aftr_stories | [MU] - With a different perspective

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[MU] - With a different perspective

[In the late evening of the 15th, you find yourself sitting at a campfire, surrounded by total darkness. The cheerful light and warmth of the flames emcompasses but a few feet from it’s source, the rest of the world hushed and perhaps...absent entirely.

Beside you, a white(?) rabbit, almost as tall as yourself while sitting down, finishes dutifully cleaning one ear with a sigh, staring out into that pitch black with an almost forlorn expression.]

The problem, when one is a god, is that time… time is a much smaller concept, [they say.] One century, you can be at the peak of your splendor - and yet one tiny, thousand year nap, and everyone forgets about you.

I realize you all have many questions. I would like to make an attempt to address them.

I am the Storyteller. This is the name that people have given me, more or less. One might say that I should be the more universal god of this world; no matter your intentions, no matter your beliefs, you will always create a story. That is simply what a life does.

Those of you I have met are a somewhat…irritated breed. [The rabbit wiggles its nose, head tilting.] So ready to yell and not to listen; but perhaps that is simply your way.

I suppose that, given certain assumptions on certain other parties’ parts, I should make it clear to you that I am not that which has brought you here, to Ensō, to my island. To venture forth on a raft is one thing, but to awaken in another world entirely? Ludicrous. Ludicrous. The fact that you are here at all is impossible.

But you are here, aren’t you?

So perhaps we can help each other.

[Hopping round the fire, the Storyteller turns on their furry heel, peering through the flames. Looking at you- a new, perhaps angry, perhaps frightened adventurer, with your own story to tell.]

You’re all looking to explore this place; looking to feed yourselves? To survive, yes? In a few days, perhaps you could sit down and tell a tale, offer a story in my temple of your adventure so far. Your triumphs. Your failures. Friendships. Rivalries. In return, I am certain that I can assist you - in both your efforts to survive and to uncover what is behind your presence here.

I am certain if we do so, we may return you to your own stories - the ones you’re supposed to be in.

Some of us, [the rabbit continues, sounding for all the world like a preschool teacher calling attention to an unruly kerfuffle in the back of the classroom,] appear to have some additional needs. Namely, requiring regular doses of some chemical something-or-other so that your brains stay screwed on the right way. I only request one offering - one story, one complete tale of your world and the many happenings there - to supply you for all your days.

Ah. And those of you who are not quite…living, in the traditional sense. Affixed with non-living parts? You’ll find that the green pool around the back will give you the type of energy required to function. Please do not bathe in it- that’s so very unsanitary! Others may need to drink from it, you see. No, no. Simply resting nearby will suffice.

[The rabbit pauses, glances at you sidelong. Starlight and fireglow shimmer in its fur, and perhaps when you look again, there is an old, gray tome held between its paws that had not been there before. Or had it?]

As said. It is impossible for you to be here, and yet you are. Your story is about to begin anew. You and I are not the ones to decide that. I exist to perceive your story.

And you? Well, I don’t rightly know. You are here simply to live it, perhaps.

Accept my help, or don’t. At the very least… I’m sure you can think of even more questions.

[Or if you can’t, you can always end the dream by walking out of the fire’s light.]

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[Right. Newt hasn't moved from where he's sitting by the fire, and his only movement has been to fold his arms over his chest and regard the creature in front of him with wariness, though at least this time, his expression hasn't moved into hostility.

Yet.

But after the Storyteller's monologue ends, Newt's gonna just let that silence hang in the air for a moment, before he's pushing to his feet, tucking his hands in his pockets]

I mean, yeah, I'm a scientist, so I've always got questions. Kinda par for the course. So let's start there.

[Newt's eyes narrow just slightly, guarded--or, well as guarded as Newt gets, if he weren't such an open book. But certainly distrustful]

What people gave you your name?

Edited 2017-08-16 21:39 (UTC)

[Ah, right. They remember you, sir. And the temptation to wriggle one's size down to an appropriately-shaped creature of lizardlike persuasion is certainly there, but for the time being...they'll stick to something a little more his speed.]

[In the blink of an eye, Newt will find that he is speaking to a rabbit no longer, but a familiar creature with a long snout and slender paws.]

[He liked the dog so much the first time around, didn't he?]

Mortals, naturally. They do so ever like their categorizing and naming of things. Was it the title that came first, or the function?

Who can say.

[Well, Newt does tend to make an impression wherever he goes. Honestly, he forgets a lot of faces he only meets once, but you--he'd be hard-pressed to forget.]

I'm not about to worry too much about a chicken-or-the-egg scenario. Not yet, anyway. Facts first, philosophy later. [anyway]

What happened to those mortals?

[The canine's muzzle dips, briefly. There's something there that resembles, if Newt is adept enough at recognizing it...]

[...]

[Well, it's gone soon enough. The Storyteller straightens, and their implacable neutrality is restored. There's no need to fall into twisting, fractalling spirals over things that no longer weigh so heavily on the land, the sky, the soul.]

Long gone, I'm afraid. Most mortal things are in the habit of fading, given due time.

[Newt tilts his head slightly, at that, the gesture losing some of his wariness and moving into curiosity]

You're not wrong, technically. What happened to them?

