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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[It's second nature for him to retaliate. The moment Guzma sees the barrage fly, he leaps into the line of fire. To hell with it, if he's struck, it won't be the worst pain he's had to endure. He may not understand the bizarre creatures' reasoning for attacking the little Drifter, but Guzma cares not. He has established them as his friend, his comrade, and one who has long since earned his trust and loyalty. He's more than willing to take a beating for their sake.

But the vision ends before anything, before he can be struck with the force of rocks and twigs, before Guzma can return the favor by flinging a rock or two back at them, daring anyone, anyone at all to lift an arm against the Drifter. His words die in his throat before they're even formed, as the memory is lost, gone, and he's left with no outlet for his anger. Guzma breathes harshly, his fists clenched and shoulders heaving with each hiss of air through tightly grit teeth.

He doesn't care who they were, or if they were "innocent". He doesn't care, and is irritated and frustrated he can't strike back against them.]

[He fights back unthinkingly, leaping to their aid without question. There is no question what he was willing to do for their sake.]

[More than anyone has dared to do. More than even that solitary drifter who allowed them a home in Central, a place to stay for as long as they needed, but was seldom there themself, would say nothing when the citizens there scuttled away from their approaching silhouette or growled curt dismissals in their direction.]

[No one lifted a hand against them, in Central. Perhaps that is why there was no reprimand.]

[They raise one gloved hand with a falling to their shoulders - for one of those rare moments in their life, fleeting in their uncertainty.]

long time ago

That don't matter!!

[He snaps, gripping his fingers into a fist when the rock he hand vanishes to nothingness. If only...if only he was quick enough to toss it at even one. Just one of them to set an example. Not one dared to do that. He had insults and curses spat at him and his brother and sisters. Some indeed dared to try and oppose the weaker members of his team with retaliation, but they never...ever raised a hand against them. If ever they did, it would spell their very deaths.

If there is one thing Guzma will not tolerate, it's anyone doing harm to his friends or his 'family'. As stupid and useless as those morons were, they were the best company he's had in years. Much the same with the Drifter.]

Don't no one gets to do that t'you and walk away... Not while I'm still kicking, anyway.

[He is so fiercely angry. Angry - on their behalf, for the treatment they'd received. Is it truly deserved, that manner of vicious defense on their behalf? What could they have done to merit that? Are they not merely subject to the sins of their kind? One can never be certain, in a world distorted beyond its original conception, what is a friend and what is a foe.]

[Why does he fight so?]

they did what they had to
did not know if i was friend or foe

Tch! [Guzma snarls, twitching slightly. That isn't an excuse at all, and he's only getting more and more angry as the Drifter tries to defend the actions of the people - they're too good, way too good. He breathes a little hard, chewing his lip. They don't deserve to defend awful people that base their judgments on a person walking through town... Sure, it'd be one thing if they did anything to merit such a reaction, but from what he saw? What he has experienced firsthand?

The Drifter is a good person. They even fled, they held u their hands in a pacifying gesture. It's not fair, it's not fair...they shouldn't be treated like that without reason.]

That sorta judgment is based on more'n just a casual glance. Believe me, I know. [He spits, pacing around the fire to burn off his ire, kicking sand into the flames. He certainly has been judged by his appearance, especially here - he looks like a thug, and he is - but most people get to know him and it's...well. It's not so bad. But it's not how he looks that has earned Guzma his reputation, it's the things he and his team of misfits and hoodlums have done that gives Team Skull the reputation it once had.] You didn't do nothing to any'a them...and you wouldn't have, either.

[They watch him rage, his fury apparently boundless. For their sake? On their behalf? Or...or something else?]

did not know
given my race

[Their kind is...unwelcome.]

[They have learned this much. Their kind is unwelcome, and no matter how many layers they endeavor to wrap around their skin, hiding in the ritualistic anonymity of the drifter occupation, that will never completely veil away the bright cobalt of their skin. There is no escaping that.]

we are not welcome

[They should have known better. Shouldn't they?]

That's--!

