oddsandends | 118th ♫ | asking myself over and over – "have i won? has a new me been reborn?"

118th ♫ | asking myself over and over – "have i won? has a new me been reborn?"

Welcome, Champions, to the Tulipa Residency Station, the #1 top voted temporary home away from home, currently orbiting the beautiful uninhabited planet of Seraphim #52973! You've been given the very exciting opportunity to test out our facilities for free over the next few weeks. All the food fun and relaxation you could ever want alongside a beautiful view, at absolutely no cost! If space makes you anxious, don't fret! We have an on-board therapist, the distinguished Doctor Maruki here to attend to your every need!

Oh, you didn't agree to come here? You want to go home? There's a weird rule in your resident ID about murder?

Well, I guess there is one teeny tiny catch...

Welcome to the murdergame meme: Airlocked Gaiden edition! This is a meme-ified version of the Airlocked sequel/Round 6 AU cooked up by myself and Jess made available for everyone to goof around with. HAVE FUN, GANG TL;DR: we still have airlocked brainrot

THE BASICS:

This meme is for threads/plots/mingles/whatever set in an Airlocked-based AU as outlined above. You don't need to be Airlocked alumni to play here but some familiarity with the game's vibes and mechanics is useful!

The game's setting is Tulipa Residency Station, a high class space station orbiting an unoccupied planet. It's basically a cross between a super fancy hotel and a super fancy cruise liner so feel free to make up fitting locations as you see fit. AND YES, YOU CAN HAVE ROOMMATES.

Slap up a toplevel quickly outlining what's going on with your character in the tradition of murdergame memes gone by – you can also outline your character's role in the game, how long they last and maybe give ideas for progressive CR, memory reveals, that sort of thing!

TAG AROUND AND HAVE FUN THAT PART IS NOT OPTIONAL

PROMPTS:

Downtime

1. Excuse Me, Who Are You?

2. Social Link Go!

without

3. Vending Machine Woes

bizarre items

4. The Corners of My Mind

4. Wildcard!

PUTTING THE MURDER IN MURDER GAME

1. Motive

2. Murder

3. Body Discovery

4. Trial

5. Afterparty

6. Mastermind

7. Freedom

CHAMPION PROFILE CODE:

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

No.

You say that, but you're seething. Why would you be so angry if it wasn't a case of jealousy?

[ freak on freak hostility. ]

[He stands, hands shaking, smearing out his cigarette on the counter]

We're done.

[If he doesn't walk away now he's going to-]

[ There. Heat and violence. It recognizes that kind of spark — how could it not when it sees the same thing reflected in its own eyes in the mirror? He's been doing his best to smother it these past few weeks but she knows what those embers feed on.

She knows how easy it is— ]

Perhaps.

[ — to stoke them. ]

Walking away won't make it untrue.

[For years this urge had just been... something itching in the back of his mind. It was not exactly that he wanted violence, so much as whatever part of him was supposed to reel in his first impulses was missing. It was something he learned to control. To feed into his other passions. Obsessions.

Shortly before Manon and Rody, that control had started to slip. Those damn reviews. The skittish eyes of his sous chefs. Everyone around him could sense it on instinct. Terrorizing his employees, slapping Rody-

-killing Manon.

Oh there was something beautiful in giving in to these needs. To eat and eat and eat. Why shouldn't he? Why shouldn't he take everything he was denied- those around him never appreciated their lusts. So he would make them his own.

And now this... this thing... was mocking him with it's own fulfillment, when his own had so cruelly denied him, marinating him in tears and blood and cooking oil and leaving his wanting-

(the fucking tease)

This thing waves a steak under his nose when he was still So. Fucking. Hungry. Starving. Emaciated from the lack. Never full.

He hates it so much.

So, he can't be judged, he thinks, for lunging at it. No weapon- he can't even begin to think that far ahead. All he wants to to tear it's throat out before it can insult what little pride Rody hadn't burned out of him]

[ For as open as Eglantine is about its nature, none of them have ever actually seen it fight. Surely it must know how, for all the pride it takes in itself as a blade. If that was the case, surely it would know better than to rile a man already on the verge of violence. Surely it wouldn't let him actually lay his hands on her.