They died.

[That's much more the brusque creature he's likely come to associate with them.]

Need I make it any clearer? They deceased. Bit the dust. Kicked the bucket.

They're gone.

[that makes Newt's eyes narrow and his wariness return, spine stiffening slightly. His fingers itch to reach for his knife, just for security, but instead his hands fist in his pockets. Such brusqueness might've prompted anyone else to change the subject, but, well...Newt's never been very good at being deterred by or even recognizing social cues]

Yeah. I got that. And that's what rings a little off to me, actually, because in most civilizations, unless something catastrophic happened, there's always something that remains and continues on. So maybe I should've been more specific: how did they die?

Edited 2017-08-16 22:26 (UTC)

[Again, the dog turns its muzzle aside. They appear to be studying something rather intently in the shadows - or possibly avoiding the need to look at him. When once again they speak, it's with a slight, prim twist to the words.]

Do you ask such things at every funeral you go to, Doctor? I can't imagine you'd be invited to very many.

[Newt arches an eyebrow at that but...for the first time in a very long time, does not correct the use of "Doctor."]

Well, considering the last place I was, the "gods"--[can you hear the quotations, doggo? Can you?]--had some sort of civilization before us, and they wouldn't tell us what had happened to them and wouldn't translate any of the writing they'd left behind. Instead, they told us to stay in the empty buildings the civilization before us had left behind and use the leftovers of their lives and walk past a giant park where the ground was stained with the blood of the people before us, and they told us to ignore it. Like if they didn't say what really happened, everything would be fantastic and we'd all just submit to their parasitic leeching off of our emotions.

[...it's all stated pretty casually, and Newt plops back down on a log, legs spayed out in front of him] So you could say I'm just checking to make sure that nothing catastrophic happened to the people that were here before us that we'd have to watch out for in the future.

[he leans back a bit so he can balance as he crosses his legs at the ankle] Also, when you go to a funeral, usually people do talk about how the person died. Either that or they read an obituary beforehand. So I think my funeral etiquette is right on target, if this is what this is. Not that I knew. I would've brought flowers, if you'd told me so ahead of time.

[Oh yes, they can hear those quotations. Loud and clear. Louder than any other sequence of words the scientist is bent on spouting.]

Catastrophic? Curious. Curious application of the term, yes...

[The dog begins to snuffle at the cover of their grayish, boxy tome before nosing it open. Catastrophic. Excellent, yes. Everyone loves a bit of dramatic irony. Would this be the before, or the after...? Before. Definitely before.]

[They glance up, fixing Newt with very deliberate look.]

Is that so?

In that case, kindly relay to me the manner in which you lost Dr. Gottlieb.

[That. That right there is a slap in the face. Newt jerks backwards, his formerly confident if guarded position crumpling as he physically has to grip at the log so he doesn't fall off of it, face going starkly pale in the firelight. Any emotion, thoughts, formally thinly guarded, crumble as his face registers shock, pain, surprise, agony--the stark reminder of loss and the missing part of himself, his other half like a kick to the chest that knocks the wind out of him and drops his head to his chest.

The resulting silence is deafening, broken only by Newt's breathing, ragged gulps of air as he tries to navigate, control the sudden influx of grief that threatens to overwhelm him and it takes a minute, two, three of trying to grasp at, anything at all, because it's been nine agonizing days of keeping himself busy and not thinking about the hole in his head and his heart and his life, the absence by his side, the lack of thin fingers threaded between his own, the smell of chalk and the feel of the fabric of that ridiculous-looking blazer under his cheek and that put-upon tone of Newton, honestly, exasperated and loving and, and, and, and who does this fucking so-called Storyteller think they are--

Ah. There it is.

Newt finally jerks his head back up, fixing the dog-like creature across the fire with an expression that's gone straight past hostility and into pure hatred.]

Fuck you.

[it's ragged and quiet, but articulated. And Newt's shaking, fumbling as he shoves a hand under his glasses and swipes at his eyes, now red and wide and shiny, filled with anger but also sheer determined stubbornness--before he's shoving his glasses back to rights, sniffling a little, and continuing.]

I asked you first, asshole. [his voice cracks and wobbles, but the force of his anger helps see it through to completion; helps him hold that dog's gaze, challenging, digging his heels in and not backing down.]

Edited 2017-08-16 23:11 (UTC)

Those were your words, Doctor, not mine. If you were not eager to see them applied to yourself, perhaps you should have considered that before you acted as such.

[The words are crisp, though not unkind. Not that they think it should matter, where he is concerned. Doubtless he's made up his mind regarding them, and they will take that as it comes.]

If you do not feel at liberty to disclose, I see no reason why I should as well.

Most unpleasant, having your personal life nosily inquired upon, isn't it?

[....are they seriously trying to teach him a lesson? Like he's a kid? Newt rolls his eyes, anger burning even hotter under his skin, and the words that follow are fully dripping with sarcasm]

Oh, wow, golly, how naive of me! I've definitely learned my lesson now, oh mighty and powerful Storyteller! Thank you sooooooooooo much for teaching me, a pitiful mortal, a lesson about sticking my nose into the business of some omnipotent fuckhead who likes to avoid answering questions and talks in circles, like I should just accept whatever vague horseshit they spew as an appropriate answer to any questions.

