goneawayworld | HERE, HAVE SOME SPIRIT

Entry tags:

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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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?"

"The house," Dan says, because he doesn't like living in other people's trauma and because he feels like the odds of trauma in the woods, for a werewolf, is greater than - but not conclusively so - greater than that in a home. He doesn't feel certain in his choice. He's aggressively chewing on one of those giant candy cane sticks that no one is supposed to eat in one sitting, and yet he seems inclined to.

He likes Stacia, but even if he didn't, he'd feel strange spying on her in times she has no say in. By now he's figured out how the ghosts work, and he doesn't like it at all. People's potentially vulnerable moments shouldn't be paraded around for relative strangers.

But he also knows he has to play along, so he checks to see if the handle of the door opens.

The door doesn't open so much as Dan and the Ghost pass through it, propelled more by his choice than by any movement on their part. It's quiet and dim inside the house, so late that it's wrapped around to become early. The foyer is oddly empty, as though it's been redone recently and not yet returned to a lived-in state.

Behind them, the door opens and Stacia slips through, the picture of a teenager sneaking in past curfew. She surveys the room warily, paying Dan and the Ghost no mind, and abruptly stiffens.

"Mom," she says. The ash-blond woman she's spotted peeking out of the living room relaxes only slightly.

"Stacia," the woman, presumably Stacia's mother, answers. Somehow this doesn't seem to dispel the tension, which twists and stretches into the silence.

"You don't need to wait up for me," Stacia says, oddly stiff. Her mother attempts a weak smile and fails.

"I wasn't sleeping anyway."

Beside Dan, the Ghost sighs.

"Would that it were as easy to repair damage done to a relationship as it is physical objects," he says.

Purely in terms of location, it always feels more invasive to see the inside of someone's home than anywhere else. Dan's been in houses like this, usually to hunt cheshires or mimics or try and ward off haunting spirits, but he's never lived in one, and the unfamiliarity sets him ill at ease.

Dan glances at the Ghost. "It depends. You can fuck up some physical objects pretty permanently, and so long as a person's alive..."

He desperately hopes he's not about to watch Stacia's mother die, especially given the extremely unpleasant vision he saw of Kokichi moments ago. It's on the table.

"That's true," the Ghost says with a nod of acknowledgment. "But a damaged object can be replaced in its entirety. Both people must work to repair a relationship. That's still possible for Stacia and her mother, but..."

He gestures at the two women, who have lapsed into an awkward silence again. Both of them look like they're considering bolting in opposite directions. A muscle flexes in Stacia's jaw for a moment, before she cracks her lips to speak.

"Ace told me that the alpha of the pack was executed today," she says. "The Theurge is being kept under close supervision while they try to...deprogram her, I guess. And the other four are dead -- some kind of fight, apparently."

"...I see," her mother says.

"They won't be coming back," Stacia concludes. Speaking seems to have settled her, she no longer looks like she's ready to run. Confident but closed off, not relaxed in the way Dan may have seen her on the rig or on the network. It's almost formal.

"That's true," Dan says, before watching this all play out. He tries not to let hit show that he's surprised. Somehow, he was expecting that Stacia's mom was oblivious to everything, that she was clueless as to the struggles her daughter was facing - the way werewolves are in his world. The way he needs to get used to as not the norm for werewolves from anywhere else.

He looks to the Ghost. "I reckon Stacia and her mother don't have the warmest of relationships. Is there anything you can show me of their Christmases to prove me wrong?"

It's not a demand or a challenge; it's a straightforward question, because he suspects this memory isn't over, what he's supposed to glean from this isn't gone.

"Unfortunately, only her most recent Christmas falls within my purview," the Ghost says. He waves his hand and a misty gateway appears to the same living room as they're standing in, but lit by lamps and lights and bustling with activity. It's very different than the dim and quiet June night between mother and daughter, who haven't exchanged a word since Stacia made her assurances.

"...I'm going to bed," Stacia says. "Don't stay up too late. Like I said, no one's going to come." She smirks, and it's a grim expression trimmed in satisfaction. "They wouldn't dare."

