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[smugliar]

"Right, sure, thanks."

He scoffs, still unable to match the other man's gaze.

Ace had wanted to go for a walk. It was boring by the fire waiting for others to return from their trials. He always got antsy during times of extended silence, and if sleep wouldn't take him, when Solitaire became dull, a walk was the only other thing to do.

He hadn't expected to find this, the motel, any of it. He had found a library of sorts in the woods. The Fog was like that, he discovered. Sometimes wandering off led you to an empty trial- perfect for looting some good finds. A lot of his walks sometimes caught him in loops, forcing him to make his way back to the campfire. But this had been different.

The study he found was in chaos. He knew the signs of a struggle when he saw one, having been on the receiving end of many. A lot of the books had single-word titles, almost written haphazardly. Ace had picked one up from the shelf-- Conviction, it read --but before he had taken a look inside a door caught his eye. It was oddly placed, tucked away down a shelved hallway, squished between two rows of books. It almost looked out of place. Among the worn varnish, there, in the middle of the door, sat a large triangle. It was still pristine from god knows how long this place had been here. Growing up, Ace had been scolded for his curiosity. He had been a nosey kid and that hadn't exactly gone away as he had gotten older, and that wasn't about to change then, either. So, naturally, he opened the door. The worst that could happen was he died, and that wasn't unfamiliar territory.

And that had led him to the motel, then here. A room full of florescent lighting and a drowning sense of familiarity, that Ace was currently watching circle the drain.

It ended up being some sort of secret government base he had stumbled into- the Bureau of Control. They served as some sort of hub for the paranormal. They assured Ace that it wasn't a prison, but the off-gray sweat suit wasn't exactly supporting their case.

The heart in his mouth now hangs somewhere suspended in his chest, tight and uncomfortable. Ace is trying to wrap his head around the concept that this isn't Miles-- his Miles --but some other guy who hadn't seen his guts time and time again. He almost doesn't believe him, that Miles doesn't recognize him sitting here. Fuck, he's almost embarrassed in the way he almost imminently shot up when Miles walked into the room.

He's trying to ignore how he doesn't laugh back, or how his stoic expression remains unmoved. Ace isn't lost on the dust of humor that's carried in his delivery. He gives a slight smirk at it but he can't ignore how it stings, as much as he tries to hide it. This feels like a joke.

"I wouldn't hold your bets, though." He lets out a short, breathless laugh, raising his head. "With the amount of head trauma I've probably gotten from every weapon in a horror killer's shed, I wouldn't be surprised if it already was."

@smugliar asked: "I'd love to blame this on a mass hallucination caused by inhaling volcanic gas, but we both know that's bullshit." aw2 starters || accepting

Wouldn't be the weirdest explanation he's heard for... well, for anything, really. The mundane is so much easier to believe, to compartmentalize, to accept. Everyone wants to blame haunted houses on carbon monoxide poisoning because that doesn't fundamentally alter your perception of reality.

The thing is that this guy hasn't seemed bothered by the notion that he'd skipped from one reality to another until now. When they found him in the motel he'd been casual about the circumstances, then apparently relieved when they pulled him out of the Oceanview and into the Oldest House. From what Miles gathered from the preliminary notes, the man has some understanding of shifting planes and alternate dimensions. He'd been lost -- trapped -- in another one, a darker one, and now he's here. That should be an improvement, and he'd been acting like it was one around the other agents and scientists until Miles entered the small interrogation room.

Interview room. Interrogation feels too pointed, too accusatory, even if the space is set up like every crappy procedural cop drama known to man. An ergonomic metal table and chairs. Obnoxious fluorescent lights. One-way glass off to the side. Except instead of officers and lawyers there's a slew of labcoats and clipboards on the other side, and the whole space is lined with Black Rock, and the light source isn't entirely identifiable. Still, he doesn't want to think of this guy like a criminal -- even if the way he's looking at Miles borders on twitchy. There's an easygoing persona about him, but the way his eyes keep darting across Miles' face suggests he's searching for something and coming up short.

That, and he said Miles' name the minute he walked in. Like it was a question. Like he recognized him. Not in a way that asked you must be but in a way that said is that really you?

Miles has let him do most of the talking. It's taken some prompting and persuading, and he can't fault the other for the lack of trust. He knows he hasn't gotten the full story by the time the man -- Ace Visconti, a fake name if he's ever heard one -- leans back in his seat and offers the neat little hallucinatory gas explanation, like he knows he sounds crazy and is trying to downplay it.

He's not looking at Miles anymore, but even then he's implicating him with his words. We both know that's bullshit. Like he's expecting the agent to go along with it. And the thing is, Miles almost wants to. He has half a mind to laugh like it's a joke, crack one of his own like this is a friendly conversation where he knows exactly what kind of comments he can get away with.

Do I know him? Do we know him?

The back of his skull prickles like pins and needles. That isn't a no.

"Mass hysteria's less common than you think -- real cases of it, anyway, not paranatural incidents the FBC has convinced people are all in their heads. Of course, this could all just be in your head, that's more likely than anything on a collective scale." There's humor in his tone in spite of the words themselves. He's not making light of what the other has been through, but his sense of tact is warped to say the least. "But you're right, I do know that's bullshit. Your story sounds credible to me. Fucked up, yeah, but credible." That nagging sense of recognition lingers, but he pushes it to the side, not wanting it in whatever official report comes out of this.

