HERE, HAVE SOME SPIRIT

[piper90npcs]

Who: Three Ghosts and the little New Hires
What: Sharing the Christmas Spirit
Where: Good question
When: Post-Rose Tattoo
Warnings/Notes: Possible violence, angst, likely visions of death.

Are you sleeping?

Maybe. Maybe not. It's hard to tell. This could be another ARE, after all. What you can tell is that the halls are filled with mist, the smell of pine, and the sound of jingling bells off in the distance.

And then comes the wailing.

Tearing past you, screaming like a damned soul, skeletal figures flood through the halls. Some of them wear business suits, weighed down by chains crafted from ledgers and money boxes. Some of them are soldiers, bound by their own twisted weapons. Police, politicians, no one seems spared. Someone whispers, warning you, begging you to pay heed. For you will be visited by three ghosts who are on an errand of great import.

And then something charges with a howl and all goes white. Slowly, the light dims, and the mass of spectral entities is gone. Instead there stands a figure, or maybe two or three of them. For each person, it's different, as they'll have different messages and purposes for each.

One is neither male nor female, the only certain features being a well-muscled, well proportioned body, wearing a white tunic and a beautiful belt of pearl. Its hair is long, white, as if ancient, but no matter how its face changes, there's no sign of age upon it. There seems to be an aura of white flame around its head and, in a voice that belies nothing but charitable warmth, introduces itself as the Ghost of Christmas Past. It will show scenes of someone's past, offering enlightening details with little judgment.

The middle one is a large man on a veritable throne of food, tantalizing and delicious, wearing a fur-lined red robe and a crown of holly upon his head. The Ghost of Christmas Present is a big man, with brown hair, and a booming, jovial voice that can turn blisteringly harsh and back in a single sentence. He'll show what the character was doing immediately prior to their arrival upon the rig. Perhaps what they're doing right now. But he'll also be content to walk either the character's home world or this Gone Away World, viewing the sights and people enjoying Christmas with the character.

And the final one, a phantom in a dark, green robe, green smoke billowing around it. Its skin is pale, pulled gauntly around whatever body part it exposes. The gaze underneath the hood is as cold as the grave, and it would be wise not to try to match that for too long. It remains utterly silent, simply guiding its guest through the Christmases Yet To Come with a pointed finger. It will show how a character dies and how they'll be remembered by others after. It acts cold and merciless, but this very visit is a mission of mercy, one it silently prays will succeed.

The surprise, though, is that they aren't showing the character that history. Instead, they'll be guiding their guest through someone else's life. Maybe just a fraction of it, maybe a full span. But when it's all over, it's as if no time has passed. In fact, no. The characters are returned to an hour before the ghosts visited them.

[[Remember, this isn't your typical memshare. The ghosts are NPCs, but they'll be controlled by the players. They will not show characters their own histories, presents, or futures, only those of different people. They can show the same scenes to different people or different scenes to different people. One person might not even see all three of the Ghosts.]]

Comments

TENTEN

[71lines]

[[So, reply to Tenten's prompts! Or, if you've something to show her, respond directly to this post.]]

PAST

[71lines]

The Ghost of Christmas Past and its guest pause, hovering in the sky over a large town built at the foot of a mountain range, large stone heads dominating the landscape. "Konohagakure," it states softly. "The Village Hidden in the Leaves. One of the great ninja villages of this world. And one of the many worlds that, unfortunately, has never learned the joys of Christmas."

Slowly, it guides itself to the ground, near the outskirts, and gestures for the other to follow before strolling through the scattered crowds that fill the streets casually, gliding through people when it needs to. "Instead, their closest equivalent is something that they call the Rinne Festival. Once a ceremonial day, meant to pray the dead, they now give presents to friends and loved ones. I'll never cease to find fascinating the parallels some cultures come up with." It ghosts through several buildings, leading to a large clearing, with a large, red statue of flame centered in it. Beyond, there are small headstones everywhere, offerings placed around some few of them. "Not everyone forgets the Festival's origins, however."

And one of those who apparently hasn't forgotten is a New Hire with a very familiar hairstyle. She can't be much older than five or six years old now, but she's still near one of the more isolated stones, desperately clapping her hands over her head and pressing them together. There's a bit of uncertainty about her as she prays, but Tenten's still giving it her all. "Mother, Father! Sorry I'm a little late this year! I was busy with the paperwork!" She straightens, kneeling on both legs, hands resting on her thighs. "I don't know if you would have approved or not, but Hinori-san says that it's important to repay favors. Since Konoha's taken care of me all these years, the only way to repay the people here is to take care of it. So I'm going to be a kunoichi, like Lady Tsunade!"