[his scowl deepens] Maybe I don't feel at liberty to disclose because, like I said, I asked you first, and you seem to just love dodging questions, so maybe I don't actually trust you to give me a straight answer if I did, in your words, "disclose" first. So--[and Newt pushes to his feet again]--I'll alter my question again, so see if you can actually pull that stick out of your ass and give me a straight answer this time.

[he leans forward a bit towards the fire, eyes narrowing]

Whatever wiped out the people that came before us--whatever you are avoiding talking about this time--is it something that could happen again? Is it something that could possibly be a problem for us further down the line; something that might wipe us out, too?

Omnipotent? [The dog sits back on their haunches, head cocked, and begins to scratch at the fur just below their shoulder.]

Since when did I make any claims for omnipotence? That would be rather egotistical of me, wouldn't it? No, no - I know stories. You could consider me rather well-read in that respect, but in all others?

[Another playing piece on the board, sir. To an extent.]

I shouldn't think so, no. But one can never predict plot twists; what did I just tell you about omnipotence?

[Newt straightens, then, and his eyes roll as he moves to sit back down] And that is all I wanted to know, jeez, was that really so hard?

[he's leaning back and crossing his ankles again, eyes narrowing, but this time more in thought as he considers his next question. He's tucking that bit about omnipotence away for later, but doesn't consider it worth examining now]

If this particular plot twist does happen, what are things we need to keep an eye out for? Any pre-warning signs or preparations to make to try and avoid a similar fate?

[It certainly counts as difficult when your partner in conversation seems unfairly predisposed to dislike you based on properties utterly out of your control. How fair is that, Dr. Geiszler?]

I daresay your paranoia will inform you as to that potential fate long before I could.

[That being said...]

[With a whuff of hot air, the dog flops onto the ground to drape one paw over the tome laid out in the sand, tapping claws along its pages.]

Apocalyptic. That's the word. Yes.

[Their tone drops, wavering - only for a moment. And then it's back, as though nothing arrested their posture or attention.]

Not catastrophic. Apocalyptic. Sharks, tornadoes, mixes and matches of the two...one has to anticipate such occurrences in a place like this, you see? When the fabric of Ensō itself starts to rupture -

[The dog sits upright.]

Then I suppose you would have cause to worry.

[Life ain't fair, doggo, suck it up.] Well. [Newt huffs a bit, shrugging a shoulder] Wouldn't be my first apocalypse.

[he pauses, blinking, though, and the corner of his mouth twitches, strangely, upward]

....hold on, did you just tell me that it is literally possible for there to be a sharknado that rips through the island that we're on?

A what?

[What a crude portmanteau. Delicious, but oh so dreadfully crude.]

It's possible, certainly. Most everything is in some capacity on Ensō. Which is why I should think it fair that no one rules out apocalypse.

[...]

...though I should hope it never comes to that.

[Newt's about to comment on the sharknado thing, he really is, but what the Storyteller finishes with actually gives him a brief moment of pause, and he studies the creature across the fire--before he lets out a huff of air, shoulders slumping just a bit]

...yeah, dude, I hope it doesn't come to that either. Apocalypses are pretty stressful. [understatement much, Newt?] If it does, though, we'll find a way to take care of it.

[anyway................]

....ok, so, back to the sharknado thing. Because in my original world, that's definitely not something that's possible, but you're telling me that it is, here on....Ensō?--I'm assuming that's the name of this place--here on Ensō, it is, and that most everything is. So we should really be prepared for anything, as much as we can be, but with that in mind, what sort of things-that-could-cause-death-or-injury are most probable?

Ensō. Correct.

[Now, see, this is far more the type of interrogation they can work with. Largely because it isn't reliant on exploiting anyone's grief. A win for everyone, isn't it?]

I didn't precisely set about child-proofing the place. If I'd known company was coming I would have at least swept. [But do you think to set up baby doors when a pack of rats moves in? No. No, you do not.] Predators. Nasty weather. The odd calamity.

[Normal things.]

[Newt makes an exasperated sound in throat, something that sounds very close to 'ugh.'] Sooooo the normal shit that happens in these sorts of places, okay. Good to know that some things don't change, I guess. [that is definitely a tone of voice that indicates that it is not that good to know.] Is that "odd" calamity in terms of "happens seldom" or "odd" in terms of weird?

Yes.

[There you go, sir.]

It's the wilderness; what did you expect?

Well, definitely not a sharknado--[Newt looks bemused, almost]--but I guess considering the last two places, it's not that surprising.

[anyway--] Okay, so, do you know who provided the knapsacks with our names on them, or, more importantly, who took my generator parts?

[At that, the dog - well, it doesn't quite scowl. Canines can't scowl, precisely. But it's a near thing.]

Water. Water. Water.

[They utter low, snapping growl that glints their teeth in a pearly flash.]

Not the fondest of progression, that nasty thing.

[That reaction is interesting.]

So...the water is sentient?

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