[MU] - DECEMBER STORYTELLING / MEMORY SHARE

[lifeaftr_mods]

Something is wrong.

This may not very well be obvious, at first. The Storyteller is not present to put forth yet another diatribe, informative or apologetic, and the backdrop of guttering flame and sandy campfire is as present as ever...albeit briefly.



Those who tell their stories will start to notice something...odd taking place. Indeed, no matter how they intend to begin their tale, the land of Mu will immediately start to warp to accommodate it, or something utterly unlike it, until storytellers and listeners alike may find themselves in an exact recreation of a seemingly random memory, in the most stark and painstaking of detail. There is no altering the memory, nor is there any preventing it once it's begun to play - you will simply have to witness memories that are not your own this go around.

Furthermore, stories that take place in worlds other than LifeAftr will be, frankly, inevitable. Those memories, too, will be recreated, to be relived by the teller and lived by the listener.

---

It is time, once more, for you to tell a story...with a slight twist! This is, in fact, our first player plot, as provided by Dragon! The initial setting will be familiar for oldcomers, and newcomers will recognize it from the introduction they received in their dreams.

Yet for this Storytelling only, people can imagine whatever stories they wish, from both their homes and their time on LifeAftr, as long as they don't mind the fact that others will be reliving those stories in the form of an impromptu memory share.

Even those who prefer not to voice their stories aloud are not safe this time around. If the memory is recalled in essence, Mu will shift to accommodate it in full.

There is, however, a benefit to this: those who venture memories to be relived will receive both a befuddled apology from the Storyteller, who will assert that this was most definitely not meant to happen (they're the Storyteller, not the Rememberer!), as well as a tired promise that the relived memories will be worth two offerings each, as if in compensation.

Not that it counts for much, probably.

Comments

[postictal]

I wanted Jay alive. Fuck, I - I wanted Alex alive.

[Alex. Alex Kralie, who pointed a gun at him and fired, who pointed a gun at Jay and sent a round through his gut without pausing to blink, without pausing to say anything to the college friend of mine who uprooted everything he had just to see him again.]

[Alex, who beat him, who broke him, who threatened him, who wrapped fingers around his throat and squeezed.]

[As if he'd known that it would take a real shiv to the chest, something irreconcilable, something irredeemable, like yanking a lifeless man's head back by the hair, to truly get Tim to strike back in earnest.]

I would've helped him. I would've helped you.

[thejaw]

[He doesn't want to believe that. He doesn't want to believe that Tim felt differently, that the rage didn't always well up in him too, that what he did to Alex wasn't what he wanted. He doesn't want to believe it, because he doesn't want to be alone like that. Knowing what it feels to be that single-minded, to hate strong enough, feel enough anger to wish for someone's death. He wants Tim to understand.

But he remembers watching it. Hearing the last sounds that would ever come from the man who once sat in his car and told him you read that well. Go again, but this time- The man he introduced as a friend. He felt so relieved and vindicated, and he felt so, so sick.

Everything he believed in, everything he lived by, has been slowly and surely coming apart at the seams since he got here, and Brian doesn't know what to do about it.

He can't say sorry. The lead is thicker on his tongue than ever, and Brian thinks that maybe he could try to scream and still not be heard. The word is locked up, chained away where it can't hurt him, because sorry implies guilt, and guilt implies mistakes, and mistakes implies a fuckton of things that he just cannot untangle right now. He can't.

But maybe he can dig around for a key.

Brian's heart feels like it's burning (so human, why does it feel so human) as he reaches out and wraps an arm around Tim's shoulders, just as he'd pictured himself doing earlier.]

[postictal]

[An arm across his shoulders.]

[It's like a hug, halfway done and sloppy and desperate and hopeful and something about it is like arms laid down across his front so he doesn't struggle when they slip the needle into the crook of his elbow so they can get a baseline for his blood work, this won't hurt a bit Timothy, just be a good boy and let us help you, and he can't - he can't sit here and let it happen when it tenses him, freezes him, is like barbed wire crawling down his throat and into his chest and around his heart.]

[Out. He has to get out.]

[He has to shuffle back, step by step, struggling free, wincing, cringing, trying not to shiver.]

I can't. I - can't right now.

[thejaw]

[Stupid. So fucking stupid. He's here stitched up and barely held together and what does he do? Tear the wound open and ask Tim to dig around in his gut, like that's got a chance in hell of ending well. Like he would know how to pull all the bad out and put back in everything that made him a real boy.

Brian pulls back the moment Tim does, like the action burns him back into reality. He doesn't respond to Tim's words, as if he can pretend it never happened. The reason doesn't matter. It didn't work, because they're different. He's different. Why did he for even a moment try to pretend otherwise?

He shuffles further away. Far enough to give Tim space, but close enough to still be able to keep an eye on him.]

[postictal]

Jesus, why didn't you just ask for help?

[It's not angry so much as it is - desperate, confused, like a dam bursting, overflowing with a roar of white-crested, foamed waves after being locked up in utter bewilderment for years, for years.]

You went to all those lengths to show us how miserable you were. How you were barely getting by, and you never just fucking asked for help?

[thejaw]

[Just ask. Like it's easy, so obvious- and it's a voice he recognizes telling him that he should have, that he's stupid for not doing it, that if he'd just trusted Tim maybe things would be different--

I couldn't! I can't! He yells it so loud in his own head that Brian wonders for a moment if he's really said it, but of course he hasn't, because that's the point.

It's his voice, and it's his everything. Locked in. He had to stay close enough to instruct, far away enough that if the tide turned, he wouldn't be hurt. He shakes his head, again and again, teeth gritted. Tim doesn't understand. Not at all. He couldn't ask anyone.

(He thought he couldn't.)

His heart clenches. Tim looks exhausted. Is this a betrayal, in a way? Is that how Tim feels? He still cares so much, even now. It pulls at a string of honesty that unravels as Brian looks at Tim with tired eyes, and taps a finger to the side of his own head. Mouths a word.

Fear.]

[postictal]

We were all afraid. Every one of us. Even Alex, do you get that?

[Could he have fixed this? Any of this? Were they all doomed from the start? Is all this just the product of wishful thinking, the false hope that maybe he wasn’t incurably toxic, that there was some out they just hadn’t thought of?]

[Who’s he kidding.]

Was it worth that?