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Watch out.

The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?


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Guy has a really mundane boring corporate grind existence
Getting progressively more and more sick of it, spiralling
Some manner of transformation or physical metamorphosis begins to occur to him.

Everyday, Jacob goes to work
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh it’s just one of those days…”
And everyday he wonders what is happening to him.
haunted house from the perspective of the house

ex-owner fell fell in love with the house and ended up murder-suiciding spouse to be with house
became ghost haunting the house
uses a pipe
not happy new people have moved into house

"So, Lucille. Why do you think I called you in today?"

Luce paused. Dr. Lehrer exuded an aura of calm and welcome, but there was an edge of absolute control that creeped up behind you if you paid enough attention. Luce was carefully attuned to the fine-print of people around her; she spent a lot of time slipping through it, tip-toeing cautiously around the peripheries of attention. Only step into notice when absolutely necessary. Otherwise, skirt beneath it.

No such luck stuck in a stuffy, sparsely-decorated office under the ever-watchful eye of P.R.C.U. Chancellor Jonas Lehrer, eyes twinkling as they stared you down like a hawk watching a particularly bold-feeling field mouse. The hairs on the back of Luce's neck stood up, and she suppressed a shiver.

"To learn about me." She finally answered, and was surprised when Jonas chortled rather suddenly, his guffaw devolving into a cough as he reined himself in and re-gathered his composure.
"Ah, Ms. Calder," he replied, clearing his throat, "you make it sound so...academic. Like this is all in the name of research."

Luce raised a single eyebrow, genuinely confused.
"With respect, Dr. Lehrer - is it not?"
Jonas shrugged in a gesture of defeat, leaning back in his chair, all the while his gaze never breaking.
"What do you understand this institution to be, Lucille?"
Luce's mouth twitched near-imperceptibly. He kept using Lucille. It was what her mother had taken to calling her after the...after. No one called her 'Luce' anymore. She rolled her shoulders slightly, feeling that edge of control creeping down her back again.
"A school." She answered, curt and withdrawn. Jonas nodded, but said nothing, just let the silence hang in the air. "A boot camp." She said, Jonas only continuing to nod slowly, solemnly. She felt mocked, and could feel heat in her cheeks. "A lab."

Jonas stood, still taking those slow, ponderous nods, his eyes off Luce now but his attention never wavering. He walked toward the office door, pausing ever-so-subtly by the shelf-ful of folders as he did so, almost in an act of contrition toward Luce's accusatory outburst.
"A lot of students feel trepidations in their first few weeks, Lucil-"
"It's Luce." Luce demanded, suddenly standing and all bristles, anxiety and uncertainty discarded in the wake of self-assertion.

Jonas smiled the warmest smile he'd worn since she'd stepped in, and Luce immediately felt like she'd played right into his hand. The wind was sucked out of her at the realisation, and she relaxed her posture, almost amused by how meticulously he had lead her through the tension that had now been thoroughly deflated.
"It's been a pleasure to meet you, Luce. I'm looking forward to getting to know you better during your education with us." He opened the office door, gesturing with his arm in a gentle invitation to leave. "Do let the next pupil know I'll be ready for them shortly."

Location: Community Farm - P.R.C.U. Campus
The Homecoming Trials #1.22: Grounding Techniques

Interaction(s): None
Previously: In Vivo

All she needed first was a deep breath.

Perhaps a deeper one that what she'd taken.

The assembly had been fine - standard fare - nothing Luce hadn't expected from the opening of the semester. The usual platitudes, the national anthem (which she sung easily, being reminded of her elementary school days, though she heard several murmured, fumbled, or incorrect lyrics amongst the crowd), an opening address by the figureheads of the university's faculty. Cass, whom she'd recognised by virtue of shared lingering around the campus ahead of the start of term, had sat next to her, sporting his own Blackjack armband. He nodded politely, which she returned. She was glad he was as content to sit silently as she was - others (that she noticed, much to her chagrin, shared the Blackjack armband) weren't quite so self-aware.

