Parahumans Forum
Section: Rumors
Thread: Evacuation Drills. Mandatory.
Author: GreenMistress ✅
Attention, Gotham.
Forget "maybe," "possibly," or any half-measures. As of today, Gotham City is under a State of Emergency. This isn't a discussion. It's not a request. It's a directive, issued by Floravita Industries and personally endorsed by me.
Why?
Because in two weeks, a storm could break over our city—over your homes, your families—that'll make Gotham's past "problems" look like a gentle breeze. We're preparing for the worst-case scenario. And so will you.
What's the plan? Evacuation drills.
Starting tomorrow morning and every day until the emergency is lifted, mandatory evacuation drills will be conducted citywide. Sirens will sound at random times. Treat them with the seriousness of a real alarm.
- Your Zone: Every block, every building, every resident is assigned to a specific evacuation zone and route. Check your address in the "Floravita SafeZone" app (update it!) or on physical notices posted in your lobbies, offices, and community centers by tonight. Study it. Memorize it. (See Attachment: "Gotham_Evacuation_Zones_FV_v1.png")
- Markers: Follow the glowing green arrow markers that will appear on walls, sidewalks, and buildings when the alarm sounds. They'll guide you to the shortest, safest path to your designated bunker or assembly point outside the danger zone. These markers are created by my plants—trust them more than your panic-driven sense of direction.
- Bunkers: Locations of primary fortified bunkers are marked on the map in the attachment. Know the one closest to you. Bunkers are equipped with my bioengineered plants that replenish water, medical supplies, and air. Their capacity is calculated. Move quickly, but don't panic.
- Assistance: Floravita Security personnel and volunteers, marked by glowing green armbands, will be stationed along routes and at bunkers. Follow their instructions. They know the plan.
- Plants are your allies: Don't fear the vine Ascendant reinforced vines, fast-growing barricades, or guiding tendrils. They're here to protect and direct you. Do not damage them. In a critical moment, they could save your life.
And now, the most important part.
These two weeks aren't just a countdown to a potential cataclysm. They're your last clean slate. Use them differently.
Want to confess your feelings? Do it. Now. Today. Grab flowers from the corner stand and go to her. To him. The chance that tomorrow might be too late is all too real.
Want to tell off your awful boss? Do it. Politely, but firmly. Say what's been eating at you. But words only—no fists, no weapons, no crime. Trust me, break that rule, and your fate will be far worse than any storm's wrath. I'll see to it personally. You won't find a corner of this city—or this world—where my roots can't reach you. Your pain will be long, deliberate, and end as fertilizer for a new generation of peaceful citizens. Your choice: freedom or eternity as compost.
Been saving for a car, a house, an island? Spend it. Now. Buy tickets to that concert you've always dreamed of. Take the kids to that amusement park. Order the priciest dinner at the fanciest restaurant. Don't drag your savings to a grave or a bunker. Money won't keep you warm in pitch-black chaos or feed you if civilization collapses. Experiences will. Memories will nourish your soul.
Live. Don't just exist, waiting for the end. Feel the sun on your skin. Hear the laughter of children. Breathe in the scent of morning coffee. Cherish every normal, quiet second. That's your most precious resource right now.
We're doing everything possible to prevent this nightmare—or to face it fully armed. But life is fragile. Your life is in your hands. Don't waste these days on fear, anger, or hoarding. Do what you want. Say what you must.
The alarm will sound tomorrow morning. Be ready. And good luck.
Adekvat228: Sigh… Here we go again. Just when I started living normally—green cards handed out, cleaner air—and now another global catastrophe?! Anyone know what's going on??? The post screams "threat," but what is it? A meteor? Zombies? Aliens? Or is Ivy just holding massive drills to keep us on edge? 🤔
SlaveGreen: @GreenMistress, so… should I grab some special flowers and confess my feelings to you? 👉👈 I mean, the end of the world's pretty close, right?
Adekvat228: @SlaveGreen, buddy, if you want the rest of your (apparently short) life to be spent in deep, existential despair after the inevitable rejection, go for it. Ivy's not the one you confess eternal love to. She's the one who'll make eternity happen—as compost.
