Agent Washington (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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balance_logs2020-01-09 08:56 pm
unrecovered) wrote in balance_logs2020-01-09 08:56 pm
unrecovered) wrote in balance_logs2020-01-09 08:56 pm
A Far Off Dream That's Like a Scattered Memory [Roxas - 1]
There's a town, quaint and mostly quiet. Occasionally there's the sound of bells or a train rumbling through. Comforting sounds really. There's a clocktower. It's sunset, a brilliant one that turns the sky shades of red and orange.
On the clocktower sits a boy. One most of you are familiar with by now. He wears a black cloak the hood pushed back and holds a blue bar of ice cream on a stick in a gloved hand. Beside him sits a man, similarly dressed but with spiky, red hair that almost matches the sky. To his other side sits a girl...maybe? She seems to fade in and out, sometimes almost blocked by static and other times fully visible. You're not sure if she has black hair, red, or blond, but you know she has blue eyes. Regardless, they eat their ice cream and talk and laugh. And sometimes the boy acknowledges the girl but mostly he seems to focus on the man.
The scene shifts. The clocktower is still there, and the sunset, and the boy. But he's with two other boys now, and a girl. They still talk and laugh and eat ice cream, the same blue bars. Sometimes things seem to stutter and glitch but no one seems to notice. One boy in particular stands out, a blond, loud and boisterous. You might know him. As this section of the dream ends, they all quietly hold up crystals, glittering in the setting sun. The boy holds a blue one.
It's still sunset and the boy is still there, but the clocktower and the town are gone. instead he sits on the edge of a base, far above the ground. People move in and out of the dream, maybe sitting beside him, maybe not. Maybe you see yourself?
But as the sun finally drifts below the horizon, the dream ends.]
A Scattered Memory That's Like a Far Off Dream [Roxas - 2]
It is a memory of Dragons.
The boy goes to a shrine. He's got a question to ask, one that might help them save this town, trapped in a constant loop. The looping bothers him and while he keeps reminding himself that the world is real, it is hard to stave off the past sometimes.
He doesn't go to the shrine alone. There's two others with him, a boy with dark glasses and a girl with a bow. He knows them both, but in the memory their names are on the tip of his tongue.
He sits in front of the shrine. There isn't really a prayer or any sign of worship. The boy has no clue if he's doing it right, he's never approached a god before (or has he?). But a request is made.
Almost instantaneously, silver fire envelopes the three of them, a trial like no other. But they hold fast and stand strong, and in the end, Bahamut, the Platinum Dragon, deems them worthy.
As the fire fades, gifts are bestowed. The boy is granted armour the likes of which he's never seen, and a weapon that is all too familiar, with a shield that gleams with a familiar symbol. The boy knows it from his medallion.
Draconic words echo as the boy wakes up.]
Was that armour...mine?
I Want to Line the Pieces Up, Yours and Mine [Roxas - 3]
The whole past week has led to this moment. A week of weird dreams, weirder happenings, and a fight both for answers and a sense of self. A fight that he has, unfortunately, lost.
He's tired and angry and doesn't want to go. He hates the Man in Red and he hates Sora and yet he knows he's stuck without a choice. Already his hands are starting to fade.
Until the starkness of the room starts to dim, and tendrils of black start to drip into the room inexplicably. Not an impenetrable dark, as it's streaked with a variety of colours, the room is filling up faster than the boy really realizes and he has nowhere to go and the keyblade won't come to his hand. Sora's pod has almost disappeared and he fears he'll be next.
And then there's light, a spark in the darkness, an outstretched hand, a voice urging him to take and he does.
And he remembers.]
♥ sayori! ♥
happy thoughts in bottles [1]
It's dark and you're backstage, somewhere. A club in Lyrabar. You don't know how you know that but you do. Where the hell is Lyrabar, anyway? Not a place in Fanelia.
Someone introduces you by name, And now, please enjoy the lovely lilting lines of Lyrabar's up-and-coming star poet, Sayori.
