Piper 90: Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
goneawaymod) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
goneawayworld2021-04-10 09:37 pm
goneawaymod) wrote in goneawayworld2021-04-10 09:37 pm
3..2...1...CONTACT!
Who: The New Hires
What: Sudden Memory Share
Where: Their Memory Palaces
When: After "Don't Touch That Dial"
Warnings/Notes: Possible in every memory, warn in subject lines.
Contact.
It's during a pause in their day. A nap. An idle moment looking across the Top Deck. Taking a slow breath between reps in the training room.
The New Hires are connected. Mental pathways locking together, they're forced into one another's innermost beings. Thrust into one another's memory palaces where the mind collects and stores everything that makes them who they are. The core of their beings are only a few steps away and no one can help the violation.
To make matters worse, it comes with no explanation or no ability to pull out and stop. Once they're through the first memory, perhaps they can find a way out, but they're already witnessing some event from their host's past. And, if they left, who knows whether or not they'd end up accidentally invading another memory palace?
And if they were there, who was in theirs?
[[So, how this works: the memories can either be viewed in spectator mode or the guest can be experiencing everything themselves. The person whose memories are being shown, the host, can watch as their current self or take the form they had of their past self. They can talk about the memory with the "guest" that's visiting.
They cannot control the first memory shown, the player decides that, but they can control any other memories they'd like to show people after. Of course, there's also always the option of an extreme emotional reaction bringing up other memories unbidden.]]
What: Sudden Memory Share
Where: Their Memory Palaces
When: After "Don't Touch That Dial"
Warnings/Notes: Possible in every memory, warn in subject lines.
Contact.
It's during a pause in their day. A nap. An idle moment looking across the Top Deck. Taking a slow breath between reps in the training room.
The New Hires are connected. Mental pathways locking together, they're forced into one another's innermost beings. Thrust into one another's memory palaces where the mind collects and stores everything that makes them who they are. The core of their beings are only a few steps away and no one can help the violation.
To make matters worse, it comes with no explanation or no ability to pull out and stop. Once they're through the first memory, perhaps they can find a way out, but they're already witnessing some event from their host's past. And, if they left, who knows whether or not they'd end up accidentally invading another memory palace?
And if they were there, who was in theirs?
[[So, how this works: the memories can either be viewed in spectator mode or the guest can be experiencing everything themselves. The person whose memories are being shown, the host, can watch as their current self or take the form they had of their past self. They can talk about the memory with the "guest" that's visiting.
They cannot control the first memory shown, the player decides that, but they can control any other memories they'd like to show people after. Of course, there's also always the option of an extreme emotional reaction bringing up other memories unbidden.]]
Garviel's happy memory. War and battle and stuff, usual warhammer warnings.
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That was what Shelley could say right now. She had been following along, listening to the conversations and trying to stay away from sight. Shelley wasn't entirely certain how these...memories, were they? How these memories worked. She certainly didn't want to risk changing any of what she was seeing -- what if it changed the memory, what if she accidentally inserted herself into it all, what if suddenly the person this memory belonged to started remembering glimpses of a stranger who definitely is out of place here -- but at the same time she had enough curiosity to follow around and find out as much as she could.
This really feels like she's seeing into someone's life...more than she should have. She's watching the people some distance away, watching how they finished branding the helm and sat around to socialize. Shelley definitely isn't getting closer, that over there is a private moment of peace for them.
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Brand
The bedroom is large and dim, ambient light filtering in through the window. One wall holds a collection of training weapons, nothing too sharp or too hard, sized for use by a child. The full-size mattress holds a restless sleeper: a pale-skinned, dark-haired boy older than five but younger than eight. He whimpers briefly, before his eyes snap open and he surveys the room with an alarm that fades when no threats make themselves immediately visible.
He peers over the edge of his mattress, then rolls off of it onto the floor, landing surprisingly quietly for his age. He pads over to the wall of weapons, selecting a couple short batons, and then makes for the door with a sense of purpose.
II: Morning Run
Brand, dressed in a sweatsuit and sneakers, is going through his warm-ups for his morning run in front of a gothic mansion so ridiculous that it's practically a castle. The place had clearly fallen into disrepair at some point, and was in the process of being restored.
The front door opens and Brand looks up, raising an eyebrow at the man passing through. He's handsome and well over six feet tall, with a well-trimmed beard and sandy blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. One of his hands appears to be made of brass.
"You're late," Brand says, mostly without rancor. The man nods solemnly, though a smile quirks his lips.
"I am," he acknowledges. "Rune didn't want to let me go this morning." The words are colored by a Slavic accent.
"Rune's like that," Brand agrees, rolling his eyes. "Get warmed up, Saint Nicholas, I'm not going to fucking wait around all day."
I
So, this whole thing is super fucking weird. Seeing other people's memories? Is that what this is? Is that a thing that's happening now? Is shit here not weird enough as it is?
Maybe it'd be hard to know whose memory this was if South didn't so keenly remember what Brand had said when they first started sparring together, about training since he could walk. Sure, maybe there's some other pale-skinned, dark-haired guy on the rig who had a wall full of training weapons and moved like he's already got the physical training to match at less than ten years old, but what are the odds, really?
She doesn't know how this all works, if kid-Brand or present-Brand can tell she's here, or if she's just watching this memory on her own like a weirdo. Regardless, she comments, "Wow, you really weren't kidding about the fuckin' training shit."
Re: I
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Shelley. Warnings: giant insect in second prompt
A: Happy End of the World
It's nighttime! You seem to be on top of a hill overlooking a town, the stars above are twinkling, the full moon is there...and there's a lot of wind. Bits of grass, leaves, trash, it all is being blown away in direction of the town. Around you the stuff rooted to the ground -- trees, big rocks, a bulldozer -- it all shakes and moves, its weight being the only factor keeping it all from flying away.
By the way, don't look around the bulldozer if you get queasy. There's quite a bit of blood and gore under it.
The source of all the wind is a strange contraption, tall as a windmill, with a huge round portal-like contraption right at the top. Energy swirls and moves in it, while strange beings, shaped like blocks, pass through it every once in a while, floating into the air.
Where's Shelley, though? Ah, she's over there! Leaning against a tree, observing everything with a curious twinkle of nostalgia in her eyes. She doesn't look happy to be reminded of all this, but at the same time she feels a little nostalgic -- it was quite the adventure, after all.
"I suppose if we're going to be showing each other what's in our heads it's good the most impressive moments come first! You're just in time to watch the end of the world for five minutes or so. Don't worry, it all went just fine!"
Perhaps that's why she's so calm, really.
Some short distance away, near a trailer, are a group of teenagers and adults you certainly don't know, talking to each other and obviously discussing how to stop the contraption, and among them there's a red-haired woman who definitely is Shelley. There's something odd about one of them, though -- a black, wavy, human-shaped thing. When you look at it you have the uneasy feeling something's wrong, like the vision all around you is hiding something from you. Or from the real Shelley.
B: The Great Tackleford Show
Daytime! And you seem to be in some sort of nice, quaint town fair, of those that have a lot of stalls for food, tents for contests, and the such. There doesn't seem to be anything unusual at first sight, though -- it's a nice, peaceful, frankly somewhat boring fair in how normal it is. Walk around, enjoy the sun, do you feel daring enough to eat something that comes from these memshares? Well, go ahead, the cotton candy is good!
