RAIN & MEMORY SHARE

[spoofer]

Characters: Ensemble cast, any/all characters of Xistentia!
Summary: Rain has come to the world, and with it, comes whacky memory share phenomena— certainly not all of which is wanted. Characters are driven to find shelter and solutions.
Date(s): September 30-October 7
Warnings/Notes: None specific, please warn in your subject headers

Awash In Memory

The landscape after cruelty which is, of course, a garden

The Rain

At first, it's just rain, expected to last a week. A swirl of silver cotton-candy clouds in the sky that rolls into a mist, and then a drizzle that freckles the gutters and chases people to their cars or into the shopfronts. It's nourishing and not too cold— a good excuse to share an umbrella or maybe just fitting of a shitty, blue mood if you would like to walk around in a billowy coat like the King of Pain.

Gimme Shelter

It can be a cute or enormously embarrassing way to meet people, pretty much up to you. Fall in step with someone under an offered umbrella, or dart around like a panic with a pizza box or plastic bag over your head. Maybe you'll just find an overhanging tree branch or store awning to tuck yourself under. Hopefully you're stuck with someone you like.

Quite a few restaurants seem to be offering rainy day specials, including Pop's Chock'lit Shoppe, comprised of hot cocoa and half-off a second cup if you're buying for a friend. You probably won't be the only one there.

However, for those of you who are taking the weather more seriously, the citadel has opened for shelter. Here, there are beds aplenty scattered throughout, and the bar and lounge is open with its terrible soundtrack as well as plentiful if repetitive food and drink. Residents are also exchanging resources of their own, including harvested foodstuffs and clothes. You can also check out the control room to see the meteorological analysis and forecast... which is behaving a little unpredictably, but-- it'll probably be fine.

Like My Mood

Alternatively, #mood.


Maybe everything sucks because you got stood up for a date or otherwise rejected recently-- it's a good time to storm around tragically in the street. Alternatively, if you're the happy type, there is an entire musical dedicated to the fine practice of dancing in the rain. Who needs musical accompaniment when you have the rhythmic drubbing of water on the earth and the sweet smell of petrichor?

Or maybe you're in the mood to talk. Certainly, there's an increasing sense of nostalgia going around that's stronger and more widespread than the average effect of poetic weather...

Oh Shit

However, the downpour steadily intensifies over the next few days, and soon after F.A.T.E.S. issues a warning— D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. has hijacked the climate. At first, there are only a few concerns— herds of animals coming into the city seeking shelter. Be careful if you find a herd of bison gathered under the highway overpass, or your kitchen is suddenly full of fairies. Hell, maybe you're a Good Samaritan, trying to rescue some hapless native cat or other.

But then it begins.

The Memory Share

As the rain grows heavy, the nostalgia turns into something unexpected. Characters who touch one another find themselves sharing brief sensory memory. These can vary from the sudden and terrible pain of old battle wounds, to the overwhelming, heart-pounding joy of welcoming a new child to the family. The scary thing is, these memory share are uncontrolled, and might come from even the shortest, most accidental touch.

The Telexistence Temple

News from your fellow residents: Era Ra and Ezekiel won visions during the fair. And now Era has information to share, that uploading memories at the Temple can lock and protect them from the involuntary release, as well as fortify the defenses of the city. She's also talking about some kind of a key hole there, which you can check out yourself. Weird!

You can teleport East from the Citadel to the Temple, or you can walk there on your own two legs. Weather allowing.

Within the Temple the chamber lays behind a large round door covered in inscrutable carvings. It's surprisingly bright in here now, in contrast to what Era's message held. It contains numerous strange beds, all of which are now online, having awakened in answer to the rainfall. The characters must lay down on while the daemons connect to a holographic interface.

From there, the memory share becomes intuitive even for the most technologically impaired of Xistentia residents.

The Temple Chamber

If you should choose to share, you may control who sees it; filter it to someone of your choice, or leave it open for everyone. You may post anonymously, but visual cues of identity cannot be erased. Pain is muted and impressionistic, but pleasure tends to be evocative enough. It's the way the mind works. Daemons will flag graphic or commonly disturbing material. With every new memory shared, the rain seems to be lessening.

You can also choose to lock it away, preventing anyone from seeing it for at least another month. Unfortunately your memory will not help to shield the city, but at least it will stop embarrassing you. Let's hope it doesn't provoke any intrusive questions in the meantime.

After 48 hours, enough memories have been shared. The sky over the city and the sphere of forest surround the urban bounds develops a barrier that looks almost liquid, translucent. Though residents can pass through it, it cuts the rain down to half. A few hours later, the storm wanes out and stops entirely. The shield also fades away, and the animals begin to ebb as well, back into the wild. It's only been a week, but it might feel much longer.


The memories will dissipate from storage in a month, regardless of whether or not they're viewed again.