You go out on stage as you're waved on. And you perform a poem. You've got it written in front of you but you don't need to look down, as you've pretty much got the whole thing memorized and you feel the words in your entire being, tugging heavy at your heartstrings even though your voice is light and almost dreamy. Each bottle a starlight to make amends, and on a whim you raise your hand over your head in an arc and call a minor illusion of a cluster of stars in the air around you, to a palpable wave of amazement in the crowd.
The story of the poem continues in this way—your story, the method by which you've survived the darkness in your head for so long. There's something terrifying about sharing such a raw and vulnerable part of yourself with so many people, but it's okay. It's just a metaphor; plausible deniability. It will mean the right things to the people who need it.
Inside my head. And the stars snuff out as you dismiss the illusion.
The crowd, far larger than you realized beneath the blinding lights of the stage, erupts into applause, and you beam at them and thank them from the bottom of your heart.]
this isn't some game [2]
[In this dream of Wonderland, there is a controller in your hands.
Much of this dream—this memory?—this dream is not entirely clear. You get the gist of things that happen, but only some of the details are sharp. Music accompanies it, but it fades in and out oddly as the clarity of things varies. If you were here, you remember the details much more clearly, see them as you saw them on that day and experience them all over again in this hazy dream-like state, from hanging out with Sayori in the Literature Club to watching her deteriorate until the worst happens. And, of course, rescuing her from the trap of her world constructed in Event Square.
If this is new to you, it happens a little differently.
You may experience it as those who wandered into Event Square did, taking the place of the main character and going along with the script until it breaks.
Or you may experience it as Sayori did—watching through a television screen, seeing herself and the other Literature Club girls and s̸̛̠̤̖̠̖̤̳̏̌͠ó̷̢̧̢̱̯̖̯̌̀͋ḿ̶̧̛̛̻̩̓̈̚̚ë̶̢̫͚̤̫̜̳́̀̉͌͆̉̂ǫ̵̙͐͂͑͑̀͛͑ͅn̵͍͉̗̲͚͎͛͑̓̂̔́ͅͅḛ̸̋͛͒ ̸͙̯̓͒̐̒̕̕͝é̵́͒͛͘͜͠ḽ̸̢͇̰̄s̵̛̛̜̭̦̔̏̑̓e̶̛̦̩͗͒̃̂̈,̸̢̬̞̠͍̭̹̼̄̉̍̿ someone who may be a Reclaimer that was there or may be a dark-haired boy whose visage somehow keeps slipping through your perception.
Either way, your hands are stuck fast to the controller you hold.
If you're really lucky, though, you're just an outside observer, watching Sayori stuck fast at the television with a game system and watching her own memories play out as she never knew them. However, if you're here, there's a deep mechanical sonic sound that pulses to the time of a heartbeat, electronic and reverberating with a nauseating tinny quality in your soul, and you hear it through the whole ordeal.
You witness, or are a part of, a few things. Throughout, you hear a voice that reminds you of Monika's—somehow it doesn't sound exactly like her, more like an impression meant to invoke her—narrating, sort of.
A Joke
A man walked into a club.
In the club, there was a girl who liked him very much.
They spent some time together, and then she liked him even more.
One day, the girl realized she was in love with him.
Before disaster could happen, a third party intervened with her programming.
Suddenly, the girl hated herself for being in love.
The contradiction caused the script to derail.
The universe started to collapse,
Walking home with Sayori from Literature Club and being asked who you would walk home with if Yuri was an option, and seeing Sayori fluster as you tell her you'd still walk home with her. You hear her try to say a name that doesn't exist, and it comes out like a blind spot in your field of vision but she doesn't notice. She's quiet the next day at club, tells you you're being too nice to her, and then with a smile tells you that she's okay and leaves early without sharing her poetry with anyone.
