aftr_stories | [MU] - FEELING LIKE A GHOST (PART II)

[MU] - FEELING LIKE A GHOST (PART II)

"No, no...no!"

The Storyteller's voice cuts through the inkdrop-dark, frantic and scrambling. A distant blot of campfire gutters in the far distance - far from where you are. The disorientation of the week preceding this one has translated into Mu, and everything is hopelessly out of place. The Storyteller sounds muffled, clearly addressing someone or something else, their voice cushioned by the uniform, void-like night.

"Stop it. Stop it! I wasn't gone for very long at all. You can't behave for two weeks? You have to make it all...all...wrong? I can't keep this up - not with what I've had to do since returning - !"

Gradually, however, the shadowy campsite solidifies into being. Or...a semblance of it does, in any case. Four glistening pyres rear out from the shadows, each glowing a different color. The strange material that domes them almost resembles worked steel, forming different patterns against their multicolored backdrops.

[ ♆ ] The first glows a deep crimson, kicking scarlet embers into the dream-night air. Its pit sphere portrays a crowd of people in silhouette, heads bowed in genuflection - paying homage to some looping, many-coiled shape in the sky above.

[ ♆ ] The second glows a deep orange. Its pit sphere is worked into the shape of a looming mountain, with what might be some sort of village or ruin sprawled at its base.

[ ♆ ] The third's flames are a rich green. Its designs are most abstract; the starburst patterns that swirl across the metallic composition of its fire pit sphere could be explosions, maybe...or something else entirely.

[ ♆ ] The fourth pyre is one bearing host to golden flames, amber sparks sprayed out from behind the shape of a set of scales nestled among a flurry of birdlike shapes.

Beside each pyre is heaped a pile of sticks, colored to correspond to their respective flames. The Storyteller sounds agitated when they manage to speak again:

"Will you let them at least make the choice I left to gave them?" When there is no response, they sigh. "If you can hear me...I can't make it clearer than that, at the moment. Pick one. Pick one, quickly, and try to get out before it decides to make things worse! Just add a stick to whichever one looks best to you!"

Unfortunately, whether you abstain from voting or make your choice, that's not all there is to this night...

Tonight's Storytelling, further warped by Mu's capricious nature, will likely feel familiar to those of you who were with us in December of the year prior. Only this time, you don't get much choice in what kind of story you're telling...or, indeed, any choice in the matter at all. As you wake by the Storytelling campfire, Mu shifts to form three separate events from your character's present - which is to say, within one full year of their current canonpoint - 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.

While the initial setting will be familiar for oldcomers, and newcomers will recognize it from the introduction they received in their dreams, things will be far more similar to the memory share that occurred in December. All memories must be from within one year of your character's canonpoint. For questions, please refer to our OOC event post!

Even those who prefer not to voice their stories aloud are not safe this time around. The memory does not need to be willingly recalled in essence in order for Mu will shift to accommodate it in full.

Just like the last time this happened, all memories will be worth two offerings each, as if in compensation. So at least there's that!

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[CW: nonviolent minor character death in the prompts to come!]

[In walks Héctor, followed by a little boy skeleton, through a mess of a house with very little to keep it lit. Looks like whoever lives in it has some serious hoarding issues--it's full of useless junk. Old dishes and pocketwatches, magazines and records, even a birdcage that contains nothing but burnt out lightbulbs. The house is missing one wall entirely, and a hammock hangs close to the opening. One could sit and watch the ripples in the water, if they wanted to--it's not as if they have television down here.

That is, if the hammock weren't also filled with garbage. Old musical instruments, horseshoes, tin cans, bottles, a soup strainer... it doesn't make for a comfortable place to sleep. And yet. Héctor lifts up a hat on top of the trash pile, revealing an irritated looking skull.]

Buenas noches, Chicharrón!

[The very first words out of Chicharrón's mouth--]

I don't want to see your stupid face, Héctor.