It had all spiraled away from her with the announcement of the Homecoming Trials, and the revelation of a weekend retreat upon which she had been forcibly conscripted. The mere mention of the Southern Plateau injected ice into her veins, and she felt rooted to the spot while the rest of the student body slowly filtered out of the stadium stands; her knuckles went white where she gripped the sides of her seat, her brain tumbling over itself as it processed the development. On the verge of a panic attack, Luce heard Dr. Mercia's words, echoing in the back of her head. Ground yourself. Deep breaths. Five things you can see. In through the nose. Five things you can hear. Out through the mouth. Five things you can feel.

The attack subsided, and Luce opened her eyes taking a few more shaky breaths as the crowd continued to move around her. Carefully, she stood up, her feet and legs feeling heavy as she willed them to take one step after another, dragging herself finally out of the stadium amongst the final dregs of pupils filtering out. From the gates of the arena, the walk back to her dorm room felt impossibly long, but with each new step the anxiety lessened, and as she passed by the farm block on her way and saw the greenhouse in the distance, she felt calm and in control. The dragon loomed in the back of her mind, agoraphobia threatening to spill over, but she knew she could stem the flow, dam it so as to only let trickles through rather than flood completely. By the time she'd made it to the dorm room it was with a newly-steeled outset. P.R.C.U. was a new beginning; she could not let that fresh start be tainted by the past she so desperately sought to leave behind.

Otherwise this was all for nothing.
Me juggling 3 RPs at once:

#1.02: Meow or never
Previously: #1.01

With a soft, completely non-ominous ding, the lift came to a gentle halt, and the doors in front of her slid open without fanfare. Stretched out beyond the elevator shaft lay Waynetech R&D, and for all that Kitrina was aware of what kind of research was done down here, the department existed without any kind of aplomb or grandeur. It was just...sterile. White tile and fluorescent lighting, lots of glass walls and computer stations. The lift opened into a pseudo-lobby, the only ways out of which were either back up the elevator, or through a large set of sliding doors that required specific access to open. Access that Kitrina really hoped Tom had, or she really would have to take that rain-check visit to the bar.

The moment of truth was very much anti-climactic; rather than any grand entrance or klaxons blaring, she simply swiped Tom's ID card over the reader on the wall, which flashed a green light and beeped a very soft beep, and then the sliding doors gently parted, letting Kitrina pass through them before gently sliding shut once more. She was almost disappointed; grand larceny, she felt, should happen with more fanfare.

Instead, she stepped deeper into the room, releasing a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. It was quiet, and the warehouse-like space stretched away in front of her, concrete pillars dotting the landscape, interspersed with workbenches, computer desks, and occasional racks of steel shelving, with drawers that Kitrina supposed were electromagnetically sealed. The odd filing cabinet was the final touch, dist accumulating atop their flat surfaces and in the grooves, indicating a long-passed migration to digital-only records, which was Kitrina's first planned port of call. She chose a desk at random, pocketing Tom's ID and checking the time. She needed to be quick, and clean, and quiet. In and out.

The computer whirred to life as she wiggled the mouse, the on-standby monitor lighting up quickly. Locked, obviously, she had anticipated this, but that's what the irrelevant, eyebrow-raising question that started the whole shebang came into play; she typed "SYSADMIN OVERRIDE" into the user field on the login screen, and suppressed a smug giggle when she hit enter and a small reader-drive, with the perfect, finger-shaped print-scanner, popped out of the front of the PC unit.

Kitrina rummaged in her bag and retrieved a latex glove, some moisturizing spray, and a well-prepared sellotape print sample she'd collected while dutifully tidying up the mugs left scattered after an inter-departmental standup meeting with key members of the board, that she'd had to dress up extra nice and play extra coy for, in order to extract the login overrides of the Lead Research Strategy Administrator. Thanks, Marty. I hope your resume is up to snuff.

The computer booted a sparse, minimal database display, and Kit suddenly found herself bored just from glancing at the blinking, matrix-green, ASCII-esque format. There were project labels and codename listed one after the other, with nothing to distinguish what each was or what it pertained to or even who was involved; just a long list of context-less words, each provided with a date, some initials, and a status indicator. She scrolled mindlessly for a couple minutes, the database whirring past glazed eyes; she began to envision what a legitimate data-entry career at Wayne Enterprises might look like, and how long she might last until the inevitable suicide, when suddenly a break in the monotony drew her attention. Project KASHA; initials redacted. Date redacted. Status redacted. She scrolled down until the project was highlighted, and hit enter. Rather than specs, a description, or even a simple 'access denied' alert, she instead got what seemed to be some manner of personal note.