The Ghost clicks its tongue, clearly disapproving, and turns its head to its guest. "There aren't really many other things for a parentless child to do in this village, but it seems a waste to dedicate one's life to death on a festive day like this. Don't you think so?"

PRESENT

[71lines]

The largest of the Ghosts, after pressing his guest to take at least a meat pie, turns. Tenten's in the gym, but doesn't even seem to notice that she's being observed. Which might be why she's going at these robots even harder than she usually does, darting through their grasping reaches and tearing into them with a fury that she doesn't allow others to see for the most part. The Ghost gestures and time slows, allowing some of her blurred movements to be seen with crystalline clarity.

Her knuckles are split and bleeding freely and she's not exactly managing to dodge all of those hits, but now that her motions can be processed it's easy to see that she... Actually, no. She's fast. And she's hitting hard. But while her form is obviously well practiced, possibly even cleaner than Armstrong's, her execution is. Well. Terrible. Her kicks are often off, either slamming her shins into the robots or simply scuffing their surface with the bottom of her feet. She can't seem to block consistently. Almost all of her upper body movements are stiff, pained.

For all that she's clearly, finally, not holding back, this is honestly the worst display she's put on since arriving on the Rig.

"What a waste," the Ghost sighs. "She should be out with friends, but no. This." He clucks his tongue. "But it's not like her present back home is very promising, either." He raises his arm, gesturing to the shadows. Another scene appears within them, of a desert and thousands-no, tens of thousands, nearly a hundred thousand- people in identical uniforms stand in formation. A zoom in on Tenten, looking a little confused, among the ranks. "Going to war at home, and carrying on like this here... We're not going to see much better. without going back a few weeks, and that would be my dearest colleague's domain. But perhaps if Jorgmund hadn't robbed her future..."

YET TO COME

[71lines]

The spectre says nothing. He refuses to even entertain any attempts at conversation. As the mists around them fade, they reveal... destruction. As far as the eye can see. Off in the distance, giants can be seen battling, while screams and moans fill the air around them. The spirits of the dead rise around them, paying them no more than a disinterested glance before flying away to meet the fate that awaits them after this. Living ninjas in uniforms swarm over the battlefield, doing everything within their power to keep the death toll from rising. Sometimes they're even successful. The ground vibrates as a world-shattering explosion occurs far in the distance, a brilliant light filling the sky before fading. The medical corps does nothing beyond ducking and covering their heads for a moment before getting right back to earth.

Being shown something like this, it's probably predictable where he seems intent on leading his guest. But that doesn't mean he's slowing down any. Not that his pace is exactly breakneck. He moves like he knows there's no hurry.

KOKICHI

[trialbyliar]

[ hmu here too if you're a masochist and have something specific you want this guy in particular to see for some reason ]

PRESENT

[trialbyliar]

((Warning in advance that this scene will eventually involve death and implied gore.))

The scene is some sort of cavernous industrial building. It's all metal and machinery, some of it difficult to identify. A series of what look like large robots sit unmoving along one wall. At the center of the space is a huge hydraulic press.

The Ghost of Christmas Present hovers with his guest, shaking his head as if in disappointment. "Nothing even remotely Christmas-like to pick from, it seems," he says. "I suppose this is all there is."

It's otherwise quiet and empty, save for two figures who don't seem to notice the observers. One is a tall teen, a young man with a goatee, who's currently dragging the other person slowly towards the hydraulic press. And the other is Kokichi, dressed all in white, limp and leaving a vibrant trail of blood as he's dragged along the ground. He's pale to begin with, but he seems deathly pale here.

Not quite dead, though. He grimaces as he's dragged across a seam in the metal flooring, hissing a sharp intake of breath. As they reach the press, the taller boy stops and adjusts his grip on Kokichi's arm to move him more gingerly, sitting him up against the machine. Scowling at the suddenly gentle treatment, Kokichi weakly swats his hands away and gestures towards a nearby catwalk and control panel.

"Just go get the camera set up," he snaps between shaky breaths. The other teen rolls his eyes and straightens. He appears injured himself, pressing a hand to a bloody wound on one forearm to keep it from dripping.