Comments

tw suicide

[pillz]

Rather be that than the garbage disposal of a whole sci-fi Lord of the Flies post-radiation adventure, [kavinsky says, because he's the best friend a boy could have. and that's the best thing a boy could say under the circumstances, just in case, you know, murphy wasn't aware that his life was a non-stop party complete with murderous-looking tribal balloons.

but then again, kavinsky has always had a gift for pretending not to shy from the truth. it actually makes it easier to actually fuck the truth with a rusty chainsaw and run for the opposite direction so fast he fell flat on his face and died on said chainsaw, actually. for example: the melodrama of suicide was always preferable to the reality, that life is full of mundane disappointments and ordinary pain, and making it better only comes with agency, and agency requires responsibility. he hates responsibility. he just likes talking shit.

and-- murphy. he likes murphy too. enough to get his penis away and shut his fangs down when murphy changes his mind. enough to bring him to the temple. enough to spin through all those horrible fucking memories, because they're important to murphy. because it's important to murphy that he understand. even if he doesn't want to.]

If you're gonna throw up, can you lean the other way?

[rekt]

Hm. [ murphy grunts, a snorted laugh with a mild smirk at the corner of his lips. ] Don't blame you.

[ it's self-pity hour. while john murphy normally has a healthy slice of self-loathing going on, he know has taken the entire cake, attempting to metaphorically shove it all down his throat in one bite. he's drained, he's awkward, he's embarrassed and he's scared. he's always fucking scared. for once, less of what goes bump in the night and more of the boy sat next to him, making morbid cracks that murphy would normally find a lot more amusing.

it's sad, and murphy hardly wants to ever share it, but kavinsky is the only person he really has here. the others were lost in eudio, or held back home, and even then, it was difficult to really call them his people. emori had been the only one that was, without a shadow of a doubt, and who even knows where she is right now.

it's kavinsky's princessly fear of vomitting that finally pulls a real laugh from murphy, eyes closing a moment as he laughs, legs swinging over the side of the bed device to slide off. ] So you're willing to stick your tongue up every hole on me but not risk some incidental projectile sickness?

[pillz]

Your holes are sexy, [kavinsky says, the kindest boy you've ever met, with his hollow eyes and lopsided grin, his razor-tipped fangs and insouciant, hangdog slouch. his lack of hovering, white-knuckled, sweating concern.] Your vomit, on the other hand, I ain't into. [his jokes at the expense of trauma survivors.

but then he also reaches over, appropos of nothing, and closes his coarse fingers on murphy's earlobe. it's not exactly a pinch. he holds it between the second knuckle, like wire salad tongs hanging onto a slice of mushroom or something, but there's still enough traction that he can tug murphy's head a little. closer to him. sit an elbow on the human's shoulder, and sniff his hair, loudly, as if there's some kind of joke about personal hygiene and body odor pending, except. except that kavinsky doesn't make one.

instead, he just kind of leans onto murphy, coarsely, one arm looped around him. half a hug, half using him as furniture.] Makes sense to be weird about getting back into memories and shit like that, [he says, his tone casual, but his voice— quiet, in the gentle hubbub of the memory share chamber.] They say the shit we're most afraid of is what's already happened to us. Guess you seen it all. What people get like, when being cute and nice and civilized ain't convenient anymore.

[rekt]

You don't know, you've never seen me puke. Might be better than porn. [ it is not, and no, he is not into vomit kink either, but it's something gross to joke about at the moment, when he feels to soft and squishy and delicate. this is why he sticks to k like a barnacle - it isn't gentle cooing and tenderness he needs at times like these. it's gross jokes at the expense of trauma and acting like he's too much of a hardass to be bothered by it.

murphy sputters a laugh at the boy vampire sniffing all up in his hair and tugging in around, letting his body fall against him, hands shoving playfully at his chest, but not enough to actually push him away. his sharp cheekbone touches to k's shoulder, and his skinny arm hooks around the other boy's waist, lounging on him as much as he's getting. ]

You know, people say that and you get convinced of it, and then something even more fucked up comes around to give you nightmares. [ it's true. there's definitely something worse than seeing a guy eaten by a horrific sea worm monster - being that guy. he shrugs, turns his face to bump his nose against k's neck. ] Good thing you're never nice or civilized.

[ people wonder how murphy can like someone as harsh and gritty as kavinsky. people don't know murphy very well. what others call disturbing and offensive about his friend, murphy calls honest. ]

[pillz]

[the reality probably falls somewhere in between. kavinsky is a chronic liar, but certainly not about how much he hates most of the world, most of life, most of himself. some of it is definitely just shock value bullshit, though. he likes to get reactions out of people. and it's not something he tends to admit, but he likes this reaction— mushed together, the weight of the other boy's body against him, better than he'll likely ever admit to anyone.]

Nope, [he agrees, chugging the hem of murphy's shirt with his thumb, little circular rubbing motions over the other boy's hipbone.] Never.

[just ignore the way he is like, right fucking now. and the handful of other times he's allowed him to be small with murphy, instead of poking his fingers into his pee hole or marking up his thighs with his teeth. kavinsky's concept of gentleness basically amounts to omission of cruelty.] You're a hard man to kill, Murphy. And living doesn't seem all that fucking fun for you a lot of the time. I mean you ain't depressed or anything— [between the two of them, that'd be kavinsky.] Past weighs into the future, I guess.