Received request for closure of this project. All records and specs have been purged from database as instructed, but I am leaving this addendum for posterity and audit purposes.

Personal note: [REDACTED] said black ops contract for this one fell through when I asked. But that doesn't explain why Mr. [REDACTED] came down here personally to discontinue it. It was requested all project-related work be destroyed, but we made some accomplishments here. Final prototype has been secured and locked up in 34F-A. It'll never see the light of day, but that doesn't mean we can't be proud of what we can achieve down here. A shame to erase all evidence.

Okay, you got me curious, Kit thought, and closed the note and the database down before switching off the computer and running through racking in search of 34F-A. Whatever Project KASHA was, it seemed like it was exactly what she'd been looking for - something meaty, something that implicated the company, and most serendipitous of all, something that appeared to involve old Brucey-boy himself. She almost skipped along the rows, skimming her fingers across labeled shelves and locked drawers until finally, she found herself at 34F-A, and staring at an unassuming steel drawer, with a single keyhole to the side of the handle. 'Secured', huh? Must have different definitions...she mused, as a single bobby pin and some deft finger-work picked the lock pin-by-pin, until she elicited an oh-so-satisfying *click*, and the drawer pulled smoothly open to reveal an unremarkable, black, heavy-set attache case.

The moment felt somewhat anticlimactic. She had no better leads, and no real time to scrounge one up regardless, so here it was: practical but boring, the briefcase forbidden by God. Or Bruce Wayne at least, and in Gotham there wasn't much of a difference. She grasped the handle firmly in one hand and lifted, expecting resistance - some kind of fancy magnetic lock, or wire-bolt security. There was none; the case simply came out of the drawer.

And then the klaxons went off.
"Aaah, Miss. Calder. I've been expecting you. Please, have a seat."

Dr. Lehrer gestured to the empty chair in front of his desk, smiling warmly as he made eye contact with Luce. She stood in front of the door, still clutching the doorknob behind her back after closing it, the corners of the wooden embellishments digging into her shoulder blades as she leant against it. Lehrer's office felt oppressive and uninviting, in stark defiance to the good doctor's warm demeanor; wooden beams spanned the ceiling, and the walls were raw brick with splashes of shelves and cabinets across them, housing transparent clocks, endless folders, anatomical diagrams with attached notation, and framed displays of pinned insects. Butterflies were fastened belly-up, wings splayed out, all laid bare for examination by scholarly eyes. Luce felt a pang of empathy.

She cleared her throat and stepped forwards, releasing her white-knuckle grip and sitting quietly in the plush leather. Her knees were locked fiercely together and she knotted her arms across her chest; it looked like she was shrinking inwards, imploding in an effort to avoid the unavoidable conversation. Jonas simply let the silence hang in the air, his eyes twinkling with a knowing patience. Eventually, the silence grew too loud.

"You wanted to see me, Dr. Lehrer?" Luce managed, her voice croaky and breaking. She avoided talking these days, preferring to observe and analyze, trying to predict a conversation or a situation so she could better fit into it. Leading had never been her strong suit. Her brothers had been better at that.

"I want to see all our students, Lucille. I enjoy meeting all P.R.C.U.'s fresh pupils for the first time; it's refreshing to have our first conversations, free from preconceptions."
Jonas smiled again, and Luce attempted a smile back, thin-lipped and uncertain.
"I do like these conversations to be driven by the students, though. I find it benefits both of us more than a traditional interview."
Luce nodded, still holding that wan, tight-mouthed smile, still keeping her arms coiled across her.
"So, Lucille. Why do you think I called you in today?"