The weekend comes; you make plans to help with festival prep. You go to check on Sayori and she tells you no, nothing happened, she's always been like this, she never should have made the mistake of showing her feelings. She's had depression her entire life. She doesn't want you to worry about her. You prepare for the festival with Yuri, or Natsuki, o̸̤͂̂r̶͉̟̅̽ ̶̰͗Y̴̰̺͝u̷͓̿r̴͓̂̚ͅi̵͉̘̊,̵̰͖̏ ̴͔̂o̴͙͖̐̕ř̶̥ ̵̪̝̅N̴̘̳͗a̶̺̔t̵͖̭́̚s̸̗̳̆ú̴̡̧k̶̲̏͆i̴͈͋̊ and Sayori shows up afterwards, her heart cracking visibly as she sees you with the other girl, and after they leave you can tell her—
> I love you.
You'll always be my dearest friend.
Neither choice makes her happy. How do you know that? You're aware of both, somehow, overlaid one by another in your memory—embracing her as she sobs, or listening to her gut-wrenching cry after being rejected. If you're experiencing this from Sayori's point of view outside of the game, embarrassment and shame burn deeply in your chest, but no matter what you do you can't press the buttons to quit the game and stop witnessing all this.
Festival day. Monika shows you the pamphlets of everyone's poetry, and Sayori's is unfamiliar, disturbing, wrong. From Sayori's point of view now you're banging the controller against the television's glass, begging them not to look, begging it to stop, but the game plays on as the boy—the other Reclaimer—as you rush through nothingness, a neighborhood that doesn't exist, to Sayori's house.
And, after barging into Sayori's room—
but she killed herself just in time.
—find her dead, hanging from a noose. From Sayori's point of view you see your own corpse, just barely manage not to be sick, and either way you can see as the universe starts to fall apart. Glitching scenery and error codes and what is most definitely Monika's voice saying This would probably be a lot easier if I just deleted her.
And then it's like time rushes backwards. To very early in the morning, hours before school starts, not that you ever actually went to class at any point in this dream. For the Sayori outside the game, the world falls out from underneath her, and she ends up in that noose, trying to claw herself free from suffocating. This is not the position you want to be in, of course, but witnessing this from Sayori's perspective makes you privy to the primal fear in every dark corner of her being and the pain of choking to death as you hang by your neck. As Sayori, you see someone else, reach out to them with one desperately grasping hand, and they save you.
As the main character—as another Reclaimer—as yourself now, no longer holding a controller, you can save her in whatever way you find appropriate, if you wish.
As an observer in the empty white room where Sayori once sat at the television, there's nothing you can do but watch it play out.
Whatever you do, the dream ends shortly thereafter.]
[ ooc: as the contents of this memory are pretty disturbing, receiving this dream is opt-in only. please let me know either through a comment here or a line on plurk/discord if you'd like your character to receive this dream! and feel free to tag this with how your character would free her, if you'd like. ♥ ]
no subject
Much of the dream is a blur.
Despite how much difficulty she's been having keep track of her own recollections, Franziska remembers having met this girl before. She never knew her well, but she would have liked to.
It appears she should have been careful what she wished for.
In this dream, like many other dreams, the lines between reality and the surreal seem to blur, but no matter where that line weaves in and out the feeling she has when she slams open the door into Sayori's is visceral, gut-wrenching.
She has seen many a dead body before but never quite like this. Not of someone she would have liked to consider a friend, given half the chance.
(The closest she'd ever come was with Ackbey Hicks, and they'd been friends, acquaintances at most, and that had been murder and murder is different, it's...
... it's not like this. )
As she struggles to make sense of the scene in front of her, the world shifts, the events replay but this time...
... this time there's a chance.
