|There's a little bit of forest you used to go to all the time when you were young, and you still go there when you want a break from the dash of city life. Like all things from your childhood, it seems so much smaller now, and safer. Except not anymore - it turns out a gang's hiding in there, and now you're running madly through the woods as they chase after you, firing their guns whenever they catch sight of you. You daren't go out in the open where you're an easy target, but they're closing in on your position... You trigger as one of them breaks through the brush and fires at you.||-pantherasapiens||Once a trigger is used, remove completely from this list, and add to used triggers tab (see bottom of page).|
Moronic, joke, and thoughtless triggers aren't as cool as you think they are. They just make everyone's experience less fun, and force us to reroll to get worthwhile stuff.
Sign your work.
|You bought a house with your partner, but when your partner died, you weren't able to pay the bills. You took on a renter, dividing the house into two portions, and things seemed to be going smoothly. The rent came in on time, your brief visits showed the place was clean and in order, and the college kid you were renting to was a nice guy, if a little naive. Even when he got sick, his family covered the rent, and things seemed to be okay. You made it a habit to check in, you left his little workshop and study materials alone, and found the place in working order, with no damage. When -you- started to get sick, however, you had to wonder. You had authorities come in to check for toxic molds and the like. You stand outside the place and wait until the people come out, moving rather briskly. You realize what's happened when you hear the device they're holding. Pipipipipipiiippipi. One of those detectors for radiation. Whatever the little idiot was doing in that workshop, he's probably killed you.||-Wildbow|| Please Avoid:|
* Peanut Triggers (Dumb)
* Dead/maimed child Triggers (Way overdone for a long while)
* Rape Triggers (Almost always badly done, overdone)
* Events that would never ever happen or...
* Contrived/stupid events that'd only happen with powers involved
* Note classifications below, write triggers to underpopulated
* Keep Trumps to 1/2 the number of the others.
|Born in a poor area, you befriended a convenience store owner, who ended up leaving you the store after he had a stroke, with insinuations that he really wouldn't mind if you settled down with his kid. Hard work for someone who'd only just graduated high school, but with perks. Half a year later, you're married, your partner is starting college, the shop is doing just well enough to pay their way, and then the area goes to shit. A villain group sets up, and one small time villain is assigned to your neighborhood, to demand protection money... and they're making eyes at your partner. They bleed you dry and insinuate that if and when you can't pay, they'll take a few hours with your partner instead. You know where this is going, and you know the area is too poor and too out of the way to get any help. Yet help does arrive, a novice member of the Guild, dedicated to helping out areas like yours. Five knock-down, drag-out fights in two weeks, with your hopes on the line, and then a sixth... which you watch from a window as the hero, your would-be saviour, gets beat down, strangled, and killed.||-Wildbow||Classifications:|
Keep track of resulting powers & classifications as triggers are removed from list:
|You barely know what hit you, all you remember is a flash of headlights and squealing brakes. You wake up in the hospital to a world of darkness. You can't move your limbs, can't open your eyes, can't do anything aside from breath in and out automatically. The doctors come by and perform their tests, but you can't tell them anything, even though you're screaming inside your skull. Your friends come, your relatives too, but you can't so much as move a muscle even when they try to talk as if you can hear them - unaware of your fate. Your family doesn't have the money to pay the bills, but they do so anyway, for a while. Eventually though, as the weeks crawl by inside the prison of your body, they can't anymore and decide to let you go. You hear them crying, comforting each other as they say their goodbyes, assuring themselves its a mercy while you rage helplessly. Your significant other is the one to do it, whispering a tearful goodbye in your ear as they turn off your life support. You realize you're going to die, awake, concious, and trapped in your own head, and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it. Trigger.||apoc|
|Your mom just bought a new powerboat, and is taking you wake boarding. You invite your best friend along, thinking this will be a great time. With your mom at the wheels, your friend takes the first turn. The boat makes a tight turn and throws your friend off the board and into the water. Just at that moment, the steering wheel jams. The boat circles around. You try to stop the boat, but you couldn't stop it before the boat runs into your friend. As you reached into the bloodied water to pull your friend onto the boat, you realized that your hand has reached inside a gashing wound in her abdomen. You trigger.||fyfsixseven|
|You always liked riding the bus. All kinds of novelty before you, people of all backgrounds and origins. Sure every now and then there'd be someone a little off, or the bus would run a little late, but all in all it was very enriching. Until the day you were mugged coming off the bus. Right in front of all those people. And no one did a thing. You lay, bleeding, behind the bus shelter for hours. You don't remember losing consciousness.||Gundor|
|It wasn't supposed to be like this! You and three of your friends were supposed to go camping for a few days, nothing more! What happened instead was right out of some book; your car malfunctioned, and when you all got out of it to try and fix it, it suddenly decided to start again. Unfortunately, it was still malfunctioning, only instead of shutting down, it began rolling down the cliff falling over it with all your supplies in it. Since then, you and your friends had tried to get out of this godforsaken forest, but with little in the way of food and no real survival knowledge, it was no surprise that one of you eventually ate something you shouldn't. The consequences for this lack of knowledge are clear to you, as you despondently stare at the grave of your best friend. The headstone is no more than a large piece of bark with name and dates cut into it with a knife one of your other friends happened to have in their backpack. As tears fall down your cheeks, you curse the decision to take this trip. You run a hand over the 'headstone', and collapse entirely on the freshly dug grave. As you choke back a sob, you grimly realize that you and your remaining friends are never going to go home. Trigger.||Magnive|
