goneawayworld | HERE, HAVE SOME SPIRIT

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HERE, HAVE SOME SPIRIT

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.]]

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Honestly, the boy looks almost as uncomfortable as Dan feels. His clothes still have that look of newness to them, the jeans not quite worn in yet, the shirt just a little too nice. He reaches up, pulling at the collar of his shirt, thought process clearly playing out on the young face. Should he retreat or go find out what's happening in the kitchen?

It takes a moment for him to make up his mind, kicking off his shoes and making his way silently down the stairs and padding through to the kitchen. Always careful, pausing when the singing gets louder or there's an unusual noise from the kitchen, which Dan can see he's headed toward.

He's almost made it to the door when the singing ends. The music keeps going, though, as a voice calls out, "Ain't no need t' be sneakin' up like dat, chile. You're 'lowed in de kitchen, y'know."

Dan follows. Dan follows out of a sense of compulsion, not out of good judgment. The Ghost seems to want him to see something, and stubbornly standing there at the foot of the stairs just might make it worse.

He knows his feet don't leave marks here, but when Remy kicks off his shoes Dan follows suit, just to try and treat the space with the same respect, and then he follows the child to the doorway in his socks. He picks up on the discomfort - how could he not? He'd want to crawl out of those clothes too, not because of anything inherently wrong with them but because they come from a class and comfort that isn't often offered to roughnecks.

"This is all still very new to him," the Ghost of Christmas Past says, not unkindly. "Suffice it to say that his previous Christmases weren't so warm."

The kitchen that the boy steps into is modern, with good lighting and large windows to let in the gulf breezes. A good-sized island sits in the middle of the room, with a few well-worn barstools around it. Obviously a place where the people of the house gather and spend a good amount of time.

There's a pot on the stove. Chicken thighs and sliced sausage sit in bowls to the side and the kitchen is filled with the scent of aromatics and spices. And, in front of the stove, stands a heavyset black woman, her hair in dozens of protective braids, each with a few beads at the bottom. She looks over Remy, who manages to both straighten up and hide his eyes at the same time.

"Désolé, Tante Mattie." If anything, the boy's accent is thicker than the man's. "Was jus' won'erin' whachu were doin' in 'ere. 'Specially as Henri says we ain't s'posed to eat 'fore church tonight."

The Ghost of Christmas Past leans over to Dan. "New Orleans is mostly Catholic, so Midnight Mass is a big deal. And you're supposed to fast before Holy Communion." Which Dan might know, but a little explanation doesn't hurt.

"Jus' gettin' de gumbo ready for Réveillon after mass." Mattie turns, stirring the pot. "Lucky you didn' come in earlier. Might've gotten annoyed if you disturbed me makin' de roux."

Remy makes a sound at the back of his throat, moving toward the island. Apparently, being caught makes it easier for him to feel he's allowed in the space. "I ain't gonna be gettin' communion. Las' time I came near a church, de priest chased me out wit' a broom."

"Which ain't gonna happen tonight." There's iron in her voice as she says it, still concentrating on the pot.

"Homeless? Or just neglected?" Even though the former is also unbearably the latter.

The smell alone makes Dan hungry, and he realizes that he hasn't had a homecooked meal in...maybe a decade, maybe more. And the mess hall food certainly hasn't been anything worth getting excited about, even with all of the manufactured enthusiasm for Taco Tuesday. Certainly, he's not recently had anything so rich and aromatic as the gumbo in that pot.

"I actually didn't know that. You do it different when you're..." Well, the bastardized hodgepodge version of Lutheran and Baptist that Dan was raised as, but Dan doesn't talk about he was raised as a general rule, even to Ghosts. "I can't imagine being able to stand it, having to wait to eat that food. I'm salivating just watching."

His heart goes out to the kid, as he remembers his own little girl - his almost-daughter who so often felt the same. If I go into a church I'll burst into flames, she had one said, and while she'd been joking it was clear at some point someone told it to her until she believed it.

He wants to put a reassuring hand on Remy's shoulder, but Tante Mattie is already there with her firm promise of protection. He suspects this woman would physically place herself and not budge between anyone who came for Remy.

The Ghost waggles a hand back and forth. "It's not quite that simple. And something to ask him about." Since the Ghost only knew what happened during Christmas and not the rest of the year.

