8. spam

[exnihilo]

Mira sidles up to you. She's friendly, but not excessively so, not suspiciously so. She seems like a wallflower finally trying to ease out of her shell, or some similar mixed metaphor. In the cafeteria, it's 'Hey, do you mind if I sit with you?' and a small smile. In the hallways it's falling into step, one shoulder tilted awkward and shy. 'Hi. You're so-and-so, right?' In the library she asks what you're reading; on the deck she mentions the stars are beautiful. It's mild and banal, which isn't the point. The point is getting close enough to deftly tap a sticky note on your back. Don't worry, it only says your name.

[OOC: Mira is trying to do this for everyone, so David knows where people are! She also wished to remember, meaning her own past. Instead she's going to get other people's memories - critical, trivial, or things they had forgotten. Feel free to toss her one!]

Comments

[routemistress]

[Hi Mira. Iris doesn't recognise her, as it happens, but she's struck by the girl's understatedly silken movement, by the harmonics of her voice, and she smiles back, joyfully sincere even without recognition.]

'Ello, sweetheart. I think I'm probably Iris. I'm not entirely sure, at the moment.

[She grew up in a desert. Indoors, everything is tall and grey and faceless; outside, dusty scrub and the skeletons of ancient plants for a longer distance than the girl can walk; she knows, because she's tried. There are no locks and no walls, but it's as sure a prison as any oubliette.

The only escape to be found is inwards, to the bright soft forests in her mind. She tells herself stories as she kicks her dusty feet on the desiccated garden wall, full of coiled, muscular dragons and hot-eyed golden bears and jewelled birds whose songs are coded magic spells. Every time the girl opens a door in the grey house, she holds her breath in case this time the forest will be on the other side. It never is.]

[exnihilo]

[A warm smile, a little tight with nervousness at this happening to Iris, but she tells herself it's just a flood, that she can help.]

You are. Iris, I mean, that's right.

Here.

[She gives Iris her post-it openly, so she can wear it like a nametag. The adhesive, not strictly period-accurate, clings to all manner of fabrics without waning or damaging them, thanks to nanovelcro. She blinks rapidly when she gets the memory, reels, holds herself still and sucks in a breath. It takes her more seconds than she'd like to admit to realize it isn't one of her own.]

[routemistress]

Thank you, my love. I 'ave forgotten me own name, as it 'appens, so that's useful.

[She reaches, curious about everything as indiscriminately as a hungry dog, to touch both the sticky note and Mira's hand.]

We're definitely friends, I can see that. That's all I've got for now, though - they tell me it'll wear off, so I'm not getting me knickers in a twist about it.

[It's true; once she learned the effect would be temporary Iris relaxed into it, enjoying the sensation of rediscovery.]

You move beautifully. 'Ave I ever told you that before, lovey? Do you dance, at all? 'Cause you'd be brilliant. It's a wish I made, according to that other girl.

[She can't access her own memories, so while she feels Mira startle, she can't see the cause, and she reaches again for the girl's hands.]

What was that, my love? Did you 'ave a wish too or am I sparking static?

[sickjoke]

Well, they aren't my stars, but they're pretty enough.

[ He's a sly and smiling reed of a man, hunched over a bit to make himself less threatening-- and his memories are spun-sugar with strychnine. There's a plasticy, bagged cotton candy artificial taste to them... like they're what he's made up for the time being and they're what've stuck through the flood. There's a slick and slimy pond (or is it a fountain with crystal clear water with pennies under your palms?) and a blonde woman with long, blonde hair laughing, offering a hand-- ]

[ But it isn't real. ]

[ Perhaps none of him is real, anymore. ]

[exnihilo]

[She grips the railing tight. That was definitely not hers.]

What - are your stars like?

[It's a bit of a strain to ask, but she manages.]

[sickjoke]

Well, the constellations are all different, that's for sure. Ever seen the big dipper? The milky way? [ She doesn't seem to be... from around here. Or maybe just too used to asking about other places stars. ]

[halftheman]

[ Neither Harvey nor Two-Face is demonstrative in public -- in private, they are both affectionate and tactile. So perhaps it might surprise when she gets in their reach with a smile and a sticky-note, that they reach back. ]

[ Perhaps the mirror Mira (she didn't need saving) has them feeling off and unbalanced, or perhaps it's other things that have them off kilter. But with a breath full of the scent of her hair, they feel somewhat better. ]

What're you doing with the notes, cazadora?