Location: Community Farm - P.R.C.U. Campus
The Homecoming Trials #1.07: In Vivo

Interaction(s): None
Previously: None

The early-morning sun was warm on Luce's back as she knelt over the soil in P.R.C.U.'s greenhouse. Beyond the glass panes she could hear the low hustle-and-bustle of students and faculty coming and going - things were busying up these days in the run up to the opening of the semester - and also the occasional chirp-squawk from the seabirds that inhabited the isle; but in here they were muffled, and with a little bit of focused attention Luce could tune them out and concentrate solely on the seedbed in front of her. She could shuffle along, inch by inch, sidling her small bag of tools along with her to plant, water, prune, re-root, and in doing so work herself into a comfortable rhythm and achieve a sense of peaceful calm. Around her, all manner of produce sprung fruitfully from the earth: tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, asparagus. Right now she was tending to some aubergines that she'd planted last week, and that had begun to sprout healthily.

'Exposure Therapy', Dr. Mercia had called it. Gardening was well regarded as therapeutic and a good, centering activity, teaching valuable skills while also allowing allegory to take hold in a patient's mind; but for Lucille, it doubled as a way to become more comfortable in the outdoors and around wildlife again, albeit in a far more controlled, low-scale manner as compared to braving some of the forest trails that populated the acreage surrounding the academy. The idea had been floated, for certain, but Luce had turned full-face at the idea of it; the trees loomed like spectres in the distance anytime she moved between buildings on campus, and the thought of approaching them, willingly offering herself to be devoured by the forest once again, was far more than she was capable of bearing.

Gardening, as it turned out, was a suitable middle-ground. Luce had been forced, like the rest of the student body, to take a community elective to assist in the day-to-day running of the university, and when the topic came up in Luce's weekly sessions, Dr. Mercia had practically forbidden her from taking any of the indoor electives. They'd compromised, and much to Luce's surprise the greenhouse had quickly become a home-away-from-home - or home-away-from-dorm-room, from her perspective - and she often found herself toiling away at the dirt in her down-time even outside of allotted community placement hours. She had developed a surprising aptitude for it, and Luce would often feel a rush of pride when seeing some of the fruits (and vegetables) of her labour appear in the canteen.

Luce was interrupted from her green-thumbed meditation by the trumpeting call that signaled the day's start, and she stuck her trowel firmly in the dirt next to the tomato plant she had sized up for pruning, marking her place for when she returned. She stood, and quickly discarded the academy jumpsuit she'd been provided; beneath was the day's uniform, pressed and pristine, if now a bit rumpled around the knees where she'd been kneeling. She touched a hand to her 'Blackjack' armband, delivered to her temporary dorm just the night before. It represented so many unknowns, so many uncertainties, but also a fresh start, a chance to learn who she really was. Organized education hadn't suited her in the past, but P.R.C.U. wasn't exactly aligned with how the rest of the world approached a formal academic institution; there was opportunity here to seek a new beginning, and discover where she was supposed to be.

All she needed first was a deep breath.

- -|◄ FIRST---
<Snipped quote by Retired>

If I don't have something up this week, kick me.

Only a short one but needed to get the antagonists for my plans in play - now we can move on to the juicy stuff of what they're actually up to.

I'm in Scotland on holiday from Sunday until Thursday but will try and get some writing done in the evenings/downtime for something to post on my return.
#1.03: Awake, Arise
Previously: #1.02

Hooves crunched on rocky ground as flames licked the air from where Blackheart stepped through to the mortal plane. Hell closed behind him, and with it a gust of hot, sulphuric wind that singed the leaves of nearby trees. Blackheart breathed deep, swallowing lungfuls of air, marveling in the peaty, earthen fragrances of the woods he had spawned into. The forestry was still and quiet, eerily so; it seemed even the trees feared what had suddenly appeared amidst them, and Blackheart felt the trunks themselves straining to leave, the very flora of Earth rejecting his blasphemous presence. No matter; his will was strong, and he pressed it against the world, daring it to push back. It didn't. He was free to stay.