Remy climbs up on one of the bar stools, in the way of the young where he actually more kneels on the seat, so he can lean further over the island. He's nowhere near his growth spurt yet, but he's still all arms and legs and skinny as a rail. "Believe it when I see it," he grumbles, arms crossed under him.

"Your papa--" She looks back, then changes track at the look on Remy's face. The discomfort hasn't left his bearing at all, and it only gets a bit higher at that. "Jean-Luc ain't gonna let not'in' happen to you, Remy."

Remy remains silent on the prospect, even with Mattie watching him.

Finally, she sighs and shakes her head. "Well, if you're gonna be in here, Remy, you're gonna be helpin'. An' you can help by givin' me dose vegetables."

Remy glances between Mattie, the bowls of cut up vegetables, then back to her. "An' if I don'?" Because even young, he had to push the line.

"Well den," Mattie says, drawing the vowels out. "Guess it means you don' get to test de gumbo 'fore church to make sure it's good 'nough for de family."

He pauses a moment before scrambling down from the chair and heading over to look at the cut up veg. Offers of food were enough even then to get him moving. "Onions first," Mattie says, amused. "Den de celery an' peppers. We call dat de Holy Trinity 'round here."

"I try not to ask folks about their pasts unless they're volunteering it." Dan's definitely a gossip hound, and has gotten the skinny on many of his comrades just through networking with the low-level Jorgmund staffers, but he respects people's privacy to define their pasts. It's the cost of hoping for them to respect his.

That kind is definitely traumatized, though. And not just from one instance; the kid's clearly got some emotional calluses built up from years of friction, small attacks, aggravation. The kid doesn't like having an assigned "papa".

"She seems a good woman, and he's a good kid. Just one's been burned." Which matches with what he knows of Remy as an adult. Good man, but keeps his feelings to his chest.

"As with many things, some parts are easier to speak of than others. As you well know." The Ghost gives Dan a significant look, since they know the Christmases that the man won't talk about. "Our way is easier, in many ways.

"And Mattie is a good woman. Strong and understanding. The sort of person a kid like Remy needs." The sort of woman a child who has never had parents, really, needs.

Remy sneaks a bit of the sausage as Mattie tells him what she's doing. She pretends not to see, of course. "He'll heal. This is the start of it."

Dan gives the Ghost a defensive look. He knows his own memories are being shared around too, and he deeply dislikes it. "Your way is intrusive."

But, as he folds his arms, it is nice to see some kindness in these memories. Mattie indeed seems to be the sort of motherly figure a child like this needs.

"Oh, I know he will. I met him. Friendly, sharp as a tack." Dan liked Remy a lot when they met, and not because they were both cardsharks. "But healing leaves scars."

"We prefer 'efficient'." It's definitely faster than expecting humans to actually talk about their pasts and issues. Far faster to create connections like this.

"It does. But scars don't have to be bad. They show what you've survived." The Ghost smiles as Mattie steps away from the stove for a moment, finding a cooking book to bring down and show to Remy. Who looks far more interested in the pictures than the words. "Come. Let us leave them to the cooking lesson."

"You can connect without showing off everything that's hurt you." Which is only a half-truth; Dan keeps his hurts to himself, and as such has had so very few honest connections in his entire life. But he doesn't see himself as wrong.

But he gives a soft smile nonetheless, because this is a sweet moment, watching Tante Mattie engage the boy so. He wonders how many books young Remy has had a chance to leaf through in his life.

He looks to the Ghost. "Are we going somewhere else, or is this where you leave me?"

From the fascination on the boy's face, possibly not many. He seems to glance at the words once and dismiss them, far more interested in the pictures.

"This is where I leave you. Or this particular me. But there are others. You may find yourself elsewhere. Or perhaps you'll wake up." The Ghost shrugs, then tilts their head. "And, perhaps, yes, you can. The question, Dan Sartoris, is whether you have the time."

There's a gust of cold wind, accompanied by the sound of church bells tolling, that leaves Dan alone as the warm kitchen fades around him.

"Sagittarius. I ain't gone by Sartoris in decades." Dan smiles. "It's my stripper name."

He does want to know more about Remy's childhood, because he's so curious, but he also doesn't want to continue rooting through someone's memories like this, especially when some of the other ones he's seen have felt so invasive and stomach-churning.

"I think I'd like to wake up now."

But until he does, he watches this happy scene fade away, pulling his arms around himself as the cold wind replaces the steaming kitchen.

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HERE, HAVE SOME SPIRIT

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