"You can just kill yourself if you're gonna be an asshole," he retorts, but there's no heat in it. Shaking his head, he just moves away to do as he was told, fetching a camera and tripod from a corner of the room and carrying them up to the catwalk to set up whatever the fuck is going on here.

YET TO COME

[trialbyliar]

This scene, at least, seems to have some Christmas spirit to it. It's a small town street, gently dusted with a light snowfall that sparkles in the morning sun. A few of the various storefronts are decorated for the holiday, but there's only one or two stray pedestrians to appreciate it.

A train is idling at a platform, this stop too small to justify any kind of proper train station. The only people to disembark are a trio of yawning teenagers. Two girls and a boy, they're all dressed warmly for the weather and laden with large bags. None of them would be at all familiar to anyone on the Rig, but the silent Ghost of Christmases Yet To Come leads its guest along after them without explanation.

The teens make their way down the quiet street for only a short while before turning off down a snowy hill towards a treeline, and suddenly this walk becomes a hike through foothill forests.

Fortunately for its guest, the Ghost seems to make the time pass quickly for the observers, almost montage-like. Judging from the distance the sun travels, the hike must be taking hours, but it only feels like a few minutes. The girl with long, dark pigtails takes the lead, barely breaking a sweat while the other two pant behind her. At some point, the other girl – petite with short red hair – ends up being carried on her back. Some time after that, Redhead shoots a glance back at the boy trailing after them.

"Shuichi's falling behind," she says in a flat voice, and he gives her an exasperated look between panting breaths.

"Th-that's...easy for you to say."

Pigtails ignores them, narrowing sharp eyes at the distance ahead of them. "We're almost there."

"Why'd they have to build it way out in the middle of nowhere?" Redhead whines, sagging against the other girl's back.

"They needed a lot of space..." Shuichi answers from the back. "And...privacy, I guess..."

Soon enough, the trio clears the thick forest, breaking out into a vast, snow-covered field. At the center of it sits an enormous metal structure – a massive dome, maybe the width of a whole city block. There's a gaping hole in the structure near the top, the inside dark. A few small buildings sit attached to its sides, but the teens head instead toward the dome itself.

Near the base of the dome, breaking up the untouched snow, are a series of simple wooden markers set into the earth. There's more than a dozen of them, each painted with Japanese lettering. The influence of the Stuff might make it decipherable as names even to those previously unfamiliar with the language.

STACIA

[credit_not_blame]

[Reply to prompts OR show her something!]

PAST

[credit_not_blame]

The Ghost of Christmas Past leads their guest into a warm and well-lit home. It's clean but not sterile, the neutral colors of the walls and furniture selected to enhance the more personal decor. Family pictures line the walls, showing a married couple and one, then two children. A third appears later, round-cheeked and dark-haired, gazing seriously into the camera.

And, of course, it's Christmas: garlands on the walls and a tree is strung with white lights and tinsel and little wrapped candy canes, and a boy in his early teens -- the one from the pictures on the wall -- is scattering ornaments among the branches. The girl from the majority of pictures, older than the boy, has draped herself in a throw blanket on the couch, absorbed in the book she's reading. The scene is accompanied by the clattering of someone cooking in another room, and the strains of Christmas music coming from the radio.

"And there's our girl," the Ghost of Christmas Past says, as the youngest child strides into the room. She's as serious now as she is in all of the pictures, maybe four or five years old, and her dress is red velvet and white lace compared to her sister's dark green sweater and blue jeans and her brother's t-shirt and sweatpants.

Bitty Stacia plants her hands on her hips, staring at her sister on the couch.

"Mila! You're not helping!"

PRESENT

[credit_not_blame]

The Ghost of Christmas Present all but insists on his guest bringing a snack along for the journey. Just because he's the ghost of the Present doesn't mean that they don't have a long way to go.

"Little Miss Stacia was brought here between Christmases, you see," he says. "Almost to the day! Which lets me give you a choice."

He gestures on ahead of his guest to show them their options. To one side is a forest, dark and damp, snow weighing on the branches and lumpy on the ground. To the other side, separated from the forest by a thin line of something that's not quite light and not quite fog, is the doorway to a suburban house. The house is off-white and the door is dark gray and decorated with a wreath of summer foliage and...are those flip-flops?

"Which would you like to see?"