Shelley! Right over there, talking to her mobile phone. You can't really understand what she's saying, until you realize that people around you are hurrying to go away. There's a buzzing in the air, one that you can't place at first, it feels like it echoes around you, making your bones rattle. Finally, the source of that buzzing comes into sight:
A bee. A ridiculously huge, roundish bee. And there's a man riding it, and a woman being held by that man. She's shouting, clearly not okay with being dragged along for the ride, and past Shelley can only stare upwards for a moment.
The real one, though, is there, trying to stay out of sight from the bee, as if it could turn and attack her instead of continue with the memory. It's not an unreasonable fear! Many people freak out when there's a giant bee going around!
C: Atlantis
Indeed! You're at the bottom of the sea, in a Greek-looking city surrounded by a bubble of plastic! You're in some sort of hidden grove, and there's a purple submarine there. You seem to be on top of the submarine, and see past Shelley, wearing what's clearly a toga, go inside. A man that probably belongs to this place is running alongside the submarine once he manages to destroy the wooden planks keeping the submarine in place -- the submarine is sliding down the hill towards an exit on the wall. Shelley looks outside, shouts an apology, and closes the door, the man looking very betrayed and heartbroken.
"...oh. I had forgotten about that. Not my best moment"
There's the real Shelley, right beside you, sitting on the submarine cross-legged. She looks somewhat disappointed, perhaps at herself. The submarine keeps sliding towards the opening, hopefully you either can breathe underwater, or make your way into the submarine before it reaches the sea outside. It'll be fine!
A: Happy End of the World
"I'm Stacia, by the way," she adds. "I don't think we've been introduced yet."
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Merton J. Dingle
In the back corner of a yet mostly empty high school lunchroom, Merton sat alone, lunch already half finished, like he was racing to make a break for it before it got too crowded. But lunch quickly becomes forgotten the moment he takes notice of a tall, lean, curly-haired, brunette loading his lunch tray up with as much chicken as he can get away with.
Absently shoving the book he'd been reading into the coffin backpack beside him, he started intently watching the guy as he flirted with a girl next to him in the lunch line. And it was a lucky thing no one was around him or seemed to be paying him much attention because Merton was not bothering to be subtle about eyeing the other boy.
The silent observation doesn't last long, as the girl and the brunette part ways and Merton catches a glimpse of what he was apparently waiting for. For just a moment there's a hint of something odd about the otherwise perfectly average-looking jock, as his ears briefly grew long and pointed, before shrinking back down again. It happened so quick, hardly anyone would have noticed. Unless they were watching for it.
Merton's eyes light up, and he waves his hand over his head as he calls out "Tommy!", trying to flag the guy down.
‘Tommy’ looks over at him, and at first, he just seems confused. Like he has no idea who this other teen is or why he’d be calling out to him. But as Merton calls out again “Tommy! Your ears!”, while pointing at his own ears, recognition dawns on him. And he looked like a deer in the headlights who would rather crawl into a hole than get caught joining the weird kid in his misfit corner.
And either Merton is unperturbed by the look, or he just doesn’t notice it, because before Tommy can think to make a retreat, he’s scrambling up out of his seat and joins the flustered jock in line, practically vibrating with excitement.
II. The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep [CW: Parental neglect.]
A full moon lights up the dark woods, giving just enough light through the trees for one to easily see where they’re stepping. And at first, it doesn’t look like there’s anything of interest to see here. The night’s peaceful, the only sign of life coming from birds or the occasional creak or rustle from the branches above.
Until the quiet sound of a radio crackles to life, barely picking up snippets from some old music station playing 80’s rock, that shifts to what might be a news station. Anyone following the noise will eventually find a kid, sat tucked up between the roots of a large tree, a little Walkman style radio clutched in his hands, backpack set next to him. He’s young, maybe about seven, with mussy black hair, dressed in what might have once been nice church clothes but were now smudged with dirt and grass stains.
He was speaking in a harsh whisper to…someone. Though if anyone else is there, they aren’t within sight.
II. The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep
"Hey, kid," Brand says, trying to sound less gruff than usual. "You lost?"
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Dan Sagittarius
[Dan's heart seizes up the second he realizes what's happening. It's been nearly a year since the powers that be decided to deep-dive into his memories and take Bunny with him, to rip open all those old injuries that he so diligently distracts himself from feeling during the day, and here it's come again.
He tries to cover his ears and close his eyes so as not to intrude on anyone else's memory and, more importantly, to not have to see his own.]
I. Meteors
[It’s out in the middle of the desert, next to a one-lane highway that stretches off into the distance in either direction, and the sky is lavender with the just-set sun. The brightest stars are only just now starting to poke through the fading daylight.
Either Dan and the little girl with him have been living in this car, or they’re on a very long road trip. The back seat has been converted to a bed with a pile of blankets and a lump of pillows, and little plastic baggies in the back hold toothbrushes and bars of soap. YA and fantasy books with dog-eared pages are wedged between the dash and the front window. Knapsacks peak up from behind the backseat.
“Do you think this can take pictures of the meteors?” The girl, maybe eleven or twelve years old, has long dark hair in a braid, all black clothing and strangely pale eyes. She hops out of the passenger’s seat of the car and grabs pillows and a disposable camera from the back.
“Meteors move mighty fast, El. You’re more like to catch one by accident than on purpose.” Dan gets out of the car too; he’s wearing a t-shirt that says #1 Dad. He lays down a blanket on the ground and puts a coat over her shoulders, then he hands her a thermos and takes a drink from a bottle of vodka. “How’s the cocoa?”
She pops open the thermos and takes a sip. They both sit down on the blanket and wait for it to get dark enough to see all the stars. “Lukewarm. We should have kiped a more expensive one.”
“I’ll have to teach you to slip one next time. Here, here’s your telescope.” He places a cheap handheld one next to her. “Alright, enlighten me. What’s the story behind these meteors?”
El grins. “Well, these are the Lyrids, and they’re named after the story of Orpheus taking his lyre to the underworld…” ]
II. Monster-Hunting (cw: mild gore)
[They’re in a house of some sort, one that was once a big friendly cabin build but has instead been semi-consumed by the lonesomeness of the outside forest. None of the lights are on, and the only illumination comes from a full moon beating down on the fight taking place in the dining room.
Dan crashes through some dining room chairs, grappling with an elderly woman who seems to be fighting him for her life. She shoves him against a wall, and he struggles against her grip to paw at his holster, and as she rips bloody lines down his neck with her fingernails he gets the barrel of his revolver under her chin and pulls the trigger. Her brain splatters against the ceiling and her body, missing a chunk of her head, falls to the floor.
Dan, too, drops to the floor, no longer animated by desperation, and catches his breath, chest heaving as he presses a corner of his jacket against the bloody wounds running from his jaw down to the collar of his shirt. He doesn’t take his eyes off the corpse pooling blood on the floor, nor does he lower his gun from being aimed to shoot her again.
From out of sight, rushing footsteps and a woman’s alarmed voice that sounds both youthful and about as raspy as Dan’s does. “Danny? You hurt?”
“I’m fine, Tab. Just banged up a little.” Dan gets into a crouch. He’s young, maybe late teens, maybe early twenties, with shaggy hair down to his jaw and a patchy beard.
The woman – really just a teenage girl, with pixie-short hair and stained jeans and a camo jacket, who must be his sister because their eyes and noses are identical – comes into the room, a gun of her own drawn, which she immediately trains on the corpse. “Did you kill her?”
