Wɪʟʟ "someone give that damp man a nap" Gʀᴀʜᴀᴍ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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getclustered2026-04-29 10:20 pm
cognitivus) wrote in getclustered2026-04-29 10:20 pm
May & June Cluster Events
ɢᴇᴛ ᴄʟᴜsᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ
A Sense8 AU Sandbox
EVENTS
The cluster has been largely introduced — if not each person to every other member, then at least to the concept of the connection. They've begun to learn how to wade into one another's mind, and how to leave. How to talk. Perhaps even how to take the wheel for other members.
Now, we get to learn the pitfalls and drawbacks of such a connection, as things begin to bleed from one person to the rest of the group. Perhaps everyone is meant to suffer, or perhaps this is a cue for the cluster to come together and support one another through it all? It's entirely possible that they'll find themselves stronger together as a cohesive unit than they are as individuals.
warnings : violence, psychological horror
INDIVIDUALS
Although the Elvenking has proven elusive - and may have even made attempts to ward his mind the way Mirkwood has enchantments and wards to keep any unwanted visitors out, the way he closes his thoughts off from ósanwë-kenta, or what the humans might call 'telepathy' - increasingly the nightmares come, and they are relentless. For Elves do live terribly long, unnaturally resilient lives. And they so rarely forget.
And Thranduil, for all his grace and elegance, is nothing but a thin veneer of calm pastiched upon an unending, brutal hailstorm. Trauma follows him like a long shadow, and it touches everything and everyone that dares to get too close to him.
Perhaps it manifests in fleeting moments throughout the day. Faces of the dead appear in puddles of water. In the mirror. In perspex stands and glass doors. There are serene faces that look like they are sleeping. And there are bloated faces of corpses submerged in shallow waters. There are beautiful juvenile ageless faces. There are disfigured and scarred faces, split open from left eye socket to right jawbone. Crushed skulls with brains spilled out over someone else's intestines.
Or perhaps the trauma stays confined to the realm of nightmares. Wading, alone, in a shallow swamp of dismembered corpses. These faces - faces everywhere. Death as far as the eyes can see. Fear - like the mud swallowing boots and ankles and calves, making each trudge forward more exhausting than the one before - fear taking hold. They are coming. Like they came before and laid siege to home - the home before home, the real home - they are coming. And death beckons like these faces.
In the realm of nightmares, other horrors await. The recurring one of being burnt alive is terrible enough. The smell of your own charred flesh and skin melting off your bones, not realising the screaming you're hearing is your own voice is not something easily forgotten. But the one of her screaming is somehow worse.
"Help me!"
Her voice carries from the north. Urgent. Pleading. Twisted with pain. Despair.
"Help me! Please!"
Walking north. Running north. Following her voice. But her screams are no closer.
Eventually she is there. In pieces on the floor. Just her fingers at first, severed, scattered. Her index finger with her wedding ring is the last one - or the first of the rest of her. Vultures and crows peck away at her detached limbs. Maggots squirm in her exposed, enclosed ribcage. There is no telling where her hair ends and where the ground begins. Violated, humiliated, mutilated, there is nothing left of her.
Standing there, in the middle of her carnage, the silence settles in comfortably.
Lately, you've been dreaming. Sometimes these dreams are of your own life, of the possible future. Sometimes these dreams are far more specific: of standing in an empty Times Square in New York, watching as your skin lights up with a sickly radioactive glow, knowing that you're about to kill millions of people in an instant.
Now, those dreams are starting to be accompanied by flashes of... something decidedly more chaotic. Maybe you wake up hovering a few inches above your bed. Maybe you accidentally telekinetically rearranged all of your furniture while you were asleep.
Now, it's starting to bleed into everyday life.
It's just in quick bursts, powers forcing their way to your fingertips seemingly of their own volition, utterly uncontrollable. You might find yourself going into a trance and using any material on hand to paint a vision of the future; or you might wind up reading your coworker's thoughts right as they're fantasizing about killing your boss. Maybe you get shot and you just shrug it off. These powers vanish as quickly as they appear, hard to grasp and even harder to hold on to, and they seem to have a knack for showing up at the worst time.
OOC Note: Welcome to Peter's "learning how to use my superpowers and it's real chaotic" era. His base superpower is Empathic Mimicry, which means he can copy the powers of other people, and at this point halfway through season one of Heroes, he currently has:
Unbeknownst to Will and the people around him, an unfortunate condition has taken root in Will's brain. Anti-NMDA receptor encephalitis is inflaming the entire right hemisphere. The following side-effects may bleed over from Will's mind:
Toward the end of the month, as the condition worsens:
van
[It isn't that he means to send out some cluster-wide call of alarm. But things get very dire very quickly. One minute, he's walking Kuba down a New York street. The next, a frumpy suited fed-looking guy steps out of a van, never a good sign.]
