aftr_stories | [MU] - DECEMBER STORYTELLING / MEMORY SHARE

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[MU] - DECEMBER STORYTELLING / MEMORY SHARE

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.

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[Stories in the sub-threads, cw's in the title!]

[A powerful mage lies dead on the ground in front of you.]

[To your left, a wiry troll is breathing heavily with the effort of combat. Tsui. His eyes are fixed on the melted access panel that has the both of you locked inside this storage container. He curses under his breath and begins to pace. You clutch the Shiny Object close to your chest.]

[It's a stone. Red jade, about the size and shape of an ostrich egg, with gold wire inlays. Protective talismans hang off of the jade like a grass skirt, crinkling against you as you hold it. It's really beautiful. You might have admired that beauty more if you weren't about to be destroyed by a horde of triad security guards. Well paid, well armed triad security guards.]

[Through your gloves you can feel the stone pulsing, as if it has a heartbeat.]

[Your escape routes are blocked. You are outnumbered. You do the only thing you can think to do: you hand Tsui the Shiny Object. He seems eager to take it from you, cradling it in his arms like a newborn baby. Colors swim beneath the surface of the stone as the door is breached.]

[You will never forget the sights and sounds of this night.]

[The things that spring forth from the ground are covered in open wounds, slick with gore and riddled with pustules of plague. Bony protrusions sprout from their shoulders and backs, as if they needed more reasons not to be approached. They sink their gnarled teeth into the flesh of the guards, tearing through armor like butter. They claw open great gashes, streaks of crimson and white where the bone shows through.]

[They tear those poor fools limb from limb.]

[You watch this with horror and awe. Tsui seems satisfied, almost comfortable. He is at home with this twisted artifact in his arms. You stare at the pile of bodies, torn asunder and mangled beyond all recognition. They barely look human. If not for the errant arm or leg sticking out of the mess, you might mistake it for a melted wad of flesh and bone.]

[When the devil rats fade into the shadows, you gather the rest of the team and leave. You put this night behind you. You think you've learned something, but you aren't sure what.]

Edited 2017-12-21 03:09 (UTC)

[He doesn't know this person. He doesn't know this person or what's going on. It all happens so fast - a dead body that Guzma all but dances away from, the puddle of blood not as upsetting to him as it would be to other, more innocent souls. Still, a body is a body, and he's never actually killed anyone. He has witnessed death, thanks to these islands, but not like this.

Not like what he sees.

He can't even comprehend what happens. There's so much movement, so much blood, so many pieces of human bodies being strewn everywhere. They really are torn apart, and intestines line the floor before they, too, are engulfed by the monstrosity of death. It lasts perhaps less than a minute, but all of the bodies are reduced to hanging flesh over pale, white bone, spotted with blood and other fluids. The smell is perhaps worse than even the sight, the sound...

Guzma's face drains, and so does his stomach. Violently, he empties his stomach, lurching forward as he throws up, gasping for breath as the vision fades, and he thanks every known god-like pokemon he knows. He thanks the tapu, the legendary pokemon of Alola, and whoever else deserves his thanks. His mouth tastes sour, and he's shaking like a leaf - never has he felt such an intense fear and disgust since...well, since he entered Ultra Space, and was taken over by a Nihilego.

He wheezes, and shakily finds a log to sit on, holding his head between his knees, in case he throws up again. That was...that was worse than anything he's experienced so far. What the hell do these people go through, on their worlds? Is this normal? What the hell is wrong with these nutjobs?]

[Gobbet has been watching this memory with a carefully neutral expression. She's long since detached herself from the weight of watching people die. She's seen it too many times - caused it too many times. It would have crushed her by now if she let it.]

[When the memory finishes, she lets out a long breath that might be a sigh of sorts. The stench lingers in her nostrils and makes her stomach lurch. Not quite to the point of throwing up - again, too detached for that - but enough to make her stand up and jam her hands into her pockets to avoid having to acknowledge the sensation. Although Guzma doesn't seem to be handling it so well. Gobbet eyes the white-haired man with some amusement.]

[If only he knew what came after this memory. If only he'd had to watch Malvina's death at the jaws of a thousand toxic rat spirits. He might have fainted from shock.]

[Gobbet wanders over and stands near the dazed man almost sheepishly. What should she even say? It feels like she should say something, considering the island just assaulted the poor man with her shitty memories. She kicks at the sand idly and offers him a sympathetic smile.]

