Marsha
Uriel does not know what to do. 

In their hand is a small gift. Their other is balling swaths of fabric in their fist, rubbing against the thick wool in an attempt at self soothing. 

*I must fix this. I cannot go on like this,* Is all that races through their mind. 

They are frustrated. They are confused. A million emotions spill over Uriel like waves and taint their mind every which way, a cacophony of mismatching tastes and conflicting smells that clash at every moment yet coexist in an unstable harmony. 

Uriel does not know what to do, so they have done what they do best. 

A gift lies in their hand. A small, woolen goat, the same color as Mimir's hair. 

They knock on the door.
Joyce
Mimir is tired. It's always tired. In one way or another, it's fed up with someone, something, somewhere, and it showed. It is not *Pleasant.* It is not *Kind.* It does not, and could not, care less. Everyone knows this. It is not a secret. The bags under its eyes are evidence enough.

Uriel cares too much. It has said this, surely, in one way or another. At this point, it has stopped wanting anything to do with them. They are a bad luck charm, attracting the ill will and ire of all around them, and Mimir was tired of them. It was a miracle in itself that Ares was around to tell it to stop talking to them earlier.

It is not her job to fix Uriel. They could cry and whine and politely text sympathy from others, but it wasn't going to work. She refuses to fall into the trap they set so carefully. 

A knock on the door... She wasn't expecting anyone. *Maybe it's Ares?*

She slides off her bed, feet fitting into her slippers before she hastily pulls on a pair of gloves, walking to the door and swinging it open, only to be greatly disappointed.

"Uriel, what do you wa—" The goat. It's purple. *It's supposed to be me?*

Silence fills the space between them, settling like a heavy fog that makes your lungs feel heavy. It stares at the goat, not giving Uriel themself any attention. What was this, a peace offering? Was this supposed to fix everything so easily? Anger starts to rise in its chest, heat filling its chest and hands. 

"Are you kidding me?"
Marsha
"No." Uriel responds, equally as plainly and matter-of-fact. Their expression is a meaningless one, placid and empty in all the correct ways to avoid being seen as feeling anything in particular.

"It is a gift. I am showing my good will, and you do not have to accept it. I am just..." Uriel drags their finger up their own chest, tapping above their heart once it is beneath their gloved fingertips. "I am proving my good will is there." 

If Mimir is tired, Uriel is equally so; It shows not in a bad mood like Mimir, but in the smaller, subtler things that litter their behavior. They move sluggishly, and look at Mimir with deep grey eyes framed by dark blue bags. Their reactions are stilted and muted; in fact, *Stilted* And *Muted* Are two words that could very easily describe Uriel in any possible mood they could find themselves in. 

"I am..." Their finger taps the spot bisecting their diaphragm once again, the rhythmic motions almost a steady heartbeat. "I am giving you my best. Do not feel pressured to give yours in response."

Uriel knows she is angry. They do not care. Perhaps it is a godsend— it is much more familiar to them than Finley's camaraderie, or Owen's adoration. Anger is something they can handle, and so they do not fear.
Joyce
Mimir likes to think she is in tune with her feelings. The she knows the inner workings of her brain, the compartmentalization of memories and expressions of emotion in them are like demonstrations for her to dissect and pick apart for the development of her own well-being. People are things to study, and while she wanted Uriel to serve as just that, they kept inserting themself into her life. Getting too close. Giving her their best. *Whatever that means.*

She wants nothing to do with them. It's something she's made so clear, or at least, she thought she had. Clearly, it wasn't working, because here they are, essentially groveling. Tired, sad, and pathetic. It makes her sick. 

The silence creeps back into her lungs again, mixing with the heat making its way through her, the anger making her hands tingle under her gloves. Mimir inhales, slowly, eyes moving from the goat to Uriel themself. She didn't care if they could read her thoughts or whatever the fuck. She honestly hoped they would. It would make the words lands exactly how they should.

"My best?" She sounds exasperated, offended. "Uriel, I *Do not like you.*" Surely, that's clear enough for them, but just in case, she continues.