MysterWho: @Adekvat228, you jinxed it, you bastard. 😱 Just saw a leaked video, theEnd.mp4. Sky's tearing open, giant armored creatures, cities burning like kindling. That's the "storm," isn't it?
SlaveGreen: @Adekvat228, SERIOUSLY, WHY'D YOU HAVE TO MENTION ALIENS?! 🤬 Now I know I'm gonna die soon and won't even get to confess my love! @MysterWho, is that video legit, or could it be a fake?
Adekvat228: Guys, I didn't cause this! This is some real apocalyptic shit! Alright… guess I'll book an elite-class escort. Wait. 🤔 If everyone's doing whatever they want, who's gonna show up to work? Who's baking bread? Driving the subway? Manning the register at Poisonous Cactus? Guess I'm not booking anything. Stay home, wait for the siren. 😔
MysterWho: @Adekvat228, don't sweat it, some desperate low-tier option will take double pay to hook you up. The internet's a mess—scammers are selling "absolute Storm protection" (just a plastic shield), "Guardian Angel summoning rituals" (instructions to burn your wallet), and "Ivy's Tree of Life amulets" (chunks of old parquet flooring). Meanwhile, business owners in chat groups are screaming for warehouse workers, cleaners, and security for bunker stockpiles—offering triple pay! Because 80% of people are striking: "Survive two weeks, then we'll work!"
LenaTheRealist: Everyone's yelling about escorts, Ivy's flowers, and jobs. Me? I hit the pharmacy. Stocked up on painkillers, antibiotics, bandages, iodine, contraceptives (for any apocalyptic scenarios), and haloperidol to keep my husband from losing it early. Oh, and I got CHOCOLATE for the kids! If it's the end, they'll have chocolate. And y'all are over here… 🤦♀️
OldManGotham: Ugh, kids these days… Back when the mob ran things, we knew our enemies—gangsters, crazy clowns. Now? A "storm." Sky's splitting. And drills… like the good ol' nuclear days: "Duck! Cover! Die stylishly!" Guess I'll teach my grandson how to break a wall with a crowbar—might come in handy for a bunker. 🔨
The LUX club loomed over nighttime Los Angeles, not as a garish neon nightmare but as a sleek artifact of black glass and polished metal. The sign's letters, glowing with warm gold from within, felt like an ironic signature on the domain of a Fallen Angel. LUX—Light. Alex smirked to himself, brief and humorless. What a twisted joke, naming the lair of the Lord of Hell after what he'd lost.
Crossing the threshold, Alex braced for Hell. He expected screams of damned souls, the stench of sulfur, mangled bodies dancing in flames, or at least demons in classic horned hides. Reality was far more insidious in its deception.
Smooth, sultry jazz wove through the air. The atmosphere was cool, laced with expensive cologne, tobacco, and the scent of aged liquor. The lighting—dim, golden—picked out velvet couches, ebony tables, and the glint of crystal glasses. The crowd was stunning, wealthy, impeccably dressed. Men in tailored suits, women in dresses worth more than a Gothamite's yearly income. They laughed, flirted, murmured in hushed tones. No horns, no hooves, no blazing eyes. No obvious horrors.
And yet. The shadows in the corners seemed thicker, more alive than they should. The silences between jazz notes weren't pauses but the held breath of something vast. This was Hell, draped in glamour and human forms. A Hell that didn't scare—it seduced.
Feeling the weight of unseen eyes, Alex headed for the bar. The long onyx counter reflected the muted light like a dark mirror. Behind it, a bartender worked. She looked to be in her early thirties. Chestnut hair, tied in a flawless bun, framed sharp but pleasing features. White shirt, black vest. Her movements were efficient grace incarnate: bottles glided in her hands like parts of a complex machine, glasses spun under cloth with perfect precision, ice chimed like crystal bells. This wasn't human dexterity—it was perfection.
Alex took a seat at the bar's empty end.
"Whiskey," he said quietly, his voice cutting through the jazz with ease.