YET TO COME

[credit_not_blame]

The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come leads their guest through a dark forest, stopping only when they arrive at a low, earthen hut. It's likely taller on the inside though, judging by the way a dug-out ramp leads to the doorway. The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come gestures toward the doorway -- or, more likely, the two twenty-somethings sitting outside of it. The female of the two lies on her side, half-curled, with her head resting on the thigh of the male. He sits upright, gloved hands fidgeting with the sleeves of his hoodie as he sneaks glances at the door.

"What," the female finally says. It doesn't really sound like a question, but the male answers as though it is:

"This feels weird. Kinda wrong." The female rolls over so she can look up at him, frown lines appearing between her eyebrows.

"That she's dead?"

"What he's doing to her body, I mean."

REMY

[kingofneworleans]

[Reply to the prompts or show him something!]

PAST

[kingofneworleans]

The Ghost of Christmas Past brings their guest to an old home, the entryway all dark wood and antiques, dominated by a wide staircase hung with swags of greenery.

There are a few pictures on the walls, mostly showing a middle-aged white man, dark brown hair and trimmed moustache with a boy who grows into a young man, usually with very closely cropped hair and a moustache of his own. Their looks and coloring are close enough to name them as related, though the man doesn't seem to age throughout. Some pictures show an older black woman as well, hair in various natural styles.

There are a couple of rooms leading off of the entryway. To the left, a fair sized dining room. To the right, a living room with a large tree. The sun coming through the windows means the lights on the tree aren't on, but there are already a number of presents beneath it.

The Ghost smiles, waving a hand. "Christmas in New Orleans. Perhaps a little understated here, but not everybody goes overboard with the decorating. Even when there's somebody new in the family."

The smile fades, though, as the Ghost looks around. "Huh. He should be here somewhere...ah!"

A quick movement, bringing their guest along, the Ghost is able to reveal a young boy at the top of the stairs. Small, skinny, mostly arms and legs in the way of growing boys. With his reddish-brown hair, he'd have blended into any group his own age, were it not for the slightly glowing red-in-black eyes. Eyes that keep looking toward the dining room. Or, more likely, the sounds of cooking and Christmas music coming from beyond that room.

PRESENT

[kingofneworleans]

The cheer of the Ghost of Christmas Present seems at odds with the room that they and their guest find themselves in.

It's not that there's no Christmas cheer in the room. There's a small tree on a table near the windows, as well as four stockings hung on the fireplace. The apartment is filled with the scent of chocolate and spice.

An orange cat leans up against the table with the tree, batting at a strange ornament that looks like a snowman with blue eyes and holly leaf wings. After a moment, Remy comes out of the kitchen with a cup of something steaming. A cup he readily puts down to make his way across the room, scooping the kitten up with a boop to the kitten's nose. "None of dat, Lucifer. You best be leavin' Mr. Bingle dere alone, hmm?"

YET-TO-COME

[kingofneworleans]

The Ghost of Christmas Yet-To-Come is much quieter than the other two, but that's their wont. They bring their guest to a kitchen, one that looks similar to the one in the first memory.

Instead of a skinny boy and an amused older woman, though, the kitchen holds a young man and a young woman. The sounds of laughter come from another room, the raucousness of large families catching up after time away from one another. The kitchen is quieter, though, with only the two talking quietly to one another.

They have similar features, marking them as siblings, with the same auburn hair and white patch at the forehead, though the man's is wider and more prominent than his sister's. Their eyes are different, though, with the young man having inherited his father's distinctive red-on-black while the woman's are green.

She's adding something to a pot on the stove as the young man shakes his head. "I can't believe he taught you his famous gumbo recipe! I'm older than you!"

SAM WINCHESTER

[fromfryingpantofire]

[Reply to the prompts or show him something of your own!]

PAST

[fromfryingpantofire]

The Ghost of Christmas Past waves to two doorways. Two very plain doors with numbers on the front. The kinds of doors that are found on many hotel rooms. One has the numbers "1991" on it, while the other says "2007".

For those who enter 1991, they find themselves, not in a hotel room but a small living room, with two young boys, one not quite a teenager and the other not quite ten. There's no tree or decorations, just snow outside the window.

For those who enter 2007, though, the scene is a bit different. It actually is a hotel room, with a small tree decorated with car air fresheners as "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" plays in the background. Sam, several years younger, looks up as the door opens and another man enters, carrying something, and looking around in surprise.

Sam grins, holding up a cup in his hand. "Hey. You get the beer?"

