goneawayworld | 3..2...1...CONTACT!

Entry tags:

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.]]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

This memory starts in the dark. Whoever is witnessing this is crouched in an dark alleyway, the smell of urine, cheap beer, and god knows what else stinging their nostrils. Ahead of them, there's a streetlamp flickering on an industrial street, a warehouse beyond looming out of urban darkness. Dimly in the distance, there comes a wail of police sirens. It's not close by, though, so there's no apparent concern. A young woman is crouched just ahead near the alley's mouth, peering across the darkened street with an intent gaze. She's olive skinned and her dark hair is braided, pinned up into a no-nonsense up-do. The memory supplies a name--two of them. Gabby. Gabriela. Deeds-Above-Words. Affection, admiration, trust. Love. Behind, a male voice, soft beneath the sound of urban night.

"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.

"Oh shit. Oh fuck."

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.

For the moment, unfortunately, there is no other Kenzie. Only the one through which the others must experience this memory. The waiting drags on. Fifteen minutes. Thirty minutes. All the time, they stay silent and still, predators waiting for their prey. Full of confidence and self-assurance mingled with the tense anticipation of a fight and bloodshed. A faint whisper breaks the tension, Tia's growling voice.

"I was looking in the middle--there's a bunch of pallets with barrels. What do you think they are?"

"Barrels? What kind?"

"They smell like some kind of chemical. What is a leech doing with that in his lair--"

Then all at once, it goes wrong. There's a faint rattling sound from outside--like someone throwing a chain across the door. The lights come on, blinding and disorienting and then the nighttime turns to day as there's a flash followed by a crackling rumble of an explosion. Tia doesn't even have time to make a sound of dismay or pain or surprise as she is lifted by the blast and vanishes into the expanding ball of fire and pressure. That easily, someone who Mackenzie loved and laughed with, who has been the only family that Mackenzie has had for the last four years--she's gone.

As sure as knowing that your arm has been chopped off, the Kenzie in the memory knows that Tia is gone. Removed as quickly and as nearly as one could hope. Sweet, thoughtful, impudent Howls-Too-Much never had a chance even to fight back and the shock and grief and Rage that swell in the memory are overwhelming, even for a Garou. Deeds-Above-Words is shouting something as the explosion fades and the roaring crackle of flames begins to consume the world.

"Out! Get out--!"

"Howls--oh Mother, Howls--" Eli's voice, cracking and desperate and filled with tears.

"Move," Deeds again. The remaining pack members are regrouping, closing at the entrance. "The door, go--FEATHERS-ARROWS-WITH-HER-RAGE CLEAR US A PATH!" In an instant Kenzie is in the warform and the door and whatever barricade they had hoped to slow the Garou within. Her massive frame slams against it once, twice, thrice and the chain holding it shut snaps free with a crunch. Mackenzie charges out into the previously empty parking lot, roaring her defiance as gunfire begins to crack and snap around her, bullets sparking off the pavement. She drops into a four-legged lope and barely flinches as a bullet scrapes along her flank, burning like fire--silver. Behind her, Eli charges from the flames, howling his own warcry as flames singe his pelt and the sound is cut sickeningly short as another burst of gunfire fills the night. He's not dead--she can feel him still but he's not making a sound anymore and it worries her.

Mackenize has to trust the pack though. Has to trust that whoever is following will do what needs to be done. She smashes into the side of one of the panel vans parked in a semi-circle around the front door and her claws tear into one of the leech-tainted gunmen, shredding him as she bodily lifts the van over her head with a howl of rage and pain and grief. She can hear Hymn-of-War howling, singing a song of war and grief even as she fights. Kenzie turns to hurl the van towards the next down the line and sees her, mottled golden fur matted and singed, streaked in blood from a dozen wounds and still fighting.

She is beautiful. In this horrifying moment, Mackenzie admires the beauty of a Garou at war for just a brief moment. Deeds-Above-Words is charging past Hymn-of-War, Mourns-the-Pray's body cradled in one arm. Sweet Mother he looks so small.

But they can still fight their way free of this.

Can't they?