C'mon, it's Día de Muertos. I brought you a little offering!

Get out of here!

[Héctor shakes a shot glass of something-or-other, pointedly, then sets it down on a table nearby... and enters Pleading Mode. Boy, no wonder the old man is cranky. How obnoxious.]

I would, Cheech, but the thing is... me and my friend Miguel, we really need to borrow your guitar.

[Instantly, 'Cheech' has his hands on the guitar, holding it close and glaring.]

My guitar?!

Yes?

My prized, beloved guitar??

I promise we'll bring it right back!

[Cheech is working himself into a frenzy, and one can't say he doesn't have a good reason.]

Like the time you promised to bring back my van? Or my mini-fridge? Or my good napkins? My lasso? My femur?!

No, no, not like those times.

Where's my femur?! You--

[The older skeleton's risen up, grabbing hold of Héctor's kerchief and dragging him down, until he shimmers with gold and collapses back, very obviously in pain. It has Héctor reaching out to him, though not quite touching the man. No more begging, there is only concern.]

...You okay, amigo?

I'm fading, Héctor. I can feel it. I couldn't even play that thing if I wanted to. ...you, play me something.

[His slowly growing horror at what is about to happen vanishes, replaced by a different sort of anxiety. Play music, really? Give in to that terrible addiction that ruined so many lives? That's a hell of a thing to ask him to do, Cheech.]

No, no, you know I don't play anymore, Cheech. The guitar's for the kid.

You want it, you got to earn it.

[Héctor could take the stupid thing and run off into the night, but he doesn't. No, it seems he's going through with it, against his better judgement. He picks it up and checks to see if it's still in tune...]

Ay, only for you, amigo. Any requests?

You know my favorite, Héctor.

[He grins at Cheech for half a second, then starts to play. It's a funny little tune, even censored for the kid's sake. (The kid in question is loving it anyway.) Not very long. And when he finishes...

Chicharrón chuckles a little in his wheezy way, fiddling with the edge of his sombrero.]

Brings back memories. Gracias...

[And then.

And then... he begins to glow that golden color again, longer this time. It grows brighter and brighter as he becomes transparent, until there's nothing left of him but empty clothes and drifting gold dust... even that fades too soon.

There is only Héctor, sitting alone in the hammock and staring at the floor.

Adios, Chicharrón.]

We had a deal, chamaco!

[Héctor, in a dress with great big silly flowers on his head, approaches a skeleton in a fancy sparkly suit and a little living boy... Ernesto de la Cruz and Miguel. They're all in a large dark room, litter from a party still all over the floor around the guitar-shaped pool and large television screens up on the walls playing clips from old black and white films.]

Who are you? What is the meaning of this?

[Héctor steps out of the shadows and closer to the lit up pool. It's not exactly the greatest disguise. And yet...]

Oh, Frida! I thought you couldn't make it.

[He rolls his eyes at Ernesto, ripping off the wig, shirt, and dress. Idiot. Anyway, he's here to talk to the kid, not his 'friend'.] You said you'd take back my photo. You promised, Miguel!

[...Miguel, who seems nervous, backing away from Héctor as Ernesto puts a protective hand on the boy's shoulder.] You know this, uh, man?

I just met him tonight. He told me he knew you...

[Ernesto seems to have to think to recognize the shabby looking skeleton in front of him.] Hé--Héctor?

[Scaring a kid isn't really what Héctor wants--he lowers his voice this time as he kneels down in front of Miguel and holds out his photo. (Ernesto may as well not be there. He hasn't looked at the man, except briefly to roll his eyes.)]

Please, Miguel, put my photo up.

[He's pleading, and not in the obnoxious used-car-salesman way he usually sounds. No, this is genuine. Unfortunately... Ernesto snatches the photo out of Héctor's hands before Miguel can and stares at it, then Héctor himself.

