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Current People who think that the Philippines are a real place simply have fallen into the great Pacific Isles psyop
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Literally 1984 by Jorjor Well

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I'll be putting out a post towards the start of next week, so for those who are writing, see if you can get it in by then! If there are any issues lemme know : D

The quiet was disturbed by the sudden arrival, or return rather, of several other people - assumedly those that had ventured into wonderland with Franciszek not too long before. The room was dark and, admittedly, the others had found themselves in other stalls than his. It should've beckoned for him to move right away but he didn't. He was scared. Afraid of opening that little stall door and to face the others, lest they were different. He'd seen the illusionary confusion that they'd gone through, the strangeness of creatures and their reactions. Them simply arriving at the same location as he had created the worst of all things that day - confirmation that something had happened.

There was a strict sense of dread coated across his skin. He lifted his head and pressed his skull against the stall's wall. He listened to their conversations and was unsure of whether he should have or would ever speak. None of them knew his name either way, and he didn't know theirs. Did they share his problems? The ways in which the others reacted were all their own ways indeed but he couldn't shake how disturbing it all was. What had he encountered? That was the question that plagued and followed every second thought. Someone then left the door, proclaiming that they had ended up in the girl's bathroom. It almost broke a smile on his face for the sheer absurdity of it all, but it only hammered in one motive - to leave, to go back and to attempt to sleep again. But perhaps he'd had enough of sleeping. Those dreams weren't worthwhile anyhow.

He got up, undid the stall and without as much as a word, he departed. It was cold, and the night was fruitful. He shivered so greatly. The march, the sneak back to his own dorm and bed, was the most discomforting of his time since arriving at the academy. And the hour he returned to his room, he laid on his bed - eyes peeled open, and he was kept restless until dawn.

Quinta District | Spring / 844

"Up - go on, up y'get!" At the crack of dawn, the rooster bellowed in due course.

A throbbing, pulsating ache still lingered on Palmiro's right temple, one of egregious proportion and unrelenting annoyance, though where such a pain had originated from he knew not. Perhaps it were the sleepless hours he'd had, for days in and out, where the men clad in green cloaks had visited their home once more, that time with even less formalities. There had been a scuffle - nothing too dangerous, just some shoves and shouts, but it hadn't settled away from the young lad's mind quite so. That was the trouble behind such things; there was never any answers, nor explanations for those type of engagements Uncle Mateo had found himself caught in. Less communicative, of course, was the Rooster himself.

At the foot of Palmiro's bed - or rather pile of sacks softened by a bundle of straw, wrapped in old bedding - stood Oskar Barlow, the serviceman himself. An experienced fellow, so greatly lavished in deep-rooted cuts and gashes of old that one couldn't imagine him without them, as though any sort of idea of clean, untainted handsomeness was impossible for the man. He towered over him, the shadow of his figure looming across the bed, and he barked the way he barked. Orderly, and with presence. Never had it changed for the man, and never would it. The old guard sniffed and wiped his finger across his thick, paintbrush moustache, before he whacked the side of the sack bed with his foot, dislodging the perfectly balanced straw structure beneath the boy. Palmiro tumbled out onto the floor, as he did almost every morning. It was almost a ritual, even to a detriment, and it was his home after all.

Oskar didn't take much amusement from the very same fall Palmiro had made. It got him up, unfortunately enough, and the lad had things to do. Yet he didn't stoop down to the low ground he laid upon, and instead paced away toward the door.

"I need you to bag up some wheat, and then take it to Klein's market shop - pronto. We're behind again." Oskar ordered whilst Palmiro slowly rose himself off the floor. "Can you see to it then?"

"I'll get to it." He groaned a little. It wasn't like he could have shown him any greater sign of disappointment or disapproval. Both the uncle and the nephew were lucky that such a prestigious, as one's personality would have had them believe, stationary guardsman would've even gifted them the splendour of attention, let alone hosted them, during his six month service leave. Kindly so, they all tutted. Kindly so, indeed.