Edited 2021-04-12 16:58 (UTC)

They can't. Stacia knows they can't, because she's heard the end of this story. She's curled against the Ahroun of this pack, its sole survivor, making soothing noises as she wept.

She'd blunted the sharp edges of her own Rage kicking at things and snarling during the wait, because if she has to watch this, she's going to watch it. She's not a Galliard, she won't be able to tell this story the way it deserves to be told, but she can at least bear witness and try.

Tia's death hits her in the not-fully-healed wounds left by Lilly and Bares-His-Fangs, and she weeps openly as she follows Kenzie's path out of the warehouse. Holding the tears back would only blur her vision, and that's not what she's decided to do here.

"Have to retreat!" Deeds is growling above the din of gunfire and warhowls, still cradling their fallen packmate against her body. They won't leave him for the leeches. They can't. Not if they have any hope, even the smallest one, to get him away. The parking lot is a scene from the worst imaginations of hell, the smell of blood and smoke and death filling Mackenzie's nostrils. The whole scene is backlit by the warehouse, by now entirely consumed in flames--the sirens are still wailing and distant, not growing closer. Whoever the leech is, he must have the influence and contacts he needs to keep the authorities away from this scene for tonight.

The gunfire only seems to increase in volume and intensity, bullets flying at them from what seems like every direction. A mint's worth of silver is being slung at them and even if some of these ghouls are terrified and shitting themselves, enough bullets will find their mark. Another bullet hits Kenzie, scoring a shallow wound along her belly to add another scar. Hymn-of-War is only a dozen feet away, carving a bloody smear through the leech's henchmen as a fresh staccato barrage of gunfire catches her. She falters, but continues to press on, charging after Deeds and Kenzie. Another explosion as some kind of grenade or bomb goes off between her legs midstride and she's sprawled out on the pavement. One of her legs is gone beneath the knee and despite that she's dragging herself forwards by her claws, refusing to give up.

Deeds looks back at their injured packmate, then thrusts Mourns-the-Prey into Mackenzie's arms.

"Go! I'll be right behind you with Hymn-of-War--!" It is an order that Mackenzie doesn't want to follow. She wants to be the one to charge back for their fallen packmate. That is her duty--but then Deeds-Above-Words is the leader. The one who feels most responsible.

"I can get her!" Mackenzie protests.

"Don't challenge me on this, not now!" Deeds' voice is cracked and strained, even in the Garou tongue. She grabs Kenzie by the scruff and for a brief moment presses her forehead to Mackenzie's in a gesture of affection, love, trust. Pride.

"Go. We'll be right behind you." She turns back and springs through the hail of gunfire as if it were spring rain, ignoring the bullets as she barrels back towards Hymn-of-War. It is the last Mackenzie sees of her as she turns to run, her every instinct screaming at her to stand and fight as she vanishes into the darkness, gunfire nipping at her feels. She cannot weep in the warform, but her heart wails as she hears the howls, screams, and gunfire begin to recede. She darts through the streets and into the maze of alleys, until finally she feels sure she has found a place where she can't be pursued--another dirty alley, another place of the Weaver, tangled in her web. Gunfire fades.

Did they make it? Mackenzie shifts down into homid, flinching as silver bullets lodged in flesh are forced free by her shift to leave oozing, unhappy wounds that burn with supernatural pain. She cradles Eli in her lap, supporting his head and weeping as she tries to press down against the horrid wound in his belly that won't stop bleeding. Distantly, another burst of gunfire. Staccato. A pause.

Pop.

Pop.

Two final shots and she knows, horribly, what that signifies even before she feels the pain of them being wrenched free from her.

No.

Nononono.

She has to go back. She has to die.

But Deeds told her to get Eli out and Eli... Eli is still here, breathing shallowly. His eyes flicker open, glazed and distant. He tries to focus on Mackenzie in the dark, his face waxen in the dim light of streetlamps.

"Kenzie...? Feathertail?" He says her stupid nickname and she laughs through her tears.

"Eli. Stay with me, okay?" She says, desperate. Silver. Why did it have to be silver? Of course it is silver. She presses down harder and the blood just doesn't stop.

