3..2...1...CONTACT!

[goneawaymod]

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.]]

Comments

South

[ownperson]

Brother of Mine [freelancers only. tw: violent death/fratricide by inaction]

[ownperson]

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?"

[parannoyed]

[There is gunfire being exchanged and Wash is a) not wearing armor, and b) unarmed. So he clings to cover instinctually. This is his first time dealing with this weird memory-sharing thing, though he's heard about it.]

[(He doesn't know that last time, Stacia saw memories of his.)]

[He knows what this moment probably is, can recognize a scene he came onto just a few minutes too late.]

[ownperson]

[ The South in the memory doesn't answer her brother’s call. She takes a deep breath, so deep its visible in the dramatic rise and fall of her shoulders, and stays silent, still. Her fingers scrape across the metal body of her rifle as she grips it tighter. It's almost like she's waiting for something, poised for action and yet not taking it.

North calls for her again, telling her he needs help, that something's here, asking if she's alright—because something must have happened to her if she's not coming, right?

But that South just stands there, ready to move but not moving. A pillar of purple armour caught in a moment between action and inaction.

The real South, on the other hand... ]

No, no no no, this is not fucking happening.

[ Why this memory? Why this fucking memory? She doesn’t want to relive this, not ever but especially not now, not now she knows— knows that—

Wait, if she’s stuck here reliving this, then who—? Shit, shit shit shit— ]

Who the fuck is here?

[parannoyed]

He peeks around a wall to see she's unarmed.

"It's Washington. And before you get pissed, I didn't exactly ask to come here. Whatever does this telepathic connection thing dumped me right in. I took cover because I do not like not being in this kind of situation without even the memory of armor."

He doesn't want to be here either. Bullets being flung around when he's unarmed freak him out.

He also doesn't exactly want to watch a friend die.

[ownperson]

Around them, the sounds of the fight pick up. The explosions get closer, the shots further apart; reloading takes time and there's less bullets in a sniper than there are grenades in a Bruteshot. Grenades can do more damage than a single bullet.

Past-South keeps waiting.

Present-South all but growls at Washington. He didn’t ask to be here, no, but she doesn’t want him here, she doesn’t want him to see this, to hold this over her, to see the way this is affecting her. She’s shaking, pitifully. Shaking and staring at her past self as if she can will her to move, to fucking do something.

“I waited too long,” that’s what she says, instead of the venom that she wants to spit at him. “God fucking dammit I waited too—”

The next time North shouts for her, it's not over the radios. His voice rings out. "SOUTH!"

Present-South looks like she’s going to be sick as her past self’s shoulders draw tight, and South remembers the way she was gritting her teeth, the way her jaw was tense, the way her hands begun to shake as she just kept waiting.

[infailtration]

Oh no. No, no, no, York doesn't want to see this. He knows exactly what he's seeing, and that this kind of thing happens on the rig -- Stacia told him as much.

His stomach turns but he doesn't close his eyes or cover his ears. Part of him needs to know for sure.

Just how bad is it?

[ownperson]

The south in the memory South doesn't answer North's calls. She only takes a deep breath, so deep its visible in the dramatic rise and fall of her shoulders, and stays silent, still. Her fingers scrape across the metal body of her rifle as she grips it tighter. It's almost like she's waiting for something, poised for action and yet not taking it.

North calls for her again, telling her he needs help, that something's here, asking if she's alright—because something must have happened to her if she's not coming, right?

But South just stands there, ready to move but not moving. A pillar of purple armour caught in a moment between action and inaction.

The real South, looking the kind of exhausted that doesn't come from a lack of sleep, is sat on the floor, this time, her knees pulled up to her chest. She didn't want to relive this even once, but a second time might kill her, she feels it in the pit of her stomach.

She's not sure if York being here is worse or better than Washington. Maybe it's about the same, for different reasons. Whatever good will she's earned with him... well, it won't last long, she's sure.

"I had a plan," she says, her voice much steadier than she feels. "That's... that's why she's not answering him."

[infailtration]

York startles, so focused on the scene before him -- on willing that South to fucking move to help her brother -- that he didn't notice her there. Present South. Who's talking about herself in both first and third person and looks utterly broken. Not that it helps.