"Any lazier and you'd be an MP." He spat with a subtle, mischievous grin. It was all in the tone - that's how he knew it was at least a little laced in satire. But only a little. Palmiro straightened out his back and fixed his posture with a groan, then after Oskar had hurried off to busy himself out the front of the house, he dusted down his clothes to try and make them look a little cleaner. It was obvious that he lived in a military man's home - his attire reeked of the colour olive and beige.

He walked outside with a wheat sack over each shoulder. They weren't as heavy as he'd imagined, as by the bindings of trade, the initial stock had lost its load through hand-exchange taxes imposed by each and every tradesman it'd crossed. Oskar had unofficially done so the same, for the scent of bread was rich in the neighbour's bakery. A stagger took him out onto the street and he passed Oskar making conversation with two uniformed soldiers of the Stationary Guard. It was a friendly chat, indicated by their grins and less tense statures, but their eyes glistened with that look of seniority-respect. Oskar was as much a soldier as Mateo had been, except it seemed that his company was all the merrier to have him around. Palmiro trudged on, out into the paved streets, in time to meet the first few carts that rattled on by. A barrel of apples fell out of one and nearly rolled over his shoes, but luck was on his side and no such pain occurred. Odd that - he thought - he never had much luck with luck itself.

As he bumbled along his side of the street, his mind drifted as it often did. It covered the same topics in succession - much alike the news shouted out by heralds and printed on the papers. He wondered about his home, or lack thereof. He asked himself if his mother was okay, or if his father was as grumpy as always. He wondered about his horse: Lewis. Then came the daily happenings, or how quiet it had been since that one Gabriel boy had left. A shame - he always repeated - to see a good acquaintance go. But that was how things were on the move. Not a single city, street, building or room felt like home. There was never something concrete to call his own.

He passed on the wheat without much fanfare. The tradesman looked down at the sack and scowled at how light it was in weight. But it was enough. Always the same, they said together, and Palmiro flashed him a weak smile. Then, it was back down the street, the same way he'd come. He wondered if he'd visit the inner-district stables for the hell of it again, or if there was more light labour cut out for him. Though most prolific to his thoughts was as he asked himself why things were so quiet. It was inherently linked, though, to where his uncle had gone, and the feeling made when he realised he hadn't seen Mateo in almost an entire day.
@Kuro I could have sworn I always did that, but my memory might be bad.

What do you mean this is your first RP ever, remember?
I would of I weren't swamped for rps rn.

When space clears up jump in ;)
Cough Cough Kuro didn't send me this way or anything for Dark Cloud
Little intro post is up! Character posts to follow, feel free to write your stuff in, I'll leave about a week until the big show begins, so try to get one post in, or a few if you're doing interactions perhaps. I can extend this time a bit more if people need be : D

Quinta District | Spring / 844

There was a sort of dampness in the air - an enriched residue that made a sweet, springtime syrup in the atmosphere. All things were tender, and beautiful, and as the sun had risen over the horizon from the East, there was a dainty tone of colour that coated the land. Alleyways remained in darkened shade, but the streets were blessed with a holy, ceremonious dawn. The early onlookers had gathered in the streets to set up market stalls, assorting colourful fruits beside commodities, books, papers and the excess, unsold clothing from last year's winter. Many people still slept in their warm beds or contemplated whether getting outside it was really all that necessary. It was, as easily put, the most ordinary of days, the usual hustle and bustle of the day-to-day life, just waking up, slowly.

The previous night, there'd been a theatre show. It was a small one, about four streets down from the garrison headquarters at the centre of the district. Now, the names of these plays were usually more famous to the local scenes and districts rather than the span of humanity, but the one in particular was a delightfully recognisable one: The Squirrel and The Bear. Now, the story wasn't much to ride off of, it was more a familial tragedy than something overly dramatic and thought provoking. It had a strange mix of sock puppetry and live action acting combined into one. Of course, no one really cared about the writer's intentions of its delusionary, paranoid ramblings of a cold, schizophrenic man, and had taken much joy out of the "out-of-norm" storytelling. It was hosted to a larger-than-usual crowd. The actors had their standing ovations from the families that had gathered, and many had stayed out late that night to celebrate the upswinging mood.