"The way you talk about people makes me want to crawl out of my skin. The way you think changing nothing about yourself and giving me this item will make everything better makes me sick. I want ***Nothing*** To do with you. I thought maybe I had made this clear already, but if this is what it takes for you to finally understand that, so be it. You are a fool with no backbone, and watching you get walked over by everyone is exhausting. Your good will means nothing to me."

The words are venom, and she intends for them to sting. The anger only contorts her face more as she speaks, the normal, neutral-anger turning into something only a few steps away from rage. She's still, though, hands unmoving at her sides as she speaks to them. For the better.
Marsha
*Watching you get walked over by everyone is exhausting. You are a fool with no backbone.* 

Didn't Ares say the same thing? That changing themselves for others was what made them so insufferable?

*Insufferable.* Their breath quickened as adrenaline surged in their veins. Uriel was once seen as a monster, and yet their attempts to combat that perception were deemed annoying and irritating by people who knew nothing about their life. *Insufferable,* Uriel's head echos. *Insufferable is not nearly the worst thing I could be.* 

"You call me insufferable for being a doormat," The skin around their eyes crinkles in an emotion rarely seen on their face; it's anger, perhaps, or even disgust. It is hard to tell behind their steely irises. 

"You could not handle me being anything but."

It is not a threat for Uriel. It is a fact, and they speak their truth plainly.
Joyce
The expression molding itself on Uriel's face is new. If Mimir wasn't preoccupied with her own anger, she would be proud of herself for making the dream-weaver break their perfect little persona. It would be a thought for another time, surely, even if it was being drowned out but insults she could only dream of saying out loud. 

Of course, she does not think highly of Uriel, but she would not call her a monster. Why would she? They are the same in that way. Not a monster, but *Monstrous,* Capable of destruction like no other. The difference between them, though, was that Mimir was not scared of being so. She embraces it, uses it to her advantage. Uriel is a coward. Tries to hide it under pretty words. 

*You could not handle me being anything but.* She could laugh. In fact, she does, right in their face, hands balling up into fists. These gloves come off so easily, you know.

"And how would I know? How would *Any* Of us know? You spend so much time pretending to be this saint, someone who could do no wrong, Uriel. Being a doormat will get you nowhere. I figured you would know that better than anyone here." Her hands flex, fingers splayed as they come out of fists. "You're *Scared.* Scared of what they think."

These gloves come off so easily. She could show them. Being monstrous was their fate. Don't they know that?
Marsha
*Someone who could do no wrong...*

But they could. Uriel had the ability, if they so chose; they did not desire to be one incapable of harm, but a stalwart refusal of it. Uriel engraved their own commandments into the lining of their skull, and one stood at the top of it all: *This cycle ends with me.* 

"You are wrong. I want to be someone who *Will* Do no wrong. I will not hurt others, not due to a lack of ability, but because of my own moral fortitude." Uriel felt a small smidgen of pride upon hearing their own unwavering voice. It seemed like Owen had rubbed off on them, in the best of ways— impassioned speech had became easier ever since they've been close to him, and the barrier between their mind and their heart that stubbornly blocked their feelings from bleeding into their words slowly shrunk with practice. 

Uriel watches Mimir flex her fingers with their distant, grey gaze. They're less distant than usual, though— finally, for the first time in a while, it seems as if they're actually *Looking* At Mimir. 

It's obvious as to what she is thinking. Uriel does not even need to meet the gaze of her bright, uncanny contacts to understand the dilemma in her mind. *To do it, or to not,* Mimir is pondering. *To use her power, or not.* 

"You want me to choose violence. You want me to use my powers to prevent this, or in retaliation." Their soft voice, while delicately toned, lacks any inflection or visible emotion to make it sound less uncanny. 

They blink, slowly moving their gaze from Mimir's hands to her face. An expression falls on their pallid face as they do so, their dark eyes searching for *Something*; it isn't in Mimir's eyes, nor the downward curve of her mouth, or the furrow of her eyebrow.

It is a fruitless search. They do not find what they are looking for, so Uriel opts to ask. 

Hazy grey eyes look at Mimir, and the second emotion of the night falls upon Uriel's face— *Confusion.* 

"Why are you so determined to bring me down to your level?"
Joyce
A backbone. Sprouted from where? It was a surprise, to hear Uriel advocate for themself like this, and for a moment, she wonders where it came from. But she knows. She is well aware by now. Does he know Uriel is doing this? Would he have liked the idea? Mimir leaves the questions, knowing damn well she will never get an answer. 