[exnihilo]

David can't see anybody. So I'm trying to tag everyone.

[Two post-its, for him, one on each lapel, and a kiss on each cheek before curling into his arm.]

[halftheman]

Very helpful. Can he see the notes, then? Just not the people they're on?

[ That's a weird flood thing ]

[characterdefect]

[There are hands around his throat. His hands, feebly, weakly, around someone else's throat. A man. Dark hair. Older. Respected. Carrying himself with some air of gravitas when not, when not wrapping fingers around men's necks, cutting girls open ribs down the belly with big knives--]

[Roderick smiles at Mira, pulling the post-it off his back and examining it. Then he puts it back exactly where he got it from.]

You've got good handwriting.

[Roderick can't breathe. Couldn't even if his airways were free, he is trying to get loose but he wants to cry and scream and rail and hit, he does not like to be touched, he can smell liquor on this man's breath, he is angry and betrayed and he has been used and used and used let go let go let go. And he wonders if he will die.]

[exnihilo]

[She gasps, clutches his arm for balance. It's too much like drowning, the dizzy thrash and the burning from inside and the growing horror like a great tolling bell.]

I - you -

[She's not choking, she's not, breathe, breathe.]

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I keep seeing things -

[characterdefect]

[His eyes narrow. Seeing things. Only a couple of things it could be, with her looking like that. He grips her hand tight where it grabs at his arm and pries her fingers off one by one.]

Tell me what you saw.

[imfollowinghim]

[Bucky's got a plate of pancakes in front of him. A large one, even though it's definitely well past breakfast time, and while he's not mad, really, that person's hamburger is looking pretty appealing right now.

Stupid flood.

(The shield's propped against the chair next to him, within easy arm's reach, and it's probably dumb to feel like he'd break anyone who tried to steal it's arm, he kind of feels like he would. It's not what he thinks of most when he thinks of Steve, but it's still a part of him now, and since the stupid thing won't stay in Bucky's room, he's accepted he's got it for now.)

Mira gets a friendly smile that's maybe got enough of that old ladies' man charm to pass for flirty, even if it still feels like a giant act.]

Why would I mind?

[The memory's warm and doesn't have much to do with anything that's going on right now besides Bucky's persistent homesickness: he'd woken up stiff, cold and generally feeling like someone had kicked the crap out of him, but Steve's still alive and breathing under the pile of blankets and the odd jacket Bucky had dumped on top of him. Breathing easier, too, which means the mad dash to the pharmacist in a snowstorm had been worth it - even if it hadn't worked, it would have been worth it, because there's nothing he wouldn't do if it'd help Steve - because at least it doesn't sound like his friend's going to start coughing up blood or eject a lung or something.

He gets up and tries to bully the stove into working, feels a flash of genuine triumph when it works, and manages to throw together some (frankly) gross looking porridge for the two of them, but Steve manages a worn smile when he sees it even if he still looks way too much like a skeleton and holds it with hands that aren't shaking too badly to need help. The relief he feels is almost embarrassing.]

[exnihilo]

[A half-shrug and a smile as she slides into her seat.]

Some people get tetchy about their space.

[ - and then she's bent over slightly, gripping the edge of the table hard, trying to deal with - the feelings had been so overwhelming, suffusing, there hadn't been any part of him-her-him that didn't feel it, no separation from it.]

Oh.

[imfollowinghim]

[Bucky's expression immediately slips into something concerned and surprised, because it's not like he's got any idea of what she just saw, or what's happening with her in general, but this flood is just... A pain in the ass.]

You alright?

[strangehistorian]

Hm?

[Sixty years after you were born, you are one hundred and seventeen years old. In a year from now you will be just over ninety. It's a bit of an embarrassing memory.

In any case, you are holding up a spell stronger than any you've attempted before, and doing it alone. The three casters they sent to help you can't be entreatied for help here, you will already be in trouble if anyone finds out you've done this.

But the ghost of a child stares at you terrified, confused, unable to understand that the war she died in ended decades ago, and you know you have to try to change the past for her.]

[exnihilo]

[She stumbles back a half-step, wincing. Chromie's perspective is going to give her a headache.]

I'm - I've been getting memories, I'm sorry. I'm - I don't understand yours anyway, don't worry.

[strangehistorian]

Oh dear.

