms, "We've got civilians."
( Continue )
Hurricane's eyes aren't on the reflections, though, or even on the sky above them. The clouds still set an icepick in his stomach and twist, every time he sees them; he can't shake the memory of another ruined city, half a world away from this one. But today, there are more important things to worry about.
He rotates his mag-lev boosters, the way he practiced with Yoshioka in the trial runs – guns it, to put on another burst of speed. Behind him, there's an earth-shattering blast as Nemesis lobs off the grenades she spent last week bragging about, and the sound of shattering glass as more of the windows give.
He hits ground level way before she does – the benefits of stripping off most of the armor for a speed boost – and he comes in hard and fast, slicing through a creature that looks something like a Chinese dragon, if a Chinese dragon were gelatinous and black and had at least three dozen eyes. It falls to the ground writhing, its open wounds spewing black ichor, and Hurricane touches down beside it, slicing through another with his blades.
A third goes down, and a fourth, and overhead he can hear the high-pitched whine that indicates Nemesis is charging up her heavy guns as she covers him.
But for a second, all of that fades into the background: the noise, and the chaos, and the sickly blood-light of those otherworldly clouds.
Below the overhang isn't crouched just the sole woman he spotted from up above, running for cover; it's a sea of fear-pinched faces and eyes turned his way. They're mostly men and women in business attire: salarymen in suits with slicked-back hair and office ladies in crisp businesswear and heels. There's a trio of boys in school uniforms tucked into the back, there, though, and an older woman clutching a toddler who can't be more than two.
He takes a shaky breath in, and says into the comms, "We've got civilians."
( Continue )
Memory 29: Chicken
Jul. 12th, 2021 07:41 pmThe street stretches away below them like some city planner once dreamed of designing roller coasters: impossibly steep, lined on either side by buildings with quaint windows, all done up in pastels.
There’s a cafe packed with tourists that’s showing some sports match on all the vid screens, and a hotel that’s supposed to be stupid expensive. Cars glide past, electric and soundless; pigeons line the rooftop of the building across the way.
The view out to the harbor’s kind of awesome from here, but Hurricane’s not looking at the view.
He’s sitting in a shopping cart, cross-legged, twisted around backward to look up at his sister. He’s perhaps six years old, a gangly bean sprout of a boy with uncombed hair in sandy blond and a face full of freckles.
His sister’s got one foot on the bottom of the cart, and she’s holding onto the handle. She looks like him: same freckles; hair slightly paler but still uncombed, pulled back in a sloppy ponytail; same grin, wide and bright and excited. She is perhaps fifteen years old, in a tank top and battered bluejeans.
“You ready for this?” says Michaela.
( Continue )
There’s a cafe packed with tourists that’s showing some sports match on all the vid screens, and a hotel that’s supposed to be stupid expensive. Cars glide past, electric and soundless; pigeons line the rooftop of the building across the way.
The view out to the harbor’s kind of awesome from here, but Hurricane’s not looking at the view.
He’s sitting in a shopping cart, cross-legged, twisted around backward to look up at his sister. He’s perhaps six years old, a gangly bean sprout of a boy with uncombed hair in sandy blond and a face full of freckles.
His sister’s got one foot on the bottom of the cart, and she’s holding onto the handle. She looks like him: same freckles; hair slightly paler but still uncombed, pulled back in a sloppy ponytail; same grin, wide and bright and excited. She is perhaps fifteen years old, in a tank top and battered bluejeans.
“You ready for this?” says Michaela.
( Continue )
Memory 28: Clock
Jan. 12th, 2021 08:50 pmThe clock says 2:34am when the siren goes off.
Hurricane knows, because he's awake staring at it. It's the only light on in his room, the square red numbers steady and solid, and at first he thinks the siren is part of a dream – that maybe he’s finally started to drift off.
But it goes on and on, high and shrill and shrieking, and eventually it occurs to Hurricane, with a distant sort of horror, that maybe it's real. Maybe it's happening again.
He didn't get the siren, last time. No one knew it was coming.
But now that shrill, wordless sound drills into his ears, and his heart is slamming in his chest. He stumbles from the bed, off-balance – not steady on the new prosthesis yet – and his steps lurch to the right, the weight of his metal leg making him awkward.
"Ma?" says Hurricane.
( Continue )
Hurricane knows, because he's awake staring at it. It's the only light on in his room, the square red numbers steady and solid, and at first he thinks the siren is part of a dream – that maybe he’s finally started to drift off.
But it goes on and on, high and shrill and shrieking, and eventually it occurs to Hurricane, with a distant sort of horror, that maybe it's real. Maybe it's happening again.
He didn't get the siren, last time. No one knew it was coming.
But now that shrill, wordless sound drills into his ears, and his heart is slamming in his chest. He stumbles from the bed, off-balance – not steady on the new prosthesis yet – and his steps lurch to the right, the weight of his metal leg making him awkward.
"Ma?" says Hurricane.
( Continue )
Memory 27: Scorched
Jan. 12th, 2021 08:46 pmIt shouldn't be hard.
The ingredients are spread out on the counter in front of him: flour, milk, eggs, strawberries, and vanilla frosting.
His mother doesn't eat a lot of cake, but Hurricane knows she likes vanilla and strawberries. It's what Michaela always made for her birthday – only now Michaela's three hundred miles away, living in an apartment by her university, and here's Hurricane, with a mixing bowl and birthday candles and two hours until his mother gets home from work.
It shouldn't be hard.
He watched Michaela make the one for last year. He helped stir, even.
So he preheats the oven. He measures out the ingredients like he's doing a science experiment. When he realizes he didn't buy baking powder, he climbs up on the counter to look for it, a skinny nine-year-old boy in his bare feet, holding onto the lip of the cabinet so he doesn't tip over backward.
The baking powder's in the back corner, behind the peanut butter.
He measures it out, too, and he mixes everything together, and he sticks it in the pan in the oven.
When he's done, he starts on dinner – and this, at least, is genuinely easy. He's helped his sister make dinner way more than he's helped her make cake.
( Continue )
The ingredients are spread out on the counter in front of him: flour, milk, eggs, strawberries, and vanilla frosting.
His mother doesn't eat a lot of cake, but Hurricane knows she likes vanilla and strawberries. It's what Michaela always made for her birthday – only now Michaela's three hundred miles away, living in an apartment by her university, and here's Hurricane, with a mixing bowl and birthday candles and two hours until his mother gets home from work.
It shouldn't be hard.
He watched Michaela make the one for last year. He helped stir, even.
So he preheats the oven. He measures out the ingredients like he's doing a science experiment. When he realizes he didn't buy baking powder, he climbs up on the counter to look for it, a skinny nine-year-old boy in his bare feet, holding onto the lip of the cabinet so he doesn't tip over backward.
The baking powder's in the back corner, behind the peanut butter.
He measures it out, too, and he mixes everything together, and he sticks it in the pan in the oven.
When he's done, he starts on dinner – and this, at least, is genuinely easy. He's helped his sister make dinner way more than he's helped her make cake.
( Continue )