Dan shakes his head and scoots over to the body, pulling a canister of Morton’s salt from his pocket. He starts to pour it in a circle around the body. “No. Stunned. Help me restrain her, I want to talk to her before we decide what to do.”
The girl nods and keeps the gun aimed at the body as Dan finishes pouring the salt circle and zip-ties the old woman’s wrists.]
II. Monster-Hunting (cw: mild gore)
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I. Meteors
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II. Monster-Hunting
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Breq
[ This first memory is a city at night; over two dozen different points of view, all filtered through this memory. Glimpses of darkened city streets. Dreams or dreamless sleep among others. The inside of a bedroom where one watches over a sleeping officer. Other glimpses of the city; a great square and a temple. The smell of salt and rotting plants. The feeling of humid, thick, still air. And everything is quiet. Everything is still.
All of them feed back to one; all of it is processed. All of these people, these bodies are her. A cascade of information that is almost too much to handle for a human mind - probably is too much to handle for a normal human mind.
But this is who she was. This is what she did.
And there is something in the air; a charge, an energy. A sense of anticipation.
Something is about to happen. ]
The Ship
[ Another memory; fragmented again, divided between different points of view. Two of her stand guard outside a door, still and silent and at rest. In another room, she stands behind that same officer from the other memory, who is prostrated on the floor in front of a tall, stern-faced person; dark-skinned and terrible-looking, a look of arrogance writ on their face. The Lord of the Radch.
On the bridge of the ship, the captain drinks tea.
Elsewhere, the ancillaries go about their person. Another dizzying array of perspectives and thoughts and feelings. A sickening sense of dread welling up as the Lord of the Radch nods to the ancillary. ]
Justice of Kalr. Shoot Lieutenant Awn.
[ The ancillary raises the gun. On the bridge, there is a whisper into the captain's ear. ]
Captain. We have a problem. [ The captain frowns and sets down their bowl of tea to listen. In that dimly lit room, the ancillary fires, the report of the gun loud and echoing. The officer is dead, their head split open by the bullet. The ancillary does not hesitate. The gun comes up and she shoots the Lord of the Radch a moment later, a second shot joining the first before the report has time to die away.
Elsewhere, a second Lord of the Radch emerges from the room where the two ancillaries are standing guard and shoots them both. There is the sense of action and other ancillaries are moving now, a sense of purpose, the ship giving herself orders, orders that will need to be followed- ]
The Ship
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city
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Cammie
It's late at night and the city is dark, illuminated in patches by bright holographic signs projected on the sides of buildings and streetlights. The sound of gunfire is dying out, but the heavy footsteps of Holons and Striders echo through the otherwise empty streets.
Cammie is alone at the edge of the perimeter, four storeys tall in her Holon but looking every bit as nervous as as she would in her human body. This mission has been easier than it should have been; there's Spider Tanks laying destroyed around the streets, dead Union soldiers in black and red body armour scattered between them, and the foot-soldiers are already making their way into the building they've come to clear. The order's just come in to stay at the perimeter and keep an eye out—easy, right?—so that's what she's doing. Keeping an eye out.
She turns in a semi-circle, scanning each street branching off from where she's standing— until she sees what looks like another Holon, approaching from the east. Cammie instinctively raises her gun, the little ears on her armour raising in surprise, but she doesn't fire.
"Hey, look at me! Still not shooting anybody I know," she says, with put-on humour. Her body language tells another story. When no one on her team responds, her ears flatten, then quirk. "Kazu, you get big?"
Over the radio, in Japanese, Kazu asks: "What?"
2. Storm Warning
It's late, well past the bedtime of the preteen girl currently scrambling down the stairs in her rabbit-print pajamas and a familiar pair of robotic rabbit ears—almost too big on her head, and not quite the same design as they are in the present and lopsided, as if put on hastily. The wind is rattling the windows, heavy rain beating against the glass.
"It's just a storm, Bun," the older woman, sitting at the kitchen table, says. Beside her, sat in a wheelchair, a man who shares Cammie's eyes and blonde hair squashes a holographic screen that had been showing the weather radar.
"It's loud," Cammie whines, earning a wry smile off the man.
"That it is, Cammie. Maybe we should have some tea, eh, Elsie?" the man says.
"No tea for the child, not at this hour," Elsie answers. "Besides, I expect she'd like hot chocolate better."
3. Second Birthday
"Chase and Yasamin are downstairs, ready to catch you; are you ready, Miss MacCloud?"
Cammie takes a deep breath, lying in a strange pod, her face set with determination. "Down the rabbit hole. Let's do this."
The grey haired man and an android start flipping touch-screen switches, monitoring her vitals and the system she's connecting herself to. "Clear your mind. Listen to your breathing. The goal is to lower heart rate and blood pressure. Just relax. Just be."
Cammie lays there and listens, closing her eyes as a blue light starts pulsing along the circuits around her head.
"You should sense a pulse, a repeating pressure you've never felt before at the edge of your mind. That gen:LOCK's sync signal, looking for you. Give into it, reach for it, go to that sensation. Go to the light, grab it, and then hang on."
"Kazu," Cammie says, with a strange dramatic air; Kazu corrects her pronunciation across the room. "If I wink out, you can have ma Manga collection."
Kazu answers in Japanese, "I haven't read Manga since I was a kid."
Cammie's eyes open just so she can glare over at him. "What's wrong with ye?"
Then she lays down and something happens. The blue light surges, energy pulsing down into the pod— and the giant, 40ft tall Holon Cammie's mind has just been uploaded to wakes up.
2
He expects the worst and, for once, is surprised by something innocent. Maybe he can ride this out here, in a cozy little memory. “Well, who wouldn’t like hot chocolate?”
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Kerrigan — CWs in individual headers
I. MURDER MURDER MURDER [CW: Assassinations, violence, blood]
Kerrigan's recollections of serving the Confederacy are fragmented, nonlinear even more than most memories, a succession of military bases and starship corridors blending into one another to form what might almost be a single enormous maze, a blandly utilitarian web in which hang suspended shards of memory, sharp-edged and vivid and mostly red with blood.
A dozen, a hundred different vignettes seen through the scope of a sniper rifle as all the universe contracts into that little circle, her breaths slow and even and then held for a moment as she squeezes the trigger and the rifle kicks against her shoulder. The target's head exploding is an afterthought.
Infiltration, cloaked by psionics, standing motionless as guards pass within arm's reach of her, unaware that their failure as sentries has saved their lives.
A knife cutting a throat at various angles and in various lights, arterial spray spattering against a glove, a splash of crimson. Each spurt is smaller as the target's heartbeat weakens and finally ceases. They fall onto carpet or tile or dirt, each landing a little differently, but the lifeless weight always the same.
Infiltration, the guards obstacles to be removed. Arms break, ribs break, necks break. They are never hers.
And so it goes, variations on a theme.
II. This is totally ethical [CW: Human experimentation, mind control, gross gooey stuff]
The Confederacy are wonderful people who used Kerrigan and some of her fellow telepaths as subjects in experiments to see if the zerg could be controlled. This went about as well as you might think. Here's an excerpt.
III. New Gettysburg [CW: Sci-fi war, horrible hivemind bug aliens]
Kerrigan was sold out by her commander and abandoned to die at the hands of the zerg. Here's a flashback cutscene where she realizes it!