And yet, when Vince lunges, Eglantine doesn't move. She just smiles, as if he's admitted his own loss. She staggers back against the bar, hitting the side of it hard enough that the glasses rattle and the whisky bottle threatens to topple over. Under his hands, its neck is especially slender and delicate. Whatever marks he leaves will be livid on her skin.

If she lives long enough to bruise. ]

[If he was in his right mind he would realize what he's walked right into. But all there is, all there can be, is this red heat of rage and indulgence.

Too bad it's not-

-well, no point wishing, huh?

His hands are longer fingered, scared and strong. Not a warrior's hands, certainly, but they've seen their fair amount of cuts and burns. Callous from blades and cello strings. More than enough to choke a thin a neck as this.

Vince's teeth are bared, lips pulled back like a beast's as he presses as hard as he can. Investigations and trials and the like are far far away from his mind.]

[ So he does have the guts to kill. She'd wondered if the spark was all he had and it would flicker and die once the outburst was out of his system. She'd underestimated him, it seems. There's the makings of a great forge in Vince, too.

Too bad for him that she's long since been made. ]

I told you.

[ Its voice is strained and ragged as it should be - but it's calm, too. Too calm. At last, its hands snap up to grab his wrists but instead of trying to pull him away, it seems to be anchoring him in place. ]

I won't rush to Her side.

[ That's all the warning he gets before she kicks his legs out from under him. ]

[in another life he might have been able to take something broken and make it new. To lovingly scrape off the rust and buff out the nicks of abandonment. To, with a firm hand, give purpose to something so openly desperate for it.

But he was too eager. Too inexperienced. A teenager fumbling in the backseat of a dark car. It couldn't be blamed for bitting him instead. The jagged scars on his neck are testaments to failed patience.

His legs collapsing are also proof of it. Still, his fingers claw as he loses his grip, desperate to cause damage even as he completely fails to kill it. She's been forged too well for someone like him to ever damage. He hits the ground with a frustrated yell, kicking out in impotent rage.]

[ It returns the kick in kind, with interest — right to the gut and hard enough to knock the air right out of him. The bar rattles again and so casually you could almost think it had planned this all along, she reaches back to wrap her fingers around the bottle of whiskey. ]

Stand up.

[ A smile tugs at her mouth, even as she spits the words out like a command. ]

If you still can. Or you can roll over and show your belly.

[ the kick makes him wheeze and gag, and he barely manages to turn his head in time to spit up some foul, bitter froth. Proof he had been drinking on an empty stomach. He can't taste it, but the slimy acidity is enough to make him retch further, covering his mouth, Adam's Apple bobbing franticly as he fights down the reflex.

Only thing worse than puking is puking in front of someone else.

It's a close thing, if the thread of drool that connects his wet lips to his shiny palm when he pulls it away is anything to go by. But that has to be enough. Vincent glares up at her with open hostility... but does, in fact, get his hands and feet back under him and manages to stand, using the stool as a brace.

His eyes fall on the bottle. He could scream: it's late, but not THAT late that no one would hear, even through the station's sound proofing.

But he does not. Just watches it intently]

[ It makes no move as Vince pulls himself to his feet, either to intercept or to help him up. However funny it would be to do either. It just waits patiently, still wearing that horrible smile - as if this is all some fantastic game or a joke the two of them are sharing. But the real tell is all there in her eyes, blown out and just a little too wide. She looks like she might be about to burst into hysterics at any moment.

Maybe Vince isn't the only one who's been starved this whole time. ]

Come now. You finally showed me your fangs and now you're putting them away? Perhaps I was wrong. Maybe you really are enough of a coward to deal in poisons.

[ The goading is clumsy and transparent. But what does it matter so long as it works? ]

[his nose wrinkles at the insult, but he doesn't rise to the bait- it was never about cowardice. He suspects it would find how he committed his actual murder distasteful: with luring words, a welcoming bed and a blade from behind.]

Most people aren't interested in fights they can't win.

[still, he doesn't try and run. He just... stares. Her eyes, rimmed with too much white, that rabid hunger. He's never understood the phrase "like looking in a mirror" because his own reflection has always been foreign to him.

