Hostages

[idolpro]

[ Though you were in the elevator just moments before, when the lights were cut your vision went dark and you woke up somewhere else. Your body is in a good bit of distress, and if you think back you remember how you got there: like a story someone else told you recently, your memories relate it back to you. You know it, but it's not your problem. Not yet.

Unless you can't get someone to save you in time, and then it doesn't matter whose story this was originally, before they wrote you in. You're going to be the one suffering the consequences, because that's your body there, hanging in the balance. But your mind is still in this liminal state, and you can reach back and send your unitmates messages-- sort of. Dreams aren't the most reliable of messengers, but they're all you have to work with, as time is paused and your body is paralyzed, three threats breathing down your neck. ]

Comments

Threats: Freezing, prolonged confinement in a cage, an arrow wound

[idolpro]

[ The drip-drip of your own blood and your own frosty breath are your only companions through the winter. At daylight people might walk below, praise you and shout and sing, but they don't lower you down from your pillowed cage, and they don't come up. And on these nights, they might watch you from their windows, looking towards the town square and taking comfort in the knowledge that their savior is still amongst them, for all the good it does you and your blue-tinged lips, you and your frozen fingers, you and your ever dripping wound.

They don't know what else to do but praise you— you were shot through with an arrow in the heart, and you didn't die. It was a miracle, until they noticed the bleeding continued without abating, as you still did not die, week after week. They became terrified, and mania swept the town. Your blood was miraculous, and they couldn't risk you leaving and bringing your blood with you elsewhere: you were their hero, their savior. Their object to string up in a pretty bird cage, gilded and pillowed and perfect, and still too short to stand.

People watched you all the time, a miracle and a monster, something wonderful to behold. If they were sick, they'd ask to partake in your miracle, and if you felt like being generous, you could smear your hand over your heart, and gather blood to drop on the asker below. If you didn't, they acted like your presence was talismen enough, and showered you with praise and left, like you can't. So, here you are, winter solstice, still living, still breathing, visible from all the windows as snow falls in your hair and you are so very cold. ]