| Unbreakable |

[Caligrace]

Superstite + Invite Only

She wasn’t surprised she was dead.

When she had received word of the war, the whispers circulating through her mind, she had known the chances of her walking out alive were slim to none. It had nothing to do with the target painted on her back, or the fact that the wonderful Tytonidae had returned. It was simply a matter of time. She had managed to survive this long without turning to ash, and so, she knew that the seconds were ticking by and fate would intervene as it always did. So, when she found herself in the vast nothing, she could only laugh, shaking her head.

She wasn’t angry, she wasn’t sad.
In fact, she was happy.

So happy, that when she had looked up from arming her trap, her finger testing the strength of the dart, she only smiled when she saw the man she dubbed ‘Neanderthal’ barreling towards her. The look she had cast him was filled with pure amusement, and she took her time standing to her feet, gun dangling between blood-soaked fingers. Applying pressure to the trigger, she could only laugh when her shot missed, that laugh the last thing he’d hear from her as his bullet pierced her skull, sending her spiraling into darkness. He’d won nothing in that moment in taking a kill he’d done absolutely no work for, though she was certain he’d find satisfaction in her death.

After all, he’d had a hard-on for her for what felt like years now.

Shaking her head, she held her hand out in front of her, watching the way the strange, ethereal form shimmered in the shadows. Despite her death, she hadn’t lost. It was impossible for her to lose in this scenario. She had gone into the war knowing she’d die. She had gone in knowing that she truly didn’t care what side won. Oh, she would have had a lot more fun dealing with the chaos versus the order, but she could see the bigger picture. Both options had something to offer, something to work with. It was only the narrow-minded that struggled with change, and that wasn’t an ailment she suffered.

Humming quietly to ease the silence, she felt her lips twitch as she caught rare glimpses of the outside world through the fade portals. Her sire had told her stories of this place, preparing her for the pressing silence, for the lack of emotion, of being devoid of light. It wasn’t as difficult as she thought it might have been, but she couldn’t help but to worry about Luca. He had been near her when she fell, and she knew that he wouldn’t be far behind. If his sire had been anyone but Every, she would have been rushing through the shadows to find him, but she knew that the woman would have filled him in. Still, that didn’t ease the worry, and she swept her gaze lazily across her surroundings until she caught sight of another shimmering form, this one muscular - and familiar.

Luca.

“How are you holding up, doll?”

Her voice was quiet, and though she was focused on him, she had also opened herself to see through her thrall’s eyes as the woman slipped in through the hospital doors in search of Sullivan.

[Luca]

Three weeks.

In the span of three weeks, he had managed to get himself killed not once, but twice.

It would appear that the karmic luck that had clung to him throughout his life had finally run out in a big way. Perhaps it was the company he kept. That had to be it. It was almost certainly no shortcoming of his own. He had, after all, made a livelihood out of the whole not dying thing. So it was obviously some new variable, something he had introduced into the equation that had corrupted the flow of his life so completely that it had culminated in his death. Twice.

Whatever the reason, he had done what he had intended to do, and he had done it in glorious fashion, as much as he did anything with such resounding success. He had made the splash he'd come to make, and had stood with the people he'd come to make that stand with; and he had done it all well. Perfectly, really, if he was honest with himself. As perfect as anyone as new to all of this as he might have been. There wasn't much that could have been expected of him, and he was positive that he had absolutely atomized every one of those expectations.

As he stood... or... existed in his space, the mere act of being disoriented him, slightly. He didn't feel real; he wasn't a physical thing, and it was as unreal an experience as he could imagine. He... looked? Felt? Somehow observed the world around him, a land of black and grey, a landscape of colorless, bleak awfulness. A world so very outside what a man of his caliber had grown accustomed to.

He shifted his focus, when he heard the first of the voices, stronger and clearer than the others, the whispers that brushed along his flesh like the breath of some wicked demon, some icy cold beast that threatened to lock its iron grip around his soul and ground him here forever. This stronger, clearer voice was closer. It was shortly after, that he could feel the familiar presence of the few new faces he had met in that three weeks since his first death.

"Caligrace?"

He knew the voice, he knew the face, if you could call what he was doing, seeing. He moved to where he could sense himself closer to her, and gave her a slow smile with the face he didn't feel like he had. "I have been through worse. Hardly the sort of place someone like either of us should be caught dead in, though."

