ARRIVAL LOG 005

[larkers]

WHO: Everyone
WHERE: New Amsterdam
WHEN: Night of August 23 (through to August 30th)
WHAT: The fifth arrival
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Coercion and loss of autonomy. Further notes at end of log.

> ARRIVAL LOG #005

Awareness comes to you in blurred snatches, cloudy fragments of sound and light, color, sensation. Hazy and difficult to grasp on to, but slowly aligning into focus. A series of regular, rhythmic beeps. A medicinal, astringent smell. The sensation of movement, a low hum and accompanying vibration under you. Your eyes are heavy, hard to keep open, but in the glimpses between slow, dark blinks you see four people in black body armor seated opposite you, as well as a man in dark gray scrubs. You realize there are others next to you. All of you in white scrubs, hair recently cut but at various stages of growth, restrained by straps across your chests, arms, feet, holding you to the bench under you. To your left, an armored interior door, two more people visible, the movement of dark streets and neon windows passing through a windshield. You try to open your mouth to speak, but it's as if your tongue is coated in tar, and you manage nothing more than an empty parting of lips. The vehicle stops. The guard opposite you stands and comes to unbuckle you from the bench, helping you to your feet. Your limbs feel wooden and heavy, slow to move. One guard opens the back of the vehicle: beyond it, a chamber only dimly lit by strips of light along the floor. The nurse moves to stand at the back of the vehicle, checking each passenger over one by one just before they're helped out of the vehicle, quick and methodical. She doesn't climb out after you, moving to sit as the last passenger is unloaded. The guards keep their heads down. Their actions are quick, firm, but not entirely unkind. Under your feet, you can feel the thrum of heavy bass vibrating through the floor. You see nearby that there is another bus, another load of passengers being helped out, lined up much like you are. Once you're all in place, the guards move down the line, pulling dark hoods over each passenger's head. Your arm is lifted, placed on the shoulder of the passenger in front of you in line. "Hold on," says one of the guards. "Stay quiet. Keep moving until I say stop." There is no will in you to fight the orders. How far you walk is hard to determine. Counting steps is difficult, and any concept of time passing stretches between the sound of footfalls and breathing - soon overshadowed by the music. Growing louder, closer, the heavy bassline begins to reverberate through the air around you, amplified by the acoustics of the place. Melody and vocals become audible, the chatter of a crowd. Finally, you stop, and the hoods are pulled off, following down the line as the guards walk back. You turn to look after them, but they quickly disappear into the darkness of the tunnel behind you. The door in front of you swings open, the full weight of the music washing out. A tall woman with sharp, geometric patterns of ink tattooed across her skin smiles at you with sharp teeth, glowing luminescent in the UV lighting above her. "First timers?" she asks, but doesn't wait for an answer. "Don't worry, those costumes are great. Come on, come in." As you move to comply, she takes each of your hands, stamping a twisting design on the back, shining bright in the UV light. "Welcome," she says, as she ushers you out of the lobby and into the noise and crowd beyond. "To the Insomniacs' Ball." ◉ Though entirely capable of independent action and thought, new characters will find themselves completely, unquestioningly compliant to any verbal statement which could be taken as a command or request.