But he gets it now. The adrenaline from his attack is still running hot in his blood but that's not what makes his heart start kicking into overdrive. It's not attraction. At least not like he would have for a man. Or like most men would have for a woman. How could it be, when she's neither of those things? Instead it's something like... elation. Euphoria.

Is this what the so-called ugly duckling felt when it first saw a swan?

He had coveted his lacking humanity for so long- how twisted to find out he could have tossed it aside completely now that it's long too late! The irony is like blood in his mouth, and he licks his teeth without thinking, not even realizing his lips have twisted into a rictus grin.]

... though I think... walking away isn't happening anymore, is it?

[ Breezily: ] I would let you, if you wished.

[ After all, what's the point of a fight or a hunt where the prey gives up at the first sign of resistance? That's not what makes things exciting. The thrill comes in the struggle - the kicking, biting, screaming and crying. The sort of response you could only get from prey that wants to resist in return.

Even so, there's always something missing. Nobody fights like she does — they care too much for their lives, bone and flesh in a way Eglantine never has. Nobody has the joy of it in their blood like she does.

Does Vince? It has no idea. But he might come close enough. ]

But you don't. You want to kill me so badly your stomach is burning with it.

[ It beams at him. ]

I welcome you to try.

[He does want to kill her, so much. If anything more now then he did when he attacked her.

He can't win. He's no solider. No brawler. No thug.

But he finds he doesn't care. What does he have to lose now except this feeling? He already lost his bistro. His life's work and passions. His last insane reach for any happiness.

Rody was gone too. He hoped wherever he was he was still hurting. That he'd never forget that Vincent was there. That the hole where his ear used to be ached for him.

Everything else was gone. So why not indulge in one final feast? This past trial proved he was doomed either way.

Might as well be on his own terms. He reaches over the bar, not at all worried that it'd attack him with his back turned, fiddling around before coming back with the short ice pick from the cocktail making toolset. Not so different from the corkscrew he once held]

Does this make you happy?

[ What a pathetic little thing. It'd kill just as well as anything else if the tip found the right soft places in a body, but it's certainly not as elegant or fearsome as she is. Not that she has any place to talk about elegance right now.

Eglantine tightens its grip around the neck of the whisky bottle and unceremoniously swings it down to shatter against the edge of the bar. Alcohol bleeds down the side, filling the air heady vapors and when it points the remains of the bottle at him, the deadly jagged shards are like bared teeth. In the low light of the bar, amber sconces tracing over the edge of the glass in her unshaking hand, you can imagine just for a second how she must look with a real blade. ]

It does.

[ Matter of factly and with a smile. She tilts her head. ]

And you?

[Of course it was the bottle. Why else would it be gripping it this entire time. Still, even if it's whiskey instead of wine his free hand goes to his neck and the scars there.

Fitting.

He tucked the handle of the pick in his palm, curling his fingers around it so the spike jabs between them.]

Not even a little.

[His gaze is manic, heated. But still so empty. But, better this than the hollow emptiness he had waiting for him otherwise]

[ A breath puffs out of her. It almost sounds like a laugh, though not exactly at Vince's expense - it's as though he's said something terribly clever and caught her off guard. As if it approves of him. ]

Yes. I thought that might be the case. You don't know what would make you happy, do you?

[ It doesn't give him a chance to response. Eglantine charges, taking a wild swipe at him with the broken bottle — close enough to be a threat but wide enough that he can easily step out of the way if he's quick enough. It's been so terribly long since anyone would play with her. And what's the fun in a one sided fight? ]

[even he can see that coming, though his dodge is sloppy at best.

She's mocking him, she has to be. How can it not be? The actual tone of it's laugh, the almost playful swipe- that doesn't matter. Of course it's looking down on him for his broken jealous nature. It's what he would do if he was her.

He sneers]

Shut your mouth, you fucking pig.

[he spits before lunging, trying to catch her in her gut. But it's a pathetic attempt. A rabid cornered beast biting without direction. Violence fueled by pain, not guided by even a clumsy hand anymore]

[ Her answer is a merry laugh. She doesn't bother to step out of the way — it's such a clumsy blow that she doesn't even need to. Its free hand snaps around to snatch his wrist and redirect him, gripping on hard enough that when it tugs him along, Vince has no choice but to follow. It pivots them both on that point of connection and spins him like the leading partner in a dance. ]

Come now! You can do better than that, can't you?