Being looked at this way, with something like pity from Ernesto, fills him with shame. Such a contrast between Ernesto's fancy clothes and pure white bones and Héctor's tattered rags... filthy looking, weathered and stained bones. Fractures that won't heal. He's weak, with only hours left and no one in the world on his side.]

My friend... you're being forgotten.

[But the shame turns into anger a moment later, for good reason. He stands back up, glaring at Ernesto.] And whose fault is that?

Héctor, please.

Those were my songs you took. My songs that made you famous.

...what?

If I'm being forgotten, it's because you never told anyone that I wrote them!

That's crazy. De la Cruz wrote all his own songs. [Says poor confused Miguel, looking back and forth between the two skeletons.]

You wanna tell him, or should I? [Don't lie to a kid, for pity's sake.]

Héctor, I never meant to take credit. We made a great team, but... you died and I... I only sang your songs because I wanted to keep a part of you alive.

Oh, how generous. [The sarcasm there is practically a deadly weapon.]

You really did play together...

[Héctor's stepping away, hand over his face. Seriously, this is insane, and he doesn't exactly have time to waste getting sidetracked. Too late to change the past.] Look, I don't want to fight about it. I just want you to make it right. Miguel can put my photo up--

Héctor...

And I can cross over the bridge! I can see my girl!

[Ernesto's staring at the photo, like he has to think it over. What in the world is there to think about?? It's a simple request. Not money, not the stupid tower and the parties, not recognition--all he wants is to cross over, tonight. Just once. He has to fight to keep his voice calm.] Ernesto... remember the night I left?

That was a long time ago.

We drank together, and you told me you would move heaven and earth for your amigo. Well, I'm asking you to now.

[The poor kid with them speaks up again... and is actually acknowledged, this time.] Heaven and earth? Like in the movie?

What?

That's Don Hidalgo's toast in the de la Cruz movie, "El Camino A Casa."

[Thank goodness for Miguel and his obsession with every single de la Cruz movie there was. Tragically, Héctor is not impressed--movies are fun sometimes, some even good, but not ones with Ernesto in them. No thank you.] I'm talking about my real life, Miguel.

No, it's in there. Look!

[Miguel's pointing at one of the screens, playing a clip right on cue. 'Don Hidalgo' pours Ernesto's character a drink, saying it's a toast to their friendship, and indeed... that he would move 'heaven and earth' for his amigo.]

But in the movie, Don Hidalgo poisons the drink...

[Ernesto's character spits out the drink, shouting that it's poison and punching Don Hidalgo in the face.

It makes a skeleton think. Héctor stares into space, talking to himself more than Ernesto.]

That night, Ernesto. The night I left... we'd been performing on the road for months. I got homesick. And I packed up my songs. We argued, I put my foot down. You gave in, you poured me a drink... 'to our friendship'... and you walked me to the train station. But I felt a pain in my stomach. I thought it must have been something I ate... or something I drank. I woke up dead.

[A beat, before Héctor forces the words out, horrified.]

You poisoned me.

You're confusing movies with reality, Héctor.

All this time I thought it was just bad luck. I never thought that you might have... that you...

[Rage is building up. No, not a bit of anger like before. This is something much bigger, darker, something utterly unlike Héctor. Ninety five years. Everything, everything that he's suffered, here in the Land of the Dead. It wasn't bad luck. It was someone's fault.

And that someone is right here, only a few feet away. So there's only one thing he can do. He launches himself at Ernesto like some sort of wildcat, screaming as he tackles the other skeleton to the ground. He slams Ernesto down again and again, trying to punch the bastard in the face, desperate to break some bones--Ernesto barely seems to be putting up a fight, calling for security instead. Pathetic coward. (Miguel is saying Héctor's name, frightened.)]

How could you?! You took everything away from me! You rat!

[Two guards rush in, apparently not far away. It's not hard for them to drag a shouting Héctor off of Ernesto and towards the door. They don't say one word as they do.]

You rat!

[Ernesto stands, unharmed, coolly brushing some dust off his suit.] Have him taken care of. He's not well.