> THE INSOMNIACS' BALL

The message from El comes the same as previous: insistent, not waiting for any active attempt to open it. Scrolling within your vision as if being written while you're reading it. I'm not saying bus #5 got past me, but our favorite mysterious human traffickers have gone seriously sneaky this time around. And I'm not saying I can't help you get to where you need to be, but I can't. This one needs legwork, because you're going to have to land invites to the Insomniacs' Ball. The Insomniacs' Ball is an open secret. A New Amsterdam urban myth, disbelieved by many and desired for by even more. A week long party held every year as the working schedule changes, as the city struggles between the oppressive heat and the shifting of sleep cycles. Whether you'd prefer to be asleep at night or day, the ball doesn't care - a rolling, 24/7 event that continues until it disappears, as quickly as it arrived. Its location is a secret. Existence frowned upon, possibly even shut down by the authorities - dancing until you fall down is hardly advisable while water rationing is in place. Yet every year the rumors spin again, the whispers, clues and tastes and photos shared on social media which vanish before anyone can really be sure what they saw. Whoever puts the ball together is as good at keeping their head down as Morningstar - and most likely greases more wheels, rather than trying to be a wrench in the machine. Either way, all El can do is point you to the same paths anyone else hungry for an invite is taking. THE PUZZLE Emerging on social media like proverbial white rabbits, clues in the form of bizarre symbols, phrases or riddles have appeared, hidden in images or tucked in VR simulations. Solving them isn't for the impatient. Some take more work than others, a knowledge of numbers or pattern recognition, or ancient cultural references. The answers come as new clues, pointing to locations in the city, to other VR simulations, to figures waiting in cafes or particular enemies in your favorite VR video game. A treasure hunt for the modern age, as each step is completed the participants are whittled down, but for anyone who reaches the end, the prize of an invite to one of the most mysterious pieces of New Amsterdam life is worth all of the work to get there. THE DARE The challenges start small. Stand up and sing in a crowded restaurant. Take a selfie at the UNA's front door. Eat a live scorpion. Soon it escalates, taking even the most jaded of adrenaline junkies on a rollercoaster of illegal and death-defying stunts. Joyriding a notorious gangster's hoverbike. Climbing a construction beam between two of the tallest buildings in the city. Standing in central square and declaring yourself to be a Morningstar operative. The risks climb higher and higher, and for some the stakes are too much. Others hold their nerve, eyes set firmly on the goal, the victory of holding an invite in their hands. THE BOON And then there are those who make no effort at all. Passed to them by the hands of lady luck, their invites arrive in their pockets, slid under their doorframes or hidden under a glass at work. Bartenders open up crates of stock and find a wedge of them tucked in amongst the packaging; bike couriers arrive at delivery destinations only to find a parcel waiting there for them. Whether targeted or purely a matter of chance, many attendants at the Insomniacs' Ball will have had the opportunity simply fall in their lap - and some may not recognize what they've received at all. However you've managed to get your hands on an invite, the directions on the back are the same - leading you deep down into the city's underground, past some of the darker corners and into some even darker ones. A rusted, disused door to an abandoned maintenance area wouldn't look like the place, but the intricate geometric design painted silvery and barely visible across the surface matches the invite you hold, and you know you've found the entrance to wonderland. Behind the door, lies a twisting network of tunnels and rooms built into natural caves, ultimately abandoned by the city when its insides proved too difficult to navigate. Now, for a short time, it's home to a carnival of revelry. Strobing neon lights illuminate snatches and glimpses of the crowd, glowing in pools of UV: a dense mass of people from all over the city, young and old, music and dancing flowing from chamber to chamber, clashing and mixing between. Extravagant, outrageous costumes mingle with simple streetwear, or with no-wear at all. People hand out masks, drinks, substances which it may not be advisable to consume. Sealed bottles of water seem to appear from nowhere, passed among the people, their source and seeming escape from the rationing in the city far above going unquestioned. Smaller chambers offer some respite for those who need to take a minute, catch their breath, or want a quiet corner to talk with a new friend. Other chambers contain more hedonistic displays, with most participants always willing to accept another into their number. No one seems to be in any rush - there's roughly a week to soak in all the delights, and you can even come and go as you please, the UV pattern now stamped on your hand allowing access back through the various doors, if you can find your way back to one. But you're here for a different purpose, and whether it took you hours or days to find your way here, you know that the party will end eventually - and anything more unusual which may be hiding inside will be revealed. ◉ The Insomniacs' Ball and the related methods of gaining an invite will last for one week, from August 23-30. New characters can be retrieved at any time during this, or can find their own way out and be discovered on the streets - just please be advised that they will not be able to survive in New Amsterdam without first spending time in the Morningstar safehouse and having their ID set up. ◉ We will not be dictating set pieces of the ARG puzzle or challenges - these are left to player discretion as to what your character would have realistically managed to solve or complete! ◉ The invite themselves are business card sized pieces of metal with an intricate geometric patterns etched on one side, and an address on the other. The address leads to a quick series of clues and locations which will take characters to the door as described. ◉ The same geometric design will be present throughout the ball, worn by some of the guests and doorpeople, and even carved into the walls of some of the caves. ◉ While in the ball, there will be rumors and whispers circulating about the owner of the ball being in attendance, and that particularly impressive guests may earn some special reward - or just guarantee an invite again next year.