DAN SAGITTARIUS

[hallelujahjunction]

[OOC: Down for his prompts or yours!]

PAST

[hallelujahjunction]

It would be a normal Christmas dinner, except for where it takes place: a large, windowless, concrete and metal room, with walls lined primarily with crosses, shelves of canned goods, and about seventy different firearms, from assault rifles to handguns, and one battered upright piano. There’s no door on the wall, just a metal ladder bolted to a hatch in the ceiling. A stove pipes steam up through a chimney to keep the room from becoming airless, where a mother and a young Dan are preparing a meal while six other children alternate between playing and watching Dan’s father demonstrate to them how to dismantle and clean a shotgun.

The children – all younger than Dan except for one girl, who looks about the same age, fifteen or sixteen, and is playing a beautiful rendition of “O Holy Night” on the piano – are wearing clothes that have clearly gone through cycles of being hand-me-downs, with patches and hems done and undone and indelible grass and dirt stains on the knees, and all seem happy until one of the boys takes a sheet of paper that one of his sisters is drawing on, and a scuffle starts.

“Danny, honey, can you go break them up? Kitty and your dad are busy.” Dan’s mom plants a kiss on his forehead and shoos him to do sibling duty, which he manages with his trademark patience. In short order, the children are calm again and the meal – a cooked rabbit, a side of soup, some potatoes, and some sort of flatbread smeared with copious amounts of jam and sugar – is on the table.

“Your turn to say grace, Danny,” his father says, and they all link hands.

Dan starts. “The eyes of all wait upon Thee, O Lord, and Thou givest them their meat in due season; Thou openest Thine hand and satisfied the desire of every living thing. Our Father... Lord God, Heavenly Father, bless us and these Thy gifts which we receive from Thy bountiful goodness, through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen."

“Amen,” says the family.

Mackenzie Haynes

[ragefeathers]

Past

[ragefeathers]

The Ghost of Christmas Past directs those who find themselves following Mackenzie to what looks to be a snow-covered wood. The air is still, crisp, and clear with a sharp and vivid clarity that only the wilderness can really bring. The spirit leads those that follow along a winding gametrail, barely visible through the fresh snow until at last, the thick evergreen trees break into the open to showcase a cozy wooden cabin tucked away from the world. A few tendrils of smoke rise from the chimney--and in instant, the Ghost and their companions are within.

"A comfortable place, if being off the beaten path suits," the Ghost remarks.

It's a small building, without running water and electricity provided by a rumbling generator but it is comfortable and warm within. Crowded, too, with five people filling its space. There are only a few rooms, with the main one set aside for living space, a hearth, and a kitchen. The interior is decorated in evergreen limbs, a small Christmas tree and a few strands of colored lights that have perhaps seen better days. This is where the Ghost takes people. Sprawled out on a battered couch before the hearthfire is Mackenzie, her eyes closed as she seems to be contentedly napping up a storm. There's an old boombox-style tape deck on the dining room table, scratchily blasting out Christmas carols. Curled before the fire, also clearly asleep is a wolf, mottled grey and gold coat still a little damp from the snow outside.

The kitchen is crowded with three others: one, a woman with olive skin and long dark hair tied back into a braid is in the midst of dressing a cut of meat to go into the oven, chattering away with a dark-skinned young man with a close-cropped mop of curly hair.

"Eli, are you done chopping those potatoes yet? I want to get them on the stove once the venison is in?" She asks with the air of someone used to getting what she wants. Or at least used to being listened to.

"I'm workin' on it," the young man, Eli obviously, says in reply. "Why don't you wake up Kenzie or Howls and get them to help, too?"

"Because," says the third, another young woman with fair skin and strawberry blonde hair she's tucked into a messy bun, "They're the ones who went out and caught Christmas dinner, you dorkus."

"I would've gone if they'd asked," insists the young man with a cheeky grin. The three of them continue to playfully bicker between themselves as cooking proceed apace. The Ghost gives a slight shake of their head before they speak.

"There was a time, brief as it was, when she was warm and surrounded by those she loves. This was but the previous Christmas for her. How much things change," they say in their calm voice, and move to lean over the couch as if they might brush some of the sleeping Mackenzie's hair from her face.

"She was happier then. Or perhaps she might even be described simply as happy. As she is now, I cannot say. It is not my realm to describe the present."

Washington

[parannoyed]

[ooc: placeholder. You can do your own prompts in reply to this too.]