Notes: 1. It happens on an orbital platform, not on a planet, because Blizzard doesn't bother to remember its own canon. 2. Kerrigan doesn't hear any of what the others are saying. 3. Her armor is supposed to have a goddamn helmet.
III
After all, the same thing happened to him.
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Don't mind Jennifer, she's a little...YEAH
II
South
Brother of Mine [freelancers only. tw: violent death/fratricide by inaction]
The structure is built of yellowed stone or concrete, weathered by age and exposure to the elements; it's all walkways, elevated above the dirt ground, surrounded by trees and the sound of running water.
It might even be peaceful, on a quieter day, but today it's the site of an ambush.
Explosions and the sharp pop of sniper rounds shatter and pierce the still air, the sounds of an ongoing battle, somewhere out of sight. Around a corner from where South is standing, with her back pressed against the concrete wall, her spine rigid and her gun held firmly in her grip.
She's making no move to go and join the fight.
North's voice keeps ringing out in her radio. "South! South, where are you?"
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Wrath
The table top is a smooth piece of glass. It's cold against Wrath's hands. It's sticky. Everything smells like honey. Everything smells like blood.
The Compliance Officer smiles. Honey oozes out of her hair like sweat. Her pink lipstick is perfect. She taps her fingernails on the table top. Her nail polish is pink and chipped. "Have a cookie."
They're honey cookies. She knows this. She can't taste anything else in the world. The sky outside is on fire. Somewhere, Octavian is screaming, in the distance.
"I don't want a cookie."
"It's good for you." The Compliance Officer pushes the plate toward her. "They'll make you better."
"There's nothing wrong with you."
"Of course not, sweetie. You just have a few little behavioral problems. We'll fix them together."
She takes a cookie. It sticks to her fingers. She's crying. "Why won't he stop screaming?"
"No one's screaming," the Compliance Officer says. "Don't worry. We'll fix that, too."
When Wrath opens her mouth to answer, only honey comes out, and endless golden stream that she vomits and vomits and vomits, her stomach cramping, pain exploding in the back of her head, her senses overwhelmed with cloying sweetness until it fills the room and she drowns.
The Compliance Officer never blinks.
2. Battlefield Medicine [CW: mutilation, zombies]
The confusion of a battlefield, organic chaos, with long, whipping limbs, and screaming, blasted mouths too big to belong to anything human. Octavian--black armor, poison green piping, that's how she knows it's him--weaves his hovercycle through reaching arms and long, claw-tipped fingers trying to pluck him from his hovercycle.
Wrath slashes at the seething mass in front of her, and smoke rolls up as the burning blade goes through flesh, something screaming inhumanly, not quite blocked out by his helmet. Her HUD shows friendlies, but not so many as before. And the formation is scattered, broken, twenty different private battles against an overwhelming tide of mottled, sagging, disease-melted flesh. She slashes again, at a lump that looks like it might have been a head, though the features have sagged and run down to the dysthrope’s stomach.
Something grabs her from behind, trying to drag her from her hovercycle. She curses. Hears Octavian, dimly, "You got this, Wrath?" And of course she's fucking got it, she's always got it.
No, she doesn't got it. More hands grab her as she slashes. There's too many. The right flank of her platoon has crumpled completely between one blink and the next. And then all she sees is rotten, scabrous flesh as they pile on top of her. Their teeth on her armor is crushing, bruising, but that's fine because it means the armor is holding. Then she feels a sharp pain, claws breaking through and sinking into her thigh, and she screams. There's only so much armor can hold. Her arm is next. But she's already dead. If she could just free one of her arms, she could at least detonate the power plant on her hovercyle. She's going out in glory, motherfuckers.
The scrabbling darkness crushing her down heaves, moves. A hand grabs her and yanks her free, popping her out like a cork. She falls, bleeding, over Octavian's lap. He kicks his hovercycle into gear and they shoot backwards at full power, then spin and blast toward the inner line.
"We need reinforcements on Red Sector right fucking now!" Octavian shouts.
"Request acknowledged," an overly calm voice returns.
Wrath takes a sickening, bumping glance back; the things scrambling to pursue, but the hovercycle is much too fast. Blink into darkness as she blacks out.
The epi pack from the medkit hits her like a horse kicking her in the chest. She sees the smokey sky, Proles starting to hump up on the horizon, the start of the dome arcing over the buildings. She feels like her skin is on fire. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
"Get a hold of yourself!" He rolls her then pushes her back to the ground as she tries to sit. "Your armor integrity is shit. Did anything actually get through?"
She wants to say no, because she wants to live. She knows that's not the truth, and as much as she wants to live, she doesn't want to take anyone with her. "Fuck." She's not crying. She's too pissed off to cry.
"What’s bleeding? I can’t tell over all the slime." His voice has gone tight and clipped.
"They got through on my left arm. Right leg. It fucking burns, Octavian. Fuck! It’s too late."
Octavian freezes for a moment, then slowly breathes in. He raises his sword, thumbing the controls to start the plasma cycling back up to white heat. "But anything’s worth a try, right?"
Wrath shakes her head. "You're gonna have to kill me anyway."
"I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast. Let’s make it seven."
Wrath’s small body clenches like a fist. "Do it."
He sets the white arc of his sword against her left arm, mid humerus. Smoke and steam pour upward as Wrath screams and screams.
2. Battlefield Medicine [CW: mutilation, zombies]
"I too have known such a war. Such contagion." He lived a year fighting on a planet with only the living dead, trapped in his own shattered mind, in fact, but he doesn't feel inclined to share that quite yet.
Instead, he simply offers his words, resolved to listen to how Wrath responds.
Re: 2. Battlefield Medicine [CW: mutilation, zombies]
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Stacia
"Oh--"
I: First Change (cw: blood)
"--fuck."
It's hard to see why she's upset. Literally, it's dark in the woods at night. Fortunately, there's a cluster of young men near by, armed with cellphone flashlights, looking at something on the ground. One of them crouches down, and the something on the ground is revealed to be -- well, Stacia, younger and unconscious.
The New Hires have seen what shifting into her monster form can do to an oversized jumpsuit, a nice dress fitted to her handles the whole thing much worse. Her hair is hanging raggedly out of its updo, and, oh yes, she is soaked in blood from the mouth down. That Stacia stirs and groans, as though she's coming to.
"You're going to want to cover your ears," Stacia-watching-the-memory says with a grimace. "I'm about to scream my head off."
II: Thunder
"--good, this one isn't a bloody mess."
There's a storm outside -- pouring rain and wind and thunder and everything -- but inside, it's warm and clean and dry. The lights are all out so color is hard to distinguish, but the carpet is thick underfoot and the walls are lined with sturdy shelves holding books and framed photos and more than a few athletic awards. Stacia -- visibly younger than the one on the Rig, because she's at an age where a couple years still makes a visible difference -- pushes her way past the gauzy curtains surrounding the bed and pads over to the window to stare out at the storm outside.
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Brainiac 5
cw: verbal child abuse, mild physical child abuse, slavery
"What are you doing up there?!" says one.
The boy turns off the welder and flips up the visor to give them a flat stare.
"I understand my work is certainly over your head, but one would still think you'd be able to recognize science when you're looking directly at it," the child says dryly, looking at them with the sort of blistering condescension you usually never find on the face of a child.
"You know what I mean," snarls the first man, "No personal projects until other projects are complete!"