Franziska can't even recall when she started carrying a handaxe around with her at all times, but it's here, warm and solid in her hand, and she hacks at the rope to cut Sayori down. )
no subject
[He is stuck, unfamiliar device in hand, going through motions he is powerless to resist, to change, as Sayori is manipulated and spirals and dies- it's cruel to watch and cruel to look away and the latter isn't even an option-]
[And the quiet voice in the back of his head telling him to pay attention, that there is more here to be seen, that he knows this already, goes unheeded as time rushes backwards-]
[-as she hangs again and reaches out in desperation-]
[-as he can suddenly move-]
[-he has to save her-]
[-and nothing else matters. He surges to his feet and hurls his knife at the rope, aim true as ever, and rushes in to catch her as the knife slices through the rope and she falls.]
welcome to the literature club [3]
There's faint discussion around you from the others, but your focus is on whoever you're paired up with each time. Yuri writes in deep, captivating metaphors that you don't always understand but you always enjoy, and you tell her you love the beautiful pictures she paints with her poetry. Natsuki's poems are poppy and punchy, straightforward but always telling you something important, and you tell her it's amazing how much feeling she can pack into just a few words. Monika's poetry is the most abstract, mystifying and versatile, and you tell her you always feel smarter after reading one of her poems because they always make you think.
The boy—his poems are the most like yours. The sound of his name is obscured from the dream as you exchange poems with him and talk about the connection you two have. How much you're growing to love writing...how much it feels like you were meant to do it.
And this—this is the happiest you ever remember being.]
franziska von karma
[1]
( If you were one of the lucky individuals who had the chance to visit the island of Maru, the scenery will seem most familiar. The lake, eery at night, looks beautiful in the day; the sky is clear and blue, reflecting invitingly in the surface of the water.
And if you've met either Franziska or Sayori before, the two women stripping down by the edge of the water will seem most familiar to you as well. There's conversation between the two of them, but the words seem to fade in and out, as though the content of their chatter is unimportant.
What's really at the forefront of this dream -- this memory -- is the sensation of freedom, of happier times, a throw back to lazy nostalgic summer days.
It is peaceful. )
Wash - 2
You take a breath - ow - and let it out, slowly categorizing the fire in your body. Bruising, probably deep tissue. Wrenched shoulder. Potential concussion. And broken fucking ribs - at least three, judging from the pain in your chest every time you draw a breath - which is where the main problem is. A quick glance at your HUD validates your assessment - you're pretty fucked up after that fight, and hey, exactly three broken ribs. Those will take forever to heal and hurt the entire damn time. At least they'll heal easier in a jail cell, right?
It's a bitter thought, and you're so preoccupied with it that you don't notice that someone has approached you - that is, until they loop an arm under your shoulder to try to pull you upright and it fucking hurts-
You'd be screaming if you had half a second to think, but your brain is half-scrambled from pain and shock and all you can manage is a startled gasp-
And then you're on your feet. Barely. Leaning heavily on...on...
Teal armor says Carolina, but she's been dead for years. This is...someone else. The missing member of Blue Team. Tucker? Probably Tucker.
...he's talking to you, isn't he. More importantly, he's taking your armor off.
You jerk at the realization, and he grabs your shoulder again to keep you from toppling over at the sudden movement. "Dude, calm down! We're not trying to rob you or anything."
It's become we in the past few seconds - while you were in a haze, Grif and Simmons moved in to help. Your battered, bloody armor comes away in oddly intact pieces, and the piercing cold that your undersuit can't quite protect you from without your armor's regulation shocks a little more sense into you. "What- what-"
"Yeah, you're on Blue Team now," Grif informs you, tugging at one of your gauntlets (and, in the process, your wrenched shoulder, which your body reminds you still fucking hurts).
You're pretty certain you didn't hear that correctly through the pain. "...what?"
"I still think we should've left him in the snow," Simmons grumbles. Honestly, you can't argue with him. They're...helping you, you think, and you still can't figure out why.
(It won't hit you until much, much later, but you don't remember that right now.)