[Guzma bites down on his lip hard enough he can taste blood, squeezing his eyes shut as he shakes his head. That's an even worse excuse than the first one, and he can feel the burning fire inside him flare. He sits down heavily, rubbing his hands over his knees to try and calm down, occupy his hands, lest he do something damaging either to himself or anything he could get them on.]

That ain't right... [He exhales, still shaking slightly. What a horrible way to judge someone - especially someone who isn't deserving of it. It's idiotic, and terrible...and paints people of all breeds in a terrible light. They can't look past what they see, and make assumptions based solely on that. It's disgusting. He really can't stand it.] That ain't right at all... M'pretty sure y'all is one'a the best suited to these islands. And I like you - you're welcome back at my place whenever; don't even gotta ask permission, you just stop on over whenever you wanna. I'll never turn you out like that.

And I know Luna'd do the same. [And if she didn't? Well, he'd throw her out before he would the Drifter. Sorry, Luna, bros before ho-ohs.]

[People here...continue to astound them.]

[It makes so little sense, that they should all fight for their sake when they have done nothing to warrant such a thing. That fury on their behalf, the indignant insistence that I like you - ]

[How are the people here so kind, and continuously so? They have waited and waited for the limit, the point at which they will cease to be useful, the asymptote they inevitably expect to cross. It has still not come. Everything they have come to understand as fundamental, as fact, has been proven...faulty, here.]

[What does one do when their world must be reinvented?]

why

[Their dark eyes have crinkled into confused slits, screwed up with uncertainty. Why have people...continued as such?]

[Why, they ask, and Guzma feels his anger spark again. It shouldn't even be a question, and he looks back into the fire, half expecting to see the shapes and faces of those ratty little people again...ratty little people, whispering curses and spitting rumors and gossip back at...at who? The Drifter? Or himself? Both, probably, and Guzma lets out a long, loud sigh, running a hand through his hair.

He shouldn't have to explain. He shouldn't have to, and yet...they should understand. They should understand that they have friends here, people to look out for and care about them. No one should ever feel like they're left out, and alone. He did, but realized he had people - idiots thought they were - who cared so much about him, they'd go to war to get him back, when he disappeared. Idiots...]

Because no matter what you think, or what them sneaks said...we all is part of a bigger team, yeah? You done good by me time n' time again...and I like having y'all around. You're...you're a good person - don't matter what no one else says or thinks. We can all see it, and s'why we throw ourselves to the gauntlet.

It's what a team does, when one'a their own gets threatened. [Speaking from experience, anyway.]

[One of their own.]

[They have never really been...part of an own, exactly. Here and there they caught a glimpse of another member of their kind, their distinctive blue skin a beacon marking them as something lesser, unloved. There had been one, in Central, spending most of their days drinking - unarmed, there had been little they could do when the other villagers beat them and stole what little they had. But there was no defining unity, and the Drifter had not lingered.]

[The anonymity of their title, vague as it is, has been its own shield. But others have still come to know them, and call them things like a good person and part of a team.]

[All they have ever done is what they set out to do: repay debts, and pay kindness unto others. One good and warm-hearted deed can make all the difference, they have learned, and so they began to cast that stone forward. If nothing else of them can remain, let others at least come away better off, for having known them.]

[If that is at all possible.]

never been
part of one

[The words he reads - so short, so simple, yet holding such a powerful emotion. Guzma closes his eyes and lets his anger seep out of him, breathing in and out until there is nothing. Like usual, the hollowness that comes after working himself up to the point of a brawl. The emptiness, where no other emotion seems to fit properly. Hammering a square into a circle, repeatedly, until it just crumbles through.

It's a moment longer before he replies. Never been part of one...]

For a long time...me neither. Didn't like no one else but my pokemon, n' I wandered wherever I could, just like you. Then I found a place where I could fit in, someone to take me in, n' when they gone...I took over. I formed my own team. [He digs through his pocket, removes a thick, gold chain and pendant - a necklace. His necklace, the last symbol of his past as boss of Team Skull. Guzma stares at the pendant, runs his thumb over the cool metal, then exhales and sticks his head through the loop of the chain.] And now I got nothing. Nothing but my pokemon n' my memories'a what I had.

