So, Snippet Day (even though it’s 16th already on my timezone). Let’s see.
I found this from my notes, and it reignited my want to add a DA:I-esque codex with snippets (and trading cards) for entries you can unlock, but I'm still debating with myself on that one. This was written before I had decided on the naming scheme of organizations, but anyway.
The lab was eerily quiet, like a field after the final battle of a war. And the sight wasn’t all that far from the image, either. There was barely room - this wasn’t your military-funded research base, but a private and probably even unregistered one - every nook and cranny was filled with lab equipment, currently broken and spreading its contents everywhere. But the disturbing part was the amount of bodies scattered through the space that was supposed to be walkways between the equipment.
It took a moment from the SWAT team to regain their composure.
”DCPD! Don’t move!” cut the air, although there was no apparent response. But then again, there was no movement in sight to begin with, so it was unclear what was the purpose of the line in the first place, other than announcing the arrival of authorities. In hindsight, it was probably lucky for the doctor how the situation turned out the way it did - with all this gore, the team would have shot on sight of movement.
They moved on carefully, through the maze of broken machines, expecting an ambush that never came, like soldiers late to the war.
”Did he leave already?”
”Stay on your guard.”
”Found him!”
That snapped everyone into focus, calling the team like a beacon. They gathered around the caller, and in extension the target, who seemed to not even register the commotion, instead sitting in a corner between two strange machines whose purpose was anyone’s guess, leaning against a server rack, hugging himself, hands and formerly-white lab coat covered in blood and other substances best not thought about, staring into nothingness.
”You’re under arrest” triggered no response. As of itself that was no surprise - suspects rarely just surrendered after going on a killing frenzy - but this was less of a defiance and more of a not being there, and after everything that had happened, it was more than a little unnerving.
But he was not fighting, and the words were useless, so they just grabbed the doctor by arms; he complied, mechanically, like a broken machine that didn’t know how to move without a guiding touch, and offered no resistance as they cuffed him and led him out.
It wasn’t exactly the most satisfying ending, but at least the job was easy for once. Let the detectives sort this one out.
And this is what I've been working on for days... I've shown parts of it before, but here it is in all its glory.
“Hey, new blood!”
You stop on your tracks and blink. It seems you indeed entered a break room… the smell off coffee did not lie. And there are people in there. Two of them, sitting face to face to each other on the opposite ends of an eight-chair table (if you put chairs only on the long sides, that is. Otherwise, it’s a ten-chair table). A large one, both tall and wide, with a bodybuilder physique and wearing what looks like a coal gray business suit, who is sitting their back to you so all you can see (in addition to the suit, that is) is short dark brown hair and pink neck with a sunburn, and another one who is facing you but you can only get a hint of while the other one is blocking your view, so you take a step to the side.
“Yes, you, new blood!” The other one, skinnier but equally tall, wearing an equally coal gray business suit and long, almost-white, almost-bleached-blond hair, is pointing a finger in your direction, a red scrunchie around their wrist. “It’s about time we got some new blood around here.”
They’re so ghostly pale you can’t be sure they don’t actually want to drain you from your blood and use it themself.
“[T], stop scaring the newbie,” the bodybuilder says, getting up and turning to you. Now you can see them better; they’re huge, their face also pink, sunburns on their nose and forehead, and hint of a beard on their chin. “You must be [MC],” they say to you. “Don’t mind [T], his bark is worse than his bite. Mostly.”
“No, please do mind me,” [T] says. “Do not mind [R]. He’s full of crap as usual.”
[R] laughs. “So it’s your first day, isn’t it? Let me show you around.” He walks to you and wraps his arm around your shoulders, leaning on you. It’s heavy. And he smells of sweat, to boot. Why has he been sweating in a business suit?
“Thank you for getting permission before invading my personal space,” you say, voice dripping with sarcasm, trying to free yourself to no avail.
“Ha! You sound like [V],” [R] laughs, then half-turns when a jingle at the door grabs his attention. “[V]! Great timing. I was just talking about you.”
“Of course you were,” a new voice says. Presumably the one who jingles, but [R] is blocking your view so you can’t be sure.
“Come here, you grump. There’s someone you need to meet.” He pats your shoulder with the arm resting on you.
You turn to look, finally managing to disentangle yourself from the suffocating weight while [R]'s focus is elsewhere. The person at the door is shorter and leaner than [R], but almost everyone is. They’re dressed in black from head to toe, hiding in an oversized hoodie with its hood up, high-waisted jeans, and leather sneakers. Their hand, clutching tightly the equally black leather strap of their shoulder bag, is pink on the knuckles and fading bronze, like last summer’s tan in January.
“[MC], this is [V],” [R] says. “He’s our resident supervillain.”
“Blood of the elder gods,” [V] mutters. “I’m not a supervillain!”
[R] ignores the comment. “[V], this…” he tries to pat your shoulder again, but finds you’re not in his grip anymore, so he transfers the movement to a half shrug instead, “…is [MC], who apparently can teleport. I told you they’d find someone to replace you eventually.”
[V] grunts something you can’t understand, and walks to the coffee machine at the back wall, brushing past [R]. He’d look gloomy if not for the shoulder bag you now get a proper look at when he passes you. Its pine green rain cover is practically hidden under a flock of embroidered patches and novelty badges, and an abundance of colorful reflectors, keychains, and bag mascots hangs on the sides, jingling on every step.
“Hey, I’m talking to you!” [R] says, rushing after him. “Seriously! This is why you get so many complaints in HR.”
“Leave me alone,” [V] says. He then pointedly turns his back and ignores [R], instead opting to reaching for a clean coffee mug from the cupboard—stretching a little, supporting his shoulder bag from slipping off with the other hand—and filling it with fresh coffee.
“I’m just saying, you’ll better start training [MC] here on how to do your job—”
[T] says nothing, he’s just quietly sitting there sipping his coffee and observing the interaction, an amused look on his face.
It seems they have actually forgotten your presence completely, apart from how to use you to annoy other people. Lovely.
[R] claps [V]'s shoulder from behind, making him freeze, but either [R] doesn’t notice or he doesn’t care—given your previous interactions you’re inclined to think the latter—and leans forward, supporting his weight on [V]'s shoulder.
“I said—” [V] says, voice suddenly ice cold.
[R]'s substantial frame is blocking your view, so you can’t really see what’s happening, but there is the unmistakeable sound of knuckles connecting with a nose, and [R]'s head snaps back. [V] moves like a snake; what follows then you’re not sure, but it ends with [R] on his knees on the floor, [V] holding him in an armlock.
For a moment, nobody moves. Then [V] blinks, looking slightly confused as if he himself wasn’t quite sure what had happened, and lets go. “—leave me alone, [R].”
“And you wonder why everyone calls you a supervillain,” [R] grumbles, holding his nose.
[V] huffs, grabs his coffee, and turns on his heels, all in sharp, angry moves.
[T] says nothing; he just gets up, takes some ice cubes from the freezer, wraps them in a towel, and gives the result to [R].
You ignore the pair and offer your hand for a handshake to [V]. “Hello, I’m—”
[V] ignores your outstretched hand and gives you a glare instead. “Leave me alone,” he repeats, then storms off. Jingling. You’re still trying to wrap your head around that.
No, you decide. Despite the shoulder bag, he definitely looks gloomy.
