A Trial of Decoys. [ Solo / PM to invite ]

[Pyper]

*Note: PMs are restricted to those that have direct access to Pyper's apartment,
where these experiments will be taking place until otherwise noted. Thank you!

Welcome The Test Subject(s)

"Are you alright?"
"You are only talking in a strange manner, is all."

Paige observed and voiced a concern that not many people had. The pauses that broke up her sentences and made her hard to understand. The simplistic vocabulary that very rarely saw a three syllable word. No one else had drawn attention to it. But Paige had known Pyper longer than anyone aside from Phoenix, her sire. Being exposed to the more lucid periods of mental illness made it easier to spot. It made the darker shades more pronounced, notable. Spending time with other people became excruciatingly nerve racking. Were they dissecting her? Picking apart the way she phrased things? Or, if they slowed down their speech - whether it was intentional, or not - was it for her benefit? So that their overly enunciated would sink in and she'd eventually learn through transference. Even the family gathering made her restless. There had been other factors that contributed to her inevitable pacing. The constant search for a cigarette.

It had made her think, as much as she tried to look for reasons to leave. Her stitches had been the main motivator to be released from her social obligations to her family. It wasn't a dislike for any of them. The stimulation itself exacerbated predisposed reactions. The knuckle cracking, above all. Calix had been insistant, if not pushy, to check her sutures. They had been poor to her standards, and disappointing to herself. Pyper hadn't wanted anyone else to see them. To compromise - because her stubborn refusal to show the puncture hole in her chest hadn't worked - Pyper exposed only the bullet holes that speckled her stomach and parts of her abdomen. It had gotten her out of providing visual evidence of shoddy work.

Eli had come home with her, after Paige walked the two of them back from the get together. Their conversation (hers and Paige's) cleared a pathway of thought that she otherwise wouldn't have been able to situate herself into. From her understanding, there were things that didn't need to be shared with, with everyone. That there were certain things that weren't anyone else's business but the people that were involved. It meant that the oversharing that she had a tendency towards, should be maintained where the social situation dictated. Something that was expected to have its fair share of blockades to prevent any sort of productive progression. Such as the endless, problematic events that crept up to snag her attention away from her hobbies. Her work.

This would be work, the plans she was concocting even as she debated with Eli over sleeping arrangements. Not her typical work, using the television to mimic over and over. Those were things that she would never say. Parroting episodes of sitcoms and reality television, Pyper may have chanced further pushing herself away from finding her voice. A more concise voice. Her eyes were closed, and she must have slept through the day. In the past, sleeping patterns had been very irregular. Transitioning into the forced sleep cycle that vampires have to live by, was a very minor adjustment to the one she had had before. Despite the strict scheduling at the ward.

Eli was still sleeping on the floor on the right side of her bed when her eyelids peeled back. The edges of the furniture were blurred and the little amount of dim lighting morphed into a large, off-white water color. Over time, things sharpened into perfect, visual clarity. These moments remind her of the contrasting, abrupt moments of mental agility. When she was shot in the head. Everything had been put aside. Everything, emptied out. One thought at a time, not several screaming to be the central focus. Not many people understood that need that she had, and like her name, it was something not worth being very forthright about. Before the few nights previous, Pyper had acquired a couple wounds within a month but she hid them and never said anything. They healed quickly, which was a fortunate side effect of the vampirism, and no one checked on her as obsessively as the Telepath tended to mentally invade other people. None of the Altaire noticed.

Her childe was labeled as a heavier type of sleeper. Pyper had no problem walking on her toes and narrowly avoiding stepping down on a sprawled limb. Climbing down the ladder of the landing room, there was no immediate sighting of Ethan on one of the couches. He never came home. He hadn't come home in a small handful of nights. It made her nervous. She couldn't let it make her nervous. She had work. So as not to further fret over the whereabouts of her creation, the Altaire padded over to the door of her work room. The security camera was posted to the inner door frame and followed her movements, dilating its lens to zoom in and take in her profile. Since it had been mounted, not a single person that had a key entered the room. Except her.