|There’s something very wrong with you, and the more you experience life the more certain you are that it’s there. People would talk about things like happiness and righteousness, about joy and goodness and for the longest time you were confused about what they were expecting. It was so boring, all of it. But you never wanted to stand out, so you laughed when others laughed, and looked sad when they cried, fighting your smirks and chuckles. You always found what everyone called horrible to be rather funny, what made others miserable gave you a feeling not unlike what people describe as satisfaction. The older you got, the more you understood that people weren’t pretending or lying, or anything of the sort. You are just different. But you never wanted to be this way. You can see that everyone around you laughs and smiles at goodness, but all it does is bore you. You’ve spent a long time trying to be ‘good’, trying to get the right sort of satisfaction. You’ve studied philosophers and theologians, looked for support groups and every sort of thing that might help you understand why you are the way that you are. You’ve done everything in your power to be without what others would call blemish, sin, or stain. It’s not enough, but others think you’re pretty good at it, and you think it’s helping despite how completely tired you are with it. When your father is hospitalized with terminal cancer you take it upon yourself to remain with him until his final hours, the kind of thing you know a good person would do. After an utterly boring stretch of time his eyes close and the monitor starts squealing, all you think about is how disappointing it was, and that killing him yourself to watching the horror and pain in his eyes would have been so much more enjoyable. Staring at yourself in the reflection of the window by his bedside, you realize that so much time has been wasted trying to get something you can never have. You’re just twisted up and wrong. Trigger.||n0us|
|You were burnt alive, but that's not how you triggered. No, you woke up in the hospital, missing three limbs, burn scars running up and down your body, one of your eyes missing, only three fingers on your surviving arm. You managed to pull yourself together well enough, doing physical therapy, learning to work with what you had left. Your physical therapist said you were the most driven patient he'd ever seen. When you were released, you were consigned to a wheelchair, sure, but you can keep on living, even managing on your own. Except all kinds of things that were trivial before, aren't any more. It's embarrassing to have difficulties opening a door *and* going through it at the same time, having to try to get your elbow to hit the controls on your wheelchair while you hold the door open with your hand. Gradually, you isolate yourself, staying at home and ordering food in, sticking to the few tasks that aren't that difficult, or that simply can't be avoided. There's no particular point that's any worse than the rest, but there is the dawning realization that all your hard work has born its fruit, and this is about how you'll live for the rest of your life. You finally trigger when you try and fail to open a container of salsa, accidentally dropping it and sending glass and salsa splattering across your kitchen floor. It's a both a symbol of your inability to perform even the most rudimentary tasks unassisted, and it's going to be a massive chore to clean on your own.||Nonagon|
|You’re mixed race, and it doesn’t play well; a white father and a Sansei mother. The first-generation immigrants and refugees have a completely different cultural background, and take a dim view of your ethnic mix. There’s a feeling of alienation among the white kids, though it takes a different form: being mistaken for a foreigner, having difficulty getting girls. You act out, but it’s a secret from your parents, everyone at school. You hang with some Issei delinquents on the other side of town, drinking, smoking, doing drugs, the occasional act of petty theft or vandalism, miles away from home, while you tell your parents you’re at a friend’s “studying.” There’s a friendship and loyalty that grows, in the camaraderie of criminals. Your new friends actually think you’re pure blooded Japanese, and you tell them you’re Issei too, managing to fake it with what you've picked up over the years. Then it goes wrong. You get busted for public intoxication, along with your pals. Underage drinking, to boot. It’s going well enough, in the drunk tank, until your father comes to pick you up. You can see it coming, but there’s nothing you can do to stop it. “Who the fuck’s that?” One of your friends asks. “I’m his father,” your dad replies, his voice sharp, hard. Trigger as your house of cards collapses utterly.||Nonagon|
|Your dad hits your mom. He’s done it as long as you’ve been alive, and sometimes it gets rough enough she has to go to the hospital. “She fell down some stairs.” Never you, though, luckily enough. Just her. You hit a growth spurt, a big one, and you’re tall now, gawky but with some genuine muscle. It’s enough to fool you into intervening as he starts to lay into her. It doesn’t go well; he easily knocks you to the ground, slamming your head unceremoniously against the tile floor. As you feel his foot digging into your back, right between your shoulder blades, all you can feel is a deep and abiding sense of regret that you were stupid enough to try to play hero. Trigger.||Nonagon|
|After being treated for your concussion, scrapes, bruises, and having your right earlobe stitched back to your head, you were taking comfort in the fact that finally the bullying was no longer disputable; that your injuries and witnesses meant that hard evidence existed and you wouldn't have to endure further gaslighting and disbelief. In the car on the way home from the hospital, your father informs you that he and your mother agree that you'd brought your injuries on yourself with your standard attention seeking antics, and they will be informing the school and other parents that they will not be pressing charges. You stare out the window and trigger.||October|
|Visiting the country out on your cousins' farm, you tell a joke that they do not care for. You find yourself hogtied, dumped in the pig pen, and left. As you try to free yourself, you are jostled by the largest pig, and wind up with your face down in the mud. With some frantic struggling, you manage to turn your head to the side and clear an airway. Then it starts to rain. Then you start to drown in the puddle your head is stuck in. Then you realize you are dying. Then you trigger.||October|
|You studied for this, trained for months cramming your head full of facts and trivia. Now you're in the gameshow's final round, with a million dollars on the line, all or nothing, and you panic. You pick an answer and realize it's stupidly, hilariously wrong a nanosecond after you choose it - a joke answer that was supposed to make things easier. The host says some comforting words, but they turn into background noise, blending in with the dull roar in your ears. All you can think about is how your friends, your family, the entire nation, all saw how stupidly you just threw away 1 million dollars. Trigger.||Teller|
|You hate the soldiers and what they have done to your village. Once a quiet place, it is now unwilling host to a group of unruly men who drink all the time, take anything and anyone they want, and kill all who speak against them. Your father insists that you stay quiet and keep your head down, so you do.|
One evening, soldiers armed with guns kick in the door. They swear that your father has been plotting against them, and reel off a list of things that others have blamed him for - things he could not have possibly done. They beat him in front of you and your family, then haul him up to his knees, bleeding and groaning. They are going to shoot him.