It's a painful but quick process, and after a few minutes you're standing on your own - barely - clad in blue armor, just as the grunts for the Recovery committee touch down. You watch quietly, mostly focusing on staying upright, as the Reds and Blues lie their asses off about the mechanical body clad in your armor in the snow, insisting it's yours and you've died. The soldier shrugs at their explanation and the one sarcastic apology you could not resist, dismisses you, and returns to the investigation.
You waver once his back is turned. You think you might collapse - whether it's from relief or blood loss is a coin toss at this point - but you stay upright and finally put words to feelings you haven't had in a while.
"Thanks. For everything."
It's shrugged off - blamed on Caboose, who can be a very friendly force of nature when he wants something, and evidently he wants Wash to be on Blue Team - and everyone moves on. You're leaving, sure, but the emotions sitting heavy in your chest aren't going anywhere anytime soon.
It's only in the pelican ride home, between bouts of unconsciousness, that you're able to even begin to sort through those feelings. There's confusion - there probably always will be with this group - and gratitude - because what else do you feel for the people who kept you from returning to jail - but deep down below everything, a quiet, solid cornerstone, is the knowledge that you never could have done this yourself. This is an act of mercy, freely given; it's the second chance you've been fighting for this entire time, coming from someone you never believed could provide it.
Your life has been changed. Make the most of it.
----------
Somewhere, Wash awakens, terribly homesick for a place he's sure he's never been and people he's sure he's never met, to find that the second crystal on his wrist has started to glow a soft red.
Sans
Maya
Sayori
Papyrus
T̶͍̮̜͔̻͝ͅḨ̷̧͈̲͈̱͕̓̍̚͝I̸͚̼͉̐̒̅͛Ṡ̴͎̝̫ ̴̮̹̯͕̭͒̂͝N̵̦̥̗̈́̽̅̊E̶̜͐̿͊͆̀X̵̦̝̼̿̀T̴̥͓̲̓ ̶̢̨̭̺̹̰̜̮͌̉̓̈́̉́̽͝E̸̟͓̞̖̗͕͊̅́͋̆͛͆͠X̴̮̫͉͓̜̅P̷̨̈́Ę̵̤̱͚̘̠͇͖̎̈́͝R̵̟̯̤̭͔͎̩͂̔̒͋̀͠͠I̴͉͕̰̿̌̕͜͝M̵̘̝̘̰͚̤̬͇̏Ë̸̳̪͔̭̗̬̪́́̉̓̾ͅN̷̨̧͈͙̬̲̤̈́T̶͍͗̂ ̶̧̢̧͕̬̔̇̈́̊͋̎͝͝S̶̜̥͇͑͐́̈͒̇E̷̦̎̐̕E̵̠͓̪̝͆͑̋̓̓M̴̛̭͍͍̈́̐̃͂S̶͉͆͗͊̽̊̈́̎
Sans is cold. The world, still swimming in his vision, glows eerie blue. It's raining on his face. No, that's water dripping from the cavern ceiling. His thoughts are a mess, half-remembered magical equations and a too-rapidly fading voice. He's losing track--something's-- Where--
W̶̡̘̲̯͚̞̪̭̟̋͐́̏̓̓͠Ḩ̴̻̹̖̲̜͉̖͕̎̑͑͋̀̊̍̇̆͊̈́̇̆́̉͜͝A̶̲̩͚̫͔͗́̚T̵̠̮̫̺̫̂͐́̈̋̀̿̈́̈̈́͒̀̒̀͆̚̚ ̴̧̨̼̺͍̯͙͂̓͐̉͠D̶̛͕̞̖̙̏̈́̈́̃̾̿̄̇̄̃̕̚͝͝ͅȎ̶̡̨̲͉̖̩̣͍̬̜̩͚̼̣̳͈̈́̊́ ̶̨̗̝͈͎̂̅̈́̊̾̏̾̈́̐̅̆̽́̊͝Y̷͔̯̪͒̈́̉͋̿͒̐̃̽͝O̵̧̙͓̐̅͑̂͂̀̅͆͂̔̒̏̚̕͝U̸̡̫͔̾̏̽̄̄͊̾͌̎̋͊̕ ̵̭̟̰̠̽̈̀͛́T̵̮͕͉̺̖̝̪̣͔̗̟̯̫͇̺̽͒͆̈́̈́͊͘ͅW̸̧͖̺̹͙̖̪̍̈͊͊̉̓̏́̄̅͑́̕O̴̡͈̥͚͖̮̠͇̞̲̥͉̎̔̇́̅̆̀̄ ̷̛̜͎̜̱̖̤̦͈̲͍̙̞̙̰̱͍̅͋̐͒̆̌̐̿̈̈́̾̍͂͋͘͝ͅŢ̶̖͓͈̺̑͐͆̓͝H̶̦̰̠͎͔̫͍̭̯̗̜̖̲͈̰̽͂̍̈̍̐̽̾̄̊̓͊̀́̍͝Ḯ̴̡̜̦̰͓̦͙̺͇͓͆̐̓̉́͊̋̒̕̕̚N̸̛͇̞̖̥̪̜̄̏̓̏̂̽̋̈́̎͌͋̎͒̕K̶̨̜̹̮̣̠͕̣͚̐̆̆̈́͘͜