Humor. It comes easy enough. It goes, just as easy.

"What about you? You took a nasty tumble, last I saw of you. Did not look pleasant, in the least."

[Every]

Every was proud.

It was the first fleeting emotion that she felt after she’d gathered herself. Micah had been one of the last to shoot her, but he hadn’t killed her. That had gone to the partner of the woman she’d sent to the shadow realm earlier in the war. And yet, there was a sense of peace in her heart. There had been nothing personal on her end, no bragging to be had. She had gone into the warzone without the intention or desire to win, but to fight. Every was better at adapting than she used to be, regardless of the outcome, she knew they would be fine.

They all would, in Superstite.

The decision to work together as a faction hadn’t been something she’d ever planned for. In fact, Every had never quite thought the group of friends could ever be considered as much, but it had become just that. They had planned. They had laid traps. And while blood had been shed, and they had landed themselves in the shadow realm, she felt better than she had walking through the doors. Of course, she wasn’t thrilled about the shadow realm. She never was. The dark didn’t scare her, but rather the ways the shadows moved and lurched. She knew the spirits there weren’t the nicest. As she looked at the colorless outline that was her body, she didn’t know what she’d return as.

Would she take another body?

Would she return to her own body?

Would she jump paths again?

Her blood had been as red as the shirt she had been wearing. She hadn’t shifted back to being a shadow. But would it adjust it? She let out a puff of air before focusing towards her sires. Velveteen’s response hadn’t been a surprise - she’d suspected as much, as was Micah’s silence. “I think you taught me well enough to make things work for me, not sides. I didn’t expect to win.” The words left phantom lips, repeating the telepathic message that had followed. It was spoken in quiet reassurance, a promise to herself that not all would be lost even if some looked at her sideways for decisions made.

Her mind drifted to Luca and Caligrace, they had fallen before her. Every sent Zachary to check on Sullivan, her eyebrow minorly twitching at the memory of the Paladin whom she’d found standing on top of the SUV. “Idiot.” She mumbled, but began heading into the darkness. Already, her mind fell into a whirlwind. Strategies were falling into place, or so they seemed to be as it fell into a chaotic mess. “I’m starting to think I need to purchase real estate in this place.” She murmured sardonically after passing the ruins of what she’d assumed to be a correlation to Bullwood’s hospital in the realm of the living. It always made her wonder exactly how the colorless, dark Hell had come into creation.

Every didn’t know how long she had been walking before she heard the familiar voices.

Luca.

Caligrace.

“It’s called the Shadow Realm. Essentially, our hell, this is where the elders emerged from back in twenty-eleven.” There was a splitting pain Every became more and more aware of, even if it wasn’t physically there.

[Blaike]

He'd show up late to a fight. A war. Which was unlike him, but he didn't really care he'd been on the line about fighting anyways. He could give two shits less about what the war was about, but the people he had deemed his friends were there fighting for it. What a better way to get himself doing something than jumping into a war right? He hadn't been able to step into the ring really since he'd turned. So fighting this way was the next best thing.

When he'd shown up, the rest of this friends were already long gone, a lone man. At first he thought about walking away, leaving, what was the point of fighting if he would just end up like the rest. But something had flipped in him, a small switch of something called loyalty, of something he never thought he'd have again, a since of family, a since of duty to honor and make those he was around proud. Though he'd never admit this, no way in ******* hell would he let any of the others know he felt this way about them.

It didn't take long, he struck first, being able to sneak up on the enemy's that had more than likely thought the war was done. A few hits here and there. He took the attacks that were swung back at him, avoiding a few as he moved around. Hell, he was even able to take one of them out. He made damn sure they had to put up a chase until finally he fell.

Slipping into a world of shadows, Blaike stretched out what he thought would be his hands, but looked more like shadowy blurs. The man laughed.

“HA! I made it here with out doing something entirely stupid!” He went to give himself a pat on the back before remember that wasn't entirely something he wanted to do.

He'd heard of this place, mostly when he was threatened to be sent there for his usual antics. He wouldn't say it was as bad as they'd said but it was only his first day here. He moved through the dull gray world. The most annoying thing about it was the silence, the silence and the lack of color. He'd have to get some bright as clothing when he got back. He wondered aimlessly, unsure of really how to navigate the place. That's when he heard voices. A smile, or what he thought would be a smile graced his face as he quicken his pace making his way towards the voice's he'd come to find safety in.