You go beserk. Your weapon is anything within arms reach: First a chair, then a fire poker, and then you seize one of the guns. The fight is a vicious whirlwind, and soldiers fall left and right in the face of your fury. In a fleeting window of lucidity, you see your mother and brother on the ground, dead or dying. You return to the fray, redoubling your efforts to kill them but no longer caring if ther bullets strike you. Trigger.
|“Prodigy” was the teacher said to your parents after two weeks of violin lessons. From a very young age, you’ve displayed an inherent talent for music that well exceeded other instrumentalists of your age, and eclipsed those of older students as well. Perfect pitch, muscle coordination, sharp memory, you’ve had it all from the get go of your musical career. |
Not a single day in your life has been without some reference to music. Grueling practice hours, master classes with world-renown virtuosos, and orchestra rehearsals have come to dominate your life. And while you wish your parents would back off, you still made it work. You managed to graduate with dozens of offers for free rides from universities all over the country.
The drunk asshole driving sixty in a thirty five zone changed that for you. You were horribly mangled in the accident, and the doctors had no choice but to amputate. The shock of waking up and holding a stump to your face was only the tip of the iceberg. One by one, your scholarships disappear, the product of fourteen years and countless hours gone down the drain.
Alone in a dark hospital room, completely helpless on your own, the straw that pushes you over the edge is overhearing your parents talk about selling your instrument now that it doesn't have any value. Trigger.
|You're considered to be one of the best surgeons in the area. Repairing damaged organs and excising malignant tumors were routine in your life. But it all went downhill when your arm suddenly spasmed mid-operation, slicing something important with the scalpel. The patient survived, but he's suing you for damages. To make matters worse, the lawsuit investigation reveals that you're displaying early symptoms for A.L.S., and that you've got less than five years before your nervous system completely degenerates. Not that it matters to the plaintiff. As the walls start closing in on you, you trigger in your despair.||theACEbabana|
|Crap. Shouldn't have had that last drink. There's no way your parents would be okay with you even going out (alcohol is a tool of the devil), but you caved, sneaking out with your pals. You know you're gonna be feeling rough in the morning, but at least there's no way your parents'll find out - if they even stay up past 7:30 pm they're being 'extravagant'. Or so you thought, until you sneak in the back door, and not only are your parents there, so is your aunt, your uncle, and Grandma Milly. You catch a moment of your mother's frantic, distraught cries to the police on the phone, right before they turn to you - You trigger as you see their expressions shift from fear and worry to outright fury.||tubes|
|You were close as kids. You, your sister and your brother were inseparable. Then your brother went off to join the Navy. That was okay, you missed him but it seemed to be giving him purpose, a focus, and you didn't want to hold him back. Then he committed suicide; hanged himself on his ship. Yeah, he'd been depressed in the past, but he'd seemed better lately. You're shattered by the loss, but your sister takes it much harder. She's convinced that he was murdered, some conspiracy. Maybe a gang on the ship, maybe he found out something he shouldn't have, maybe his death was faked to get him working on some black project. Every crazy theory, every stunt she pulls to "finally prove" what happened, you end up having to dig her out of it. You're used to bailing her out, now; talking down security guards from getting her arrested; covering for her with friends and family in the hope that if she can just get this out of her system she can be okay. It's wishful thinking. You're losing your sister piece by piece, and you're stretching yourself thin trying to cover it all. You keep missing work, your savings are run down, and your friends are drifting away as you keep ditching them for this.|
One day you get call after call from your sister. You ignore it, you can't miss another day's work. When you call back at 5:30 you get a cop on the other end. Your sister got caught in a government building she had no right to be in and tried to fight her way out. People have been hurt, and one might die. The charges are serious, and they need to talk to you.
You drive furiously. Maybe you can sort this out and still get to work tomorrow, somehow? The warning light on your dashboard you've been ignoring for weeks tells otherwise, as you break down on the highway barely halfway there. Trigger.