> THE SAFEHOUSE

Access to the safehouse is a hatch hidden behind stacks of empty storage shelves in the back of an abandoned supermarket in an outer district of the city. The immediate area is similarly abandoned, empty stores, flanked by several blocks of dive bars and clubs which cater to more niche tastes. A place where people can come and go unseen, or, if seen, not spoken of. A dark haired woman called Gaby is ready to greet the new arrivals and get them settled in, brusque and no-nonsense – she'll be open for in depth questions later, but will advise everyone to ask the people who brought them in for the beginning bits of information. ◉ The safe house is a large open space, filled with rows of basic cots set up to sleep a large amount of people. Basic, but outfitted with everything necessary for daily life. A few doors lead to back rooms for storage, medical care and a large communal bathroom, and past the long rows of cots there is a communal kitchen, fully stocked, and an eating area. Privacy is at a minimum. ◉ New characters will be asked to pick their beds, and provided with a change of (second-hand, mismatched and somewhat threadbare) clothes and basic toiletries. ◉ While there were previously also NPC occupants of the safehouse, natives to New Amsterdam, these people have now been moved on to somewhere safer. A few of their belongings remain, discarded or accidentally abandoned. ◉ Gaby will make it clear to all new arrivals that if they have any requests or queries, they should contact her or El. ◉ The drugs making new characters compliant will remain in their systems for a few hours after their being dropped off by the guards before finally beginning to fade. They will be gone entirely after a night's rest. In the meantime, they may want to be careful of what others say to them. ◉ New characters will be given rudimentary access to the network on arrival in the safehouse, but will not have their ID set up yet. They will be able to make posts and replies, but their messages will be anonymous and they do not have inboxes yet. ◉ New characters will not be allowed to leave the safehouse until FOUR DAYS AFTER THEIR ARRIVAL AT THE SAFEHOUSE. These 4 days are for them to adjust, learn about the world they've arrived in from their fellows, and for El to speak with them and work on setting up their IDs.

> FINAL OOC NOTES

Welcome to Meadowlark, newbies! You're now free to post to the network and logs comms. To reiterate, your characters will have no IDs or inboxes, nor be allowed out of the safehouse until they have been there for four days. At that point it's expected they'll have gotten a good idea of their new situation from their fellow characters, and will have discussed their background and job potentials with El in order for their false IDs to be set up. If you have any questions or ideas about how you'd like to get your character involved in the world, or if they'd like to join Morningstar, please head over to the plot engagement post and drop us a comment! For questions specific to this log, there is a thread below. Please check out our December calendar rundown for a look at things happening this month. As a reminder, AC this month will be a check-in only. AC will be posted on December 20 and close on December 27. If you do not reply to AC, you will be considered idled and dropped from the game. We will not post a warning list.

> NAVIGATION

Comments

https://i.imgur.com/KA5GaEvh.jpg

[mercurio]

[prompto had not expected the piece of metal with intricate designs that he got from an electrician at work to be of any value at all. it was passed on to him during a shift with some words of keeping it between themselves and nothing more. el's message comes hours into prompto's venturing into this underground world--thumping bass, bright lights, an expected connection in physical contact that bursts electric rather than just the simple warmth of skin and dampness of sweat. and, suddenly, he's looking around for the unfortunate familiar white scrubs among the crowd of bright colors, fluorescent body paint, and non-stop movement.]

[he isn't really paying that much mind, though, spelled around by some drinks of unknown origin and the adrenaline, until a hand catches his wrist, gripping painfully tight to the point where prompto can't leave it to just a passerby's annoyance. not to mention, his chest starts glowing bright blue -- as does his aggressor's. prompto only manages to see the topography of the other's face before he starts to falter when facing a nauseating load of hatred and disorienting confusion overwhelm his otherwise campy and high-spirited emotions. it does nothing to dissuade the even more sickening feeling that he knows that voice, has had it narrating recent nightmares in more than one occasion.]

Ardyn-- [he manages through gritted teeth, twisting his arm around and away from the strong hold. the next he says louder, to counter the loud music:] Let go!