"Where's--" He coughs weakly, voice distant. "Where's Gabby an' Lydia?"

"They--they didn't--" She can't make the words come out as tears drip down onto his face and there's a flicker of understanding.

"Fuck," he says in the way that he always does. As if it were a leaky pipe or the car had broken down or something. "Fuck, Kenzie..." He is crying now, too. His voice is weaker, breathier and his gaze more distant. Shock has settled in and she knows what that means. She leans down to press her forehead to his, desperate.

"Please stay with me Eli. You have to keep fighting. I can't--" She's sobbing, unable to do anything else but weep now. Her hand is wet and slick with his blood and she can't get a purchase on his skin to press on the wound.

"I can't do this alone, please, I can't be the only one." It's such a selfish thing to ask for in the moment but it is all that Mackenzie can think. Please don't make me carry this weight all by myself. Don't let me be the ahroun who lost her pack. Please, Eli. Please, Mourns-the-Prey.

"I'm..." He takes a breath, faint and rasping. One of his hands, slick with blood, scorched and bubbling from the fierceness of the flames they had leapt through, presses against the back of her head, weakly attempting to hold her close and comfort her. Still Eli.

"'M doing...my best, Kenzie..." His voice fades, reed thin and whispy. "Mother Gaia..." He mumbles the words, eyes seeing nothing now. "Why did it have to... have to be in this shitty alley..."

Kenzie sobs in response.

"Couldn't they fuckin'... ambush us...in... in a park...someplace with...some green...?" He continues, a last joke. Ironic and a little cruel. It's not fair. It's not fair for them to die here surrounded by the Wyrm and the Weaver, so separate from the Mother. Kenzie can't speak, her whole frame wracked by sobs and she holds him close, all thought of staunching the flow of blood forgotten now.

"I'm sorry," she says weakly. "I'm sorry it should have been me--"

But Eli can't hear her anymore.

She is alone.

Terribly, awfully alone.

Edited 2021-04-12 17:53 (UTC)

Stacia, dragged along by the memory, doesn't see what happens to Deeds and Hymn-of-War. She doesn't need to. She shoves her fist in her mouth and bites down hard enough to break the skin, lest she start screaming.

It hurts. It hurts. Poor Kenzie. At least when she'd lost Lilly and Bares-His-Fangs (and Bulletproof, but at least not to death), she'd still had Ace. Kenzie had lost all of them.

Garou aren't meant to be alone.

The scene doesn't change. It is still Mackenzie sitting there, consumed by her rage and grief and guilt, clinging to the cooling body of her family and weeping. But there's another Kenzie here now, standing red-eyed and weary next to Stacia.

"...You shouldn't have had to see this," she whispers, hoarse and unhappy. "This is some Jorgmund fuckery, this is mine it's not for anyone else to gawk at, fucking godammnit." Her voice cracks and she breaks into tears along with her memory-self, her face buried in her hands. Slowly, she folds in on herself, hunching down into a crouch and wailing her grief. Her pain. Her loneliness.

"He should have died somewhere green at least! Mother, why? Why did I have to fucking live?"

Edited 2021-04-12 18:27 (UTC)

Oh good, a Kenzie she can interact with. Stacia throws her arms around the other Garou.

"I don't think its Jorgmund," she says, stroking her hair. "I think it's something else. Stuff, maybe."

Which isn't the actual problem, but at least Jorgmund can't see the worst night of Kenzie's life.

"There's no reason you lived," she continues, beginning to rock them back and forth. "It was dumb luck. It always comes down to dumb luck in the end. Our wisest, fastest, and most cunning can be struck down for no reason other than than they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It's not your fault that you lived and they died."

cw: heavy suicidal ideation

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Re: cw: heavy suicidal ideation

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Werewolves are a pretty new thing to Wrath, but after everything else she's seen, she doesn't even blink. She gets an op when she sees one. A team going in to take down a threat has the same feel whether they're whatever this is or her platoon moving in to ambush a detachment of tanks.