|You were out hiking by yourself, a spur-of-the-moment (ie stupid) jaunt, when you slipped, your expensive hiking boots providing no help. Arm broken and leg caught between rocks, you've been staring up at the large rock hanging precariously over you for the last hour. With every movement, the rocks around you shift, and you're sure it will fall before you can free yourself or find help. Trigger as the boulder finally starts moving toward you.||Twonk|
|You always liked the local cape scene. Your spouse wasn't really into your hobby, and while you were the stay-home kind of person, they kept going to work, often very long, leaving you alone before they came back exhausted. Your marriage was still fresh, though, and they made sure to never let you feel left out. You were watching the news, waiting for them to come home before starting dinner, and see that one of the heroes has arrived at the hospital with the media all over the place. Only a few minutes later the message comes out, the cape is dead. Your phone rings half an hour later, as you were preparing the table, and you pick up. "Hello," a man says, and introduces himself as a PRT official. "I am calling about your spouse..." - It seems that they kept a secret from you. And piece after piece falls into place. The cape that died, it was them, and they lied to you. You didn't realize they lied to you, and now they're dead, risking their life for the people of this city, and couldn't even have told you with their dying breath.||VereorNox|
|You wake up naked, drenched in sweat and dizzy, the smell and taste of vomit burning in your nose. Trying to force yourself up, you realize that you might have overdone it with the party yesterday. Dizzily falling to the bed again, you turn around and see someone sleeping there. Touching their shoulder, you catch a glimpse at their face. You trigger as your parents rush into the room, screaming and raging at finding you naked in the same bed as your sibling. All that in their room, of all places, while the headache is growing worse.||Vern|
|The big C. Cancer. The odds are 50-50, you're scared, and the boyfriend/girlfriend you moved halfway across the country to live with is caught up in work out of town, unable to come to support you for months. Scared, your defenses crumble. You just need support, a helping hand, so you reach out to your parents. They make plans to come, and your bratty, spoiled sister that still lives at home refuses to let that happen. She makes noise about it being a hassle, and when that doesn't budge your parents, she starts complaining about her 'Fibromyalgia'. The self centered bitch had a conversation with you a decade ago about how she'd fake having the disease to get disability cheques and never have to work again, and now she's using it as leverage to strip you of support in your time of need. Alone in a strange city, you trigger.||Wildbeaux|
|You were a teen who liked to drink and party, and you were pretty staunchly Atheist. Apparently that was enough for your parents to send you to a 'scared straight' program. Kidnapped, taken to Mexico, and kept in conditions worse than a prison. No talking, ever, eyes on the floor. Take more than a minute to pee or brush your teeth and you had to do a hundred pushups in three minutes, or you got put in the dog cages, chin to the floor for three hours, hostile dogs mere feet away. Nobody was allowed to use the toilet for an hour after eating, because some of the others were bulimic, and none of the girls were allowed tampons, because they could be used to commit suicide, blood running down legs. While doing one of the lighter jobs, bleaching bloody girl's underwear, and you crack. In the moment the guard watching you is distracted, you start drinking the bloody bleach. They get you before you can get enough to be sure. All the long weeks of pressure and confinement and the grinding down of your identity were too much, and the knowledge that things were going to get so much worse in the wake of your suicide attempt hits you. You trigger.||Wildbow|
|You thought you were so clever. The bar where you and the other working girls hung out was pretty notorious for being a place where deals went down. You kept an eye out, even made out with someone in a dark corner to be in the right place at the right time to see how it happened. Then, as the next big deal was due to go down, you ambushed one of the men in the bathroom, bashed their head in, and stole a duffel bag full of the stuff. Premium grade, supposedly uncut. Enough to do you for a long while. Except it was tainted, or it wasn’t what you thought it was. The high doesn’t seem to end, it gets worse, and you get hit with paranoia as bad as it gets, convinced the gang is coming after you. Running, fleeing, trying to get away, only to see figures in the shadows, lurking. Gotta get away, gotta run. You collapse as your legs give out, too exhausted to keep moving, and you crawl, knowing they’ll come, you’ve got to get away before they come. You trigger.||Wildbow|
|You were a researcher’s assistant in the arctic, studying glacial flow patterns, when they suddenly took ill. They were flown out, and you stayed behind to keep track of things. But as a snowstorm hits, relief is delayed and communications go down, snowstorms piling snow as high as the top of the doorframe. Snowed in, with only the hum of a generator to keep you company, in one of the loneliest places on earth, you find the quiet and the lack of communication quickly getting to you. Sleep isn’t consistent without an actual sunrise and sunset, and you ration food, with hunger playing a factor in your mental decline. Fiddling around with the radios, you get a brief message. The next flight in is being delayed, they’re expecting snowstorms for another two weeks. Stay strong. You trigger.||Wildbow|
|A strange email alluded to private things between you and your partner. It weirded you out, and it weirded you out more when your partner acted squirrely about it. You did some digging on their computer, and what you found was a website. You knew your partner had a submissive side to them. What you discovered, however, was that your entire relationship, they haven't been making any of the calls. When and what sexts to send you, what to wear, what to do on dates, how and what decisions to make on a personalized present they gave you, the night you did anal. There are scripts for what to say on dates. Crowdsourced decision making, and to help them make the right calls, your partner's dished all the details on how you eat, sleep, talk, fuck, what you wear. People have been speculating on who you are, some quite creepy, and it looks like the team of people running the site (there's a team!?) are trying and failing to stay on top of it. You hear the key in the door. You meet your partner, and you see them smile, as they always have. This time, however, you hear them speak the words to greet you, and you feel horror mixed with violation as you hear not her voice, but the tens of thousands of detached internet users speaking through them.||Wildbow|