Red.

Mountie.

Brainy.


“What the **** is up mother fuckers?! Thought you guys could get away from me? We're you just going to leave me to run around the city and cause trouble?” His voice was loud, proud like always, like he hadn't just been cut down on a field he carried his pride with him even into death.

[Sullivan (DELETED 11708)]

Sullivan hates hospitals.

Hospitals are where sick people are, and more often than not, it’s where the really sick people go to die. Sullivan wakes up with a start each morning as if a current is firing a thousand volts directly into his nervous system; he’s surprised to survive it when his eyes bolt open and he’s sat up in bed. After the initial shock of being alive, and waking to find himself in a hospital room, then comes the pain. It takes his breath away and he curls in on himself; his jaw clenches and hangs open in a conflict to scream and bite off his own tongue in a bid of distraction. There’s a high-pitched sound ringing in his ears and the edges of his vision blacken like he’s sitting in a tunnel. Points of agony explode over his body and he is bandaged from neck to knee in fresh gauze; a blossom of blood is visible from each stitched up gunshot wound, which feels worse now than when the bullet first struck. The worst of the pain, however, is the gnawing ache in his groin and he does a hurried, physical check of the family jewels to ensure they’re intact. Relief pushes out a sigh, and he’s satisfied to crumple into the flat mattress and pillow, and let the opioids hijack his body chemistry – just as it’s supposed to.

Sullivan spends the first few days of his hospital visit in a semi-delirious state. His room has as much personality as a toilet brush and the smell emanating from his next door neighbour makes such vulgar considerations difficult to navigate from. The floor is slate grey and the walls are dove; above, the ceiling is made from those polystyrene squares laid on a grid-like frame. The light – humming from naked fluorescent tubes that distend from the ceiling in rusting panels – is too bright for his eyes after the darkening gloom outside; it’s abrasive enough to bring on a migraine. He gets a visit every hour from a carousel of nurses; they check his blood pressure and medication, but, his comfort is not their concern. They’re not much for making conversation beyond what’s medically necessary; the thought of being abandoned to his own thoughts inspires him to entertain himself by asking his visitors a variety of inappropriate questions in the hopes of getting a rise. He asks the more rotund characters about the menu, he reserves general enquiries about cavemen and dinosaurs to the older types, while various, ubiquitous innuendos and one-liners are hooted as the feeling strikes. He gets a warning about his behaviour on a number of occasions, but, their punishments are limited.

His mood lifts when he’s able to venture around the wards unaided. The hospital corridor is cold and the air has an undertone of bleach. The walls are magnolia through and through, but were once blue underneath. The past is visible in places from the hundreds of trolleys that have bumped into them, leaving scars along the walls and chasms in each jutting corner. The pictures on the walls are cheap, benign prints of uplifting scenes, florals, and landscapes – hand-painted by former patients. There is this one picture in the hallway that really gives him the creeps. The canvas is an A3 portrait and painted in acrylic – heavy on the bold pantone colours. There’s a lion lying at the edge of a river at night – he’s the focal point – and there’s some sort of Peter Pan looking character behind him. The boy’s looking out into the distance at the foot of a dead tree, there’s a backdrop of stars and a swirl of clouds. The artist has painted the wind’s texture into the bend of the grass and the way the lion’s white fur dances. There’s nothing inherently wrong with the artwork; the proportions are a bit off and there’s no subtlety in the colours, but, the vacant stare of the pale lion – which isn’t quite dead-of-centre – is unsettling to him.

Above the double doors are large plastic signs with the areas of the hospital spelled out in colours and several different languages. There are corresponding coloured lines painted on the tiled floors that give crude directions to each ward too, but, half the patients and visitors end up getting lost anyway and ask for directions. Sullivan finds further entertainment in giving them the directions to the janitor’s closet or the hospital staff room because the exchange of competing apologies tickles his funny bone. Each jerking exhalation feels like a punch to the ribs, but, the pain is far better company than the echoes of his own voice. Sullivan doesn’t much want to think about what kind of personal hell his companions in Superstite are going through right now.