I just wanted to go back home! No, nooo!

[Going, going... gone.]

[A young boy wakes up on the floor of a tomb, covered in marigold petals. He looks around, disorientated, and then spots a white guitar decorated with skulls... and remembers what he has to do. He snatches it and takes off, running through town, ignoring his tío and his papá shouting his name. Santa Cecilia is such a small town--Miguel's home in less than five minutes. His abuelita is a little harder to ignore, coming out of nowhere and blocking his path.]

Where have you been?!

I need to see Mamá Coco, please!

[Elena spots the stolen guitar and grabs for it--]

What are you doing with that? Give it to me!

[But he sidesteps her, hurrying inside and then locking the door. A pretty bold move. He can't recall ever locking his own family out before. She's shouting his name and banging on the door out there.

Mamá Coco, nearly one hundred years old and looking it, is sitting in her chair, staring into space with a vacant, vaguely sad expression on her face. She doesn't seem to hear her great grandson as he pleads with her, on the verge of tears.]

Mamá Coco? Can you hear me? It's Miguel. I saw your papá. Remember? Papá? Please--if you forget him he'll be gone. Forever.

[Miguel's papá is outside knocking on the door too now, for all the good it does. Miguel's whole world has shrunk down to himself and Coco. He picks up the guitar and holds it up at her.]

Here. This was his guitar, right? He used to play it to you?

[No reaction. He pulls out an old photo instead, of a woman and her young daughter... and a man standing to the right of them with that very guitar, face ripped out of the photo.]

See, there he is. Papá, remember? Papá? Mamá Coco, please, don't forget him...

[It's no use, and Miguel is starting to cry as the door opens... someone finally had the sense to grab the keys. Elena goes to Coco, and Miguel's parents go to him. It's over, he failed, Héctor will be forgotten--and all he can do is cling to his own papá.]

I thought I lost you, Miguel.

I'm sorry, Papá.

[His mother joins in on the hugging action.]

We're all together now, that's what matters.

Not all of us.

[The hug is ended when Abuelita butts in, sternly looking at Miguel.]

Miguel, you apologize to your Mamá Coco!

[For... whatever it is he did to make her look sad, in her vague way. Miguel's walking towards her again, wiping tears away, when his foot bumps the guitar... and he has an idea. He kneels, picking up the guitar.]

Mamá Coco? Your papá... he wanted you to have this.

[And so he starts to play. Abuelita Elena steps forward to intervene, and is stopped by Miguel's papá, as Miguel begins to sing too.]

Remember me...

[He still sounds like he's holding back tears. But it's working, it's getting her attention. Her fingers begin to twitch... and then she perks up, smiling faintly and looking at Miguel. She's singing along a moment later.

It's enough to make Elena cry herself, seeing her mother so happy. With them, again, not lost in the past and confused. Coco looks straight at her own daughter, finally recognizing her.]

Elena? What's wrong, mija?

Nothing, mamá. Nothing at all.

[With that, she's looking back at Miguel, still smiling.]

My papá used to sing me that song.

He loved you, Mamá Coco. Your papá loved you so much.

[Somehow, that makes her smile even wider. Ninety-five years, an entire lifetime, with no music and no mention of him... so long, pretending her dear papá never existed. She reaches out and cups Miguel's cheek for a moment, before she opens the drawer she's sitting next to and taking out a book full of old papers.]

I kept his letters... poems he wrote me... and...

[She hands a scrap of paper to Miguel--the missing piece of the photo. The face of a man with warm eyes, happy smile, ridiculous ears and a little goatee. Miguel's smiling again too, as Coco starts to share her stories.]

Papá was a musician, when I was a little girl. He and Mamá would sing such beautiful songs...

[Everyone's crept in--the entire family is crowded into one little room, listening. Now Héctor exists to them.

Now he can finally come home.]

Edited 2018-10-29 17:25 (UTC)

[Muffet bows her head briefly, in silence and respect. And then:]

It was... truly a beautiful song.