PAST

[parannoyed]

["This was many Christmases ago, but still fresh on his mind. His most recent Christmases are lost to him," says the Ghost. Wash's last Christmas was spent somewhere much nicer than the place in his memory. But because of his memories being blocked, this is the last Christmas he remembers.]

[The memory starts with him sitting on a weight-lifting bench, eyes scanning the horizon. Wherever he's at, it's not winter. He closes his eyes and seems to just be trying to soak the sun in. Even if it wasn't obvious from the way he's reacting to it, there are other signs that make it clear he doesn't get to go out in the sun as often as he'd like.]

[The signs: The barbed-wire fence around the gym equipment. The starchy prison uniform. The cuffs on his hands, which are attached to a chain that goes to his waist and then to the cuffs on his ankles. The stamp on his orange prison scrubs has the initials "UNSC: MSDF."]

["Half hour is up, Washington," says a prison guard, gun raised, like the guard thinks every moment Wash is up and walking around is dangerous.]

[Wash opens his eyes again and breathes out a long, slow breath.]

["No funny business. You try to run, I will shoot you. You try to fight us, I will shoot you -"]

[Wash's tone could cut glass.]

I think I've got it. You've painted a pretty clear picture.

[He's led back inside and down a long hall, forced to take only baby steps, the chains tinkling with each one.]

["Can't believe we're stuck on duty today," the guard says to the other guard. "I put in for holiday leave months ago, but here I am."]

Holiday leave? What holiday is it?

["It's December 25th back home," says the guard. "Yet here I am, stuck babysitting your ass." They reach a cell. It's labeled with his prisoner number. No name.]

["Remember, no -"]

- Funny business. Like I said, I've got it.

[They unchain his shackles and he walks into his cell. They switch a forcefield back on.]

["You have no messages, by the way," says the guard, clearly enjoying this a little too much. "A few inmates got Christmas messages from family. Trouble with the fam, huh?"]

[Wash sits on his bed, exhaustion held in the slope of his shoulders.]

Even if we hadn't fallen out of touch years ago, being accused of treason tends to get you taken off the Christmas card list.

[He lays down on his prison cot and turns his back to the door.]

["Suuuch a shame. Oh well, there's always your birthday, right? Maybe they'll send you a card then."]

[Wash is silent as the guard leaves, eventually laying flat on his back again. Time lapses. He doesn't move. The lights to all the cells go dim for lights out. Down the hall he hears the tinny sound of an actual Christmas card, playing music. Wash wonders how difficult and how expensive it'd been to courier that out here.]

[He closes his eyes, and there is a memory within a memory, showing what Wash himself is thinking about.]

["This may be a memory. But he took refuge in other memories himself on this particular Christmas," the ghost says. "Memories of home."]

[Instead of laying on a cot, the viewer will see a younger Wash, now only 14, laying on a couch. He's in a very nice looking house, decked wall to wall with wreathes and tinsel and holly. The smell of pine and mulled cider fills the house, and a Christmas tree in a corner sparkles with lights and glinting ornaments.]

[The house is filled with the sounds you'd expect in a home. Several girls can be heard giggling over something in another room. A man can be heard calling out, "Honey, did you remember to pick up onions for the stuffing?"]

["Check the bottom of the pantry."]

["I already checked it."]

[Wash lays there with a bedraggled, ancient calico cat purring on his chest, as he trails fingers through its patchy fur. He pets the cat contentedly as "I'll be home for Christmas" plays from some sound system somewhere in the background, just like it'd played from the other inmate's card.]

[Christmas eve will find me
Where the love light gleams
I'll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams.]

[The image abruptly cut out and disappears. Wash is laying alone, his hand curled at his chest, where the cat had been in the other memory.]

[He stares up at the ceiling, his guarded expression finally giving way to one of misery and despair. His hand tightens into a fist at his chest, like it's mimicking the clench of his heart. It's a quiet moment, and he's not being watched, so he allows himself the tiniest bit of emotion.]

[He closes his eyes tight and a single tear squeezes out of the corner of his eye and streams down his temple. He wipes it away and doesn't allow himself any more weakness. The grimace also relaxes, too, and he doesn't allow himself anything beyond that brief moment, either. Something shuts off again and instead of showing any emotion, he stares up at cold metal with an even colder gaze.]