"What was it?" His voice is strained, but he's trying to believe her. Trying to be reasonable. "And why didn't you tell him that?"

[ownperson]

"Because I wasn't supposed to know the Meta existed. Because I probably knew, deep down, he'd never go for it. Because it's a shitty fucking plan. Take your pick."

The sounds of the fight pick up. The explosions get closer, the shots further apart; reloading takes time and there's less bullets in a sniper than there are grenades in a Bruteshot. Grenades can do more damage than a single bullet.

But the South in the memory just keeps waiting.

The next time North shouts for her, it's not over the radios. "SOUTH!"

Hearing the desperation in his voice again is enough to make the real South flinch, her teeth gritting at the same time that her past self's shoulders draw tighter. Both South's hands are shaking.

"...I was gonna let it take Theta," she says, and it feels worse to admit this to York, of all of the Freelancers. After everything. "I know— I know that's fucked up. I know it's super fucked up, I just—"

She holds her own hands, trying to still them.

[ownperson]

1. Fireworks

A flash of colour illuminates a dark bedroom, the silence of the night broken by the distinctive whizz-pop of a firework cutting a path through the sky. On the bottom bunk of a bunk bed, a head of blonde hair appears as covers are thrown back and a young girl sits up. She sits there for a long second, waiting, until the next whizz-pop fills the air and suddenly she's scrambling to her feet, clambering up the ladder to the top bunk without making any effort to be quiet.

"Drew!" the young girl whisper-shouts, perched precariously on the top rung of the ladder and shaking the lump beneath the covers. "Drew! Wake up, idiot!"

'Drew' groans, sleepily dragging his covers tighter around him. "What?"

2. More Alike

"He started it!" says what looks like a ten-year-old version of South, her young face creased with anger, one finger jabbing towards the boy now trying to catch his breath on the floor.

"I don't care who started it, you don't throw people into desks," the teacher says; she looks almost too young for the job and overworked, tiredness in her eyes. "Get your things."

South huffs. "He pulled my hair!"

3. Betrayal [cw: minor injury]

South's standing in a training room, hitting a punching bag so hard it's slamming against the wall behind it. Her kevlar undersuit is tied off around her hips, her top half only covered by a sports bra, but her lower half still clad in heavy duty, very non-camouflage friendly, purple armour.

Her fists aren't wrapped. The skin of her knuckles is breaking.

The door behind her opens and North, already in normal clothes rather than his armour, steps inside. South doesn't turn to face him, doesn't slow down, and he sighs.

"South... you should come and get something to eat."

South slams her fist against the bag and it recoils; she barely catches it before it knocks her off her feet. "Fuck off."

2

[paganpoetry]

Good girl.

[Rowena stands in the corner of the classroom, watching the blonde girl defend herself. She rolls her fingers over her upper arm, smiling slightly. Girls punching boys; Rowena's lived through several waves of feminism and 'beating up handsy men' seems to be a staple of every iteration of it she's found interesting.

She looks over at South - the real South. The Jorgmund doesn't seem to have much use for schoolchildren.]

Allow me to guess. You never were the type of girl to let others screw with you and the powers that be saw fit to punish you for it?

[ownperson]

[ The real South's propping herself up against a wall, her arms folded under her chest and her shoulders pulled tight. She looks, perhaps, more tense than someone might expect her to be at the memory. Part of it's hating that this memory sharing shit is happening at all, that strangers are seeing into her head, part of it's remembering what's coming. ]

Guess you could say that, yeah. Year before this I got my first black eye scrapping with another kid.

[ The teacher sighs. "Which he will be talked to about, but you threw him against a desk. That's an overreaction. Get your things, I won't tell you a third time. You're going to do your work in the class next door until the counselor is free."

The younger South glares, with a ferocity unbecoming of a face so young, and snatches all of her things up from her desk with rage colouring every motion. Her hip catches the water bottle on the desk behind her as she turns, sending it toppling onto the boy's head; it could be an accident, of course, but is it? From the look on her face, the teacher certainly doesn't seem to think so.

Present South almost smirks. That in itself is an answer, too. ]

This guy deserved it. Wasn't the first time he'd yanked my damn hair.