The other politician crosses his arms, "You have four projects for Colugov, as well as commissioned deliverables for 3 other planetary governments."
"If they're so important, why don't you do them," the boy says with a roll of his eyes.
The two men look even angrier, as if the insult here is that they're not capable.
"If you don't cease work right away, we'll have your personal projects deconstructed during your next rest cycle."
The boy beams an expression of pure hate at them and then climbs down off the scaffolding, putting down the welder and protective mask. He lets himself be ushered away and there is a time lapse of him putting together various machines, occasionally checked on by his scowling overseers.
Despite the fact he has little robots to help him, it's hard work with long hours. By the end he's got smudges of engine fluids on his face and looks genuinely tired.
"I've worked for ten hours on projects pedestrian enough to only be worthy for the nearest trash vaporizer. Now may I finally get back to experiments that are actually worthwhile?"
The two overseers look smug.
"I supposed that's enough," says one breezily, and they lead him back to the first room he'd been working in.
It's now empty. They had his personal work deconstructed while he did the other work. The boy's eyes go wide and then he turns to his handlers with his fists balled up in fury. He rounds on the handlers, who still look smug.
"Why did you dismantle my work? I did what you wanted!"
"Perhaps now you'll prioritize what's most important."
The child looks like he's an inch away from trying to punch one of them but he holds back, like he knows he'll get in more trouble, have more taken away.
"Now. Bed. We need those projects finished by end-of-day tomorrow Perhaps after a week of obedience, we'll allow you to restart any personal work."
"Come. Now."
When the child refuses to move, one of his guardians grabs him on the arm and starts yanking him along, almost too fast to keep up. The child winces, making it clear that it's slightly painful.
"It may not seem like it," says the other handler, "but this is for your own good. You are a Brainiac. If you do what we say, unlike your monstrous forebears, you can actually serve your people."
"They're not my people," the child protests, fruitlessly tugging against the grip on his arm. "We share a few quirks of genetics, nothing more."
"This is why we must keep innocent Coluans away from you. You are a twelfth-level freak. Think of the harm you would cause if you were left to your own destructive devices."
He's all but thrown into a room largely bare of the toys and decorations many children have in their rooms, almost stumbling to the ground.
"Now, engage in your sleep cycle."
"But I -"
The doom swishes shut and the child goes over and pounds against the door button, only to find it's locked, and then slams his hands against the door a few times in frustration.
"I'm not finished with you yet! Hey! Open this door! Open it!"
The child stands there shaking like he's only been left with frustration and pent-up negative energy. Then he lets out a scream and punches his hands into a touchscreen panel, breaking it. He's left standing alone in an empty room, his hand bleeding slightly. He sits on the edge of his bed and finally lets himself look miserable, clearly repressing the need to cry.
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Re: cw: verbal child abuse, mild physical child abuse, slavery
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cw: child neglect
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JAIME REYES
Memshare#1, cw: nuclear horror, though nothing graphic
Memshare#2, cw: very subtle implication of child abuse
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Probing the secrets of Zone 91 through horse-controllers. CW animal death
Mackenzie; cw for blood, death, gore, suicidal depression, ptsd and all sorts of other related stuff
"Do you think we should go in after her? Is Tia okay?" The voice murmurs. It belongs to a dark-skinned young man with moppish curls and an easy smile. Another pair of names. Eli, Mourns-the-Prey. The same mix of feelings. Trust and affection, a comradely sort of love.
"Trust her to do her job, Mourns," yet another voice, feminine this time. Lydia, says the memory. Hymn-of-War. Strawberry blonde and sun-kissed, fierce and gentle all at once. The same warm trust and affection, this time deeper and more intense. An unspoken sense of desire and love mingling together in a way that feels it cannot be restrained--but it is.
"Quiet," Deeds-Above-Words hisses. "She'll be back, just trust her to do her job."
As if summoned by the conversation, a canine form slips from the darkness, mottled gray and gold fur. This is another name. Tia, Howls-Too-Much.
"I have scouted," the wolf... says? It's more of a growl-whine combined with shifts in body language, but in the memory it makes perfect sense. "The outside of the leech's den is unremarkable--perhaps they wish not to draw attention from the humans."
"Makes sense," Mourns-the-Prey says. "Got me worried for a minute there, Howls."
"You worry too much," Howls-Too-Much says, "Try not to do that."
"Someone has to do it," he replies laconically, then a glance towards Deeds-Above-Words. The woman nods.
"Right, we'll go in the door on the right side. Spread out and get hunkered down. We're going to jump the bastard when he comes back from his little evening outing all worn out and tired from leech stuff. Ready?" An affirmation from each member of the pack and then without another word they filter across the road in silent single file. Mackenzie (it must be Mackenzie's memory) waits for the others all to go and takes up the rear, purposefully scanning the street around her as she goes. They slip beneath a dead camera and come to the door. In a moment it's been jimmied open and they all five slip within, shutting the door behind them.
Within, the warehouse space is deep and dark, the only light filtering in as mingled moonlight and the reflection of exterior lamps. The pack begins to spread out and Mackenzie takes up her assigned space near the door, ready to be the first to attack their target--to cover its escape when it tries to flee and finds itself surrounded.
They are waiting. This wait will be an eternity.
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Stacia has a good idea of what this memory is going to show her, and she's not looking forward to it.
"Fuck," she says again, looking around for Kenzie -- a Kenzie watching the memory, not participating in it.
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Re: Mackenzie; cw for blood, death, gore, suicidal depression, ptsd and all sorts of other related s
Re: Mackenzie; cw for blood, death, gore, suicidal depression, ptsd and all sorts of other related s
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LAVERNIUS TUCKER
get the man his Galaxy's Okayest Dad mug
There's a decently-sized group of official-looking types clustered around screens on one end of the room, a mix of aliens and humans (in fairly bland military-issued full body armor, helmets and all, thanks machinima). Way down on the other end, there are only three individuals: another human in the standard issue brown armor, a human in much more distinct aqua armor, and another alien: this one only about waist-height, wearing its own also-aqua brand of armor.
He's busy running in circles and yelling. Come learn a cool new alien language: all they say is blargh or honk in various combinations and tones. Junior, alien kid supreme, is currently saying it in his loudest tone. Which, after half a minute or so, seems to really be getting to the guy in the brown armor, who tensely opens with:
"Private Tucker, can you please rein that thing in?"
Tucker, who is sitting in a chair and leaning it backwards to balance on two legs, doesn't so much as turn to look at him.
"Uhh, how about you rein in your fucking attitude?" He offers instead. "You guys dragged me and my kid into this dumb pre-handoff meeting. Next time put out a coloring book or give him a YouTuber to eat or something."
Junior stops next to Tucker's chair and yells something in the honk-honk-blargh neighborhood again. There's no sense that Tucker fully knows what he's saying, but he holds up a hand to high-five anyway. "Ohoho, sick burn!"
The other soldier pulls in the sort of tell-tale long, slow breath that says something like 'this kind of thing has happened so many times that I've finally snapped and am about to murder the man in front of me,' but someone calls him over from the end of the room where they're talking about actual grownup stuff. Fate protects fools and little children. Luck probably also protects them, judging by the fact that Tucker has not yet been murdered to date.
Junior immediately pulls out a chair of his own and starts copying Tucker's lean. This comes as no big surprise to Tucker. Most of the fun came from annoying dumbass mc-what's his face, obviously. Some things are straight-up inherited like that.