[Chromie takes half a step forward, letting the books in her arms act as a shield between them. She remembers the memory flood - touching did it then, perhaps now as well?

But she seems genuinely concerned. She would not particularly want any of the mortals here to be burdened with the memories of the End Time.]

...Are you aright?

hello yes cw gore and possibly cannibalism

[darknessb4me]

[Arthas turns his head with a sharp, paranoid movement when Mira gets close enough to touch him.]

What are you doing?

[(She knows she can't hurt him, understands rationally that she doesn't want to. You push, and she presses her hands over her ears in a vain attempt to block you out. He's approaching her, speaking a language she no longer understands, reaching out in concern. She slaps him away, desperate. You push.

His heartbeat is disgusting, deafening to her (you), squelching film and clotted liquid. The relentlessness of it drives out sane thought and she whimpers. He is warm. She is so hungry. You push. That is her husband, she knows, not food, not meat, fresh meat, bleeding meat, and his pulse is so loud. You push, and are delighted at the wash of horror as she loses control of her own body, leaps at him with teeth and fingernails and starts to dig to silence his heart. She is a hungry animal now, not a thinking being. You are hungrier. All must die.

Another of the living fell in the next town and is rising. You shift your attention and repeat.)]

[exnihilo]

I'm just -

[She stiffens, clenches her fists, her jaw. They keep coming. Her gaze goes far away and snaps back. She isn't horrified. Or - she finds his horrors strange and different. But they are all planning animals, aren't they. She dislikes the impersonality of it, that it doesn't matter who they are. But everyone dies the same whether care is taken or not, the man - it mattered who he was - just the same as the town.

She breathes.]

I'm just. Trying to. Mark people. David can't see anyone.

And I'm seeing things I shouldn't.

[He's a friend; she wants to be honest. She wants not to be stealing these things at all.]

[darknessb4me]

What, mark how?

[Arthas twists his head around but can't really see over the bulk of his own pauldrons and gives up, frustrated.]

[fireincarnate]

[Jean can sense what you're doing, Mira, but she doesn't move to stop it.]

Are we all being labelled?

[She's sitting in a hospital room. It's nice enough; it's airy and spacious and smells of flowers. There are armchairs and cushions and a television she's not paying attention to.

She's hunched over the bed, hands clasping small, pale fingers.

"I got better, Annie. You can get better, too. Please?"

Her words are low and soft and aching, and when her vision blurs with her tears, she thinks she can see a graveyard.]

[exnihilo]

Yes. It's temporary.

[Let her do the thing, Jean. u_u And then -]

...you all care about each other so much.

[She's been getting these all day, and it still stuns her, tears pricking her eyes. She doesn't see the point in trying to hide what she saw from Jeam, who can probably hear it echo anyway.]

we have entered an endless recursion of memories

[persecutioncomplex]

[She doesn't know who tortured her so long ago, still doesn't suspect it was Mira, and directs the woman to the right shelf in the library with a limp wave. She startles at the note taped to her back, but doesn't know how vulnerable she's just made herself.]

Are you bad with faces?

[Mira sees much more. Touko's curled up against some pillows in a nearly post-apocalyptic crash pad, peering at an ancient television glowing snow. It can't tell her what happened to her, and she almost suspects it's a cheap found footage film until she sees the station identification. A little portrait of her runs in the corner as the camera dashess through a familiar hallway and almost slams into a pillar. This was the last thing she remembered before passing out on her first day, but the camera doesn't cut to black.

The next face she sees - a boy she now knows as Taka shouting at her for being late on her very first day - and the next sea of faces - the 78th class of Hope's Peak Academy - tell her how much more there is, and she pauses the film, gritting her teeth to try and maintain a skeptical face. The woman who brought her here says there was so much more to her life, but this much could be guessed at, staged.]

[this thread basically]

Re: we have entered an endless recursion of memories

[exnihilo]

[She recognizes Touko, of course, but she doesn't react, doesn't strggule with shock or guilt or fear. It's more - more present than she expected, the awareness of her past neat and new in her mind instead of worn-soft and faded, but it doesn't matter. The episode is over, and she wasn't caught, and it doesn't matter.]

No, it's my warden, he can't -

[Then she pulls away as if burned, hand over her mouth. Oh god, oh god.]

Who -

[Who did that to you, she knows and doesn't know, in the fuzzy implicitness of memory.]