[prompto doesn't want to know what ardyn is feeling; he doesn't want to be around this man if he's not able to punch him in the face first.]

ilu

[daemonized]

[He’s guided more by irritation than by true rational thought right now, the rarity of it now existing via this confounding situation. He grips tight, fingers pressing into skin and against bone, not caring if it’s enough to bruise, some needling retort already forming on his lips—

When the voice he hears — Prompto’s — dredges up clear recognition. And the words, an undeniable demand, make his body react against his will for a second time. Fingers release him, the empathy bond severed (he felt something, shaped like fear, like energy being buffeted by anxiety) and Ardyn drops his hand.

Immediately, his mouth twists into a scowl, and he looks at the young man under neon lights, like viewing all of this through the lens of some twisted fever dream.]

Prompto. [Syllables that might be drowned out over the music, but made clear by how his lips accentuate each and very one.]

I’d not do that again if I were you. [Never mind the familiar face, never mind the chance at asking what’s happened and what’s going on, never mind recent memory of the young man in a world that wasn’t Eos. Ardyn knows that something’s wrong, that his body is not as it should be, and if Prompto slings another command his way, then he won’t be kind about it.]

[mercurio]

[his breathing's quickened, whatever effect of recreational drug or drink taken throughout the night dismissed by quick sobering up. like a bucket of cold water dunked over him -- and ardyn's still there, real and infuriating and absolutely fucking vulnerable for once in the whole length of time prompto has known him for.]

[will he have other chances like this one? he's not thinking logically, rather by instinct, by a calloused anger that's boiling within him over everything that ardyn's done to his best friend--every single move on the board an attempt to break the crown prince, destroying and hurting others beyond repair.]

[ardyn's words (the threat, the warning) don't register, and prompto would be deemed a coward for taking advantage of a situation that leaves the other man vulnerable--]

[except he doesn't care, his hands already balled into fists before his body reacts to swing a punch at ardyn's face. it connects--unsurprisingly--and his blood's thumping loudly in his ears, eyes stinging, the realization of forthcoming consequences not settling in. no one around them seems to give them much mind--fights have not been unseen, and others are unlikely to get involved unless it escalates.]

Like I'd listen to the likes of you!

[daemonized]

[Admittedly, it’s hardly a reaction that he expected from Prompto. He could see it, in the ghostly milliseconds that transpired, in which Prompto’s whole body telegraphed his intent. A fists clenching tight, body careening back, the look of someone about to strike with a hook to slam into his face — he could see it, but whether it’s the lingering sluggishness of the drug in his system, the lurid lights that add to the confusion, or the fact that he’s had little reason to worry about a simple strike before, Ardyn doesn’t react in enough time to avoid it.

Knuckles crack against a cheekbone; and it isn’t the bloom of pain that sends him reeling, nor the force that tilts his head back, that jars his vision in his skull. What shakes him is a realization of the indignity, that he’s just arrived and soon met with someone like Prompto — Prompto, who makes him adhere to his commands, who strikes him across his face. That if he’s this angry, he should know what danger stirs under the surface of who Ardyn Izunia is, and yet the young man is still foolish enough to do this.

Well. Good, he thinks. Good, as he straightens immediately, his own hand curling into a fist and throwing a punch just as good as Prompto gave.]

Then I expect you to deal with the consequences.

[He says with a flash of teeth, with serpent-sharp eyes. Whether or not Prompto careens back from the force of it (knuckles sting, he doesn’t care), his other hand whips out to try to grip him by the throat and squeeze.

The crowd around them acts as if nothing at all is transpiring. Either too uncaring, too apathetic, or too lost in drug-induced states or blaring music to care for fights that intermittently spike now and again.]

Is this the hello that I get? What manners!

[mercurio]

[he recoils back at the force of the punch, feet clumsy as is prompto's living right, but he doesn't get to fall too far from the starting point as a large hand holds at his throat and fingers find a home in his skin.]

[air is being squeezed out of his lungs the more he struggles. yes, these are consequences, but yes it felt good. no matter how this man is as terrifying as he always was--prompto refuses to give him the satisfaction of sensing his fear through their physical contact, for there it is again: the confusion, the anger, the hatred that spills and overwhelms and burns in a way that words cannot express. he holds at the man's hand in an attempt to pull him away, remove his hand from his throat to little to no avail.]

[through squeezed eyes and gritted teeth, prompto manages to wheeze out:]

Stop -- hurtin' me...

[a lucky factor in their meeting, but one he knows he cannot force to keep happening past the effects of the drug.]