Breq

[breq]

Past

[breq]

"She doesn't celebrate Christmas, unfortunately," the Spirit says to whomever they've dragged along for the ride, "So... this will have to do, I suppose."

The air is thick and muggy and humid and smells of salt and seawater and rotting vegetation; there's the sort of cloying heat that sticks to the skin. All around them is a sprawling city. One and two-story buildings with large, open walls, with rolled-up storm shutters. There are chattering children and flower petals are strewn everywhere. The city is full of a press of people in loose clothing. Pilgrims all flowing toward a grand temple that sits here. There are trees and water plants and a great expanse of swamp or marsh and somewhere the calling of seabirds.

Stock still among all of the movement are figures clad in grey uniforms, their faces perfectly blank. Their bodies absolutely still. They are on the edges of the crowd - a half dozen or more watching them come and go. Most of them have closely-cropped hair and at a glance, it's hard to tell whether they're male or female. All they do is stand there and watch.

"She wasn't participating. Not really. But she was here to see it."

Somewhere, a chorus of rough voices rises in song. A religious chant or homily, some sort of celebration. Bells and gongs accompany it and through the crowd comes another person - again, difficult to tell if male or female, androgynous, wearing loose clothing in the local style and wearing a pin of some sort. A badge of rank. With her is another of the grey-clad figures, moving easily and smoothly, expression perfectly blank. A child approaches them both, ducking out of the throng with a slightly worried expression.

None of these people actually wear Breq's face. Or her face as those on the Rig might know it, anyway.

"Good day, Citizen," says the grey-clad ancillary to the child, "What seems to be the matter?"

"I - I was wondering-" The child starts, hesitates, and the lieutenant makes an encouraging gesture, "...if you need another flower-bearer? For the mornings, I mean."

The lieutenant glances at the ancillary, who says nothing. Looks as blank as ever.

"...I think we might be able to work something out."

DATA

[humandroid]

PAST

[humandroid]

Welcome aboard the starship Enterprise, traveler. Or at least one of the many door-lined corridors therein. The Ghost of Christmas Past leads their guest along through the space, exuding warmth as ever, at a meandering sort of pace that indicates a certain amount of consideration for each door along the way.

"No Christmas memories to speak of," they say as they come to a stop, clearly in no particular hurry (the past isn't going anywhere, after all). "But I think I've got enough material to work with. If you will?"

The Ghost gestures towards the nearest few doors, offering their guest the choice. If there's anything distinguishing one prospective memory from another, it isn't evident. The door will slide open automatically on being approached, and what lies beyond--

Well, that all depends.

[ So I've got a few things picked out that I think fit the vibe of what this memshare is going for! I'm open to requests for specific memories, though, or preferences on if you want your character up close and personal on a memory with good vibes or bad vibes. Feel free to hmu about it through OOC channels or the subject line, etc. Or just have your character go through a door and I can randomly select something! ]

TIO

[zerofield]

[ Hit the prompts or reply directly with whatever your heart desires, I'm easy. Action tags are fine instead of prose, too, I'm easy. ]

PAST

[zerofield]

The Ghost of Christmas Past leads its guest to an elevator, moving not through a building but suspended in a swirl of distorted space. Images - memories, rather - float past, and the sharp-eyed might be able to pick a few out before they're gone: A tiny Tio in the arms of her parents, although her eyes are a cool blue rather than the gold those who know her today would recognize. Rows of beds in some kind of laboratory, Tio only one of the many children restrained and hooked up to IVs and sensors. Tio unconscious in the arms of a concerned man wearing a jacket marked POLICE.

"Zemuria doesn't have Christmas," the Ghost explains. "But...ah, I think this is in the right spirit." The elevator slows, and they're in a hospital room. Tio, still maybe nine years old or so, is in the bed, still a bit pale and thin but not looking nearly as bad as the previous images. And the man in the police jacket is entering, grabbing a nearby chair and turning it backwards to straddle it next to her bed. Some people are too cool to sit normally, evidently.

"You're looking much better," the man says cheerfully. "No wonder I've got permission from the nurses."

Tio looks at him, her expression barely changing. "Does that mean..."

"Yeah. Few more days, and we'll have you on your way back to Remiferia. The chief talked to your parents, they sound pretty excited to have you coming back, too."

There's no excitement on Tio's end. Her gaze only drops to the bedsheets. "I see."