[rekt]

[ it'd been a good idea to bring kavinsky with, he thinks, now, because this feels soft and easy and an open invite to escape what just happened, murphy's body slouched to k's, and the gentle touch of his fingertips along his hip bone. if it were possible to burrow against a person while walking, murphy would be accomplishing it. ]

Living's still better than dying.

[ no, he'd never been one for depression, not the way others are. he carries plenty around with him, guilt for this and that, but there's a stubborn streak in him that just can't accept his life petering out in some dark, dank hell world, quiet and whimpering. he shifts some, something uncomfortable in his head as the memories sift around, but it has him tucking against kavinsky's shoulder, teeth biting playfully at his shoulder. ]

Just don't wanna be another sad little tragedy. [ didn't want to die alone, unnoticed, some foot note, maybe a name on a memorial wall. just another casualty in someone else's war. hell no. ] Spite's a helluva motivator.

[pillz]

That what it is?

[kavinsky's tone is light, befitting the conversation as it's gone so far. he doesn't look like he's doing what he's actually doing, which is: gazing upon murphy in wonderment. wondering how he turned out like this— how he isn't afraid enough of pain to pull forward. how it is he can dismiss it as spite, and mean it, and still fit himself into the sharp-edged hollow of kavinsky's side and nip him and rest there in the dubious warmth of a vampire's body like a butterfly drinking off a terrapin's shell.]

Spite? [a rough-skinned forefinger, bony, drifts across murphy's chin. comes up to his bottom lip, the pout of it. there isn't quite enough irony in kavinsky's expression or the touch of his hand to sell it as casual. a little too much sincerity peeking through, with the unblinking curiosity of kavinsky's stare, and everything. but it's been one of those days. one of those rainy-ass days.]

If that was true, wouldn't it be the only shit you got left in you.

[rekt]

[ he feels the chill of that godforsaken island that birthed alie and ended the world, remembers jaha trying to sell him the chip and how much he just wanted to bash his skull in with the closest rock. what had he told him then? 'pain, hate, envy. those are the abcs of me.' it isn't the exact thing now, but kavinsky's telling him there's something more, and right now, murphy doesn't feel it. just that empty ache in his chest, same one that's been there for years. same one that kept him alive long enough to have all these fucked up memories. ]

Who says it's not? [ murphy smiles like it's a joke, because it feels like it is to him, that sharp thing that's pretending it's having fun, but it's just old bones keeping themselves going because what else is there to do? because who gets to say 'i told you he was just trash' if he keels over and lets this fucked up husk of a world win? ] Spite, and teenage libido. Everyone's got room for being horny.

[ and still, he closes his eyes against the touch along his chin and his lip, exhales out tension as his eyes close, and lets the reality of kavinsky's company here sink in. that he's here, that he can feel and hear the rumble of his voice, the diminished warmth of his body. that he didn't have to be here, and murphy knows him as someone well aware of extending himself for something with no benefit to his person. maybe he's more than spite and anger, but what's there is still selfish and ugly. at least there's someone around not as bothered by that as most normal people should be. ] Besides, misery loves company, right? Sayings aren't sayings for nothing.

[pillz]

[the coarse tip of a forefinger ends up on murphy's face, just below his eye. most people use a thumb, cuz it's-- tender and less obtrusive or something, probably. shorter. saver. but it's kavinsky's forefinger that navigates around the slope of murphy's eye, sliding past the fringe of his eyelashes, as much like he's reading the braille of his lover's face as making a gesture of affection.

murphy does, after all, have such a unique face. some unknown architect raised the bridge of his nose and beveled his cheeks just so. some mystery of the universe must be hidden in the mathematics of its angles. joseph kavinsky knows nothing, but he does know this.]

That what it was, with Emori? [he asks.] Spite and a big red dick?

[he lifts his finger afterward and his eyes slide off a little, because-- because they aren't like that. they aren't the kind of boys who hold themselves in the half-dark of an alien world, doing nothing but breathe in the warm pockets of air from each other's clothes. they aren't those boys at all. not exactly.]

[rekt]

[ the name alone has murphy's whole body stutter, a skipped beat in his movements, a hitch in his breathing, a distance that widens his eyes for half a second. no, that's far from all emori was, and in truth, it's far from all joseph kavinsky is to him either, but here's the thing - ]

Emori's dead. [ because everyone's dead, everyone's gone, and that's what should've been expected the whole time, since that godforsaken rust bucket dropped him down onto hell. even with the eudio intermission -
nothing good lasts. and now, all that's left for her is spite. that's emori's legacy in him.

but kavinsky is here now, and even if that may not even last until tomorrow, it does mean something to him. murphy's wound tight like a trip wire, close to snapping, and it takes a considerable amount of effort for him to sigh out, shaky but slow, while he eases into the touch against his face, blinking his eyes open to watch kavinsky's cast to the side. watching the curve in his neck, murphy thinks for a moment or so, before easing forward to tuck his face against his throat, his body into the frame of k's shoulders, arms slipping around his hips. ]

Thanks. [ murphy mumbles out, quiet, against the collar of his shirt, slightly clinging in how he holds to him, slightly curling into his warmth. ]