[daemonized]

[Ardyn wants to squeeze out every ounce of impertinence from him, wants to cut off the oxygen to Prompto's brain until his eyes go dim. Self-control is a fickle thing when Ardyn’s patience has already been stretched as thin as vellum, when he feels sick with nausea and assaulted by a crowd too caught in the thrall of dance and music. And when a familiar face from home becomes an easy target because of his own anger, then the man feels absolutely no remorse in returning the favor and then some. Thus his hand squeezes tight, and while his strength isn’t what it was, he thinks he might lift the young man off the floor to prove a point.

The empathy bond intermingles their emotions, and he catches shared fear and blatant satisfaction amongst the whirlwind of everything else. Before he has a chance to register disgust on his features, the command sinks into his bones and makes him release Prompto a second time.

He hates this compliance, the sneering grin on his face flirting with true anger. But the drug is stronger than even his own willpower, and his back straightens, arms dropping to his side. Violence cut short as if put under a blade.]

What is this.

[If he can’t wrench out pain from him, he can at least demand answers.]

[mercurio]

Welcome to New Amsterdam.

[prompto proclaims in a tone not too different from ardyn's usual mocking satire of politeness. he's rubbing at his neck, sensitive from the recent grapple. it's going to bruise and his voice feels strained already as he winds up to say more.]

You've been part of the welcome committee of human trafficking and it includes, among many new and cool things, a shaved head and drugs that force ya to obey commands. It sucks.

[there is no actual attempt from prompto's behalf to be a friend. this is simply his own thinking that by showing how much more he understands of this world, ardyn will be at a clear disadvantage. even if it's just a temporary state.]

[he will take what he can.]

[swallowing, he steps closer to ardyn, knowing the drugs are forcing the man to obey thus not hurting him. the small radius that they kept to themselves due to their recent show of vitriol closes in some as the crowd keeps on.]

Do you remember what you did in Altissia? You remember the production facility in Niflheim? Answer truthfully.

[he's not much of a strategist as ignis would be, unfortunately, and while this may well be showing all his cards, it's now the time to make whatever impromptu plan work in his favor.]

[daemonized]

[Welcome to New Amsterdam.

With those words, Prompto may as well have made it official: a new world, one that rolled out the welcome mat in a way that has him wishing he could rend whomever was responsible for it in two. And this young man, a member of Noctis’ merry little retinue, looking at him as if he doesn’t remember the last one — timelines, again, intersecting and wrapping tight against the universe, then unwinding themselves at his feet as something completely different, defying Ardyn’s expectations again and again.

Frustrating. Infuriating. The wheel of fate turning in both directions, and Ardyn tires of it.

Human trafficking, shaved heads, forced to obey any form of command. The explanation that Prompto gives is lacking, and Ardyn looks down at him when he steps forward. His attitude is grating, taking liberties with him because of this damnable drug. He knows it’s the only reason why the boy's spine is made of steel in these moments; he’s well-aware of the fact that the ex-Chancellor cannot tear him apart nerve-ending by nerve-ending like he wishes to do so badly.

Answer truthfully. So he does, as neon fuchsia lights dance across both of their forms.]

Of course I remember. How does one forget the fate of poor Lady Lunafreya? [Compliance doesn’t mean that Ardyn will be kind. Cruelty snakes out of him, it being the only retaliation he can give.]

Or those cold and snowy foothills? The perfect setting for a heartwarming dose of patricide.

[He laughs, lost in the music, because Prompto is unveiling his hand without him having to ask — how nice of him.]

What else, Prompto? After that. Anything?

[mercurio]

[the wounds haven't healed yet, despite the few weeks of respite that prompto got to have here--away from all the pain and the miserable circumstances dropped on their laps upon the disaster that was altissia. his breathing wounds up heavily, the loss of lady lunafreya like losing the light in an otherwise darkening world; the loss of any feeling of hope in a trip that feels more and more destined towards ruin and doom; the loss of any sense of identity, thrust instead into the worst kind of reality for his own feelings of alienation and guilt.]

[feelings he's managed to choke down after learning that noctis is unaware of -- everything. a happy illusion that was too good to be true. this is the astrals doing, it has to be, to have ardyn fall into this world knowing everything.]

[and it fucking sucks, because ardyn might know more than what he will ever reveal to prompto. he knows he's just a foot soldier, that the main event for this man's sadistic desires lies in noctis's torment.]