Blackheart stepped forward, and as he walked his form flickered and morphed. Hooves became feet became clad in leather-bound shoes; the tendrils that sprouted from his head were replaced by thick locks of hair cascading down his back; his tail sloughed off, flaking away into nothingness as it lay on the forest floor; ridged, scaly skin smoothed itself out and became a heavy-set coat that fell to his ankles. He could feel a burning in his eyes as the pure darkness gave way to sclera and pupils, eyes that he blinked with previously-absent eyelids. By the time he reached the woodland's edge, Blackheart resembled nothing of the towering, sinewed frame he had be born as; he appeared as a gentleman, a person of means, alluring but subtly frightening. There was an edge of the uncanny to look at him, like a high-pitched whine just on the edge of your hearing. You wouldn't place what it was, but he would unnerve you. By the time he revealed why, it would be too late.

"If you're quite done with your self-admiration, we have a duty to attend to." Came a woman's voice through the clearing ahead, stirring Blackheart from his narcissistic rumination. He growled subtly, still flexing and stretching as the new skin settled and he accustomed himself to his new form.

"Tis not thy place to demand haste of me." Blackheart rumbled, his voice a low, menacing drone, absent of emotional inflection. "My father is assured of my fealty."
"I'm not questioning your loyalty to Mephisto, Blackheart." Ana Helstrom replied, appearing as if from thin-air in front of the demon as she waved her glamour away. She appeared more convincingly human that Blackheart did, owed to her more mortal origins, but the signs of her time spent in Hell were still plainly apparent: ever-burning embers at the frayed edges of her hair; extremities of her skin deepening in colour toward tones of ashen greys and burnt blacks; gnarled, curved horns budding through her scalp. Her eyes looked Blackheart's new visage up and down. "But the profane perfection of your genesis affords you privilege here that I have forsaken."

Blackheart merely lifted an eyebrow, not bothering to utter his question. Ana sighed.
"You have asserted your will upon this plane, and it has submitted to you. But it rejects my infernal presence, and maintaining myself exhausts me."
"You require sustenance." Blackheart said, at once understanding Ana's eagerness. She nodded.
"Quite so. Your father sent us to send him an army. We shall have to find...extra."
Blackheart smiled, his maw twisting into an expression that didn't quite seem to fit the outer bounds of his face. To find reason to deliver suffering beyond what Mephisto had charged him with; it filled him with fiendish delight. He felt voracious for the evil he now had the opportunity to inflict.
"Then we shall seek sustenance, good sister; lest you find yourself paling from this horizon."

They traveled onward, leaving the woods behind them. The city lay at their feet, and they would soon wreak havoc.
@AndyC @PatientBean @Supermaxx @TGM @Natty @Webboysurf @Sep @Mao Mao @Bork Lazer @Mintz @Redcord @udonoodles @Roman

Tagging those who have not yet contacted me. Please let me know via the OOC or PMs on whether you are continuing with the RP or not, and a rough estimate on when your next post will be up.

In the event of Andy, I understand you've been waiting for the event to progress and I'll be typing something up after I post this to help move things forward, without taking agency out of your or udonoodle's hands as the two players currently still involved.

Starting Monday, I'm going to begin enforcing the two-week (14 day) posting requirement more strictly.

If I don't have something up this week, kick me.
"Whatever doesn't kill you..."
▅▅▅▅▅▅ Y E A R B O O K P H O T O ▅▅▅▅▅▅
▅▅▅▅▅▅ Y E A R B O O K P H O T O ▅▅▅▅▅▅

▅▅▅▅▅ S T U D E N T S U M M A R Y ▅▅▅▅▅
▅▅▅▅▅ S T U D E N T S U M M A R Y ▅▅▅▅▅

Lucille 'Luce' Amanda Calder
January 27th, 2005 | 18 | Caucasian
Single | Female | Pan-romantic Ace
Houston | British Columbia | Canada

P H Y S I C A L P R O F I L E ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S
M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S ▅▅▅▅▅▅

N O T E S ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

S T U D E N T S Y N O P S I S ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

A Canada Native, Lucille hails from Houston BC, a small mining and forestry town which sees an influx of ecotourism throughout the year. Growing up the youngest child to a single mother of 3, she had few prospects afforded to her; she didn't fare well in school, her brothers were ambivalent to her social failings, and her mother, though meaning well, was simply too overworked and exhausted to properly parent her only daughter. It looked like, unless fate graced her with some great serendipitous incident, she would grow, live, and die in Houston BC. It would seem, then, that fate is in possession of a cruel sense of humour.