"So congrats for managing to dimension hop without scrambling your brain in the process. That's a rare feat around here."

[smugliar]

Hello

[smugliar]

I'm ready for the next cosmetics contest Might or might not color or shade this another time

[smugliar]

Saw this meme and knew what I had to do

[smugliar]

i'm in fact THE problem but at least i'm sexy

[smugliar]

continues drawing ace visconti (aggressive)

[smugliar]

U not supposed to understand me just enjoy the experience baby

[smugliar]

This is how I win. *loses*

[smugliar]

POV you got killed by a disco-looking bastard while 80s music is blaring in a casino

[smugliar]

I can't tell you everything rn but I have.... plans.

Not too sure how I feel about the white/green combo but I can vibe with it, for now. The white is to really help show him how much blood is on his hands- literally and figuratively.

He's gonna have phantom hands. A lot of survivors debate if the hands are even real because they slip out of sight so quickly if spotted. Ace can summon as many as he likes and they all come from the inside of his jacket or shirt where he can extend them a certain number of feet. When hitting the maximum length, or if they are damaged, dissipate into smoke. If in highly lit areas, the ghostly digits will remain lingering in the protection of his person but are still visible. Ace's eyes, much like the phantom hands, are sensitive to heavily lit areas as well.

The black smoke is for fun/flavour rn. I'm wondering if I wanna move the smoke to only come out of his coat instead, or if the limbs can extend from his heels/shoulders as well. Also, maybe, depending on whether he's using longer phantoms arms or shorter ones will dictate how many he can summon (ex: two longer hands consume more energy than a good handful of smaller ones.)

I've thought about perks but it isn't too important for rp purposes.

I think I made a longer post about what Ace's realm looks like and I will be compiling all that info into a verse bio or a post that I will pin on my verses page (which is still a mess lol)

Anyway, I have other thoughts but I don't want to make this post too long so!

[smugliar]

Me going into a game with a good ol healing build, ready to help randos, only to suddenly have someone get tombstoned right before my very eyes:

[smugliar]

Welcome to killer!ace's list of who he would most likely try to hang out with. This is based on the killer's base info and personal thoughts (maybe some self-indulgence mixed in there too)

I have thoughts about each killer as well. I might try to put that together over time but it's gonna take a while. I personally apologize to all the monster killers- I love them all so much.

[smugliar]

Local Weenie Begs For Life

[smugliar]

and now to see your love set free

A. WAKE. artist. photographer. the woman un-fridged. your husband has been gone dead for two nine thirteen years. you have been a widow longer than you were a wife. you packed away his things, compartmentalized your memories. you've had more therapists than lovers. your heart stopped clenching when you enter a bookstore. your mind stopped shutting down when you're caught in the dark. they tell you this is normal, this is grief, this is progress. you don't tell them exactly what you remember about the lake, the cabin, the last night you saw him. it's been thirteen years. you stopped wondering if anyone would believe you.

[smugliar]

Every so often I remember this idea I have for a killer! ace fic. I've never tried to write something in such a large volume before, and I'm worried that I won't do my idea justice lol

So it shall continue to live in my brain and I will rp and draw killer ace until I get tired of it lol

[smugliar]

how do you need to be touched?

gently you need to be held as though you're going to break. you need someone to trace your scars like cracks in a wall, crumbling. their touch is almost painful; you've been without it for too long, without someone to hold you. but, you cannot bring yourself to pull away.

[smugliar]

walriding​:

      The string of questions earns a scoff, accompanied by a smirk and a slightly furrowed brow – like the line of reasoning is worthy of indignation. “Do you wanna ask it to start doing party tricks?” A laugh, then, before he takes another long pull off the cigarette. He sets it down in the ashtray without stubbing out the smoldering end in case Ace is still inclined to share. “That’s your funeral, sweetheart.”

      Miles is in no mood to rouse it enough to ask, himself. He leans back in his seat, attention sliding towards the window and the world beyond. It’s sticky and still out there, without so much as a moth fluttering under the solitary fluorescent streetlight illuminating the parking lot. The crappy air conditioner just manages to take the edge off the heat in the room. As though it might help stave off the oppressive warmth, one more button of Miles’ shirt is undone than usual – exposing just enough skin for the faint edge of a warped scar to peek from the fabric.

      “I’d probably just make some poor gambler’s head explode if I started poking around looking at their cards, anyway.” He turns a sardonic look back on Ace like that’s supposed to be a teasing comment. “And we wouldn’t want that, now, would we?”

Finding himself too comfortable in his seat, the slight tickle of cool air hitting him just right, Ace only watches the cigarette find its home again in the tray. “You don’t need a supernatural bag of tricks to make that happen.” He’s unable to conceal the crooked grin that plasters onto his face. “Unless, you know, somehow a ghost gives better head.”

At the thought, he tilts his head curiously, studying Miles from across the table. Without the tinted shield of his sunglasses, his staring isn’t exactly subtle as he traces over the other man’s features like a familiar charted map. Ace’s expression turns impish. “Is it even possible for you two to get freaky? There have to be some perks to being possessed.”