Awkward silence for a few moments. The man reaches over to put a hand on her shoulder. "Hey. I know this is rough. It's not like everything just became okay the minute we got you out of there. But I'm not just shoving you on an airship and taking off. I'll be with you all the way back, and I'll be sticking around for a bit while you settle in again, too."

She looks up. "You will?"

"You bet. Hey, I got something for you, too." He lets go of her shoulder and goes to dig something out of his pocket. "Thought a good luck charm might be nice to have before we set out, you know?" He presses something into her hand and gently closes her fingers around it. "Mishy's kind of a big deal here in Crossbell."

Tio holds it up to the light. A keychain, with a silly-looking cat character.

"So maybe he can keep you company once I have to go home, right? Rest easy, give it some time. Maybe not tomorrow, or the next day, but I'm sure you'll become happy again...and if you don't, call on me. Anytime." He grins. "And we'll beat up whatever's making you sad. I promise."

North Dakota

[bothbarrels]

PAST

[bothbarrels]

The Ghost of Christmas Past leads the person entering the space in one of two directions, giving little context or explanation for the visions. They speak, for the most part, for themselves.

i.

There are two tow-headed youngsters lounging around the living room of a small, third-floor apartment. The brick tenement is cold and uninviting from outside, but inside the family has done their level best to make it nice.

There's one major barrier to doing this up the way it deserves: money.

There's a Christmas tree in the corner with some modest packages underneath. The boy arises to begin distributing all the gifts, wrapped in red and green paper that has begun to show some wear—it's recycled from years past. The parents and the boy begin opening their gifts, slitting the tape to save the paper once again. But the sister tears into her presents with a smirk—one which quickly falls in dismay.

"I thought we were getting a game system," she complains. "These are just clothes."

"It's okay," the boy says to her. "We'll get something cool next time."

"It's always 'next time'!" she exclaims, rising and stamping her foot.

"I'm sorry, Nat honey, but—" her father begins, but his daughter is already stomping her way to the bedroom.

"It's not fair!" she calls back to them. "It's never fair!"

The brother arises, making a motion to his parents to remain there, and follows her.

ii.

The Mother of Invention is a UNSC heavy war frigate, filled with personnel who staff it as part of the paramilitary force called Project Freelancer. This includes agents North and South Dakota, who are rare in being a pair of siblings who serve in the same unit. But there's a lot of rarities in the Project. Most of the soldiers who ended up here have done so because it was their only means of avoiding court martial.

The pair of twins serving as agents are no different in this.

Christmas day is not a holiday in the Project; those who serve here and who celebrate the day do what they can to keep the day, but they don't get any time off for it. North and South had each bought each other a gift on their last leave, and they exchange the presents after training hours are through.

"Holy shit, Drew," South says, laughing at the item she had revealed by pulling back the paper. "You remembered the game system I wanted as a kid! And now it all fits on this little device," she adds. "You stupid asshole. You really should have made dad pay for it."

"You know, he couldn't really afford this back then," North says.

"Of course I know that! I'm just fucking with you, idiot."

North chuckles a little, but shakes his head.

"I know. I had to say it, though."

South gives North a punch on the shoulder. "I know."

Ian Malcolm

[whethertheyshould]

PAST

[whethertheyshould]

"This is not, strictly speaking, Christmas," the Ghost of Christmas Past says. "It's Christmas Eve."

The tableau before the Spirit's guest is of Ian and his young daughter, Kelly.

"Ian Malcolm is a serial monogamist, you see. He knows this about himself, and he's comfortable with that fact. What he's less comfortable with is having split-custody of his daughter."

Kelly is opening each gift, of which there are many, and giving her father hugs in between.

"The only thing he can do to make up for this is splurge and indulge her with all the gifts she could possibly want."

Michael Burnham

[notvulcan]

PAST

[notvulcan]

"It's her first Christmas on this planet." The Ghost of Christmas Past nods at the young Black girl, lounging in bed with eyes open. "Vulcan, it's called. You see, Michael has already been told this date will not include celebrations; Sarek, her foster father, is not opposed to human things being part of the way Amanda raises Michael and Spock, but Amanda doesn't usually include major holidays."

Michael balls her hands into fists and bunches her coverlet under her chin, still staring into space.

"Michael is okay with this, for the most part, though there's something about the day being here that makes her miss her parents. You shall see."

Just then Michael arises, exits her room for breakfast, going down to the kitchen.

"Good morning, Michael," Amanda says. "Would you like something hot?"

Michael responds by breaking into tears.