[ She lets go at the arc of the spin, sending him stumbling back against the bar. Glass crunches under their feet and it beams at him. ]

Please don't disappoint me.

[for a moment he thinks she actually stabbed him. There's no overt pain but the world is spinning. It makes the nausea come back full force. His head is pounding when he hits the bar, the few still standing bottles and glasses rattling, his free hand scrambling at the polished wood to steady himself.

He doesn't lose his pick at least, but it's a close thing.

It's embarrassing how easily she moves around him- he feels like a fumbling child. Like this is the first time he's held a knife. All he's doing is cutting off his own fingertips at this rate.

He can't even hear what it's saying. It's all blood in his ears. He comes at it again. Not just one attack but many stabs and slashes that do not fit his chosen tool. If nothing else he is very motivated]

[ Something in him is snapping and coming loose, isn't it? He's ungraceful and clumsy but when he comes at her, clawing and biting like he is, there's killing intent. It's not a case of temper and pressure, it's a desperate hunger. The kind you're born with. The kind that could be made into something worthwhile.

It sidesteps a few of his blows, clumsy as they are. But then in a flash, it raises the shattered bottle and catches the pick between two ragged edges. At crossed swords like that, Eglantine smiles and inclines her head. ]

If you were newer, you could be forged as well. You have what it takes to be Made.

[ The whiskey bottle pops and plinks as she shoves back against him. ]

But who would forge you? There's nobody left, is there?

[ "There's nobody left, is there?"

Those words cut deeper than the bottle ever could. Ah, it really is a sword, isn't it?

His eyes sting and burn with-

(...)

-sweat, and the noise that escapes his battered acid filled throat is pitched and enraged.]

Don't-

[ don't what? Tell him what he already knew? What the other "Champions" were more than happy to throw in his face at the trial? That not only had no one known him back in Paris, but no one here did either. And no one ever would.

Rody flaffing about with his lemon cologne, always coming to talk to him no matter how many warning signs Vince threw out. All these idiotic gatherings and desperate sharing of secrets. Talking about how they were a team or a family. It was disgusting. Pathetic.

He wanted it so fucking badly. But he only knew how to love with his teeth.

And no sane person wanted to be loved like that.

She's stronger than him, but he has height leverage. So he pushes and pushes against the lock, the glass squealing. As if he wants to break it into his knuckles. Or his chest. His throat]

[ There.

She hadn't been wrong to think she saw a spark in him. But what she'd mistaken for a forge was tempered metal, glowing in the aftermath of some billowing, all-consuming heat. Raw materials left to rust and decay without a blacksmith to hammer them into shape. It doesn't know exactly what made him this way but the knowing isn't what matters. The recognition is.

Now it knows what it has to do.

The whisky bottle finally ruptures under their clashing strength and slices upwards, gouging the back of his hand. Eglantine lunges before he can move and slams its body into his, carrying them both to the ground. A knee drives into his back, fingers curl into his hair to expose his neck and by the time they slam to the floor, Eglantine has him flat on his belly with the jagged remains of the bottle not an inch from his throat.

From where it sits on his back, the blade takes shallow breaths. Its hand shakes. Not out of exertion but—

Restraint. ]

[ He recognizes that restraint. The trembling and tension. He's had to maintain it himself too many times to keep from driving things into the eyes of others more than once.

But now it's being use on him. He never even had a chance to get away. Caught like a rat in a trap.

Even so he bucks and squirms, not afraid as the glass scrapes and pricks him, making him bleed just like his hand currently is. But it's too strong, the hold on his hair keeps him from getting away. Or, more likely, sinking his throat into the jagged edges.

He screams in pure unbridled frustration, a strangled putain just the start of the filth pouring out his mouth at her. ]

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strangulation cw

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Cw: emoto/vomiting

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i feel like i should cw this but by god with what

cw: suicidal ideation I guess??

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blood & hand injury cw

cw: self harm