The bartender didn't flinch. Her brown eyes flicked to him for a moment—a cold, predatory glance, poised before a strike. She nodded, almost imperceptibly. Her fingers found a label-less bottle of dark blue glass, pouring a precise measure of amber liquid into a heavy crystal tumbler. She set it before him. The scent hit hard—peat, sea salt, the smoke of oak barrels.
"Where's Lucifer?" he asked, direct, locking eyes with her. His tone was steady, devoid of deference or fear.
The bartender stopped wiping a glass. She set it down slowly and turned to face him fully. Her expression remained neutral, but a shadow of something—mockery or surprise—flickered at the corners of her lips.
"Oh," she said, her voice low, smoky like a fine cigar. "You're easy on the eyes, no question. But his current… interests are strictly on the feminine side." Her tone carried a faint, unmistakable boredom.
Alex raised an eyebrow, not from doubt—he felt the truth in her words. The Devil, Prince of Darkness, had earthly weaknesses after all. The irony was cosmic.
"Charming," he replied dryly. "But my intentions are far from romantic. You're a demon, aren't you?"
She tilted her head, studying him with sudden, keen interest. Her professional mask cracked, revealing the curiosity of an ancient being encountering something new.
"Well, now," she whispered, her voice taking on a faint, hissing edge. "What tipped you off that I'm not quite… flesh and blood?" Her index finger traced the counter's edge. A sharp, unnaturally long nail, usually hidden by polish, scraped the stone with a chilling screech, leaving a thin white mark that vanished instantly.
Alex didn't flinch. His gaze stayed fixed on her eyes.
"You're behind the bar at LUX," he said calmly, stating a fact. "Lucifer Morningstar's personal club. Logic suggests the staff here is… curated. Expecting a temp agency hire would be naive." He leaned forward slightly. "Plus, I expected less human and more… essential."
Her smile widened, turning openly predatory. A cold, playful glint sparked in her eyes, like a cat toying with prey.
"Like this, you mean?" she hissed, her voice now the rustle of dry leaves on stone. And she dropped the veil.
Not for the whole room. Just for him. The illusion of her human form melted like a mirage. Before Alex stood a face of Eternity that had known Decay. Skin, perhaps once flawless, was now parched parchment, translucent in places, revealing dark, charred bone. Cracks, deep and abyssal like canyons on a dead world, spread from the corners of a lipless mouth and empty eye sockets. In those sockets burned two cold emerald flames—not eyes, but windows to endless void and pain. A scent hit him—cloying rot mixed with the dust of ancient tombs and acrid, choking sulfur. This was the face of Death itself, masquerading as a bartender.
Alex didn't recoil or blink. His breath deepened for a fraction of a second, his fingers tightening on the glass until they whitened. He forced himself to meet those burning voids.
"Honestly?" His voice was steady, with just a hint of gravel. "I was picturing something more… latex, red leather, stylish horns. Cliché, I know. But the aesthetic of eternal decay… it's got its own charm." He set the untouched glass on the counter deliberately. "Now that we've established your true nature, where's Lucifer? Time's not a luxury—it's a dwindling resource."
The bartender's true face—demoness? Ancient spirit? Threshold guardian?—didn't shift, but the flames in her sockets flickered, as if stirred by a sudden gust. A chill of surprise rippled through her unseen essence. She hadn't encountered such icy composure before her true form in centuries.
The human mask snapped back instantly. Pleasant face, flawless hair. Only her eyes remained bottomless wells of hidden power and chilling cold.
"No clue, darling," she replied, picking up the glass and wiping it with exaggerated care. Her voice was velvet again, but now laced with steel. "He's… unpredictable. Especially when he's chasing his eternal muse, Detective Chloe Decker." Her tone dripped with disdainful regret. "He might walk through that door in five minutes. Or he might jet off to the ends of the earth for her for a month. Who knows?"
Alex inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly, pushing irritation aside with cold determination. When he opened his eyes, they burned with resolve.
"Fine," he said quietly. "I'll wait. Until dawn." He pushed the whiskey away, as if rejecting temptation itself. "But if His Radiant Fall doesn't grace his own domain by first light, I'll track him down myself."