The lock clicked, a flick of metal to metal. It was a safe sound. A peaceful sound. The very sound that signaled the start of a project. Her healing time, while improved, was still not the best. During her recooperation time, this project took priority over all the others. It meant more to her. It meant effective communication. If it worked. Pyper wanted it to work.

At the butcher's block, she set another chair in the corner on the right while perched on her own stool. It took more energy than she thought she might exert. To split herself, to make another. Other people called them decoys. While familiar with the word itself, Pyper preferred the term 'Copies,' to refer to the limited functioned, mirror images of herself. The copy sat in the other chair and turned her head to look at the original. It needed her information. It needed reprogramming. To think the way she wanted it to think. It needed to be coaxed, manipulated. Pyper knew how to do that.

The Original Pyper started to pour herself out, and stored what she needed to, into the copy. That's how the experiment began.

[Pyper]

Pre-Trial Testing

It sat there, staring blankly at her staring back at it. The copy didn't open its mouth to speak, it didn't provide anything substantial after the onslaught of memories were buried. It was content to sit in the same position, hands flattened on each designated thigh. Something had gone wrong. Maybe the wounds were too severe that her internal accessment of how much energy she had were miscalculated. That, in truth, nothing had happened. The storage procedure had failed. This obstacle wasn't a familiar one. Even the times that Pyper used other vampires to hold her thoughts - such as Zahara - performance hadn't been an issue. Now that is was, she needed to make adjustments. According to trial-and-error, the next step would be to rearrange the technique, and try again. It wouldn't be this very same night, it would have to wait until tomorrow.

The copy won't go anywhere. They never strayed from their original creation point, as silently testified by the four or five collecting the bone dust that layer the floors of the catacombs. Although neglecting to have checked on them, someone may have taken their existence into their own hands. Or eliminated them because of their sheer unnecessity. Having one Pyper appeared to be more than enough without having to add to her singular slice of the Harper Rock population, with more of herself. Both of the medical heads that she turned weren't the same. Their minds had more solidarity and made connections that were the standard norm. Despite deriving from her gnarled branch of the Altaire lineage, neither Ethan nor Eli would ever be like her.

Leaving the involuntary shell behind, the work room's door opened and closed. Eli was no longer on the floor of her room when she checked. No signs of Ethan inhabiting any one of the couches either. The aftermath of the violent clawing the fae had made feeding problematic. Pyper only fed from blood packs. This was something she was surprisingly diligent about. But whether it was a refusal in the purchase of them, or the rejection of the pre-packed blood itself, none of it stuck with her. The shop owner suggested live prey, which meant finding an isolated human. Hunting and clumsiness have never paired well within the walls of history, and within her own history, it never boded well for Pyper. And although the option to call Calix was always just a matter of finding her phone, her stomach interrupted the reasonable part of her thoughts. It growled, and it refused to be ignored.

It gurgled as she left the apartment, and drew out its agonized groaning in the elevator. The hunger was sometimes crippling and it limited her to a tunnel vision setting. Blood was the only focal point. The Flats panned out, as soon as she approached the door. She never looked around, or saw faces of other Altaire members. Or other vampires. Outside, Pyper headed straight for the sewer grate. It felt heavier in her hands, not like it use to and it took a while to move from its circular lock. Hopping down meant that her stitches might tear open. The foot holds supported her descend into the sewers. Trudging through the muck was expected to be a tiresome trek; since the barrage of wounds, the length of rigorous physical activities needed to be paced a certain way. Being stranded away from home was the last thing she wanted. It unsettled her.

Wickbridge was one of the first sectors of Harper Rock that Pyper acquainted herself to. It was closest to the Quarantine District, and whatever she couldn't obtain downstairs from her apartment in the lobby area of the Flats, she could find in Wickbridge. Honeymead was the furthest she would go, and only by transit. She never traveled through the streets on foot. It wasn't uncommon for her to get turned around and aimlessly wander. Some of her first sun burns were from hours of back tracking, more stubborn in finding her way back into her sire's living quarters than of finding any place to hide. At this time of night, coming up from the dank sewage pits didn't require the sort of caution that the hours following sunset do. In fact, the sun should have been teasing along the horizon line within an hour, or two. Pyper Altaire opted to say she had an hour to find something to hunt and feed from.