My lifestyle's not for everyone, I guess. You alright?

[Each breath feels like his throat is burning. Guzma can still taste bile and it's oppressive - the taste of his sickness, the very air of that awful place. He can feel sweat on his face and neck, and he only faintly hears the voice speaking to him amidst the throbbing in his ears. It was so much, so much at once. With everything he's had to witness, with everything he himself has had to relive...this was his limit.

Was his past as bad as this? Guzma can't compare it, nor does he want to. There's no better or worse here, just pain. Just pain and suffering.

Finally, he looks up, noting the woman at his side trying to offer him some sort of comfort. He still breathes a little hard, bits of his white hair sticking to his damp brow, and his face is still a little white and splotchy. What did she say? He didn't hear it all, but he can assume it was something along the lines of checking up on him. If he's alright, or needs help. He shakes his head, wiping his face.]

M'as good as I'm gonna be...after that. [He mutters a soft curse - holy shit - under his breath, rubbing his eyes, as if that'd help to erase the image he saw.]

Believe it or not, I've seen worse. Didn't seem like it was possible at the time, but here we are.

[Malvina's death, Qian-Ya as an experience, the Walled City as a whole...she's starting to wonder how she's managed all these years. Maybe because so much of it was experienced when she was just a kid. She learned the world through watching other people die, sometimes in her place, sometimes just because it was an encounter where only one person could walk away. She watched her friends die, knew her family died when she left them behind, knew Rat was the only reason she was still alive while the rest of them lay choking on their own blood in the worst slum in the world.]

[She'd slept in piles of trash, had to pick her meals out around used needles, stolen food from starving families so that she could live another day. That pile of gore was meaningless to someone like her. At the time, it had shaken her badly. But the shock faded and she knew that she was alive because they were dead and she was thankful. What else could she be?]

[Like she said, it wasn't for everybody.]

[Gobbet finds a vomit-free spot to sit and leans her chin on her hand.]

You've never seen someone die, have you?

Not like that.

[And not at all, prior to coming here. In fact, his only experiences with death firsthand were shared right here, in Lifeaftr. Even so, the first time, those crystal monsters, he...escaped it all. He didn't see the death they cause, just heard about it. It still effected him, considering a few people he knew were among the deceased, but still. The second time...on the new island. The desert perils were great, and despite how good a person he was transformed into, it wasn't enough to halt someone getting swallowed whole by a hungry beast. But being dragged under the sands to a toothy maw isn't nearly as grotesque as what he just saw. It was just...they vanished, and the assumption was that they were eaten.

Is it bad that, because of the lack of influence from the Monsun desert, he cares so very little, now? They were never friends, he and that idiot boy. Good riddance, right? Good riddance...

This was so much different thought. He saw it all. He saw it all and has to live with the memory he never wanted or needed. This is why he hates all of this - these sorts of things aren't meant for others to see. It's invasive, and painful, and just--]

Ugh...

You're from a nicer world than I am, then. It gets easier to watch after the fourth or fifth time, to be honest. You pretty much get a choice where I'm from: Live or die. A lot of times, if you choose to live, someone else has to die. Winning means someone loses, etcetera etcetera.

[She shifts uncomfortably. The memory isn't her favorite. She tells herself the screams don't bother her. Tells herself that, even knowing what Tsui did after that, knowing what those things really were and what they did to her friends...that the night on the docks was just another night. Just another night of lives wasted in the pursuit of staying alive.]

[Gobbet is starting to wonder how many lives are worth wasting to keep herself going. No answer will change her mind, she tells herself every time she asks, but this isn't the last time the question will cross her mind.]

But my world isn't all death and doom. The simple pleasures kind of make up for the worst of it, over time. For example, I had pet rats and instant noodles were pretty dope. You ever have a pet?

[It's a blatant attempt to change the subject, but she suspects Guzma might appreciate it.]

Not necessarily.

[He spits, setting her with a harsh look. Nicer? No. Less gruesome? ...Sort of. There are certainly bad things that happen in the world outside of Alola. There's still crime, people die, pokemon die, sometimes to the hands of the other, but those sorts of things simply aren't as commonplace in Alola. They don't occur often. They occur, yes, but Guzma hasn't been in a place of experience with anything like death, dismemberment, or actual torture. He's a hoodlum and a thug, not some wicked ass cultist or whatever. He hasn't killed anyone, despite having bloodied his knuckles a great deal.