Fear. Sans doesn't know where he is. His vision focuses. No. He knows where he is, but something's different. It's like if the whole world was the same, but they took out one of the colors. How would you even explain that? Sans gets up. All around him, the ruins of a machine. Thousands of intricate pieces, all the technology smoldering and ruined, the intricate lacework of magic draining away.
This isn't right. Something went wrong. The magic, that's easy, it's time-consuming but it's easy, but that tech, well--he's good, but if it's building things, he'd rather have--
Who. Have who do it?
Don't forget. Don't forget. Is he alone here? He can hear the water dripping and the whispers of the echo flowers. This is Waterfall, but it's wrong. It's not his. He's somewhere else. Alone.
"Sans?" The voice that cuts through Sans's thoughts is young--perhaps eleven or twelve. Another skeleton, shorter than Sans but not by much. Lanky where Sans is stocky.
Papyrus. Sans's brother. He's here. He's here. Okay. Okay. "Guess we crash landed."
"Skeletons can't fly!"
That's true. Anyway, Sans doesn't even know what happened himself. The memories are slippery and distant. "Can't get anything past you, huh?"
"Nobody gets anything past Papyrus!" Papyrus is already looking around, though, and his attention shifts. "What's wrong with Waterfall?"
And isn't that a question? Sans's senses sharpen. His eyes close, and his eyes open. He sees a universe with fresh scars and still-open wounds painted out for him in the magical-quantum world. It doesn't feel quite right. Something's off--the equations have changed. That shouldn't be possible. And so, at last, Sans answers his brother: "No idea."
Sans sits back down. He's here with Papyrus, but what do they do now? His mind races through what-ifs, but it's the worst race where he's trying to see how fast he can get to the worst sort of catastrophe. What if they're the only living monsters here, what if the air is slowly poisoning them, what if their magic falls apart here, what if--
"Sans!" Papyrus is yelling, which isn't unusual, but that's Papyrus's you aren't listening to me voice.
"Sorry, what?"
"Just fix the--thing. The machine!" Papyrus announces, gesturing all around him at the broken pieces. The way Papyrus says it, it's as if Papyrus expected to know what to call it, but can't quite find the words.
Papyrus would just say it like that, though, huh? Like Sans could snap his fingers and put it back together. But the way Papyrus looks at him, it's with absolute confidence. Absolute belief. It would never enter into Papyrus's mind that Sans couldn't do this. And when your brother looks at you like that, well, what can you do?
"Okay, sure. But first, let's find something to eat."
He takes Papyrus's hand in his--Papyrus, who Sans would do anything for, who means the whole world to Sans--and heads toward what, he hopes, is Snowdin.
If Papyrus is here with him, he can make it work.