![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Heart Soldier Senshi
[ You spill out of the elevator into a Dungeon— the elevator is gone when you look back.
It's dark down here, in the dungeon, and the wall sconces are unlit; the only light source is from the hallway. In the dim light, though, you can see a handful of barred cells against one stone wall with fixtures for manacles. There's a drain set into the floor, in the middle, around which the floor is stained a darker color and is… sticky? The air is cold, and stale.
Against the wall next to the door is a set of shelves and some hanging hooks, as well as two simple wooden chairs, one of which looks like it's seen better days. Someone's left a jacket on one of the hooks. The shelves contain mostly ordinary household tools—a pair of scissors, a hammer, some pliers, a coil of rope.
Despite everything, it's the jacket that sets you off. Hung from the hooks, it looks like something that belongs on the back of a classroom chair, when seen from below, your face at ground level from being tripped again. Or held down, or scrubbing your desk clean, again and again. Nothing like the tortures that rest of the dungeon promises, it's mundane suffering that you feel you can't escape, will never be able to escape, unless you take one of those tools in your hand and turn it against them as soon as the time is right. When? You feel you'll instinctively know, but that's a feeling you know isn't yours and not one you want to be. But if you break, fear and pain will overwhelm you, and you'll submit: the rest of the memory will tell you true when to strike.
A spirit board is placed amongst the household tools.
A readout on your phone tells you the rules and displays the sanity goal (explore rooms) and your traitor goal (kill without witnesses) as well as the item that you've been given (spirit board). It looks like nothing is stopping you from committing the traitor goal even while you're sane, if you wish to.
There is one exit: South. ]
It's dark down here, in the dungeon, and the wall sconces are unlit; the only light source is from the hallway. In the dim light, though, you can see a handful of barred cells against one stone wall with fixtures for manacles. There's a drain set into the floor, in the middle, around which the floor is stained a darker color and is… sticky? The air is cold, and stale.
Against the wall next to the door is a set of shelves and some hanging hooks, as well as two simple wooden chairs, one of which looks like it's seen better days. Someone's left a jacket on one of the hooks. The shelves contain mostly ordinary household tools—a pair of scissors, a hammer, some pliers, a coil of rope.
Despite everything, it's the jacket that sets you off. Hung from the hooks, it looks like something that belongs on the back of a classroom chair, when seen from below, your face at ground level from being tripped again. Or held down, or scrubbing your desk clean, again and again. Nothing like the tortures that rest of the dungeon promises, it's mundane suffering that you feel you can't escape, will never be able to escape, unless you take one of those tools in your hand and turn it against them as soon as the time is right. When? You feel you'll instinctively know, but that's a feeling you know isn't yours and not one you want to be. But if you break, fear and pain will overwhelm you, and you'll submit: the rest of the memory will tell you true when to strike.
A spirit board is placed amongst the household tools.
A readout on your phone tells you the rules and displays the sanity goal (explore rooms) and your traitor goal (kill without witnesses) as well as the item that you've been given (spirit board). It looks like nothing is stopping you from committing the traitor goal even while you're sane, if you wish to.
There is one exit: South. ]
[1/5]
[Those rules.]
[......oh.]
[2/5]
[Curls in on himself and makes a noise.]
[It's kind of high pitched, a breathy little whine, and he shuts it up as best he can by shoving the meaty part of his thumb in his mouth and biting down, hard.]
[3/5]
[Breathe.]
[Breathe.]
[4/5]
[He doesn't even have to find a way on his own, now. Isn't this what he wanted?]
[So it's fine.]
[5/5]
[Then he scrubs at his face (when did it get wet?), and he snatches up the spirit board.]
[He takes a shaky breath in, and he digs his nails into the palm of his hand, and he heads south.]
Re: [5/5]
POOR HURRICANE
it's a pity they couldn't have flipped out together ]