Despite having every intent to, perhaps, in a memory he was forced to relive. Despite everything. despite everything.

He hasn't killed anyone. Not yet, and hopefully not ever.]

Surviving. [He grunts, more toward the fire than her face, though he glances back. He has been in that boat before himself - runaways aren't exactly fed Peking duck or sturgeon caviar or whatever. They down't sleep in goose down beds, they fight for everything, because no one wants them, or they can't properly live in the place supposed to be home.] Y'all is surviving, not living.

[There's a difference. A big difference. Guzma hums to himself, rolling his lips only to spit into the fire. Sorry, but he needs to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth.] ...No pets, nah, never considered my pokemon like that. Partners, is what I call 'em, and I got two here - five normally.

Some been with me since I was a snotty, little, know-nothing brat.

[Gobbet stares at Guzma hard. She can see a little something familiar in him. He's young in the grand scheme of things, but he's older than his age would imply. He's self aware, to a degree. But he doesn't carry himself like a killer - nor does he try to fade away into the backdrop like her kind of criminal might. This is what she files him under in her mental list of people she knows. Outcast, not a killer, not her kind of thief. Gobbet turns to the fire and sniffs loudly.]

Surviving is just a different type of living. I was living, in my own way. It wasn't a glamorous life and it wasn't a safe life, but it was a life.

[She's never bought the whole "surviving is different than living" thing. Then again, by that saying's standards, she's never lived a day in her life.]

[But that's a different debate. For now, what the ever loving fuck was a pokemon.]

Pokemon, huh? That some kind of animal in your world?

[Guzma is twenty-five - young enough to still be considered a 'kid' by the crusty, old farts that call themselves Kahunas, but old enough to know the goings-on of the world and how very difficult it can be for some who didn't have it all. That a peaceful existence doesn't mean the traditional sort of "paradise" plastered all over the travel booklets to lure in tourists to his home region. And even "paradise" has it own dark, ugly spots...and secrets to hide.

Some people live, some survive. There's neither good nor bad, so he doesn't combat her way of thinking - it's essentially the same thing, and he can't tell her how to live or how to survive. If she's enjoying her existence, then who the hell is he to open his mouth?]

Tch...here we go again. [He sighs, digging through his pockets to see if his pokeballs came with him to dreamland. Usually they did, so...yup there. He extracts an Ultra Ball and expands it into a more baseball sized device instead of the tinier version.] Something like that. Here, I'll show you one'a my partners.

[He clicks the button in the middle and the ball snaps open - shooting out a bean of red light util it grows, shifts, and forms a large insect, who droops forward, making quiet, rumbling noises.

He's asleep...]

[Gobbet's first instinct is to fight the thing she sees. She's only ever seen things like this when fighting toxic or insect shamans. Those grotesque spirits that function under a hive mind and simply seek to consume all they can. But it snores and droops forward and she's reminded of her old rat, Madness, when she used to fall asleep on her shoulder.]

[It's sort of hideous and inspires a deep seated wariness, but it's also a little endearing.]

Oh. Uh...cu..te? It's kind of like an awakened insect then. Just like. A bigger and weirder version of something normal. We have things like that back home.

[Pokemon are weird. But so is like 98% of the fauna of the sixth world.]

[Thank god she doesn't, because Guzma has a sharp eye on her the moment he sees tension and his muscles coil, ready to spring if she makes a move towards his defenseless, sleeping pokemon. He's getting sick and tired of these negative reactions, and breathes out in frustration, recalling the big bug to its pokeball to save it any further negative reactions, and maybe to give this girl here some reprieve as well.

Next time he'll just show off his pokemon's pokedex entries... That is half the reason he asked for one from the Storyteller, after all.]

His name is Golisopod, and he's a bug type pokemon - the type'a pokemon I specialize in. There are currently eighteen known pokemon types. Think like...water, grass, fire, and stuff. Bug is one'a those. My partner here can only be found back where I come from - back on Alola. He's a bug and water type.

Looks pretty tough, huh? Yeah, well he's only as bad as anyone makes 'im out to be. Normally, he's what y'all just saw...a big, sleepy lump what don't do more'n nap in the shallows and help net me fish. [So don't call him weird.]

[Gobbet listens intently, nodding where appropriate.]

Huh. Neat.

[So he specializes in bugs. In her world, that would make him an insect shaman. A part of a malicious hive mind that seeks to consume and distort all it can. One that exists only to grow itself larger.]