"I'm gonna need you to come with us."
[Us turns out to be several jackbooted thugs in the back of the van. And Clint, naturally, declines the invitation. Needless to say, he isn't given a choice. Maybe elsewhere, someone getting dragged into a van would be cause for alarm. Here, he's just a collar, and they're trying to be quick about it. Who really cares?
The leash drops from his hand, and Clint frantically uses trained hand signals at the good boy who, true to what Clint has always said, is all bark and no bite. The pitbull doesn't so much as lunge at anyone, just barks a big game. But several strong gestures, even while Clint struggles against too many hands, and the dog shoots off down the street, hopefully not to get caught by animal control.
He isn't armed. Why would he be? The men hauling him into the van are. And as Clint sits, he tries to distract himself from worrying about Kuba with considering how likely it is he can get out of this without getting shot, and preferably with killing everyone else here, fed included.
It's not looking likely, and maybe the fed can see where his thoughts are going, because he says something that tunes Clint's entire attention and turns everything on its head.]
"Mr. Fisk would like a word with you."
[If Clint's blood wasn't already running cold, this turns it frigid.]
prison
[Mr. Fisk is, apparently, in a highly secure prison. (Rikers. It's Rikers.) If he hasn't gotten shot in the van, Clint is led by the fed, who is led by a series of guards in a casual and planned way, through the facility. All of it screams that this Fisk is in charge here, and the dread that inspires in Clint is palpable.
Where he's led, with several guards outside, is a room that is not a cell, too spacious for that. There's a table set up in the center, two seats across from one another, a meal spread out. And a very large and imposing man enjoying said meal.
The door closes behind Clint after he's unceremoniously shoved in, guards standing at the ready. The fed and Fisk share one brief nod before the suit leaves. It's abundantly clear that Clint is not going to be allowed to leave until Fisk allows for it. Fisk wordlessly bids him to sit.
Clint remains standing.
Fisk watches him with a calculating, penetrating stare for a few prolonged moments before getting back to eating as though this is perfectly fine. But Clint knows better, especially when Fisk chooses to speak in his deep, gruff, almost-accented, occasionally pausing voice that fills the room with no effort.]
"Your work with Mr. Castle has been effective, but I'm afraid the partnership must come to a premature end. It's time to come back into the fold, Clint. I have so much for you to do."
reeducation
[When all is said and done, he's shipped off to somewhere else in the van, somewhere that's got space and a wall of a fence and security, something that he imagines could be called a chateau. Mr. Fisk used to call it his summer home. A place to retire to when the city apartments, nice as they could be, would become too oppressive. When he needed to be a little less visible for a time. Clint's been here before, though it's been a while. Maybe he 'sold' it temporarily to one of his associates, or maybe he still has enough money to upkeep it.
His owner can't be there to burn lessons back into him personally, but he has certainly instructed people under his command to do the task.
They aren't break Clint. The idea normally is that by the time a collar comes into someone's care, they are already broken in, but you don't want to break a perfectly functional weapon. He just needs his parts molded back into shape. Relearn old lessons that have well-worn tracks in his brain.
What matters more is the way he's led, obediently, through the premises, ignoring any of the other collars milling about doing their work. The way he's stripped of his clothes, clothes he had mostly picked out for himself, something he has to bite back a comment on. If he shows attachment, they'll destroy it all in front of him for fun. Chances are good he'll never see those clothes again either way. They shove him into a barebones room, chain his ankles to the far wall--and that's when he starts a fight, whether it's a good idea or not. (It's not.)]
NETWORK USAGE
Communication via text is still very possible!
Through the magic of the powers of the human mind, that group text across universes still totally exists. Maybe it appears as an actual text chain to you, or maybe it's freshly dried ink on that magical scroll that keeps writing itself the more messages are exchanged.
Whatever the case, your mind retains the communications written down by your cluster, and all correspondences to one another are visible — unless otherwise stated to be private, of course. Remember to use the IC Inboxes post for all of your texty needs.
Be sure to specify if a thread is private, otherwise you may have a handful of other folks chiming in with their opinion on your back-and-forth exchange at any time!
ANYTHING ELSE
Please feel free to continue posting small and large canon moments for your own characters, but consider incorporating these events or effects into canon moments! Also, consider the possibility of multi-person threads featuring three or more cluster mates — or even just brief cameos of characters appearing in threads for only a couple of tags, then leaving again.