One thing she doesn't understand is what the target actually is. "What's a leech?"

Kenzie--a different one--appears at Wrath's side and gives a sharp, angry tug on her arm. As if she can pull her back from the memory.

"This isn't your fucking business," she hisses, practically simmering with Rage.

"And a leech is a fucking vampire."

Wrath takes a step back when she's pulled, but that doesn't seem to change anything about the surroundings. "Sorry," she says quietly. "I'm not here on purpose. No one ever asks for this shit."

And a lot of times it's really personal. But there's not a lot you can do in these situations once you're there, at least not in her experience.

She's vaguely familiar with the idea of vampires as another thing they make movies about. So she nods. The enemy is the enemy no matter what it's called, at the end of the day. She tries to keep her attention on Kenzie, rather than what's going on. Because it's the best she can do when in the middle of something private.

The surroundings can't change. They won't change. Despite Mackenzie's insistence that Wrath leave, the pair of them are drawn inexorably along as things begin to playout. They cross the street. Enter the warehouse. As the memory goes on, Mackenzie is clearly becoming more and more agitated, stalking back and forth as if strapped behind the bars of a cage.

"Fuck this," she mutters. "Fuck this, you can't be here. You're not allowed to see this--!" She's hissing the words, angry and sharp and despairing. Then, comes the explosion as something in the warehouse explodes, killing poor Tia instantly and beginning the horrible countdown to the end of the night.

"Fuck you!" Kenzie snaps, as if it is Wrath's fault this is happening.

The helplessness of the situation is inescapable. Wrath knows what it's like to watch an op going bad in the worst way. To not be able to do anything about it. To lose comrades and friends. And there's nothing she can do. She can't leave--she already would have, if she could--and just curling up in a ball and closing her eyes and covering her ears really isn't going to cut it, either.

With flight impossible, the other solution easily at hand is fight. Which is fine with Wrath, because she's always been better at fight. Best case scenario, she'll get knocked out of this. Worst case scenario, it's still a good distraction for her... friend? coworker? fellow inmate? whatever... instead of just standing around and watching the death unspool.

Wrath's stance shifts subtly, from the sympathetic person she tries very hard to be to the machine that fights and loves nothing more than the feeling of a bruise and a mouthful of blood. It's easier to be that, anyway. It's what she's always been, as far as she can remember. She only took a break from it after her bones got pulped. "You want me gone? Make me."

And just in case it's not clear enough what kind of invitation that is, she curls her right hand into a first and goes in for her first punch.

"Make me.", Wrath says and it is all the invitation that Mackenzie needs. A fight, even in her mind palace or whatever the fuck this place is, is just what she wants. What she needs. She takes the first punch without flinching and then lunges. Midway through her leap, she ceases being a human and instead is a nine-foot tall half-wolf, half-woman, all-monster. Teeth like knives and claws like swords. One massive paw shoots out faster than any human could hope to match to swat at Wrath, as if Kenzie can simple smack the other woman aside and have done with the whole thing.

"Fuck you--!" Normally, she might not be understood in the Garou tongue but it's her memory and her brain, so everyone gets to understand what she says here.

Wrath isn't strictly human anymore, and hasn't been in years. She's also not quite prepared for what's coming, and the war form of a werewolf is going to have an effect on almost anyone. Maybe all that helps her get moving is the instinct developed after fighting a lot of other very inhuman looking things. At least this isn't a dysthrope; there's not the smell that goes with it.

She starts to dodge after a humiliating split second of freezing up, but it's too slow. She still takes the hit and goes tumbling. She turns that into a roll, sinking the fingers of her artificial replacement arm into the floor to stop the skid and come up to a crouch.

Unfortunately, they're still in this nightmare. Maybe she should just take a full hit... no. That's never been her way of doing anything. She is almost certainly going to lose this fight, but she's going to take her licks honestly.

Wrath snarls and charges with all of the speed synthetic muscle fiber offers, launching herself up at the wolf-monster's face.

Mackenzie; cw for blood, death, gore, suicidal depression, ptsd and all sorts of other related stuff

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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

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

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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