Down at the garrison headquarters, there was a detachment of military police officers. Some children had seen them as they walked past. Some smiled up to them, but many ignored them. No one really paid much attention to what they said or who they asked questions to, or even why they had arrived, but they were there, and it was the business of the military to deal with, not the common man, woman or child of the citizenry.

Four days ago, the Scouting Legion had come back, with bruises no less. There was at first a great buzz surrounding their return. Whose family had lost someone, and whose would be next - that sort of stuff. The grieving ended though by the second day. It was the usual. Each month, those brave souls would wander out there, somewhere, and come back in states of injury never quite seen before. They had to sneak the cart of dead men in the night after, just to be sure. One night, there was a cannon shot - indicative of a titan spotted somewhere in the outer walls, where small villages and homesteads sometimes sat. There wasn't much that could be done to ensure their security, but the Stationary Guard were kind enough to help if they were available.

It was one of those things of the outside world. People feared the idea of the titan, but not what it really was. It was just something out there, beyond the walls, ever roaming and - to even some - a potential farce. But who cared, the casualties of the military were light enough to prove that something lurked out there. And thank every goddess and deity - they did - that it was kept that way, to the quietest parts of human history.

It was still in the early hours. About seven in the morning in fact. The sun had risen but not quite above the walls themselves, where they lingered and tried to claw their way over. More citizens had entered the streets for the early morning catch of shopping and socialising. It was a loving, great time. At one end of the street, a woman snuck out a man's window, and on the other side, two argued over the way the weather was supposed to be, instead of its sunniest, almost cloudless state it was at then. A red sky hung over the morning. Things were calm. Ever so calm. As though they were to be for the last time, and the tail end of history itself.
Tenth post is up. Next update is on the 29th.

Or is it?

His autopilot was based on fear. Fingernails dug into the sand as he breathlessly dragged his scorched, tormented imagination across the island, toward the spring. There was not a clear set of emotions laid across his face. He drooped and staggered in his blinks, and his breath was akin to suffocation. Franciszek had callousness all across his skin, his mind and soul. So harshly did his chest burn, as though it were a pressurised valve awaiting eruption. Sickness plagued him from within. How much more could it hurt? As if he were allergic to the beach itself, everything was in accordance to a horrific reaction. The amphibian and its demise, the relished power of some other no-name's of his, all mixed in how brilliantly or sourly they relished in their abilities. There was no explanation. It was a cosmic confusion, a horror of the unknown and by all cases it terrified the living hell out of the boy. He was quiet. Alone even. A soul that hadn't been paid even in pittance. He was there, soulless. His contributions were like gales in a storm. So he crawled, onward ahead, as he isolated further away to the island spring.

The water was still. Whenever he looked at it, there was no way to tell if it looked right at all. Something, if not everything, felt off. It was like an translucent pane of glass, awaiting its shatter. His fingers touched it and he confused its calm for aggression. He withdrew his hand and gagged on his own spit. Not one shade of comfort - the island had made its way through him. He despised it, and it despised him. There wasn't a way to comprehend any of the madness around him. How could he accept something so heinously against reality, so vicious in its mockery towards all that is normal? He ran his hand back into the spring. It burned again, like acid to skin, yet he kept going. He crawled further, and further, to escape it all, as with the spring came the allure of freedom. Yet after what he'd seen, what he'd felt, the doubtless sense that it was never a dream, was it possible to be free, and true, to remove himself from what he'd seen?

"Just take me home..." A voice inside of him rebuked it, and asked him to stay, but Franciszek's body did everything else to let that notion go forth. He crawled into the spring.

Back into the burning depths he went. In a downward spiral his body twisted and turned as the descent became a burning ascent. The further up he rose, he twirled upward into the burning heat of the water. He trusted himself enough not to scream and drown, and the submersion ended in the blink of a watered eye. Franciszek emerged in a blur, in a far more familiar place - a stall, with several pencil scribbles on the wall, and with a confused mess latched onto his head. His body was soaked and his heart was ablaze. But he did not get up. He gasped, in a panic, then settled, and Franciszek spent a while sat, with his legs against his chest, back to the stall wall, and he breathed slowly.
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