While Uriel's tone remained flat, their words methodically chosen, Mimir could not care. She had been working on herself. She had been trying to stay *Out* Of all of this. They don't get along. They weren't meant to, as far as she's concerned. *You want me to choose violence.* And what if she does? Life was easier that way, wasn't it? No man would have bothered to challenge her outside of physical action, retaliation with fists, grabbing motions, but she knew how to combat them. She knew the motions. This... This was a different beast. She never liked being spoken to like this. Not by Uriel, and not by anyone before them.

Grey eyes meet pink, and Mimir knows exactly what they want. She doesn't care. She doesn't *Want* To care. The confusion on their face fires off a short feeling of satisfaction, only for it to be cut short.

*Why are you so determined to bring me down to your level?*

Something shifts in the air. Her gaze becomes openly hostile now, and she takes a step forward, the space between them shrinking drastically. Bring them down? She scoffs.

"Uriel, believe me when I say I want you anywhere *But* On my level. I just get sick of seeing you get hit and then cry about it." Deflection at its finest, but what would she do otherwise? Start telling Uriel about her deep-seated issues? Dissect why she thinks what they said is factually incorrect? 

"You," She raises a gloved hand up to prod into their chest, "Make me sick." 

She practically spits the words at them, eyes firey now. Maybe she *Should* Take a glove off. Make them feel her pain. See how they like it.
Marsha
"If you do not want me on your level, where do you want me to be?" 

The sensation of Mimir's hand pressing into their chest is an odd one, and Uriel cranes their head down to stare at the foreign object touching them with an expression not unlike that of a fish out of water. Slowly, they reach out, loosely touching the sides of Mimir's gloved hand and flipping it palm-up. 

"Is that where you want me? On the other side of your hand?" Uriel asks, idly tracing the lines of Mimir's gloved palm with their other hand. There were palm lines under their finger, even if Uriel could not see them. Lines etched into Mimir's hand that could predict her fate, as mysticism had for-told. 

If Mimir were to take her gloves off, would Uriel finally be able to see her fate? Would the underlying strings and knots of their lives be shown to intertwine again, or would they converge after this moment? 

"Or should I be more than that? If you feel sick that I do nothing, would an action of mine be enough to appease you?" 

The words leave their mouth, and Uriel frowns. Their assumption is false, and the realization hits them. Mimir does not want them to be more violent, or less violent, or the same. The dreams and desires of the woman looming over them are nebulous, whimsical, and completely foreign to them. 

"No. I am wrong." Uriel states softly, their eyebrows furrowing in thought. They let go of Mimir's hand, and stop tracing her palm. "You want neither. You want something I could never hope to achieve. I am sorry for you."
Joyce
*If you do not want me on your level, where do you want me to be?* The answer was easy. She wants Uriel to get the fuck away from her. She figures they would have known this by now. They *Should* Know this. Mimir is frustrated, angry, and confused, flinching when Uriel touches them. 

If this had happened before, when Mimir first arrived, she would not have hesitated to rip her hand away in response, maybe even slap them, but something had changed since she settled into the Cradle. She'd gotten soft. Relaxed. Internally, she screams, trying to bring that part of herself back, step back into her dorm and slam the door on the dream weaver. She has no patience for this, so why was she entertaining it?

"I don't want you to *Appease* Me," She jerks her hand away, balling it into a fist, "I don't want you to do anything for me-" Mimir squints at them, watching them closely. 

*I am sorry for you.*

All at once, the screaming in her head reaches its climax, and a resounding SMACK echoes in the hallway as her gloved hand, now splayed, meets the skin of Uriel's cheek, Mimir's face bright read as the fury finally meets her eyes, contorting her face in ways Uriel had never seen. She doesn't wait a second before pushing them away from her, stepping back into her dorm.