[But, she notes, they aren't her world. So while the comparison may be easy to make, it's hardly fair or accurate.]

[Gobbet rests her chin in her hand and looks Guzma up and down again. What she's looking for is anyone's guess.]

We're not so different then. We both summon creatures to help us, have dedicated ourselves to a specific type of creature, and hate when people think our partners are gross.

[Guzma, meeting her appraising eye, narrows his own and raises a brow - he's not one to enjoy being observed like some sort of zoo animal, and his mood wasn't exactly great to begin with. Tired, sour, irritated by this whole memory-share horsecrap...and now yet another person to add to the growing list of people he has to be careful showing his pokemon to, for fear they'll possibly be injured. It's probably an unfounded judgement, but still a fear he has. The two one him are all he has in this world, they're...very, very precious to him. Until he can see the others again.

When Gobbet speaks again, he snorts, giving her the same sort of once over she just gave him. The same, huh?]

Yeah, maybe...'cept my pokemon never ate no one 'fore. And they only do battle with other pokemon, and never to kill. [That's not what battling is about. He doesn't, wouldn't, ever kill anyone's pokemon. He's a thug and a bully, not a murderer. Not only that, pokemon seem to have a hell of a lot more value to him than people do, all things considered.]

First off, those things in the memory weren't mine. Second, I'm trying to find some common ground between us, work with me here.

[Gobbet straightens up and sighs. Ever since she got to this island she's been reaching out, trying to make connections. Trying to form some bonds that she can count on when the going gets tough. Guzma, she thinks, would be a good card to have in her growing deck. But this guy clearly isn't looking for friends, so why is she bothering? Why push when he'll only push back?]

Or don't. Be too good for the kind of people who've had to kill to get by. No skin off my back.

[Guzma narrows his eyes, ready to spit acid - excuse you? Why should he have pity for someone that would rather their own life over that of their comrades? Their family? Being an unwanted urchin doesn't mean you have to go it alone - there are always those that share the same or worse stories; those that have endured more.

And then, he realizes he's being a hypocrite. Isn't that what this weird elf girl is? She's an urchin just like him, and came from a place way worse than his - where bonds aren't as easily formed, and the ties of friendship and 'family' aren't exactly knotted tight... He sighs, rubbing his face.]

Listen, lady, I ain't 'bout to ignore the fact y'all got blood on your hands...but I ain't one to judge myself. This whole night is whack as heck, yo, and I'm gettin' real tired in both ways. [Sick of seeing shit he's not mean to, and physically exhausted. It's a strain on his whole being, having to see some of the things he did - experience the things he has.] M'wires may be sparking something fierce, yeah? Ain't no fault'a yours...I guess.

[Did she ask for your pity, Guzma? Quite the opposite. She wants your understanding that what she's done has been out of necessity. She wants you to take any judgements and save them for someone who cares.]

[And right now she wants to know if she should bother fostering some sort of friendship with you.]

A'ight. Look. How about we try this whole introduction thing again in the waking world, where the island can't get its grubby little claws on our memories and wave them around for everyone to see. Then I can decide whether or not I hate you, and you can decide whether or not you want to make the conscious effort not to hate me.

Deal?

[Guzma's quiet as she talks, raising a brow slowly as she just...comes out and says what he has to say. A straight-shot bargain and a chance to rekindle what precious little progress they made. He's very rarely experienced someone who didn't beat around the bush or confront him i a way he could easily understand. It's actually rather refreshing, when someone actually gets on his level.

Maybe there is something there they could actually find unity in. I mean, they have the same messy history, it seems like, though Guzma's pretty tight-lipped on certain parts...though, haha, the island sure did take that and run with it tonight, didn't it?]

...Yeah, that'd prob'ly be for the best. Heck knows I'd lose it if I had to see that hot trash again. Uh--mine, I mean...not yours. [Though, all things considered, everyone's uglier memories could be considered thus.]

[Gobbet gives a short huff of laughter, rising to her feet. Where is she going? Who knows! To the other side of the fire, maybe, to bug someone else about their past. It's only fair she gets to do that, too.]

Nope, my memories are trashfires, too. Most of what I've seen tonight has told me that none of us here had it easy. It's nice to know we're all on a similar page, but I could have done without the full movie.

Catch you on the flipside - [Hm. Garbage taste in clothing does not a good nickname make. How about...] Bugs.

[Nailed it.]