"Don't worry, Junior. The alien entourage you go with is gonna be way cooler. They always are. You can learn some more dumb religious savior stuff while I'm doing a boring artifact dig with a bunch of nerds. Win-win. The less you get exposed to that many nerds in one place, the better."
The blargh-honk he gets in response sounds concerned regardless. Tucker shrugs. He's absolutely just taking his best guess at what it's about.
"And then I dunno, two weeks or whatever and we'll get back on our ambassador bullshit at the next place. I'll hook you up with some chicken nuggets."
"Blargh?"
"Fuck yeah, I'm gonna remember how to cook 'em. I'm a provider now. You owe me a mug that tells me how badass I am at parenting. And if you wanna find yourself a hot alien stepmom while you're at it..."
The group across the room finally breaks up, a few individuals starting to make their way over. This is where vague apprehension bleeds in to replace the feeling of permeating boredom in the memory. He doesn't strictly want to do the handoff and separation, is the thing. It kinda sucks.
Junior, distracted by the dispersal, starts to overbalance in his chair and fall backwards. Tucker pops out a quick "oh shit, watch it-" and overbalances trying to reach over in time to catch him. He totally nails it, of course.
If by nailing it you mean he also falls backwards and they both end this memory hitting the floor.
the parabola of mystery; maybe cw for violence/talk of violence
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Sam Winchester | CW: Verbal abuse, mild physical abuse
For those who have been in Sam's memories before, the fact that it takes place in a hotel room is no big surprise. It's some dingy hotel on the edge of a nowhere town, one of hundreds that all have the same layout if not the same fixtures, of a childhood measured by miles on the odometer.
The Sam at the center of the memory is young. Much younger than those on the Rig know him. He has most of his height, but it's hard to tell how solid he is when his upper body is hidden by a too large hoodie.
And the young Sam is currently shouting at a slightly shorter, older but much more built man. "You can't keep me here against my will, Dad! I'm eighteen years old! And I'm going to go to Stanford whether you like it or not!"
"That's where you're wrong. You're my son and you do as you're told!" John Winchester is shouting loud enough to shake the walls. Not that Sam himself isn't trying to do a good job of that himself. "You have a duty to your family to stay here and help us!"
"Help you do what? Run credit card scams and impersonate the FBI? Pretty sure you and Dean are good enough at those on your own." Sam scoffs under his breath, starting to pull away.
Which is when John grabs him, pulling him back to look at him. "Don't talk back to me like that, Sam. I'm giving you an order."
Sam pulls back, trying to shake off John's arm. "I'm your son, Dad, not one of your Marine buddies. I never signed up for this shit." He tries to push John away.
Which gets John to release him. But only so that he can slap Sam as the door opens.
B. Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion
This memory opens in an apartment, Sam sitting at a desk in a nice bedroom, books laid out in front of him. It's obvious he's supposed to be working on a paper, but he's not getting very far.
"Sam! Get a move on, would you?"
His head comes up as a woman calls for him.
"We were supposed to be there fifteen minutes ago. You coming or what?"
He stands, heading for the door. He sticks his head around the corner, spying a young, blonde woman in a very sexy nurse outfit. "Do I have to?"
"Yes! It'll be fun!" She stops and looks him over, as he's still in jeans and three layers of shirt. "And where's your costume?"
He ducks his head, laughing. "You know how I feel about Halloween."
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He sees Sam, speaking up and being tired of patiently taking any abuse, any more absurd orders, promptly being shamed for it. Shaming is a very good technique, especially on a subordinate of any kind. When they start second guessing themselves, that's when the job is well done.
Sam does look convinced, though. While it is obvious that he will think back of this event a lot, he seems to have seen right through that technique. He's smarter, therefore he deserves to survive. That's how survival works.
Price does not comment verbally, rather gives young Sam a pitiful look.
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Rowena MacLeod
I. Fergus (cw: infant neglect/abuse)
[The building is old in that it's not modern, and yet so clearly not build to withstand the test of time. It's a brick home and stone home with holes in the grout and no windows, plain, much-abused wooden furniture and a clumsy fireplace. A mangy dog is sleeping on the form, affixed with wriggling, fat puppies sucking at her teats. All the light appears to come from a fireplace choking the room with oil-smelling smoke.
A teenage girl in clothes used to the point of ruin is trying to nurse a baby. Her long red hair is stringy and tattered; her figure is bony and malnourished, with pale, blotchy skin covered in scrapes and scabs. The infant is large and fussy, hiccuping and beating at her deflated breast with its tiny fists.
"Why would you take it? Why can't you make anything easy?" The girl holds the baby up and shakes him by the shoulders; its blocky head wobbles around and it wails. She tries again, and then wrenches the baby away from her chest. "You bit me! You evil little spawn of the devil..."
She squats next to the dog by the fireplace and shoves the baby in with the wriggling puppies. The baby continues to cry, and the girl's face falls as she curls up on the floor by the fire, burying herself in her hands to weep.
It's nearly impossible to identify the pitiful, weeping teenage girl with her baby as Rowena, the woman standing to the side who's dolled up her New Hire uniform with a homemade belt and a bow in her bouncing, curled hair, fingers laced over her stomach as she watches with a troubled sneer.]
II. Spellbooks
[Rowena's at a massive table in what appears to be a cavernous dungeon-cum-library, or library-cum-dungeon. Ancient books the size of planks written in all matter of languages surround her. Rowena's writing with a pen among reams of notes; every time she moves to the next line, there's s clinking as the iron chains around her wrists.
A man with a gravely voice in a trenchcoat comes in and places some more books on her table. "These are all the ones I could find in that Sumerian dialect. I'm sure I don't need to remind you again that time is a little bit of the essence."
"This is very complicated magic, Feathers," she says. "I'm not the sort of witch you contact when you want spell that comes in a box with a price discount."
'Feathers' frowns. "You're stalling."
Rowena takes a long moment before she responds to that accusation, closing a book so heavy that its cover makes a thump against the pages. Her shackles clank.
"And why wouldn't I stall, dear angel? After all, don't I just have it made here in these iron shackles, eating Sam Winchester's leftover fruit shakes and earning nothing but grudging respect for my talents, while minute by minute the opportunity to help our merry band of thieves and murderers shrinks? Why..." Her voice turns into a low snarl. "Why in the universe's name wouldn't I be stalling?"]
I
[she clears her throat, politely. not looking too closely at the scene, also politely.]
If you focus a bit, you can change the memory. Usually.
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A younger Saturday walks down a hallway. It’s light cream, lined with doors, vaguely administrative. Shouts and the slaps of a rubber ball and running feet echo in the distance; a group of people playing a game. To those from worlds where those things exist, it’s not hard to realize that this is some kind of school or community center. A rather run-down one, even, as these things go - but you see it through Saturday’s eyes, too, and it glows like only the center of the universe can.
“Ah, Makoto.” The person speaking is an old orcish man, who walks straight but leans on a cane. His face is heavily lined, and his expression stern - but his eyes when he looks at her are warm. “I have some tasks for you.”
“Of course, ‘jisan.” The obedience is instant, and completely without fear. The trust in her face makes her look even younger. “What’s up?”
“Do you remember the Lees? They live in Container City, across from the Stuffer Shack; the blue third-story compartment - “
“With the fried food stall over at the old mall? She makes those savory crepes with that secret sauce and the soybean paste?”
