lifeaftr | August Intro: You Think...You Wink...You Do A Double Blink...

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August Intro: You Think...You Wink...You Do A Double Blink...

INTRO LOG: AUGUST

Who: Everyone!
What: New souls arrive to the archipelago of LifeAftr.
When: August 3rd
Where: Ensō
Warnings: Mark as needed!

Part I: Get Wrekt
You rouse to a splash of sea salt drying on your skin. A haze of glass-white sand glitters in your vision, dappled by lush palms and thick, curling foliage that disappears into a jungle of deep jade. From behind, crackling wood and sawing rope groan from a mangled life raft ran ashore. A petering wash of tide over pebbled sand fills your ears as you struggle to gain your bearings in a vast portrait of tropical color…

No...no, no, that’s not precisely how this story starts.

Why don't we start over?

You rouse to a splash of sea salt, spraying across yourself and the wooden floor beneath you as it breaks across the edge of the platform. The light as it dances across the sea is blinding, dappling white spots across your vision as you slowly come back to consciousness and realize that - this is not where you last remember being.

The middle of the ocean is likely not a place most recall being at all. As you struggle to fully comprehend the new scenario in which you have found yourself, three things become quickly apparent. The raft you find yourself upon barely constitutes as something that should float, never mind a boat. In the distance, perhaps a few hours away at most, a large island beckons to you, a wide strip of beach surrounded by cliffs making it very clear where the most fortuitous of directions shall be.

Lastly, of course, you’re not alone. Hopefully your new companion(s) are just as keen to get ashore before nightfall as you, or voyaging together will not be the most positive experience. At your side you will find a knapsack, one to every member of your raft party, and upon inspecting its contents, you will discover any rewards you may have accrued - as well as a few other items to give you a fighting chance.

A note to those who participated in the Test Drive Meme: those threads, if all parties involved would like, can be game canon in the form of dream-like memories involving a place very much like this one, though the layout is considerably different.

Part II: Choose Your Own Adventure

By fortune (or misfortune, as it were), you eventually find your feet meeting sand, blessed shore to stagger upon as you shake off your newly found sea-legs. There are those that may find this place familiar, as though it appeared in a dream, though the expanse of shore certainly seems larger. The beach stretches off into the distance on both sides, curving around sharp ridges and cliffs, mist obscuring the view the farther along it goes.

So here you are. You’ve found land. Company. Supplies. The sun is now beginning to trek rather low upon the horizon…spending the night outside in such an unfamiliar land is unappealing at best and outright dangerous at the worst.

There is one silver lining in the midst of this mess. Directly ahead, the beach curves up a gentle slope until it meets forest, some manner of building visible through the trees. Further exploration of this area will reveal a dilapidated building of sorts; the architecture is indiscernible to even the most skilled eye. Despite looking as if it has seen better days, there are areas that offer some form of shelter...and who knows what else. Just because it appears uninhabited doesn’t mean you won’t wind up pleasantly, or unpleasantly, surprised.

So what shall you do from here, traveller? There is land to be explored, strangers to meet, friends to reunite with. Supplies to inspect and plenty of questions in need of being said aloud. Choose your path, make haste, and above all else: survive. And whatever you will, take heart.

Your story is about to begin anew.

Feeling a tad adrift? Make sure to check the Locations Page, which has details regarding the starting areas and a handy map for those who feel better with a bird's eye view!

LOGS ● OOC ● STORIES ● MAIN NAVIGATION

( CODED BY BOOTYCALL )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Again it wells up in his throat like a sickly cough - I'm sorry. Soon to be rectified, they say, but there's no Ozuma here to grant that favor. Allow that mechanic for disappearance in every sense of the word, their atoms dispersed into nothing. A fact of which they must be fully aware. So he says nothing.

"'Till then..." He has to clear his throat, and tear away to turn back to the awkward block of wood in his hands. The latest of his...efforts. A bit lopsided still, but it might serve well in a pinch. "I'm pretty sure there's people from your world here. Asriel. Some...spider lady. Maybe more."

They deserve fair warning, don't they? It's possible, probable even, that they're already aware - particularly if they were drifting into other people's thoughts the same way they were in to Tim's - but if they'd already closed that chapter to their story, it might disrupt the order of things if someone else were to skip to the last, torn-out page.

"Muffet and Asriel." Good of him, to provide the warning. "...Noted."

She's no real threat to them. They keep to themself that they've already spoken to her, much as they keep to themself that she has no idea who they are. The less people Tim trusts, the better. He's always been a good liar.

They aren't about to provide incentives to tell the truth.

Asriel is another problem altogether.

"In the meantime, there are other changes necessary. Firstly, however

Do you have any of your medication, Tim?"

Muffet, yeah. That's the name. Apt, if nothing else, but they'd know of her more than he would. He'd spent most of his last conversation with her discussing the many failures of a certain wisecracking skeleton - which, while illuminating in many respects, had not been his intention.

He's always been a good liar, though. Maybe he always will be.