|You were offered a good deal. The PRT needed someone to look after what they called a 'case 53'. A boy with no memories, a marking on his shoulder, and powers. But those powers came at a terrible price. They changed his body, head to toe, giving him an appearance like a cockroach crossed with a maggot. But his face, oh, it was a normal face, but for that tattoo. It was his eyes that convinced you. You had experience in studying parahumans, the prof that led your department said there were opportunities unlocked with this move, he knew you had experience in foster care and plans to foster, and he knew you needed the money, so he pointed the right people at you. You look after the kid for two weeks, a young teen, shuttling him here and there for tests and tutoring, helping him make a game controller for his strange, insectile hands and playing Qbert Qart with him, watching movies and teaching hiim about the world. It was actually the coolest thing you've ever done. On your birthday, you were invited to your parents. You open the door to a 'surprise' sign in the hall and no crowd to welcome you. Entering the living room, you find the party guests. They lie there, comatose, eyes rolled back, virtually all with stomachs distended, pregnant. Father, mother, sister, your partner, your cousin. Stunned, in horrible shock, you stagger forward to get a view out onto the back patio. He was a she, it seems, and she's entered puberty. She's got her insectile hands on the family dog, and its stomach seems to magically swell with her young. You trigger with the eye contact.||Wildbow|
|Your 15 year old brother straddles the railing of the balcony, 16 floors up, holding all of your photography equipment. He used too much data on the phone service you shared with him, you cut him off, and now he's threateing to jump and take thousands of dollars of your equipment with him, if you don't cave to his demands. The equipment doesn't matter - his life does. You say you're going to call the cops, he threatens to jump if you try. Left with no other option, terrified, you concede and agree to turn his cell phone back on. Your parents get home, and you tearfully explain the situation. They give your brother a short lecture, then make the online payment for the cell phone for him. Nothing else. He smirks at you. The trigger happens the next day, when you don't let him have the TV remote. A threat of suicide, a precarious perch on the side of the balcony, to the point where you worry he really will fall. Knowing you have no out (too poor to even leave home), terrorized, knowing this will happen again and again as he uses the nuclear option to win every time he wants, you trigger.||Wildbow|
|College hazing. End of a long week of head games and bullshit, you get drunk with the rest of the fraternity. But there's a final task: you're taken to the basement, made to strip, and given tweezers. The head of the frat dumps a box of rainbow sprinkles on the floor, telling you you're supposed to sort it by color. Groan-worthy, especially when you're drunk off your ass, but when your group finds the light switch, it's a strobe light. Your cries of being epileptic are dismissed as another head-game, you're called a mole for the frat, believed to be a final obstacle by people who are so drunk they can barely stand. Your blind struggles to reach and turn off the light switch are stopped by the others, the light flashes against your closed eyelids, and the pattern is making your brain hot, your personal tell for when a grand-mal is coming on. Probably more than the one. It's going to fuck your brain up, maybe permanently.||Wildbow|
|Your Mom has always pressured you about your weight. Every week, there seems to be a new diet or pill regime to adhere to; every New Year, she buys you an expensive gym membership that you know she cant really afford. The clothes she buys you are always a little too small. You like looking good, of course, but you feel like your mother always takes it too far - it's not like a bit of indulgence now and then will kill you, right? One day, you start to get sick. You have to rush to the bathroom every half an hour, and your stomach feels tense and knotted. You go to your GP and they diagnose you with tapeworms. You're horrified, but when you're told that the treatment is a simple course of pills over a few weeks, you feel a lot less nervous. If it had been much worse, youre told, you may have needed surgery. At dinner that night, you ask your mother where the pills are so you can take your first one and she avoids the question, saying that maybe its a good thing you have them, and that they'll help you get thinner. You're disgusted by the suggestion and insist she give them to you and she flies off the handle: "Don't talk to me like that! I'm your mother, I just want you to be fucking healthy for once! You're so ungrateful! After how much I paid for the damn things, you're just going to kill them?" Horrified, you realise what she has done. Trigger.||Wyrm|
Issues with similarity to previous trigger, already discussed with Bow and Teller.
Typos fixed V.2: Grammatical Boogaloo - theACEbabana
|Years and years of preparation, schooling, scheming and schmoozing is all it took to land your competitive dream job. Well, almost land. You've survived a lengthy interview process, and it's down to just three people- but your friend on the inside tells you you're the frontrunner by a mile. You pack a bag and head to New York for the final interview, supremely confident- so confident you take a nap and miss your plane. Screaming and pleading with the woman at the desk, she tell you that there simply is no way you'll be able to make the interview. You know this no-show will lose you the job- Mr. Hardin hates unreliability. You trigger as she tells you to move out of line.||zipperless|
|You come from a very disciplinarian household, to the point of being abusive, but it’s not necessarily easy to convince anyone of it. No bruises, no tearing, not much in the way of physical signs of abuse. The trick is that your family owns a roughly human-sized box - almost a coffin, really - and that, when your grades are too low, or you get in trouble in school, or they don’t like what you did today, they toss you in it, lock it, and leave you there for a few hours. It’s hot, confined, frightening, and you’ve just been tossed in it again. This time, though, you can dimly hear your family leave the house, maybe an hour into your being locked up. They don’t come back. They don’t come back long enough for you to piss yourself, to shit in there, to pass out from exhaustion, and wake up still trapped, terrified that they died and that you’re stuck here, that you’re going to die in here. Trigger.||Nonagon|
|Your mother died five years ago. You were catatonic, barely able to even go to ID the body, as the last surviving member of your family. Lately, you've been rebuilding your life, and as a homage to your mother, you intended to get married in her wedding dress. After going on a pre-wedding vacation with your fiance, you return home just in time for halloween, only to find out that your cousin, who knew damn well what the dress meant to you, decorated it in fake blood for her costume. She thought it would wash out, and panicked when it didn't, scrubbing it with bleach and destroying beading and lace in the process. It takes you right back to the day you found out, unable to deal on any level, as you stare at the thing draped over the back of a chair, which looks more like a used tampon than a dress.||Wildbow|
