Oft got without merit, oft lost without deserving

[Good evening, Luceti. Good evening, Community Housing Unit Two.

How is your night going? Are you with loved ones or friends tonight? Having dinner? Working? Perhaps, just perhaps, you’re contemplating turning in early for the night. It’s peaceful, as evenings go, after all. The stars are bright, the winds soft and perfumed with the scents of the nearby forests.

And over the journal, there it is…

… the sound of glass breaking. A book falling and thudding open… a snarl.

Here we go, that same old song and dance.]

Wha--- [ka-chink] WATCH OUT, BEPO!

[It happens with brutal speed and the journal window is obscured in blinding blue flaring light and shouts and screams and panic are drowned out in the sound of crashing and the ever rising roar of destruction and tremors that crescendos with an explosion. An explosion that tears out the exterior walls of Apartment 40 and most of the roof above it upwards and outwards in a cloud of concrete and twisted metal and other debris to fall like rain below.

Michael Bay would be proud.

And then a soft voice, horrified:]

Bepo…

[The voice changes then, becomes cold and unyielding as something looms into view. It is limned with blue fire and heavily bleeding, and it wields a sword.]

… listen up and listen well, you and your masters eavesdropping, because I’m going to say this only once. No one fucks with a man’s nakama and should expect to live. You want me?

[Death beckons.]

GET OVER HERE.

[And everything is drowned out in light and fury and rips outward from the apartment, ripping and slashing through the walls to the rest of floor eight and through the floor downwards to leave gaping rifts and wreckage in its path all the way to the sixth, and the roar only rises and the building shakes again.

Then it stops.

Eerie silence reigns.]

B-bepo? [COUGH. HACK. The sounds of someone dragging themselves across the floor.] … still alive. [The voice is wavering, relieved, before steeling.] Still alive.

[Bloody tattooed fingers pull the book closer, and something drips on the pages, and the man makes another wet, hacking sound.]

That can’t be…

… all of them…

[ And through that crimson veil, NOW you see it, in amidst all the wreckage and blood splattered everywhere, the remains of droids. The undefeated droids. Now empty eyed and shattered and reduced to no more than useless pieces. They don’t even twitch… just spark. Impossible, isn’t it? But long moments pass and yet…

No more come.

Look. The impossible is impossible no more.]

( OOC information be here. )

[Godfriggin’ experiments.

Of course there’s one. The New Feather cycle seems to be winding up (It’s a morbid wonder what they’ll get next batch) and it’s a perfect time to rattle the cages a bit. It’s chaos… and while some of it is amusing as hell to watch over the journals… most of it is just exasperating, and some plain mentally traumatising.

And it’s all so. Damn. LOUD.

… if this keeps up, he’s going to have an addiction to headache medicine. He just knows it.

So it’s a hot shower for him in an effort to ease the migraine and any lingering soreness from the intensive training from earlier in the day. A shave to clean up the stubble sneaking in around his goatee and a note to find a barber in Luceti, because, damn he needs a haircut.

It’s when he’s getting dressed and just looking through his closet for a shirt when it hits and his headache just got 100% worse

Possibly because his head just went through the roof - literally. ]

WHAT THE------!!!!!!!!!!

…

?????

[…

…that’s not his voice. That's--

… and… everything feels way too tight around him. Constraining. Before he twitches and he feels plaster just shatter around him.

…

… oh, oh fuck.

FUCK.]

…

… Bepo?

[He has no idea that his journal has landed open and the whole thing is now transmitting.

Because he has bigger concerns.

Starting with the floor beginning to creak ominously under him.]





{{OOC: replies will be coming from notwhitebeard and all tags will be answered tomorrow evening.}}