[paganpoetry]

You won't hear any argument from me. The little prig has an insufferable face.

[Rowena sees no issue taking sides in judging the moral character of a little child she's never met; she sees nothing in this memory that does anything but recommends South to her. Rowena's a witch; it's pretty much obligatory that she sympathize with rebellious women.]

I don't suppose anyone ever came around who nurtured your talents instead?

[ownperson]

[ South snorts, shaking her head. ]

Nah. I stayed a scrappy little shit and everyone else kept the stick up their asses. Even in the fuckin' military, where y'know, being a fighty bitch who doesn't take people's shit was kind of the whole point.

[ Seriously, what did they expect? Fucking ridiculous.

The teacher sighs, and the present South's shoulders tighten another notch. She knows exactly what's about to come out of her mouth and whilst it's not going to sting as much as it did back then, that doesn't mean she wants to hear it. Let alone with someone else here.

"Natasha..." The teacher pinches her brow. "Why can't you be more like your brother?"

The expression on younger South's face drops, for a second; all of that anger is replaced by a stunned sort of look, like she can't believe the words that just came out of the adult's mouth. The classroom dissolves into snickers and her features harden, again, as she throws glares towards the culprits, clutching her belongings tight to her chest.

The first fucking time an adult said it to her face.

Her brother wasn't even in this class, but everyone knew who the teacher was talking about. There never had been any escaping the association, even back then, even when it hadn't bothered her as much.

Here on the rig her feelings are more complicated by the day, but there's still no separating the two. Though, Rowena's a new face, so she might not know, might not have seen the equally tall blonde man who shares half her features, or at least not made the connection yet. Not that it means much, it's always a matter of 'when', not 'if', and there's nothing like having your memories shared to speed up the 'when'. ]

3

[drladysounds]

Shelley inhales through clenched teeth when she sees the cracks on South's knuckles. So this is another memory...meeting all these people through their memories is quite the experience -- although she's pretty certain she's unwelcome in them in the first place. After all, who'd want their first meetings to be in the middle of a memory they may not even want to show?

This one...this woman, apparently named South, seems quite angry. Or frustrated. Or perhaps just focused on punching that bag into oblivion. Then South says that at the man over there. Fuck off, alright...

"I'll take that as my cue to leave!" Shelley says to herself, shrugging.

She's pretty certain if the real South appeared or if this one gained awareness that's pretty much what she'd get told. Being a new one among the Jorgmund new hires, she's pretty sure getting on her fellow forced coworkers' bad sides can only make things harder for herself -- and they're already hard enough, what with the implanted shock collar and the potential nonsense she's going to have to face.

Shelley looks around, trying to figure out how to leave this memory.

[ownperson]

“There’s no way out of these things,” the real South says, appearing perched on a bench at the edge of the room. She raises her head from her hands; she’s looks the kind of tired that has nothing to do with a lack of sleep.

These memories are getting to her.

“Believe me, if I could kick you out, you’d already be gone,” she continues, sitting up properly. She blows hair from her face. “Who the fuck even are you? Are you new?”

Total strangers, walking around her memories. Fucking wonderful.

In the memory, North asks, "Are your hands even wrapped?"

Past-South's teeth grit and she doesn't answer, but North doesn't seem deterred. He crosses the space between them and reaches for her wrist, catching it between one punch at the next. South jerks her arm, almost catching him in the face with her fist, but manages to stop herself before it connects.

"Get off," she growls, trying again to jerk her arm free. North busies himself examining the cuts across her knuckles. "I swear to fucking god, North, if you don't—"

[drladysounds]

"I really wish you could. This feels invasive in a really odd way"

Especially when you know nothing about the other person. A small part of her wonders if Jorgmund did this to make her and anyone else new around her get quickly acquainted to the rest. It'd be an effective albeit incredibly rude way to get that done.

"Yes, I'm new. Arrived the other day. I'm Shelley, and you're South, I guess. And he's...North?" Shelley crosses her arms. Well, since she's already trapped here somewhat against her will may as well get curious, although she perhaps should be a little more tactful with her words: "What's with the thematic names? Are you two related?"

It's not that much of a stretch to guess South here had the bad luck of getting quirky parents who thought it'd be fun to give these names to their kids, she thinks.