[He faces the Drifter, a grin spreading on his face.] And a new gang of misfits what need someone to reach out, yeah. Heh...consider yourself an honorary member of my team!! Y'got me in your corner, bro, and I got your back no matter what!

[A curious symbol. They lean forward to regard it with rapt interest, their eyes glittering as they survey the symbol. It is...a pretty thing, to be certain. Representative of being part of a team. He did not simply wander, as they did. He was not content to be an outcast. Instead, he gathered the threads of others like him close, and made something incredible of it.]

[It takes a special kind of strength, to be capable of such a thing.]

[Consider yourself an honorary member.]

[The Drifter straightens, one hand lifting over their chest, as if to say, "...me?" But then, has he not been...he has been nothing but unceasingly kind and protective, since they met him that first time, in the form of a dream. Is it truly a surprise?]

[Their eyes pinch, lifting into cupped crescents.]

you would
for me?

[The symbol is just about as rough and jagged as the man wearing it. The shape is similar in appearance to a skull, but peering closely, the base of it forms an S shape as well. It' simple in appearance, and the gold is probably fake or just plated, but...the value isn't in how much money it'd net being melted down or whatever. Oh no, Guzma would never allow such a thing no matter how much money he got for it. The experiences had and the weight of this symbol is worth far more than anything a few dollars could give him.

If only he had another one to give - the silver pendants he has his grunts wear... Effortlessly would he hand one over to the Drifter, as a sign - a symbol - that they are part of his team, his family. They belong, and Guzma would treat them as one of his own until he's dead and gone. Even without, of course, he'd do the same, but sometimes having something that ties people together, something tangible, is just as meaningful as the action itself.

Guzma snickers softly, nodding his head as he slouches and hooks his thumbs on his belt loops. It never fails - he reaches out, and people...little misfit kids who think so low of themselves, are always so darn astonished. It's kind of sad--no, it's really sad, but he feels good being the one to act. No one ought to feel like they don't belong. He's been there, it sucks, and having had the first ever family that felt like a family, even if it was just a bunch of stupid kids with nothing to their name...

Or an island filled with people of differing backgrounds, trying to make a living, and get back home--

It's pretty great.]

S'what I said.

[They cannot offer anything in return - they cannot offer that he would be an honorary drifter, because drifters are lonesome creatures by default, and he is anything but lonesome. He is so full of the lost souls he gathers to himself like butterflies or will-o-the-wisps of light. For all his hard edges and ragged exterior, he is quick to allow the pieces of others into himself, to warm them with his own earnest desire to ensure that no one feels truly alone.]

[He is not a drifter. He is...something else. Something they do not yet have a definitive word for. But it is not unpleasant, whatever it is.]

then you are kind

[What are they, in the scheme of things? Not a useful addition. Not a tactical one. One that is gathered close to the heart purely out of sentiment, or because one has a good and earnest heart.]

[Guzma snorts, but he can't quite bring himself to scowl in the way he usually does when posed with such a sentence. Now, more than ever, he seems to pout, as these words used to describe him are no longer new. More and more people are using the word 'kind' to define him and, while he doesn't believe it at all, it's no longer something he will so violently object. He takes in misfits, people that don't belong anywhere, it's the truth.

Because he was once like them, way back. Lost, unwanted, broken, and lonely. A wandering child hoping for someone to take notice of him and his plight. To take notice of him and his strengths. He needed someone to push him to strive forward, toward the next day, and the next...to continue to move forward. A reason, a purpose, a goal. It's always harder when no one is there to encourage you.

Maybe that's why all those idiots he took in were so loyal to him, despite his awful qualities. Despite everything. They were paying it forward.

Heh...people are stupid.]

Tch, y'all keep saying that and I may actually start to believe it sometime.

not many do as you do
pick the sick and the dying off the ground

[And they would know, wouldn't they, of the truth in that? All their years of wandering, of drifting, of piecing together broken shards of other civilizations' history, long lost and long fallen to pieces, and they'd encountered only one other who had seen fit to scrape them from the ground, where they lay, pick them up and carry them to a place safe and warm and comforting.]