|Your spouse works for Leonine Labs, a newer tech company that's trying to take tinkertech and turn it towards industrial applications. Things are going well until you and your spouse start to get sick. You're anemic, vomiting, your hair falling out, occasionally coughing up blood. It takes the doctors weeks before they can figure out what's wrong with you: improper containment procedures at Leonine left your spouse exposed to residue from hazardous chemicals, and that exposure transfered over to you. Your spouse has it worse than you, but it's slow acting, so both of you get to watch as your bodies break down under it; there are a dozen other people affected by it, but none of them as badly as the two of you. As you wake up one morning, eyes bleary, still feeling exhausted after sleeping fourteen hours, you're told by a nurse that your spouse died in the night, their organs just shutting down as they slept. Knowing you'll soon follow them, you trigger.||Nonagon|
|The cops show up at your front door, heavily armed, PRT vans right there too, and they serve you an arrest warrant. As you're taken into custody, confused, they start reading you your rights. They've apparently gotten you confused for some local villain, and they're charging you with a laundry list of crimes. An M-Scan "confirms" that you have a corona pollentia, reassuring them that they've got their man, and they've got enough circumstantial evidence that they might actually be able to convict. As one of the cops practically screams in your face, demanding you just fucking confess already, you trigger.||Nonagon|
|It's the event of the season. You've gotten dressed up in a gorgeous new dress that mixes modesty with allure in new and fascinating ways. You're excited, you've got a date with the most wonderful person, all in all it's looking to be a great night. Then, in the middle of a dance with your new beau, your dress gets caught on something, and it just rips clean off, leaving you naked but for your underwear, and it takes just a few seconds for everyone to turn to look at you. Your date is just staring in silence rather than doing anything to help, and you can't really cover enough to deal with it. You feel tiny and alone in a crowd of gawkers. Trigger.||Nonagon|
|You can't help it: you're jealous. It's been a problem in past relationships, but your current SO seems to be surprisingly willing to check in every hour, to cut off opposite-sex friends, and everything else you demand. You're still anxious and worried that they'll leave you, but things seem like they may go well this time. Then it happens. They don't check in. You give them a minute or two, then call. And call. And call. No response. They're fucking around behind your back, you just know it. You thought they might have been the One. Trigger.||Nonagon|
|You'd heard the joke "how many 8 year olds can you take on" from one of your more sordid friends, but you didn't ever think it'd happen literally. Parahuman power? Whatever caused it, you were walking by the local playground on your way to the store when they swarmed you, excited - for your flesh. As a swarm of the little angels start to bite and dig in with fingernails, you thrash and panic, but they've got weight of numbers, and as you go down, you realize, despite the horrific method of your death, you're probably going to end up as a gag headline somewhere. Trigger.||tubes|
|You family's got a business going back generations. You're not interested; you never liked it. But there's pressure on you, pressure that you can't avoid, being the only child. In time you'll be expected to take over, so you start saving up, using money from odd jobs, opening a bank account. Getting ready to get away, even as you grit your teeth and learn the ropes of the family business. One day, you're out getting that little extra bit of cash, and you get a call. Your father's in the hospital - heart attack. He passes away shortly thereafter. You're the heir to the family business, the rest of the family is ganging up on you to push you into a position you never wanted, your friends just as expectant that this is the way you'll go. Escape, now, would require cutting ties with everyone and everything you've ever known, you don't have the money, and you don't quite have the heart to just destroy what your family has built up over generations. Trigger.||Nonagon|
|You have a fight with your partner, an argument that turns into a screaming match. They say that you never contribute, that you're lazy and selfish. Maybe it's true, maybe it isn't, but it's something you always worry about, that you're not doing your fair share, and having those words come out of your loved one's mouth... it's just too much. You step out, not able to take it, and just wander, their words going through your head over and over, as you turn your life over piece by piece, trying and failing to find objectivity as you analyze everything. The sheer stress of it, the feeling of uncertainty, and the repeated running over some of your worst moments in order to try to figure out the truth is enough to make you trigger.||Nonagon|
|The shop wanted a whole grand to stick in the speaker system. You bought the damn thing for, what, 20 bucks, there was no way you were paying one thousand smackeroos to stick it in there. Couple of manuals, some internet tutorials, and you've got it down...except...Was it the red wire, or the grey wire? Everything else is in place - maybe the red? Eh, what's the worst that could happen? You grab it and oh shit oh shit oh shit ahhHHHHHHHH. Good job, you just grabbed a live wire. Trigger.||tubes|
|You should have aborted him. You'd known - the doctors had said - that your little baby had a very high chance of severe developmental disabilities. But you thought it was wrong to take a life without even giving it a real chance, and your spouse agreed with you. Now you've got nothing but regrets. It costs so much in medical bills to keep him alive and fed and safe. He's not functional, you have to baby him every minute of every day, like an eternal infant. It's destroyed your marriage - you haven't made love to your spouse in years for lack of time and due to mutual exhaustion. You're pretty sure they're having an affair and, honestly, you can't blame them. Late one night, he starts screaming and pounding on the walls again, waking you up from your sleep after what couldn't have been more than an hour. You force yourself unsteadily to your feet to go deal with him, and finally trigger as you see that he's smeared his feces on the walls again.||Nonagon|