Fate did indeed visit upon Lucille, but it brought with it calamity, not providence. On a family camping trip - the cheapest way their mother could provide a 'vacation' for the kids - a particularly stormy night brought disaster upon them. Weakened trees from small wildfires finally gave way beneath the force of the storm, and came crashing down directly on their tents.

Lucille's brothers were both killed immediately, crushed and speared. Her mother was trapped, both legs broken and pinned beneath a tree. Only Luce was free, but she by no means emerged unscathed; she had escaped being utterly pulverized by the tree-trunk, but errant branches had gored her through, puncturing a lung, her stomach, and unknown to Lucille, her heart; yet she felt no pain, her movement was barely hindered, and she continued to breath and pump blood and walk without severe issue all the way back into town and to the fire station. Her journey allowed emergency workers to mobilize and save her mother - but in the aftermath, it also revealed to Luce and the town that she was far from the normal, unassuming girl she had resigned herself to being. She was a hype, and such a designation came with its own connotations and assumptions.

Lucile struggled with survivor's guilt and agoraphobia following her incident, and her mother struggled with losing her sons and receiving only a controversial discovery about her daughter in return. Eventually, it was agreed that the resources she needed were not available to her in Houston; the only place for her was P.R.C.U., and she found herself quickly enrolled and awaiting the ferry in St. Rupert.
A B I L I T I E S, L I M I T A T I O N S, & W E A K N E S S E S
A B I L I T I E S, L I M I T A T I O N S, & W E A K N E S S E S ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

H Y P E R H U M A N A B I L I T Y || H Y P E R - A D A P T I V E S U R V I V A B I L I T Y

Lucille's hype-gene has mutated specifically alongside her immune system and fight-or-flight response. When presented with physical trauma or sudden terror, before adrenaline floods her blood supply, a unique secondary hormone produced by her hype-gene is secreted from her adrenal glands. This hormone first blocks the receptors at her nerve endings, completely shutting down the nervous system pain response and instead replacing any incoming trauma signals with a direct signal to the endocrine system to produce further and further adrenaline. Then, mutated hype-adrenaline bonds with her muscles and completely replaces the aerobic/anaerobic respiration function, eliminating lactic acid build-up and allowing indefinite function without exhaustion. Finally, the bonded hype-gene hormone and mutated adrenaline flood her skull cavity, pass through the pia mater into the blood vessels of the brain, and signal the activation of an extremely intense, subconscious form of auto-bio-kinesis. This bio-kinesis allows Lucille's lower-level brain functions to take over the immune system response, and enable the rewiring of muscles, organs, blood supply systems, and bones on-the-fly to adapt to endure any and all incoming trauma without ceasing overall bodily function.

Once trauma has ceased or the threat has been escaped, the hormone stops signalling, and the mutated adrenaline floods the immune system entirely. The body then expedites the recovery of injury, drawing adrenaline from its various appendages and organs in order to facilitate quickened recovery while allowing maximum up-time of the unconscious bio-kinesis to aid natural physical recovery - and finally, the adrenaline is purged from the brain entirely, shutting off the bio-kinesis and being disseminated as the final healing 'booster'.

All these processes combined result in Luce being able to sustain intense physical trauma well above and beyond what would be typically fatal for a human, without feeling pain, losing motor or organ function, or slowing or shutting down - and then being able to recover from the trauma to full-functioning capacity at an increased rate after-the-fact.


While Lucille's ability makes her incredibly difficult to permanently put down, there are limits to the damage she is able to repair. Amputation of any limb will require surgical intervention to reattach; Luce is not able to re-grow missing limbs or hold it in place and heal the separation. Complete incineration of flesh also stymies the healing process. Finally, while Lucille is able to survive catastrophic amounts of physical trauma, she is afforded very little additional strength, and methods to incarcerate or immobilize most people will work just as well on her.

In short, while Luce can survive with extreme aptitude, amputation, cremation, or incarceration are effective ways to eliminate her from any active situation, or kill her completely.


Lucille's ability to adapt and survive hinges on the mutated hype-gene hormone and adrenaline combination reaching her brain and activating her latent bio-kinetic powers. This bio-kinesis is then run subconsciously without active control by Lucille. Without the brain, there is no bio-kinesis - so a sure-fire way to kill Luce is to remove the head, or destroy the brain.