[It might do to rail against the unfairness of it - of the fact that, as scant as that kindness was in their world, it seems to be in such abundance here. But what, then, would something like that do? It would not change what they have witnessed in the past, and it would detract from the genuine kindnesses of the present.]

[So they will simply treasure it, as it has come.]

[That actually gives him pause for a moment, to really absorb and think on what the Drifter said. Is he really a good person, to do as others do? As others should do? Perhaps he is - he more or less adopted a dozen of homeless teenagers, with no where to go...no future ahead of them. He picked them up off the ground and gave some of them a place to stay, people who actually care about them - friends, family - and looked after them all. They may have been a band of stupid, trouble-making misfits that no one liked to have around...but damn, did they have a good time together.

Damn, did they actually enjoy living a little bit more, when they were all together.

Is that really being kind, though? It feels like something so...so normal. So second nature. People should have that compassion in them, and it makes him frustrated that the so-called good people only ever open their hearts to those that are like them. They're so quick to judge anything different, anything that's not walking alongside or ahead of them. They never, ever...look back. They don't pick up the ones who's tripped on their path, or lost their way.

Guzma exhales, shaking his head. It's pretty sad...when he's considered to be a good person. Despite everything he's said and done to prove the point that he isn't, and will never be truly good.]

Yeah, well, if not them...then I guess 'nother gutter bug's the best thing for ya. [He shrugs.] I mean, least y'all got someone pretty similar to confide in.

[Similar - but not, they hope too similar. They would not wish the curse of the tint of their skin, the sickness poisoning their lungs, upon anyone; not their most hideous of enemies, and certainly not the kindest of souls they have been fortunate enough to discover here.]

[Not all of his phraseology makes sense. They could perhaps connote it, but making an assumption is a sure way of getting into trouble.]

[It is best to ask.]

gutter bug
?

A pest is 'bout the nicest way to put it.

[Penniless, pitiful, unwanted trash with no place in the world. No place to really call home, and nothing to make of themselves. It's what he was, still is...sort of. Guzma's certainly come a long way from when he was just a runaway child with nothing to his name but a pocket full of earned battle money to sustain him and his pokemon, but...he's not all that great even now. He's stronger, sure, but he's still seen as a pest.

Though, to be fair, he established that image himself.

He shrugs, hooking his thumbs on the loops of his pants before slouching a bit. It doesn't bother him that much anymore. People whisper and make jabs at him all the time, and he's so used to it that it just rolls off him, but when they go ahead and talk shit about his crew...that's when he has a problem.]

Friends only with ourselves or with people like us.

[Pest.]

[Unwanted. An imposition on the time and efforts of others. He knows what that is like, it seems - and he knows now that they know, too. There is no escaping it.]

[But that does make it easier, in some ways. Simplifies what exchanges can be had, and what stories can be told. There is no point in pursuing a thread that spirals and frays into nothing. Sever the tie, before it can be knotted.]

all we need

[All we need. It's both right and wrong, and even Guzma knows this. Someone to relate to, someone who understands and has experienced the same, but...a little kindness from the outside is a necessary thing as well, isn't it? Those that overcome, that can look past the outsiders, the thugs, the drifters that wander aimlessly amongst themselves and their kin, and see them as simple people.

Like them.

It's happened rarely in Alola - one, maybe two people opened up to him after everything was said and done - and more often here, where his infamy isn't well known. It's a bit refreshing, certainly, but the lingering fear of the unknown is painful. Will those friends he's made remain friends, when they learn his secrets? Will they see him the same way? Will he be ostracized again? So many questions, without an honest answer. Though one thing is for sure.

There are those here that he doesn't want to let go of.]

...Sometimes, yeah.

sometimes?

[That's not exactly a ringing endorsement. Though perhaps he has had a wider selection in regards to what sort of company he might keep, growing up; the Drifter cannot, at the present time, recall ever knowing quite so many people who would so readily and eagerly call them "friend."]

[That is in part due to their occupation, they know. A drifter is untethered, and does not chain themself to any one piece of world without deviation. It is, by nature, a friendless existence, save for the other drifters one might encounter on the road.]

[Even those were not always fond of their cobalt skin and black eyes.]

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[MU] - DECEMBER STORYTELLING / MEMORY SHARE

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