“The same.” He doesn’t hide his smile. “It seems he’s been taken ill. Would you pass our condolences to them?” A bag passes from him to her, full of wrapped objects and square containers.
“Sure thing.”
“And here are the books Mr. Pham asked to borrow next. Remember to collect the one’s he’s finished with.” Five of them, to be precise.
“Understood.”
“Ah, and the medicine for Villere clinic, from our friends on First Hill.” A box, labeled “medical waste” for some reason.
“All right, ‘jisan. I’ll head out now”
“Be safe, Makoto. Dinner is at six. If you’re late, there’ll be a plate in the oven.”
The bankman says he likes me, but there's nothin' he can do/He tells me that he's coming, and the clouds are coming too.
Oh my fair North Star/I have held to you dearly/I have asked you to steer me
and if your sister or your brother were stumbling on their last mile in a self-inflicted exile/you'd wish for them a humble friend
If dreams were thunder and lightning was desire/this old house woulda burned down a long time ago CW: brief implications of violent assault, nothing described - screams heard.
one long memory lane
But, no matter how short he wishes the time was, fate has it that he ends up spending the hours in Saturday's memory, watching her do her rounds to Mr. Pham and the clinic, observing the person he knows in the context that made her. For as different as the technology and decor is, there's something so recognizable about the struggles in this small community, something very universal. People are people. The problems remain the same, the systems separating people the same, the way people slip in between the cracks remains the same, just dressed up in different time periods, different planets.
Dan doesn't make a sound as they wait for the motorbikes to pass, even though it's a memory, even though he doubts the gang would be able to hear him even if he started shouting and screaming. Saturday gets up and starts to walk her motorbike, and Dan gets up, looking around for the "real" Saturday. When he doesn't see her, he walks next to the one walking the bicycle.
“Can you hear me?”
Re: one long memory lane
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Carolina
1. In which Carolina tries to bring back a traitor alive, but her rival kills her instead and it's all a very bad scene.
2. In which Carolina is a burned out disaster of a human being who nearly shoots this guy you might know and has to be threatened by this other guy you might know in order to get her to back down.
(Feel free to respond in either prose or brackets however works better for you.)
1
Seeing the brown armoured figure alone is a gut punch.
South knows CT’s dead. South has known CT’s dead since the day Carolina and Texas came out of that bunker without her in hand. CT had been lost to them all long before the day she died, of course; she defected, was branded a traitor, and that was that.
Except, no; that wasn’t that. Longshore happened, this happened.
It’d have been one thing to see this, to experience it up close, when she’d still had no reason to think of CT as anything but a traitor. Now she knows better. Now she knows what CT was really doing and so hearing CT plead, try to make Carolina and Texas understand, almost makes South want to be sick.
Seeing the fight is worse. Seeing the tomahawks connect is worse.
None of them had listened to her, and CT died for it.
She knows the real Carolina, the present Carolina, will be there, somewhere; that’s how it was elsewhere in this stupid memory maze. So when she says, “You were meant to bring her in alive,” it’s clearly meant for her ears.
The fact she doesn’t curse is a clearer indicator of her rage than any amount of f-bombs ever could be. It’s rage even she knows, somewhere underneath it, is meant for the person who actually took the killing blow, but Texas isn’t here and South has had a rough fucking time in recent days.
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2, paging through the family memories scrapbook
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Counselor Aiden Price
The sad memory
"What the hell are you doing here?!"
The pasty white face of the case worker turns red, and his eyes radiate pure anger. That almost hateful glance is directed at a young man that is immediately recognizable as Aiden Price - he looks basically the same despite being thirty years younger - who is pouting back at him.
"I can't believe you're abandoning me like this."
His voice is already deep, but there's a different quality to it: it's not quiet yet, it's almost booming. The most assertive it has ever sounded.
"And I can't believe that you broke into my damn house, Aiden!" the case worker growls, visibly holding back "You need to stop following me, or I'll call the police."
"What?! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO TAKE CARE OF ME!"
Aiden shouts, almost cries, but the man doesn't budge.
"Not anymore. You are a legal adult, and you followed a gifted children's program, you got all those degrees, I promise you'll find a job in no time."
"Easy for you to say, you are not overqualified for every job you apply to." he spits, willing to cut and make the other feel inferior for once "The money from the government is not enough to get a roof over my head, where am I supposed to sleep?!"
"At the homeless shelter where I took you."
The case worker replies like it's obvious, like it's not a big deal. The boy's voice breaks in response, becomes the quiet mumble everyone is used to.
"Why can't you just adopt me?"
"There are rules on this planet. Rules that I can't break, and even if I could, I don't want to."
Aiden lowers his head, stays silent for a moment before speaking again.
"...Is it because I killed my parents? You know what they did to me, I had no choice, you can't punish me for this too."
"Of course you're going to bring that up." the man shakes his head "It's not just that, what about the other kids?!"
"Why do you always treat me like a criminal?! It's not my fault that killing them was the only way to make you notice me!"
A moment of silence follows. The case worker stares at him with his eyes and mouth wide open.
"Listen...We tried our best to stop you from becoming a criminal, but clearly we failed." he says sternly, grabbing Aiden by an arm and pulling him towards the exit "All I can really do is hope that you won't get yourself in trouble, but even then it's too late for you."
"You're not supposed to talk to me like that..."
"You can't convince me, Aiden." the reply is accompanied with a scoff "You don't know how to distinguish right from wrong. That's why you will die in jail."
The door slams shut, leaving poor young Aiden alone.
Yet the present version of him is calm, watching the scene with an almost bored and annoyed expression. He is 'the Counselor', now, and will always be. He doesn't recognize himself in that distressed kid, he stopped being a person a long time ago.
Re: The sad memory
cw mention of prostitution
The happy memory
Remy LeBeau/Gambit | CW: Child endangerment by other children, bullying
The setting might not be apparent to anybody to start with. The humidity is high, but not as high as the Rig has been having lately. There's the splash of water nearby and the sound of a bunch of kids shouting in...not entirely English.
Because it's somebody else's memory, though, the words are still understood. "We're not gonna be saddled with some little kid." A young voice, but possibly about nine or ten years old. "If you're gonna be part of Fagin's gang, you're gonna have to prove you can keep up."
The sounds are centered on a large house nearby, with about four or five kids under the age of ten crowded around another one. There's the sounds of handcuffs and a very, very young and startled cry.
The kids part, showing that the handcuffs are on a toddler, maybe two years old. No older than three and on the skinny side. And a flare of red light from his eyes declare the toddler's identity as one Remy LeBeau, scared as anything.
B. Enter the Storm
Another large house, though seen from the inside this time. A mansion, really, built around a courtyard with a pool in the center. A figure comes over the wall, dressed in a trenchcoat and...what is definitely not a subtle outfit. While some of it seems to be a dark blue color, the rest is bright magenta, across the chest and in stripes down the legs.
He slinks through the courtyard, sticking to the shadows and making his way to a door on the other side. One he makes short work of the lock, starting to open the door when there's a shout from above. He looks back, just in time to see someone splash down in the pool.
There's not even a moment of hesitation. He could be caught, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is pulling that girl out of the water.
Jennifer (tw: implied kindapping)
'9 January From W to J
...Oh my poor, kind Prince.
You're worried because that man sometimes seems crazy, right? Well, don't worry.
