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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[A non-answer. It's better than an outright antagonistic one. Wash clears his throat, awkwardly, mostly to break up the silence with the evidence of something human. In his dreams he's always shelled in his armor, as if he needs the additional shielding. His mind never stopped being on guard; stands to reason it would remain alert, even in a dream state.]

I...never checked to see how you were doing. If you made it out after the whole...flower business.

[That, he thinks, is the dumbest possible way to put it. Largely because they were beating the shit out of each other the first and last time they talked, which in no way obligates either of them to give a damn about each other.]

[He'd just prefer not to start things off on that kind of footing, if he can help it. Maybe he can't make it right. But it doesn't do him any good to worry about it without at least trying.]

[It takes a moment, for Guzma to really register what was just said to him, staring blankly at the scene before him and wondering if it's true, or if it's real. If that's actually something that'll happen to him. It doesn't feel like it, and he idly rolls a pokeball between his fingers inside his pants pocket. The clearing of someone's throat beside him seems to at least ground Guzma back to reality and he rubs his face.

He feels...tired. It's a dream, but he still feels so tired. Hell, it feels like a part of him was left behind in that doom vortex or whatever the hell it was. Black hole. He doesn't even have the energy to get defensive or snippy, he's burnt out and maybe...maybe that's good? Because at least he has the mental clarity to apologize.]

Yeah...sorry. [He swallows, exhaling slowly.] Wasn't really alright in the head back then. But I survived them flowers.

[He opens his mouth, to say something else, but closes it and remains silent again, staring between each of the new and different pokemon. That ain't what killed me.]

For what it's worth, I...am too. Sorry. I mean.

[The words taste like ash in his mouth. Better than flowers. Better than the tang of blood and rosemary. Just doesn't seem like there's much point in it. Being better, when the shit you've done is still out there, hurting people.]

I don't think any of us were in our right mind.

But I'm glad you made it out.

[Yeah. Yeah, he...he made it out.]

[Guzma gives a shrug, not really knowing what else to say. Yeah, he lived the flowers. Great, fine, awesome. That's not what killed him...it was something else. It was his trust - his expectancy that his friends wouldn't turn on him, or lead him astray. It was the faith he put in believing he had even a ghost of a chance of getting what he wanted. He's not allowed that, never has been. He paid the price for his own stupid decision.

This? This vision here? He doesn't really believe it. How could he, after all that? It seems too good to be true. He would love to believe he could make it that far, that he could train some great, strong, different kinds of Pokemon, but he just doesn't see himself in that great a light right now. Besides, this place has pulled the wool over his eyes time and time again....what reason does he have to trust another illusion?]

...you're not?

[Should leave well enough alone. And, if the stony silence continues, he probably will. But there's too much here he doesn't fully understand, and is not sure he's meant to.]

[He's not exactly proven himself someone worth confiding in, either. It's a fair conclusion. He wouldn't confide in himself either; it's just that there's oftentimes been no one else.]

[Guzma sighs, closes his eyes, and takes a long look at the image in front of him - his supposed 'present'...or is it somewhere in his upcoming future? It seems seems make believe, an illusion, and he's sure if he even really wants to believe it or not. They came with him. His Pokemon, his pokeballs... When he died, they came with him. They were probably killed too. The devices that holds the creatures are powerful, can withstand a whole lot, but the pressure of a black hole seems like a stretch.

He rubs his face with one hand, dragging his fingers through his white hair and moving it back against his skull. Is he glad to be alive? Yeah, he is. He can see his friends and 'family' again, but it doesn't negate that he left them like that. That he was betrayed so easily by a specter of someone he cared about. Again, he foolishly put his faith in people only to be stabbed in the back by them later.

That sort of recurring pain makes the living world seem a bit...lackluster.]

Man... [He rubs his face again, with both hands.] I don't know shit right now.

[Or if he even wants to talk about it right now.]

That seems to be going around.

[He's seen too many things, too many strange memories that don't make any sense. Are they even memories, if they haven't happened? Apparitions. Specters. Representations of a future that might or might not happen.]

Hope that clears up soon. [In the specific sense, and in the...broader one.]

Yeah...me too.

[He clenches his hand tightly around a single pokeball in his pocket, gripping it rightly. Everything's been so cloudy - he's felt tired, sore, and...lost. But out of everything, he's felt lonely. His Pokemon were with him when it happened, they were with him. How can Guzma look at that parody of his so-called future, or present, and not think it was some made up fantasy? How can he look at how happy and affectionate his Pokemon are and think it's not fake?

A good trainer doesn't risk their lives chasing lies. A good trainer doesn't put them in harm's way. A good trainer doesn't...they don't--]

[Anything else feels like an intrusion, poking and prodding to try and ensure a response. And, frankly, he's trampled over Guzma's problems enough for a lifetime. He won't venture anything more unless there's a more significant call for it.]

[Right now, he's happy to leave things where they lie.]

[Maybe "happy" is overselling it.]

[There's a brief moment as the fire crackles, the image plays out before them, before it slowly fades back to the ever present dark shores and burning coals, and it seems like the dream will end there - they'll both slip back to rest and wake the next morning, wordless in their second meeting. However, Guzma has one more thing to address first, before the end of this dream--]

Hey...what's your name, anyway?

[It's strange. It's strange to be someone without a legacy here, who isn't recognizable by either his notoriety or the company he keeps. The shift between being a known war criminal and a vaguely heroic figure had been as bizarre as it was ultimately welcome.]

[No one knows him here. He turns partway, the golden facial shielding of his helmet reflecting the guttering flames.]

Washington.

What about you?

[A brief nod - he'll remember that name - and a delayed response as Guzma watches the vision flicker a bit before it fades away. Lord, is he really that transparent, keeping poison and dark types along with his bugs? Tch...figures though, he'd go with what's most familiar after his favored type. It seems very Like Him, but he's still not...completely sold. It's too good, too easy.

Too much for a guy like him.]

Guzma.

[It's formal. Clipped. Precise. Allows for a measure of professional distance. No prefacing of Agent, and no indication as to whether this is meant to be a first name or a last. It should worry him, maybe, how okay with that he is.]

[It doesn't. It hasn't for a long time.]

Nice to meet you, then. Properly.

When we're not at each other's necks, you mean. [Guzma would laugh, if he weren't so damn tired and drained. What comes out is more along the lines of a hollow sigh, and a cooked lift of his lifts, for but a moment.] Y'all can throw a mean punch - worse'n the other punks I deal with...

[He lifts his head up, taking in the man for real now, assessing him properly. He must be trained, somehow. GUzma really had no chance of beating some sort of weird mercenary, or cop, but damn if he wasn't going to try anyway. Stubborn, and probably pretty stupid, but there's a hint of respect there, too.] But I owe you a beating now, yeah. ...Don't forget it.

That's the first thing they teach you do in the military. Throw a mean punch.

[Dry, but...earnest. A wry comment on the fact that he's more prone to fight than he probably should be, which is what made their collision all the more destructive and toxic the first time.]

I'll make sure I'm out of armor for it.

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

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