Well, regardless, what's clear is that South has enough control over her physical abilities, look at the way she stopped her fist. Impressive! It's not every day you meet someone who can do that.

[ownperson]

The real South groans, her head dropping against the wall behind her with a dull thud. “He’s my twin brother. North and South are code names. He’s on the rig too, you’ll see him around.”

May as well rip that bandaid off. There’s no avoiding it. It’s not like it’s a secret, but things are always different when people know you’re a twin, in her experience.

“It’s invasive as fuck. I don’t wanna relive this shit on my own, let alone with someone else watching.”

"You have to wrap your hands," North says, voice measured and calm. "I know you're upset about CT leaving, but that doesn't mean—"

With renewed strength, the South in the memory yanks her hand free and steps away. "Who said I'm fucking upset?! She didn't just leave, she's a traitor! A goddamned Insurrectionist! The fuck would I be upset?!"

North doesn't say anything, he just looks at her. Both Souths’ jaws flex.

2

[myagents]

"You must understand that the teacher was legally responsible for the classroom, Agent South. Encouraging violent behaviour would have only brought further problems."

[ownperson]

The real South immediately groans, dragging her hands over her face where she's perched herself on an unoccupied desk at the back of the classroom.

"Oh for the love of— you? Really? You? Haven't you fucked around inside my head enough for a lifetime?" she snaps. And in this memory, of all possible fucking memories?

The teacher sighs. "Which he will be talked to about, but you threw him against a desk. That's an overreaction. Get your things, I won't tell you a third time. You're going to do your work in the class next door until the counselor is free."

South glares, with a ferocity unbecoming of a face so young, and snatches all of her things up from her desk with rage colouring every motion. Her hip catches the water bottle on the desk behind her as she turns, sending it toppling onto the boy's head; it could be an accident, of course, but is it? The look on the teacher's face certainly suggests she doesn't think it was.

[myagents]

"I'm sorry, Agent South." he lies, he loves his agents and wants them their minds to be completely his so that he can cherish them and rearrange them as he pleases.

"There are many problems in the education system still, students often don't feel safe voicing their concerns."

He pauses briefly.

"Unfortunately the teacher could not act otherwise, but I perfectly understand your reaction. You were in the right." strangely enough, he relates, so after a moment he adds "I mean it. I know what it's like to live that experience, you will be surprised to know that I was somewhat of a problem child myself."

2

[bothbarrels]

[ North's hanging back, just inside and to the left of the doorway. This whole thing already feels far too familiar, and the fact that the version of South who's standing nearer the teacher is so young brings home the fact that this may be one of the first occasions where this happened.

He looks over to South, the grown version of her, whom he can see hanging back in a similar fashion to himself. ]

Some things just never change.

[ownperson]

[ She's perched herself on an empty desk at the back of the class, knees pulled up and her chin resting on them. Looking over at North is enough to make her stomach turn, after everything she's seen as this weird memory bullshit dragged her through the worst days of her life. Now he's here, too, and the only mercies are that it's not that memory, again, and that all evidence of her crying has been erased by the fresh connection. ]

Sure fuckin' don't. [ she snorts, but it's faint ] You weren't even here to see this one. One of the classes we didn't have together.

[ It's the first time she's talked to him 'in person' since they got back from the damn mission. Her voice still somehow feels a little raw, and it shakes slightly.

The teacher sighs. "Which he will be talked to about, but you threw him against a desk. That's an overreaction. Get your things, I won't tell you a third time. You're going to do your work in the class next door until the counselor is free."

The younger South glares, with a ferocity unbecoming of a face so young, and snatches all of her things up from her desk with rage colouring every motion. Her hip catches the water bottle on the desk behind her as she turns, sending it toppling onto the boy's head; it could be an accident, of course, but is it? The teacher certainly doesn't seem to think so and North knows his sister well enough to know that it definitely wasn't. ]

[bothbarrels]

I didn't know about this, no. Or at least, I don't remember knowing about it.

[ But it was all part of a pattern, wasn't it? South taking the reins when something went wrong for her and wresting it away from someone who was trying to make things bad for her was nothing new to him. Even if it had a beginning, it didn't really matter because it had never had an end. ]