[ Closed to Hilda. ]

Ear to the ground, as always — a true detective at heart — John Blake catches word of the disappearances in the Free Cities about as early as anyone can. Locals don't seem concerned at first. He's disappeared before a neighbor says when asked. She told me she was planning to go away a sibling admits haltingly of another disappearance a day later. And there's no real reason to disbelieve them, especially so early on, but his greater intuition doesn't allow him to rest.

There's something wrong here.

He's got a bad feeling about all of it, particularly as everyone becomes more and more restless. Blake's restless, too, especially as more reports come in. It's not only so-called easy targets being taken, but also warriors and cheesemongers and and shepherds and champions. No one's safe.

Heels itching to feel cobblestone, lungs aching for fresh air, running on fumes but too bothered to rest, he takes rounds. Hilda's along — probably Blake's only steady companion outside Mag at the Sarstina — and in the previous days he's relied greatly on her presence to feel centered. Sharing information, brewing theories and knocking them down just as quickly.

The tension's ticking up. The air feels heavy. Every day that passes, more people gone. Every night, fear in the streets.

"Talked to two people this mornin' that confirmed as many as five of those masked figures workin' together. Magic-wielders but not protected from injury. Consistent with the rest which brings the total on that block..." Blake leans his makeshift notebook towards the light of a window to catch a glimpse of his hasty shorthand. Quill is not his favorite writing implement. "Fifteen. All adults, at least, but..." He runs a hand down his face, distress written in the crinkling of his brow. "That's, like, twenty percent of those folks. Gettin' close to, if not."

Blake frowns, gaze lowering. Hilda would know. Sylvain — a familiar redhead Blake recognized as someone he'd met at the inn — and Claude, both close to Hilda, had disappeared themselves.

It's late — maybe close to midnight — and he's thinking they might pack it in soon. "It's progress. We can sleep on that," he says, but the knot in his throat and the burn in his gut says otherwise.

[ Open to one pod partner OR one pod rescuer — first come, first serve. ]

It's bottom of the ninth, bases are loaded. The tying run leads off first base for one, two, three balls, for one, two strikes. Blake steps back from the base to practice swing, bat loose in his grip. A bead of sweat crawls under his batting helmet and he swipes it with a sleeve as he steps up to the base. Squared off, at the ready, he knows this is do or die. Everything rides on this moment.

He narrows his gaze, dark eyes piercing in his determination. He's looking for clues, telltale signs of what's to come next. Cleats dig, squishing at some imaginary bug while seating properly. Taking a deep breath, time slows.

The wind-up, the pitch, a baseball right in the teeth—

Consciousness springs like a mountain lion, claws in his skin, teeth in his skull, and Blake gasps awake. He's got a beard of blood and he sputters more onto the fleshy interior of his confines. Vision black like pitch, lungs tight, skin searing, he's racked with wet, coppery coughs.

The Acolytes have done a number on him, and Blake doesn't have the mind to separate one pain from another at the moment. A broken finger? A broken rib? He'll be lucky if that's all (not that there's much luck to be found here).

Clawing into the darkness, he finds something and peels at it, wet and slimy and foreign of his body. He recoils, eyes streaming from the stinging invasion, nose running with snot and blood. He makes a strangled noise. It's something, though — walls or gills or clothes, and he fights at whatever it is, all pain and desperation and adrenaline.

"Fuck— Son of a—!"