I know where he hides that awful thing of his. So, let's run away, together.
You can leave it all to me. Everything will be all right.'
'20 January From W to J
My Prince,
Please don't worry. I'll do anything for you. Just... pledge your love for me.
That's all I ask.'
A noise distracts her from reading the last letter - not that she doesn't know it by heart by now, it has their important promise written on it. It's her, it's Wendy.
"I came, just like I promised. It looks like he went somewhere. Stay right there. I'll help you out."
While waiting for her to come, Jennifer toys with the handle of a closet and a little teddybear that was sitting on top of it falls off. Romantic as she is, she takes it as a cue to bring it with her. Once Wendy unlocks the door and retrieves Gregory's gun - his 'dangerous thing' as she calls it - she exhorts Jennifer to follow her into the rose garden.
Wendy smiles happily. She tells Jennifer that she want to make a trade, the brooch for the bear. They decide to name the bear Joshua, as that man always calls Jennifer. As for the brooch, well...Jennifer still has it after all this time.
"So, let's renew our pact."
They take each other's hands.
"Everlasting
true love
I am yours."
WASHINGTON
cw: warfare gore stuff.
They're not in armor, they're just in fatigues.
"You're not even going to talk to her?" Wash asks a redhead with freckles, who looks like he's fresh from prom.
Wash is young and almost unrecognizable, his hair a frosty blonde when buzzed that close to his head. He's just barely eighteen, freshly enlisted. He'd signed on the day after graduating high school, much to his parents' regret.
"Dude," says the redhead Wash was talking to, bug-eyed, nervously eyeballing an attractive blonde down the table, clearly worried she'll overhear.
"You are going to die alone," Wash says.
"Shut the fuck up, Winters! It's not like I can even do anything about it in basic." It's clear the redhead young Wash is talking to is a friend, though, and getting touchy the way someone does when their friend is giving them shit.
"This is going to be you, when you're 60," Wash says and then he starts to sing quietly, "All by myself, don't wanna be! All by myseeelf -"
He doesn't do it quietly enough and the nail that sticks up gets abruptly hammered down, especially when that nail makes the mistake of doing something goofy.
"WINTERS!" calls out someone that is clearly a drill sergeant.
Wash winces and the redhead and the other soldiers closest to Wash have to hide expressions of delight.
Wash hops to his feet, immediately at attention.
"Yes, drill sergeant!"
"IS THE MESS A CONCERT HALL? DOES THIS LOOK LIKE AN ACOUSTICALLY SOUND ENTERTAINMENT VENUE TO YOU?"
"No, drill sergeant!"
"DOES THE MESS LOOK LIKE A PLACE WHERE CELINE DION, THE PRIDE AND JOY OF KEE-BECK, WOULD HAVE CHARGED $10,000 A HEAD FOR VIP TICKETS TO SHARE WITH US HER MAJESTIC FRENCH-CANADIAN SINGING VOICE?"
"No, drill sergeant!"
"YOU SEEM TO WANT TO REGALE US WITH YOUR SOFT ROCK VOCAL STYLINGS SO I'LL MAKE IT EASIER FOR YOU! STAND UP ON THE TABLE!"
Wash is temporarily thrown.
"Uh." He quickly self-corrects and then shoves his tray aside and stands up on the table. "Yes, drill sergeant!
"SINCE YOU ARE SO DESPERATE TO HARMONIZE YOU CANNOT POSSIBLY HOLD IN THE SONG IN YOUR HEART, YOU WILL NOW PROCEED TO ENTERTAIN THE ENTIRE COMPANY!"
Wash's voice cracks nervously, "Yes, drill sergeant!"
The entire company suddenly comes down with some kind of epidemic because everyone starts coughing. This is not because they're sick, this is because they're not allowed to laugh, therefore their laughter at the spectacle has to be turned into something else.
Wash starts to sing, slightly out of tune, "All by myseeeelf, don't wanna be! All by myself...Anymore!"
Recruits have to hide their faces in their hands. Wash's redheaded friend's shoulders start shaking so much he looks like he's recovering from hypothermia.
Wash briefly pauses, and then starts over, "All by myself, don't wanna be! All by myseeeelf -"
"RECRUIT, YOU APPEAR TO BE REPEATING YOURSELF!"
Wash calls out in a high and strangled voice, "Those are the only lines I know, sir!"
There is not only coughing, there is choking all over. Even one of the other drill sergeants now has the wide brim of his hat pulled down over his face and is hiding the rest of it in his hand, pretending he is just scratching his nose, but the redness in his face gives away that he's struggling to hold laughter in himself.
"NEVER MIND THEN, PROCEED!"
Wash starts singing again, "All by myself, don't wanna be! All by myseeeelf..." and keeps continuing with the few lines he knows, as other recruits around him struggle to choke down food in between coughs and basically just die of laughter-induced internal bleeding.
This lasts until chow time is almost over, then the drill sergeant finally relents.
"RECRUIT, AS YOU HAVE LEFT ME WISHING I HAD JUST SCALPED MY TICKETS FOR A PACK OF GUM, YOU MAY NOW STEP DOWN!"
"Yes, sir!"
"AT EASE!"
"I think I just had a stroke," says a black-haired female recruit next to him, only now finally able to breathe.
Wash's face is bright red and he hides his face in his hand as he starts cramming his peanut butter sandwiches into his mouth.
The drill sergeants blow whistles and the recruits quickly start to pour out again for practice. Wash is one of the last ones out because he has to take a few extra moments to cram the rest of his food into his mouth and drink some orange drink to force it all down. After pouring out into the hallway his redhead friend, who trotted ahead of him, turns back to briefly face him, hissing low enough the drill sergeants can't hear: "Near, far, wherever you are..."
Wash gives him a flat look and then pauses, expression confused. There's a strange shrieking sound in the air outside, getting loud enough they can all hear.
War is all coincidences, good luck, bad luck, direct hits and near misses. A bomb hitting the right enemy in exactly the right place and right time for a quick save, or hitting your foxhole at the wrong one. If Wash had not gotten in trouble, had not been forced to sing, had not needed to take an extra few seconds to eat the rest of his food and drink the rest of his gross, orange powdered drink, no one on the rig would have ever met him.
Even the people viewing the memory won't realize what's happened at first because everything just goes white. There is a deafening ringing in the air. The smell of burnt bacon. Muffled voices, from down a long tunnel. Screaming.
Wash is now suddenly laying on the floor. Light is spilling in around him when once there had been more walls. His head is bleeding and his fatigues are slightly singed.
He sits up, gasping, panting, dazed. Holes have been blasted in the walls of the base. The area just in front of him is filled with charcoal and bits of burning uniforms. The occasional body part. Wash's redheaded buddy is mostly intact, but only mostly, and it would probably be better if he was just charcoal like the others.
Because the way his blank eyes are fixed on him, staring at nothing, is worse.
A CO grabs Wash and drags him up by his elbow, drawing him backwards, inside. Yells something about an armory, yells the word "colonies" but the words can be barely heard over the ringing. Eventually he starts moving under his own power, but it takes being dragged farther up the hallway.
But something hard steals over his face and he does eventually manage it, heading off to get armed despite not having reached the end of basic.
They'd thought Leonis-Minoris was safe enough to have basic training for the nearby systems. Far enough away from the fighting.
They were wrong.
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cw: psychotic break and institutionalization
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closed to Carolina
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