"Sleep well," her mother says and Stacia and her bag dart up the stairs, quickly and quietly as though she's glad for the escape. Her mother waits like she's counting the seconds, then wraps her robe more tightly around herself and moves to the darkest and most secure corner of the living room, as though she's trying to hide.

The muffled sound of a woman's laughter winds its way through the portal to the most recent Christmas.

Dan startles a little at the gateway, even though he shouldn't. He's plenty familiar with magic, even as one of those fundamental incapables.

"I can see why Bunny's taken to her. I can see why she might could need it." She's so young to be exposed to violence, and that's coming from someone who was using firearms by the age of four.

The portal shows what appears to be an ideal family Christmas. The house is decorated and the tree twinkles with lights and there are presents and plenty of food to take home as leftovers. Stacia and her mother are both there, as well as a man who is clearly Stacia's father (she looks more like him than she does her mother) and two more adults who are clearly Stacia's brother and sister. They're all laughing and chattering and hugging, moving around each other in a comfortable family dance. But since Dan's looking for it, he'll see that Stacia and her mother deftly avoid each other the entire time. They don't touch, they find reasons to travel the long way around rather than pass near each other. Stacia's sister seems to be the only one who notices, but she doesn't say anything to bring it to the attention of her oblivious brother and father.

The Ghost sighs.

"Secrets within secrets," he says. "That's where the trouble gets in."

Dan sees immediately how Stacia and her mother are behaving. He's got a keen eye for interpersonal dynamics.

"Are the rest of her family...are they involved in all this? Werewolf pack dynamics and all?"

He senses it's a little different in his world than in Stacia's. Werewolves mostly live in the woods and work in magic society where Dan's from. They don't have homes with picturesque family Christmases the way humans do; their culture is as advanced but too removed.

"Her mother and her sister know," the Ghost says. "They're touched by the necessary magic. Her father and her brother only know about the things she can't hide or explain away."

"So not much," Dan says. His life experience has informed him well that almost everything can be hidden or explained away. "Is there something about Y chromosomes lycanthropy don't like much in her world?"

The Ghost chortles at that.

"The mechanism of this magic isn't tied to chromosomes," he says. "It manifests equally across sex and gender, just not in this family. It could very well manifest in Stacia's brother's children's children's children, or it could be lost to his line forever. If the magic was ever in her father's family, it's been long forgotten."

It's an odd thing to be given this sort of choice. Sam looks back and forth between the two before letting out a breath and turning to the forest.

It's not that the house itself is inviting. It absolutely is. But houses like that are safer. Interesting, but safe. And he's never been the one to go for the safe route.

Instead, he leads the Ghost of Christmas Present to the snowy forest and steps in.

The forest swallows them immediately, dragging them forward faster than Sam's walking speed. The trees are mostly evergreens and the underbrush looming at the edges of the deer trail they're pulled along is thick and wild and tangled.

When Sam's feet are finally planted back on solid ground, he and the ghost are in a clearing surrounded by a combination of wolves and humans in a casual party atmosphere. The humans are bundled up against the cold, sipping from an odd combination of insulated mugs or old fashioned drinking horns. The one closest to Sam, a dark haired guy in his late teens to early twenties, has a mug and is laughing at he tries to protect his paper plate from a wolf that is trying to investigate the contents with their snoot.

"Stacia," he complains affectionately, "I made you a plate already!"

The wolf -- which does have patterns in its coat very similar to the patterns Sam has seen on his Rigmate when she shifts to wolf-monster -- rears up on her high legs and licks all over the side of the protesting man's face.

It's a surprise to come out in a very genial gathering. Not what Sam's expecting from the dark woods.

Still, he has to laugh and shake his head at that. Stacia acting more like a puppy than the self-possessed almost woman he knew.

One that still managed to talk him into piggyback rides, somehow, but still pretty self-possessed.

"Okay. I have to admit, given what I've seen of her world, I was expecting something...very different," he tells the Ghost. "This is actually...pretty normal, all said."

"Her people have been at war to one degree or another for centuries," the Ghost says as Stacia drops down to four feet again and play-bows to the young man she'd been harassing, before darting off through the crowd. "They've learned to make time to celebrate, lest they never have any at all."