That didn't leave a lot of time.

[Pyper]

*Note: Any portions of the roleplay taking place outside of the apartment are open for anyone.

Regroup

At the epicenter of the district, the throngs of humans was out of the ordinary. Nor was it anticipated. The clashing currents of bodies steered Pyper south; the further she traversed, the smaller the clusters of potential sustenance were wittle down to. One, or two bodis were more manageable than a bunch of rowdy men. Or the gaggles of giggling adolescent girls. Those groups increased the chances of someone getting away. Though so close to a holiday that hallmarked the vampire race, it wasn't worth breaking off a successive link on the evoluntionary chain. Not for one meal that - while not recommended - could be put off until the wounds were gone. Or until she saw Calix. As it was, the pending eruption that echoed in her abdomen fought by patience, and won.

Veering from the side walk, the maze of standing structures sheltered more of the solitary demographic of Harper Rock. A man hopped onto the front side of a dumpster to reach in and check for items that had maintained partial viability. These knick knacks, like the contortionist coat hanger, spoke riddles about his lifestyle. His feet were lifted off the ground and the toes of his thick, clunky boots pounded against the dented face of the industrial trash can. To call his attire a pilfered plethora of scraps would have been a generous statement. All of the cloth had been idle meals for an army of moths, there were so many holes in the swatches of fabric. Maybe once, the colors had been vibrant but now, his rag-tag vagabond suit was the same solid, muted brown. His skin was a site for grime, an active camoflague against the overwhelming number of tears. The air that wafted from him complimented the rotting trash brimming across the edges of the paint chipped, rusting dumpster.

He had a purpose in Harper Rock once. Every person that left their prior residence to come here had. Pyper had. Whatever ill-fortuned circumstances had fallen on him, bringing him into this quality of life, birthed a new role. This nameless, urban nomad had become a target. He had become Pyper's prey. This man was the outlet that'd sate the distracting, outspoken calls of her genetically altered digestive system. Subtly's engrained in fledglings early. It's to protect their isolated haven (their levels of visibility constantly fluctuated), and ensure the survival of future 'offspring.' A core value that most her vampiric age had masterd (if not bordering it), Pyper struggled to entertain that art. Her priority was her work, and there were ways to avoid having to concoct a improv game of cat-and-mouse. In her first months, it was expected that she'd be galvanized from her host, just as her jaws fell open to angle a twin set of incisors over the ideal vein. Taking blood from a human wasn't effortless and rarely, was it neat.

Feeding (and rest), as far as she had experienced, aided in regeneration. The aftermath replenished their vitality; it's both blood's addictive appeal, and a vampire's justification for discarding previous morals. The healing process itself, while mildly uncomfortable, never left behind traces of the original blemish. One scar, located on the left underpart of her ribcage, was the only exception. A simple stab wound, a parting gift from Anais. A souvenir to keep with her for this lengthy life span.

Upon self inspection, every gash lacked its initial depth. The grooves had softened. They were temporary impressions, such as the leftover imprint - Ethan's - in her couches. Their inward embossment were amorphous jig saw pieces. Their other halves were lodged skin deep. Judging based on the countless hours that Pyper studied her journal, she estimated another one, or two nights (at the most) until the flesh would rise. After this she'd have to be careful, and not acquire anymore mutilative lacerations. Not for a while. Not where people could see.

Some trash spilled over, and rustled at the unwashed man's boots. As he crouched for a second sift through the contents, his head tilted in a way that put her in his peripherals. He saw her. The lower half of his jaws dropped. His voice sounded like metal meeting sandpaper.

"The **** do you want?"

Pyper's daydreamer smile floated to the surface, the very ends of her canines elongated. The curvatures reorganized, their shape carved to pin prick points. They scrapped over the lower tier when her mouth operated to form the monosyllabic reply.

"Food."