|Your psycho ex has it out for you. Every new partner, every person you date, they send them a long list of smears, lies mixed with truth - even some photographs of wounds (self-inflicted, you assume) - and that's it for that relationship. You met a wonderful person at the bookstore, and they lived on the other side of town, so your ex didn't find out about them at first. You mostly talked and texted, with their busy schedule; finally, after a month, you managed to both find time, and went on a wonderful date with them. You kept talking and texting, had another date, then two. Got too cocky, perhaps, because your ex found out and sent them the same band of lies they'd sent to everyone else. You'd hoped they would believe you, that your connection would be enough, but their sobbing, betrayed tone of voice on the other end of the line, as they call you to break up with you, makes it clear that they didn't. A few minutes after that call ends, your phone rings, and you recognize the number - your ex, probably calling to taunt you or to demand that you take them back. Trigger.||Nonagon|
|You've figured it out. The people who run the government, who run the *world*, they do it right out of that building there. You watch it, day and night, a long, silent vigil, taking notes on who goes where and does what. Days and weeks of staking out the building start to add up, but no matter how hard you try, you can't quite work out who's really running the show. It could be any of them, from what you can see. You think you're on the verge - it's just a matter of who comes in during the night today. You struggle to stay conscious, but your body is no longer nearly so cooperative as it was when you first started, junk food and sleep deprivation taking their toll. You pass out as the sun goes down, and by the time you wake up, you've missed your window. You fucked up, and who knows how long you'll have to wait for another opportunity to present itself? Your frustration reaches an apex, and you trigger.||Nonagon|
|Your parents homeschooled you, but you never really fit in with the other homeschoolers. Sure, your family are pretty devout, but you're an only child amongst families of ten and twelve children at the homeschool co-ops. What's more, you aren't in quite the right denomination, your family doesn't follow the right homeschooling leaders, and more. All the little things make you stand out. You thought that was bad, but then your parents agree they can't teach you everything you need to know. You get enrolled in public school. This is no Mean Girls, and you're no Cadi Herron. Most people pay you no attention; a few mock your clothes, the way you talk, but to most people you might as well not exist. Until one student, older than you, takes you under her wing. She always seems to have time for you, sits with you at lunch, takes you shopping. You're never going to be popular at school, but under her guidance you're blossoming into someone other people...well, talk to. Your parents though, they're worried - you're dressing differently since you started going to 'that school', you're talking back to them, and now you've even started swearing. They forbid you absolutely to spend time with your one friend. Caught between your parents, the only constant in your life, and your one and only friend, the choice is impossible. Trigger.||ElaraSilk|
|One day, after having a few too many served to you at home by your (widowed) darling of a wife, you feel an discomfort in your chest. She reassures you, tries to calm you down, suggesting it's no big deal, that you just need to lie down for a little bit. You're more worrisome than most about your health, and you're feeling short of breath; you finally decide to call the hospital. An ambulance picks you up, your wife getting in with you, and the EMT gives you a preliminary diagnosis of a heart attack, saying the symptoms were classic. Your wife's last husband also died of a heart attack. You turn to her, confused as to why she wouldn't have recognized it or been *more* worried than you, and you see something flash across her face for just a moment. It's unambiguous in your mind: she poisoned you. Trigger.||Nonagon|
|You were born into a poor family. Not quite poverty, but you could afford cheap food, cheap housing, and cheap clothes with little to spare. Your parents, both working two jobs to keep the income, could not even afford to send you to elementary, so you were supposed to just have at most a high school education. At least, that was the plan. As it turns out, you were smart. Always at the top of the class, eventually you had been offered a scholarship for a good college. Knowing that it would make your parents' lives easier, you took it. |
It was the finals for the a subject in your second year, and you studied harder than ever. So hard, in fact, you took the test sleep deprived and hungry. Your mind wanders against your will, and try as you might, you can't focus anymore as your body breaks down after being pushed so far. Almost to the point of falling unconscious, you do some quick mental math, then realize the worst part of it all. Failing this test will bring your grade down, down below the grade required for a scholarship, then you'll have to start paying the school's far too expensive tuition. You've gone so far, though it's all for nothing as your body betrays you at the worst possible time. Trigger.
|You've been locked in this damn room for days, faded in and out of consciousness over and over, from exhaustion or pain. He grabbed you, brought you here, and you're increasingly certain that you're never going to leave. He's a cape, a pyrokinetic: flames lick out from his fingers, burning you again and again, almost teasing you as he runs his fingertips along your skin. It's nothing personal; by his ramblings, you just *reminded* him of someone that it seems he's got a very low opinion of. When you pass out as white-hot fingertips run along your collarbone, he wakes you with a splash of cold water to the face, and then starts burning you again. That's a change - normally when you pass out, he gives you a little time to recover. Trigger as you realize it's only going to get worse.||Nonagon|
|You're on the run. You fucked up, bad, pissed some powerful people off, and they're going to make an example of you - they'll kill you and make a show of it. Every day's another agonizing one of anxiety, bouncing from city to city, the cash you took slowly dwindling. Once or twice, they've gotten close - you've heard about people asking around for you, showing your photograph, and had to pick up and move again. It's exhausting, psychologically and physically, to be chased for weeks. You can't tell people, you don't have any help, it's just you and them, and millions of warm bodies for you to try to hide between. You trigger when you spot one of them step into the restaurant you're eating at.||Nonagon|
|Back in highschool, you were a drinker, and looking back, you know you were an alcoholic. Your 'rock bottom' was when you got blackout drunk and got in a fight with your friends, hospitalizing one. You went to court, got community service, and had to attend meetings. It was the talk of your high school for a long while. Now with a six year chip in your pocket, you still want to drink every day, but you hold off. Someone out there, however, doesn't want you to put the past behind you. A package arrived on your doorstep. You opened it, and found a bottle of whiskey, your favorite. It took willpower, but you emptied it into the garden, then discarded the bottle in the recycling bin. A strange situation, but not a problem. Until you got home from work and found the second package, this one with a note. 'Every day you come home, you'll have a drink waiting for you.' This isn't an isolated incident - it's a campaign, and you know it's one that's going to break you, or catch you on a bad day and ruin you. You trigger.||Wildbow|