"Sam, have you seen Auntie Stacia?"

The darker-skinned girl in her early teens is not talking to Sam Winchester. Stacia's favorite victim makes a "mfph" noise around a swallow of what ever is in his mug.

"Hey Ponente," he says. "You just missed her. Either she'll be back soon with the plate I set aside for her, or she's going to ambush me again. Here's hoping it's the former, I've already got wolf spit in my ear."

Sam clasps his hands, thumb of his right hand pressing into the palm of his left. Or, rather, at the scar left there. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I get that. Take the time to do what you can, right?"

It had been what had changed his mind about the Christmas he and Dean shared several years back. Before Dean went to Hell. Life was too short as it was.

Still, when he hears his name, his head whips around. Even knowing that, logically, there's no way anybody in this memory could see him or would be able to name him at all. Which is why he blinks at the guy Stacia had been harassing, looking between him and the space Stacia had gone, then back before raising an eyebrow. "Well. I wonder how weird this is for her. Though, I guess, Sam's not that unusual a name."

The Ghost chortles and claps Sam on the back as Ponente and the other Sam trade small talk: the restaurant where other Sam worked earlier in the day has done good business for the holiday, and Ponente has apparently just returned from chasing ghosts in Arizona which is very beautiful and not nearly this cold. Stacia's squeal reaches them before she does, and she engulfs Ponente in a hug upon arrival. Other Sam gamely catches her plate before she spills it everywhere.

"I heard you were swinging through!" Stacia says, finally releasing the younger girl. "Oh my god, did you get taller than me? I think you're taller than me. How very dare."

"It was bound to happen sooner or later, rhya," Ponente says. "You're very short." She laughs and dodges back out of reach when Stacia tries to swat at her. "My mother says you should stop by and see her before you leave tonight. She and the Plague aren't coming out in the cold, but they have presents!"

"She has a point. Stacia is very short."

Which isn't to say that Sam himself isn't very tall. It's just...well, Ponente has a point, that's all.

"It's good to see her with so much support, though. I know she has her issues with her boyfriend being a bit of a dumbass, but...it's still great to see her surrounded by friends." He makes a gesture, taking in everybody there. "I know that this kind of life gets lonely so easily."

"A lone wolf is searching for something, and what it's searching for is another wolf," the Ghost says, gesturing not only at Stacia, Ponente, and the other Sam, but also at everyone else in the clearing. "The smallest social unit isn't a single individual, but a pack. She'll be looking for something to approximate that."

There's a loud snarl as a tussle breaks out between two of the wolves. Stacia swears and abandons her plate in other Sam's care again, loping toward the fight.

"Goddamnit, I told you two--"

"...And she'll expect to be listened to," the Ghost says as Stacia shifts into her wolf-monster form to scruff the two combatants. Interestingly, her outerwear vanishes instead of being shredded like her Jorgmund jumpsuit.

Sam watches, more with interest than any fear. Sure, his brain is going over the ways to take out a werewolf. Which may or may not work on her. But he can't really stop the Hunter in him from actually thinking about it.

And he does notice that the clothing changes with her, which is...different.

It takes a few moments for what the Ghost has said to filter in. He blinks, glancing over at the Ghost with a half smile. "We're social animals. Making social units is...in our blood. It's not surprising that werewolves do the same thing. They have instincts from both sides wanting to do it." Tilting his head, he adds, "Being listened to might be more of a challenge."

"She's young yet," the Ghost says as Stacia snarls at the wolves in either enormous clawed hand. "Perhaps she'll learn how to assert herself among humans as well." Stacia drops the wolves once they're appropriately cowed and leaves them there, shifting back into her human shape, fully clad in winter clothes.

"You should have just let them have it out," Ponente says as Stacia retrieves her plate from other Sam, granting him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Nope," Stacia says, shoveling some barbecue into her mouth before anything else can happen. "If they want to have it out, they can take it to the Challenge Circle like grown ups. Outside of that, I'm the boss of them and I say they can play the fuck nice or I'll...do something. Something that requires that they hold their tempers. I'll figure it out, divine inspiration will strike in the moment."

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HERE, HAVE SOME SPIRIT

PRESENT

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