[The run is supposed to be an easy one. Smash and grab, decent pay. You're sixteen and you've got nowhere to be. This tea is hiring, looking for a shaman for backup. It's a perfect storm that leads you to this moment.]

[There are four of you. You have eyes on all of them, just in case.]

[One by the elevator, one by the main door to the level, one in front of the door to the apartment, and you. By the communal kitchen, playing lookout. Your attention is focused on the girl in front of the apartment door.]

[Sibilance. She has some pretty heavy duty cyberware: legs of high grade steel, hydraulic jacks and skillwires running through them. She dumped a ton of nuyen into those things. Chick could leg press a dump truck if she wanted to.]

[Her plan is simple. Kick in the door, punch the target in the face, grab the shit you were sent to recover, and leave him to think about who exactly he pissed off so bad. It isn't a bad plan, but it's a noisy one. That's why you're in luck to be in a megaplex theater. The bass should kick in at any moment now. That's your cover: a bass drop to drown out the noise. And there it is - the plan is a go.]

[This is the part where it all goes wrong.]

[There's an ungodly crash as Sib kicks in the door. A muffled scream, cut short by a mangled gurgling noise. You crane your neck to get a better look, but what you see isn't what you're expecting. The apartment was little more than a coffin suite. The door has wrecked everything inside, including the target. A bloodstain and bits of brain and bone are all you can see poking out from behind the door, which has found itself smashed up against the back wall of the room.]

[Then, there's the alarm.]

Shit. Shit!

[You aren't going to go out like this. Not because of Sib's inability to think with her brain instead of her fancy legs. Your eyes sweep the room for a solution, anything at all. And that's when you see them. Industrial ovens.]

[The pieces fall into place on their own. This is a theater. Your mind makes a few leaps of association - fleeing, what makes people flee in a theater? Yelling fire. You're moving, turning the gas on full blast before your brain processes the plan in its entirety. Cops don't charge into burning buildings, after all. They help people out of them.]

Yo, guys!

[You hurriedly set the range on a timer. You've got a few minutes. No more, no less.]

[They're arguing, huddled around the doorway and shouting over the alarm about who's fault this is. About failed plans of the past. You don't have time for this.]

Guys, this place is about to blow. Clear out!

[You make a beeline for the stairwell. They don't acknowledge you and you don't make an effort to get their attention. As far as you're concerned, you have solved the problem. Whether or not they want to follow you to safety is none of your concern.]

[The scenery blurs as you speed past people fleeing in panic from the security alarms. You feel the heat at your back before you hear the explosion, stumbling out the front door and into the arms of a startled police officer. He tries to calm you, he assumes you are hurt and afraid, so you feign panic to avoid suspicion.]

[The memory shifts a few moments ahead, perhaps recognizing that it was all a blur of activity and falsehoods as you're bustled over to sit somewhere safe, a blanket draped over you to keep off the sleeting rain. A kindly fireman is saying something to your left, no doubt more comforting words.]

[You aren't paying attention. You're watching the flames with a distant awareness that you don't see Sib and the others anywhere.]

[They made their choice. You made yours. And you are alive to tell this story in the future. You tell yourself this is a lesson in practicality. To always trust your gut, because your first plan is going to be your best plan most of the time. It did work, after all. For you. The truth is one that you think is a little too heavy handed. You will discard it, as you discard so many of the truths presented to you.]

[The truth is that, to you, no life is worth more than your own.]

That was... one heck of a reaction.

[Roy calmly keeps all moral indignation out of his voice, something he's gotten depressingly good at thanks to too much time spent around Belkar.]

[Gobbet shrugs. She's been watching the memory play out absently, as if it bores her. Though the judgement is carefully pruned from his tone, it still exists in the words themselves. Gobbet came to terms with her actions long, long ago. She doesn't have to justify it now.]

You heard me tell them to run. Not my fault they didn't listen.

I suppose what I'm not understanding is the context that made 'fire' a better choice than just fleeing the scene. Just from the outside, it seems a much more dangerous choice for you as well. [There has to be come, internal or external. A ridiculous police state that would kill on sight for what they did?]

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[MU] - DECEMBER STORYTELLING / MEMORY SHARE

Gobbet | OTA | Will Match Formats

ii. all hell broken loose (cw: descriptions of gore)

cw: gore, mild vomit mention

rest in pieces @ya boi

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i. burn baby burn (cw: fire, extremely light gore)

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