"I am so sick and fucking *Tired,*" She begins, volume in her voice raising, "Of you and everyone here trying to pick me apart. I am *Tired* Of you trying to act like we're friends, that all it takes is a little sheep to make me like you. My brain is *Not* For you to pick apart. My motives are mine alone, and you have *Nothing-* ***NOTHING*** To do with them. Now get the ***FUCK*** Away from me."

Her breathing has picked up in speed, her face red as she stares them down. Nothing was on her mind except getting them away from her. Hiding in her room for weeks. This needs to be over and done with.
Marsha
Something familiar hits Uriel as Mimir does, their cheek stinging with a pain sweet and yet so terrifyingly numb at the same time. The sharp feeling does not bring any clarity to Uriel— instead, it drags their mind back into a thick, syrupy sludge, immersing their senses in a distorted not-quite reality. 

Uriel does not hear as Mimir continues talking. They hear nothing but fog and sludge pour from her mouth. Instead, something deep inside Uriel's mind supplies their own voice in place of hers. It whispers of harm and blood, of Mimir's blow being only the first of many. *It is penance,* It tell them. *For not knowing better. The blood in your cheek will surely teach you something.*

That was the difference between the two, Uriel realized. Mimir needed no penance for her actions— despite the blood in their mouth, the Universe did not demand for justice to be delivered upon her. *But why?* Uriel thought, their mind souring. *But she knew it would hurt. She is like me, and she knows. She knows, and yet... She does it anyway.*

From Mimir's point of view, Uriel's grey eyes cloud over. Their hazy expression goes slack, and there's the barest trace of their lip trembling. 

*It's not fair,* Something within Uriel whispers. *The Universe does not scorn her like it does you.* It continues to spiral, internal monologue speaking quicker and quicker. *She will do it again, and nothing will happen besides your suffering. Nothing will happen, and it will only continue, and it will only get worse, and it's not fair, is it? You bleed for nothing, and you'll die for nothing. You've done your best to not succumb to that feeling of hate, and what do you have to show for it? More blood. More hate. More pain.*

Uriel's face is a deathly white. Their breath shakes inside their chest, and they gasp for air; the hand grasping their chest claws at their poncho.

*It's not fair. It's not fair. It's not fair its not fai—* 

Their eyes swirl, and Mimir drops to the floor.
Joyce
They weren't even listening to her, were they? They don't even fucking care. Mimir grabs her door, ready to slam it in their face. What was the point of this? To continue this loop? Hasn't she made herself clear enough to them? 

And moments too late, it clicks. She opens her mouth to say something, only to see their face. More pale that usual somehow, the gasping, and for a moment, Mimir is convinced they're having a seizure.

"Fuck, Uriel?"

And then everything is black. She crumples, her thin rug not doing much at all to soften her head's contact with the concrete. 

Silence.
Marsha
Uriel falls to the floor, gasping. They carefully move a stray lock of hair from Mimir's head, and their eyes widen when they see blood trickle from her forehead.

"I.." They weakly say, voice wavering. Tears sting at their eyes; they bunch up around Uriel's eyes and fall in drops down their face. Uriel collapses onto the ground, and sobs. 

"I'm sorry, I— I didn't mean, I—" Their blue lips only turn paler as they hyperventilate alone in the hallway, and Uriel sobs into their hands. "Why did I do that— I didn't mean to, I—" White hair, astray from their braid, falls into their face and eyes as they weep for a destiny they've finally failed to fight against. For a sense of self now shattered, all the trust Uriel had in their own moral fortitude collapses in on itself like a house of cards. 

They were scum, and they could no longer deny it. 

Uriel sobs into their hands, and the loose reins they have on their powers *Snap.*

—
Bobby
Three colors: Blue, yellow, and orange. Emerson's hair was pulled back into a ponytail, bangs pushed back with a headband, and she was painting only using blue, yellow, and orange. They were her favorite colors. While she painted delicate shapes and lines, loud music blared in the background— Destroy Boys; a stark contrast to the light scene in front of them.

There was a determined look on their face as they hunched over their desk and added small details— everything had a place and it was their job to put it in its place— and then suddenly, a wave of exhaustion swept over them. They barely had time to react with confusion before their head hit the desk with a thump. It barely missed the bottom of the painting.
Fay
Finley and Sig were just about to dye Sig's hair again - mixing the dye together, singing old sea shanties, giggling and half-shoving each other around. It was nice. Sigrun really was another older sister - a good friend, a solid presence, a guide to all things parahuman and strange. Fin wouldn't replace their company for anyones.