Additionally, while Lucille is almost purpose-built to weather injury, her power does little against mental trauma, as evidenced by the lasting emotional scars from her fateful camping trip. She possesses a heavy fear of forests and woodland, especially densely-treed areas, and suffers from agoraphobia, worsening as she leaves urban and city developments. She's also shouldering an unhealthy amount of remorse and self-blame alongside the grief for her brothers, born from survivor's guilt and her mother's difficulties with her after the incident.

P E R S O N A L P R O M P T S ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

Y O U A W A K E I N T H E D E A D O F N I G H T, W H A T W O K E Y O U?

Luce shifted uncomfortably in her seat, crossed arms seeming to constrict tighter across her chest and her fists gripping tight enough to turn her knuckles white. She looked straight down, avoiding the gaze of her therapist, Dr Gila Mercia.
"Nightmare." She finally offered, after several seconds of silence indicated that she wasn't going to escape without answering.
"Of course; nightmares have a way of surfacing those things we're often using sleep to avoid." Dr. Mercia replied, marking something down on the notepad in front of her. "And what is this nightmare about?"
Luce looked even more uncomfortable, and her eyes started darting around the room, looking for anything to distract or divert, anywhere but the patient, staring eyes of her doctor.
"Lucille, if you don't talk to me, none of this is going to work."
"Forest." She answered, very quickly. "Always the forest."
Gila nodded, and made some more notes.

A D I S H E V E L E D S T R A N G E R A P P R O A C H E S Y O U A S K I N G F O R H E L P, H O W D O Y O U R E S P O N D?

Lucille shook her head, her hair juddering side-to-side as she shook in short, sharp motions. Dr. Mercia watched her carefully, no hint of judgement or unkindness in her eyes. Luce eventually stopped, and then there was a tangible moment of consideration and dawning realization.
"Help. Have to help." Luce answered, with a grounded assurance that was rare to hear from her.
"Have to help?" Gila prodded, making a quick note on the paper. "Why have to, Lucille? Why do you feel obligated?"
Luce nodded slowly, clearing her throat and taking even, measured breaths.
"I was a disheveled stranger. I needed help. Can't turn someone else away."
Dr. Mercia put her pen down momentarily, smiling at Luce over the rim of her glasses. Luce managed eye contact.
"Very good, Lucille. That's a very noble perspective."

A N I N T R U D E R A L A R M H A S B E E N S E T O F F O N C A M P U S, H O W D O Y O U R E A C T?

"I guess...follow the instructions?" Luce offered, uncertain tones marking the edges of her voice. She was struggling to handle the concept emotionally, even the mere idea of an incident on-campus troubling her. P.R.C.U. was meant to be a sanctuary, a safe haven where she could learn and heal - the thought of that safety being shattered loomed over her and cast deep shadows across her mind.
"I can sense you're finding the idea distressing, Lucille. What specifically about the situation upsets you?"
"This school is supposed to be safe." Luce answered, with a good amount of venom behind it. Remorse flashed across her face immediately. Gila gave a small smile of forgiveness.
"We all have a part to play in preserving that safety, Lucille." She said, gently. "And you're better equipped than most to weather danger when it arises."
Luce took a deep breath, steadying herself and forcing her turbulent mind to be quiet.
"You're right." She said, with convincing finality. "I'd help. I'd do whatever I can to help."

S U P P O R T I N G C A S T ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

"Accepting you need help is the first step to healing."
D R . G I L A M E R C I A , P h D || P S Y C H I A T R I C T H E R A P I S T
D R . G I L A M E R C I A , P h D || P S Y C H I A T R I C T H E R A P I S T
Lucille's therapist, Dr. Gila Mercia holds a doctorate in Psychology from the University of Toronto, and now works at P.R.C.U. in a combination research and therapeutic role. She acts as a weekly psychiatrist with many of the college's troubled students, and also leads research into the psychology of hyper-humans and how the manifestation of abilities in adolescence impacts psychological development. A patient, compassionate woman, she is committed to the health of her patients, and Luce is no exception.

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