You can't -- say anything about Altissia, about Lady Lunafreya, Ignis, and what happened in the lab to Noctis. You're not allowed to do that.

[it's buying him time, and prompto knows he's not going to win the game in the end. thankfully, there's no pride to choke down on, just the feeling that he's maybe making things worse by making them this convoluted.]

I can't keep you from talking to him, and I can't keep you from saying any of these things once the drug's effect is gone. [he realizes as much. he swallows thickly.] But that's your bargaining chip if you ever wanted one.

[to protect noctis? prompto would forego his own life, much like ignis and gladio would, too. much like king regis did. much like lunafreya did.]

[daemonized]

[And here comes another request, another command, revealing so much more. Revealing that there are others here from Eos, that the titular prince himself is present ("to Noctis"), and how that makes his hackles rise. How that makes him almost want to laugh in Prompto's face, despite how he hates his free will being stripped of him.

(That face of his, far too similar to someone who once held him at an equal disadvantage, a long lifetime ago. He's in no mood to entertain the memory that even now hovers around the edges of his vision; wishes he could split it in twain by silencing the one before him.)

But Ardyn is a patient man, used to rage and self-restraint intermingling to create a foreign creature that he abides by. He wants to pull threads of information from the young man, if he's so willing to give them.]

Are you so desperate to hide the truth of all that's happened, so much that you're risking even my ire? What's wrong?

[There's so much he could zoom in on -- Lady Lunafreya, Ignis. But he chooses, of course, the labs in Niflheim, cold and interred with rows of MTs.]

Let me guess. You're still clinging to the lie of having them believe you're Lucian.

[mercurio]

I am Lucian.

[he says, hands balling into fists again--but not to strike, but to reassure himself of a belief he wants to cling to. he doesn't want to give ardyn the benefit of taking his identity from him.]

[(even when, deep down in his gut, this one particular fear trembles to live, dormant after thinking he could keep everything a secret so long as they were here--blissful and moderately living a normal life. stupid.)]

I am Lucian. [he repeats for good measure.] And as one I'm doing what I can to keep Noctis safe.

[daemonized]

You're not.

[Pointed words, like a crowbar trying to find purchase right beneath the foundation of Prompto's confidence so that he can upend it with trademark cruelty.]

Lie to yourself all you want, you can't change-

[-where you come from stick in his throat, halted by the previous command. His mind pushes against it, decries against his own inability to speak, but he's granted no reprieve from the drug. The words that follow are sharper because of it.]

-the truth of the matter. Nor the disgust you'll be faced with once this same truth unravels.

[That, he knows, he nothing more than a bald-faced lie. Ardyn comes from a future, has seen this truth come to light. The result was not so life-rending that Prompto did not continue to be friends with the rest of them.

But now he can use uncertainty to his own advantage. Prompto's ignorance sharpens his own tongue.]

[mercurio]

[ardyn's words spear through the otherwise words of encouragement both connor and markus talked into him; that noctis wouldn't just hate him like that just because of what he is or where he comes from. but it's almost like ardyn's words fulfill what his self-deprecation wanted all along: to agree with his own pain and his feelings of alienation, the burning of his own wrist that hasn't found the time nor remedy to stop aching. a reminder that just won't go away.]

[he decides to try and keep his own emotions at bay, even though he is starting to feel the same weight that kept him on his knees before aranea pulled him up to his feet.]

There is no truth in any of that.

[it's what he wants to believe and, yes, he'll continue to lie to himself in ardyn's presence.]

You'll have to find your way out of this place. Hope you find someone who wants to help you for once.

[daemonized]

[Unfortunately for Prompto, Ardyn doesn't believe that he believes it. This one has always worn his heart on his sleeve -- anxious, wracked with powerfully low self-esteem, cracking jokes and making light of the situation to make up for it.]

You know you're wrong.

[Words pressed upon him like hot steel. Like a brand, so that it leaves its mark even after the conversation skews in another direction.]

Oh, does that mean you're just going to leave me here? How... very irresponsible of you. Knowing what I can do, and yet abandoning me, disoriented and angry, in a crowd full of oblivious strangers.

[Bluffing? Not? Hard to say with Ardyn. One thing is for certain, he is definitely not in a great mood.]