However, it didn't last very long - Fin had snapped on the gloves, humming out the last lines to 'Wellerman'. 
"This'll look great, Siggy - I'm sorry Mimir didn't sho-"

Fin suddenly dropped the bowl of half-mixed dye in their hands, and looked up at Sigrun with a horrified expression as they'd lost control of their limbs. 

"Sig, I can't-"

His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he collapsed backwards, knees buckling as his head slammed down against the cold, hard floor, a burst of static sending little twitches through the air.
Jimmie
A rhythm vibrates steadily through the concrete floor from the sticker-laden amplifier on Owen's floor, the thick metal strings of a blue Rickenbacker singing well and practiced under callused fingertips. Owen paces as he plays, nodding his head, feeling the sounds in his mouth, his feet, his chest—

His limbs go weak, and the rhythm trails down into the dull *Thunk* Of a once-strong body crumpling to the carpet. The last thing Owen recalls, staring blearily at the amp still buzzing feedback into the floor, is that something is *Very wrong*.
Ellen
He has not been doing too much as of late. Whether Maxwell has the violin, or it's destroyed, changes nothing. He's been in a rut again. It's so hard to get out. He's close to messaging Uriel again, but he feels terrible just messaging them when he needs something. But how does he strike the conversation otherwise? He's pathetic, he doesn't know what to do, nothing feels right anymore. When was the last time things felt right?

Craig is busy, too, so there's very little to quiet the riot in his head. He and Craig did that for each other: they made it quieter. Bearable. 

He trusted that getting rid of the violin would make him feel better without question. Of course he did. He's always just been looking for that quick fix, hasn't he? Pathetic. Because being in it for the long haul is too much work. 

He just left his room. He was going to go do... Something, he resolved. Go get food, maybe. Actual *Real* Food, not just crackers or some other easy snack. He got dressed and everything. Shortly after he closes his door, not more than a few steps, his legs seem to fail him.

He knows his foot hit the ground so.. Why didn't it stop?

He doesn't recognize he's falling until he's out, in the middle of the hallway, head hitting the ground with a thud.

That could have gone better.
Linda
The humidifier bottle settles into place with a comfortable tap against the concentrator. Good work Penny! And it only took you... 25 minutes to get around to set it up!
They sit back on their bed... Actually, it's quite comfortable right now.
It's not like they have *Much* Else to unpack right now.
The almost... Call of the bed seems... *Really strong.* They lay back, and, like a light. They're out.
Walter
Amelie stands in the middle of her dorm room, her body almost looking deformed in shape. Her eye and mouth dry and shes unfocused. She stands against the chair in a moment, her hands tightly wrapped around the top. 

She feels faint, she's something hot behind her face it feels excruciating. Her head feels like it splits open and she gasps, and then falls. Bones pierce like a crown out of amelies face and a collar for criminals around her neck, her head falls against the wooden edge of her desk and there's a sickening snap that would make one wince as she hits it. Her body this concrete so quickly and she looks almost inhuman at which how she fell. 
There's red staining the floor around her. There's crimson across the paper she wrote on. It is red around her where it is black as night in her eyes.

Blissfully horrific.
Marsha
Gabriel has had a long, *Long* Day memorizing lines. 

He's sitting at his desk, reciting the opening monologue to an obscure play, until consciousness is ripped from him and he collapses onto his arms.

At least Gabe needed it.
Joyce
There is nothing quite like being out of the loop.

Anja is distressed. And Ashton can pretty safely assume that she's distressed because Amelie is distressed. With everything happening with Owen, he could only assume things had gone poorly. 

Shelly was hanging out with him. It liked him, he thinks. He was trying to figure out how ferrets *Work,* Examining the noodle carefully as he sat against the side of his bed, stereo softly playing some music. He wanted to know when Anja walked back into the dorm.

Except he wouldn't, would he? 