|You're at the bar, you're having a good time. Everyone's laughing, looking good, and the place is lively. You take a sip of your drink, nothing seeming amiss. A few minutes later the room starts to spin, your limbs feel weak, everything going blurry. "Whoopsie," a blurry figure says near you. "Looks like my friend here's had too much to drink." That was your first drink of the night! You can't even muster the energy to get up out of your chair, and your "friend" says "I'll make sure they get home safe and sound," waving off the concerns of the other patrons. You've never seen this person in your life, you're sure of it, as they lift your arm up over their shoulders and drag you out of the bar, and a thought works it's way through your murky mind - you've been drugged. No! No! You attempt to struggle, raise a shout, but all you manage to do is trip a bit and moan. You're not getting away under your own power. You think you hear the person carrying you chuckle, and you trigger. ||tubes|
|You always knew there was something rotten in your little brother. Something wrong with him. Then he killed three people. No real reason, as far as the cops could tell - he just likes hurting people. They don't catch him, he kills again, and the net starts to tighten around you. He's hiding out somewhere, and of all people, you ought to be the one to know - but you don't. Your parents long dead, you having been your little brother's guardian for the better part of a decade, you're a ready made scapegoat for the police and the rest of the locals, in equal measures blamed for his behavior and accused of shielding him somehow. Then you get the letter, finding it slid under your door during the night. "Miss me?" It's written in your brother's handwriting. Your hands shake as you read it, and you break down sobbing in your kitchen, not knowing what to do. Trigger.||Nonagon|
|You knew dating a gang leader was a bad idea, and dangerous besides, but hey, he's sweet, and more than a little cute. Well, all your fears and trepidations come to pass one day as you're on your way to your car, snatched in the parking lot and jabbed in the side by a taser, your vision fading to black before you have the chance to panic fully. When you come to, you're lying prone in the rear of a van, a man with a bandana covering his lower face, decorated with uneven, serrated fangs. He's on the phone, and the fabric over his mouth does little to mask his tone of sadistic glee. "Quiz time! Question number one. We've got a special guest on our show tonight. Hint! She soooounds a little like –" he taps your exposed thigh with his forefinger, and you feel it -shatter- at the touch, your scream echoing in the cramped interior of the van. "Well, you get the point. Question two! Whaddaya think is gonna happen to our lovely guest if you don't show up in time? He lays his index and middle finger almost gently on your clavicle, and you flinch. As the timer ticks down, he recites the seconds as they pass, savoring each passing minute with unbridled delight. Finally, you have a minute left, then seconds. "Oh, it looks like he's not coming," the masked man says, mock pity in his voice. Trigger.||Antioch|
|You're an informant, a narc, whatever. Something of the sort. Unfortunately, you don't cover your tracks well enough, and the people you squealed on manage to get their hands on you. Now you're in the rear of a van going over a hundred on the interstate, with the doors open. You're being suspended by the scruff of your neck as the asphalt peels out in front of you, screaming and blubbering incoherently in response to their questions, and then one man leans forward, pressing your hand into the road, and you screw your eyes shut as your fingers abrade off, flesh stripped away in a matter of seconds, bones torn from knuckles. You white out from the pain, partway through, jolted back to reality by your other hand being violently scraped off by the pavement - and then, feeling a pressure on your neck, you realize your face is the next to go.||Antioch|
|You've finally gotten your dream job, finally suffered through all the troubles and trials needed to get to where you've always meant to be. The six years leading up to it were arduous, to grossly underexaggerate, college, blackmail, backstabbing, sucking up, greasing the wheels, multiple instances of consecutive all-nighters - you've put yourself in debt, taking out loans for education and bribes alike, and you've neglected your health, unwilling to let such trivialities impede you in your unrelenting pursuit of the goal. Well. You've finally made it, and two months in, you realize that nothing's changed. You're still on the same path of unending drudgery, slowly being ground to dust by a system you've invested far too much in to escape. In the same situation before, tearing yourself to pieces to move forward, save for the fact that you now lack a goal to impel you, unable to afford to cut your losses with all the debt you accrued, you realize you'll be stuck in this job until it breaks you - unless it already has. Trigger.||Antioch|
|Your mother was a Tinker, with a specialty in biology: specifically, she would make minions, carefully crafted monsters. You were her magnum opus, the ultimate culmination of all her labors. Roughly human in biology and intellect, but with certain twists here and there, making you better suited to her purposes. She died unexpectedly, not from violence but from simple health issues, leaving you vulnerable and alone. You have no birth certificate or SSN, and without her, you have no identity in a deeper sense as well. In the weeks following her death, you trigger from the dawning realization that you are completely adrift, with nothing connecting you to the world around you, nor any purpose to give you direction.||Nonagon|
|You knew your dad was messing around with a girl half his age, who was probably only interested in him because of his money. Then he got killed. It turns out he was a villain, a Breaker who split into three complementary forms, and all three were destroyed in a single blow. His savings - hundreds of thousands of dollars, earned from years as a villain - fell into your hands. The problem is that his old girlfriend knew who he was - he told her, apparently, wanting to impress her - and she knew you'd inherited his money. She started blackmailing you, threatening to sell you out to the same guys who'd killed him, and she isn't letting go easy. She bled you dry, and when the money ran out, she didn't believe you. She confronts you outside your house. "I need the money, bitch. If you won't pay, I *will* tell them. Don't think I won't." Trigger.||Nonagon|
|100 Triggers at Maximum, please.|