[mercurio]

[when ardyn bares his fangs, he really fucking does. his words give prompto pause--and he's kicking himself for this.]

Should I just order you where to go?

[he's testing his luck, and he knows it.]

[daemonized]

I suggest you don’t order me again at all, Prompto.

[Though he still possesses that flippant, dangerous air about him, the reply comes so quickly that it’s telling on its own.]

Where did you scurry off to, when you found yourself in this place?

[Leave him in this den of noise and color and too many bodies, and Ardyn is sure to adjust. But if Prompto is going to just saunter off and leave him in the lurch — well, it’s the principle of the thing.]

[mercurio]

[the suggestion feels like an order as much as it feels like a threat, and prompto is fully aware that he does not wish to try out his luck.]

[at the same time, he doesn't want ardyn to -- be where everyone else. the things he could do, in this ball, in the safehouse, elsewhere--?]

If I told you -- Would you hurt anyone else? This ain't Eos anymore.

[daemonized]

I've no reason to hurt anyone.

[Anger or no, Ardyn is reasonable enough to know that he needs information first and foremost. He can delve into his deep impulses for violence at a later date, unless someone gives him a reason otherwise -- someone like Prompto, who had hit him across the face and tosses commands his way.

Just so you know.]

Unless you'd like to provide me with one.

[mercurio]

[prompto knows he has dark times ahead of him.]

Pretty sure I already earned a spot on your black list.

[he hopes ardyn's face hurts as much as prompto's knuckles, which landed the hit, do. he's doing his best to ignore the pain on his own jaw and the ghost feeling of his throat tightening in order to keep his bravado.]

[...there's maybe a chance that he can spare himself some hurt by being a bit helpful, though.] There's a safehouse. You'll need someone to take you there.

[daemonized]

[He did this to himself.]

Indeed so. But from here on out, we're just going to see just how high you rank on it. Do you understand?

[Do you? He doesn't care either way, cutting off any reply Prompto might have after the fact like it's not worth his time. It isn't, not really. He's disoriented, his bones ache with exhaustion, and he feels like so much of him is severed. His patience barely clings to his form.]

For instance — consider how willing you should be to show me to this safehouse yourself, instead of hoping that I rely on someone else’s wayward kindness.

[mercurio]

[the fact that prompto is actually considering this might be the strongest indicator that ardyn--despite all his handicaps at the moment--still has it: that presence that instills fear through his words and very well kept promises of future disaster. it helps that the hatred he felt through physical touch was the realest form of a threat he could ask for.]

[he's biting the inside of his cheek, considering his options.]

[this man is terrifying, even without knowing everything that prompto knows he did.]

Just like you left me wandering in the MT factory, huh? Just a gun and good luck.

[....he's not happy about this, but it's clear on his expression that he's ditching any ideas of ditching ardyn.] --fine. But you'll have to keep up. I'm not gonna hold your hand about it.

[daemonized]

[Just a gun and good luck. A myriad more than what Prompto would be leaving him, he wants to retort, wants the words to singe against the young man's skin like rolling acid; yet even Ardyn will not admit to being in a state where he remains at such a disadvantage. Even if it's made obvious by the nausea of being drugged, the shaved head, the scrubs. The suffocating press of disorientation.

Instead-]

Lead the way, dear boy. [A lazy gesture in an outward direction, as if to indicate that he walk.] I can keep up.

[mercurio]

[considering prompto has no sort of control in this situation or any situation before-and-after, it's not like he can't help not being able to provide more. even with ardyn's words, he looks vaguely conflicted.]

[in the end, this all feels like a recorded session at the police station. anything he says or does to be later used in retaliation during trial.]

[and that? makes his gut twist uncomfortably.]

[he pushes up the bandanna/mask over his face, efficiently blending in with the crowd at least in appearance. it's force of habit what has him checking back to make sure ardyn is following suit, although it can't be helped if it's difficult to walk through a group of people too enthralled in the drugs and music and lights.]

[they make their way out onto an emptier space, clearly towards the edges of the 'dance floor.' there are people sitting down on the floor in groups of two or threes, gathering their energy or shoving another batch of drugs into their system. what looks like a looming, dark entryway is not too far away from them. prompto turns around, taking a few steps back to keep ardyn at a distance.]

The city's out this way.