[She looks up at the composer.]

Was it not?

[He's sitting there in silent shock, bony fingers covering his mouth. It's too huge to take in all at once, it's painfully overwhelming.

Miguel. What a kid, a good good boy. That was genius, and it worked. And Coco! Ninety-five years have gone by, but she never threw away his letters that made it home. She kept that tiny scrap of photo with his face on in... her whole life, she tried to hold on to him.

She doesn't hate him. Not one word about how he left and never came back, how he abandoned her, how he failed as a father... everything she said was full of love.

Muffet may as well be on another planet for all the attention he's paying to her. He can't look away from where his daughter was a moment ago and... he's trembling faintly. It really was too much.]

[Muffet smiles softly, and reaches out to touch Hector gently on the shoulder- reminding him of her presence without tearing him away from the scene.]

Your family has a talent for singing, it seems.

[He glances at her, then gestures wildly at where it all was. He's mouthing words, at some level aware no sound is actually coming out of his mouth and also not caring. Look, look at that. Coco remembers him. Even better, she wanted to. Who cares about Miguel's singing voice--look at what he did for Héctor, who is loved and wanted by two members of his family. If a skeleton with no voice and no tears could cry...

He's going to make it. He won't disappear. He'll see her again, when she crosses over. Someday.]

[He isn't able to speak, so she expresses herself without words, too.]

[She hugs him.]

Congratulations, dearie.

[You have a family, Hector. It's going to be okay. She's so proud of you.]

[A family who wants him. And he believes what he was just shown, of course, because he didn't fade that night. It wasn't a fluke or a temporary respite. She's going to tell Miguel all about him in life, and everyone else too, and they'll remember for decades...

He can never resist a hug!! Who cares if he's not soft and warm, no one's ever complained. And in a few minutes, when the excitement's worn off a little bit, he scrawls something in the dirt. Messy handwriting, no point in making it neat and tidy.]

what a cool kid

[Muffet has probably hugged more unusual things than a skeleton, before. Monsters are like that.]

Brave, kind, and skilled. That's enough to go fairly far in life, I'd say.

proud of him

[...Is what he adds underneath 'cool kid'. He said it at least once to Miguel himself on that crazy night, luckily!

Shame the whole scene isn't playing a second time. But then again... it might start all three memories over and he's already been through a real rollercoaster of emotions, seeing those and watching himself. Maybe once was enough.]

[She nods, smiling warmly.]

As family should be. Each generation goes farther than the last.

really talented. taught himself to sing and play like that

[How, exactly, he doesn't know. Miguel didn't give him all the details--and it's not like he wanted to hear Ernesto praised any more than he had to. Still. That's amazing.]

[Now that raises a proverbial eyebrow.]

My, that's quite impressive. Music is difficult enough to develop as a skill with some proper teaching to show the way, let alone having to start entirely unguided. I wonder what he might do with a little mentoring from other musicians?

it's the truth

[He scrawls that down in a hurry--no, he's not making it up! Miguel is that awesome.]

don't think he knows how to read music. or write. hope they get him lessons. maybe he'll write his own songs.

Oh, I don't at all doubt it. I merely appreciate the effort that must have gone into it.

[She can certainly respect persistence, after all.]

Somehow, I think he'll have a lot to say, if he ever gets the chance to put the words to music.

talked my ears off all night long

[Funny and true. He got that from Héctor for sure, just like the obsession with music. Hopefully it won't wind up causing him nearly as much trouble, with good examples of what not to do.]

Well, it's not every day you get the chance to meet a long-lost relative, now is it? I doubt he wanted to risk letting the opportunity pass him by.

we didn't know most of the night
he's just that way

[Again, not the least bit surprising.]

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[MU] - FEELING LIKE A GHOST (PART II)

Héctor | OTA

sleep with the angels

be sure thy sins

cw: allusions of alzheimer's

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