The feeling washed over him so suddenly and so quickly, he didn't have time to react except to grab Shelly so it wouldn't run out the door if Anja walked in. His head rolled back, hitting the mattress behind it.
Rene
He had a quiet day in, as were most days for Charlie. The past few hours had been spend on his bed with his blanket hugged around him, swaying back and forth lightly and watching the intranet chat go by. He didn't know who was speaking most of the time, save for a few key people that got named— even then it was hard to remember so many people, and so many similar colors in the pictures. 

A familiar fog passes over his brain, one that normally is only a *Suggestion* To sleep, but not this time. His head nods in a futile fight to stay awake, one he had fought and lost many times before. The phone slips through his fingers, his head drops, his body slumps aside— just like that, he's out cold.
Sara
As she so often found herself, Heavenly was bored.

So far, Newton's Cradle hadn't been the upgrade she was expecting it to be when her mother told her this was where she'd be going. One hears *Switzerland* And imagines skiing, five-star resorts, and luxury accommodations - not... Whatever this place was. A boarding school for freaks and misfits. Though, Heavenly supposed she was just as much of a freak as the rest of them now, whether she liked it or not.

That wouldn't stop her from *Acting* Normal, though - and, honestly, she really wasn't anything like the people here. She didn't need help - she didn't want it. She wanted to have fun. It seemed, though, that fun was something this facility was sorely lacking in. Instead of spending the night out on the town, as she would normally, the girl was stuck in her dorm, alone, with nothing to keep her entertained except the bottle of mauve nail polish sitting on her bedside table.

Having just finished her nails, Heavenly huffed, and leaned her head back against her pillow, spreading her fingers and toes to let them dry. She wondered if this was how she'd spend the rest of her time here - sitting around doing nothing, waiting, once again, for the day she could leave - until a sudden rush of exhaustion washed over her. It was like nothing she had ever felt: immediate, and overpowering. She tried to sit up, but her body failed her, and in another moment, Heavenly felt her consciousness slip away - and thankfully, her boredom with it.
Victoria
Nakanishi trailed closely behind Mamoru, wearing her trusty coat and long jeans, along with the shoes that she wore with her uniform when she still lived in Japan. They were a little bit too small for Nakanishi now, but she figured she'd use them for a while longer until they'd become too uncomfortable to walk in. When Mamoru had notified Nakanishi of his leaving shortly before he opened the door to go, Nakanishi had asked him if she could come along. It was about time for her second meal of the day.

And so, Nakanishi was going with her best friend and dormmate to get some food. What food? Nakanishi didn't know. Mamoru probably didn't know. Nakanishi thought of the cup noodles she'd buy from the Cradle's cafeteria, her staple food. Her only food, actually. She wasn't even sure why she had them so much anymore. They were plain noodles in a hot broth, and that was it. Perhaps it was the warmth that the food provided? Maybe it reminded her home? It could be both.

However, Nakanishi had not the time to think thoroughly about what food Mamoru would get when she suddenly felt her eyelids grow heavy, and her muscles weak. Without warning, her green-haired friend collapsed in front of her. Nakanishi gasped and stopped in surprise. Her mouth moved to vocalize something, possibly along the lines of "D-Daijoubu desu ka?!" But by then, it was too late. The last thing Nakanishi saw was the floor quickly approaching as her body crumpled in a similar fashion to Mamoru's as her muscles stop working and her limbs become limp while her eyelids shut. Her head hits the floor, producing a thud before her body lays at rest. She is completely unconscious.
Bridget
```Akvilė is, somewhat inconveniently, out in the woods when it happens. 

She's in a treehouse she's had under construction for weeks, about a quarter mile south of the Cradle. Smoking a cigarette and daydreaming about a man she saw at the market as she fiddles with one of her radios, she doesn't expect to suddenly be ripped from her body and thrust into a nightmare state. Really, all she expects are a couple of number station signals she's found her radio just barely snags from up in the canopy, and to her credit it is what she gets at first. Russian; American; Chinese. Unfortunately she doesn't have time to listen in on the transmissions she's waiting for, the intriguing ones, with good noise and strange codes. Instead, she's suddenly overcome with a peculiar sensation. It's an intensely intoxicating sensation for a few moments, until it isn't. Sedation. Fuzziness. Everything goes numb and dark.

MELANÇON.```