Tim nods, wearily. Draws the little orange bottle from his pocket with the soft rattle of capsules. He turns it this way and that between his fingertips, studying it with that familiar dull-eyed look.

"Got maybe...a month's worth." So he'd better start rationing. "If there's anyone here capable of granting favors, I guess I'd better find 'em quick."

...

As should they.

"Hm." Did he have any on him, when they last met? Perhaps it's simply due to the fact that they'd had bigger concerns at the time (such as how to get rid of his body), but they do not recall. It's grating. "The manner in which we've arrived certainly implies some benefactor in our midst. Doubtless they'll see fit to reveal themselves when best suits them."

What will it be this time, they wonder. Another war that is not their responsibility? A world in need of saving that holds no affection? Truly, they cannot wait to discover what it is they're supposed to care about this time.

Leaning over, Chara plucks the bottle from his grasp- eyes on the man, rather than any invasive attempt to discern what his medication may do. They have an intimate knowledge of it already.

"I trust you understand- there is no room for a repeat of August in this place."

They reach over and take the bottle from him as easily as if it were a grape on the vine - picking away his chemical shield against the worst of the things running rampant in his head. But only the worst of them. Certainly not all.

He's meant to be someone else's responsibility now. That's a promise that was perhaps a little too optimistic for its own good. As most promises are.

He breathes out a slow sigh, and nods.

"Yeah." He knows, full well. This time around, he won't be finding that easy way out.

Briefly - but only briefly - something bordering confusion, or maybe the closest he gets to amusement, creases his brow.

"You're not obligated to look after me. We're not stuck in one place anymore."

So they won't need to pretend it's for the good of everyone that they do.

He's not wrong.

Chara hums, closing their eyes and leaning back as they slip the bottle of pills up their sleeve. Better there than in Tim's pocket. They'll need to check, of course; make sure they're supplying him enough for the day... work out other arrangements, where necessary.

"On the contrary- you may very well be the last person who truly knows who I am. I believe that holds plenty of weight, mister Wright." Looking after him is basically looking after themself, in the end.

It's looking after Frisk.

...so they're not giving it back, then. Keeping him dependent on them, for the time being. Not that they're exactly wrong to think as such, given the little debacle in August.

His fingertips grasp at his side, feeling abruptly bereft. He turns the multi-pronged tool over and over in his hands - in the absence of anything else to fill that void.

The significance of that pronouncement isn't lost on him. His eyes flick up to meet theirs, brown to red, catching his breath.

"So it didn't...not work."

They might still be here, but the memory of them - that's been tampered with. Hasn't it?

"If my recent run in with a certain smiling individual says anything- no."

And they're just.

Smiling. A smile that creases the corner of their eyes, that makes them look just that little bit older. They're so tired, Tim. Do you remember that?

They're old, and they're tired.

"Why our plan only partially worked is beyond me. But it did work, in a sense. Perhaps one simply needs to leap more than once for it to be truly permanent."

A certain smiling individual. He could name only one other, and he's pretty sure that - yeah. They've got that mutual acquaintance. It confirms that he's here, at least, and Tim would almost dart a furtive glance about, just to make sure he isn't lingering at the fringes of his firelight, pinning him with that empty-socket look, but -

Shouldn't look for things in the corners of your eyes. That's how they materialize, and that's when the nightmares will begin.

They're old, and they're tired. He can't blame them for that. Not now that he's glimpsed, regrettably, why one would feel that way. There's a certain fatigue you achieve once you've tried, and tried, and tried, and failed to see yourself to the very End.

"What's that you once said?" If he were more suited to the facial expression, a wry smile would doubtless be tickling at his lips right about now. "Welcome to putting your back into it?"

That's the thing with leaps of faith. They only take you so far.

One hand falls to his side. A frown creases at his brow, tightening the corners of his mouth.

"You don't think there's a risk that something could...bleed through. Do you?"

If that certain individual were privy to this conversation- privy, and capable of remembering two missing pieces of his life, perhaps he'd impart Tim with a little advice. That kids going through things like Chara has is messy. That it leaves something that functions, sure. But still messy.

He asks a question they've been ignoring since they met Sans on the beach. In response, they sit up straighter. Hold their chin up high.

Every weight in the world may be on their shoulders, but they will bear it with the composure of a child who is used to such things. Water off a duck's back.

It's not messy at all.

"That's something to respond to if it comes to that. Right now, we focus on moving forward. Putting our backs into it, as a wise person would say."

Burn that bridge when you get to it. Makes sense. It's more slapdash a way of approaching things than he'd give them credit for, but given everything - given all they've been through, at this point - he can't blame them.

What kind of person would he be if he did?

He has secrets to keep, and lies to tell. And one of those saw fit to manifest in a way that could be useful. For once in his life, he can be useful.

Two failed attempts prior to his third, and it feels as though fate may have worked out that way for his sake, but it could've just be chance. The fact that he's trying at all should have been his first warning sign; trying to work flat pieces of wood into a semblance of the porcelain white that once glared out from across the surrounding murk like a beacon.

The first had looked too angry and the second, too serene. The soft white wood had been easier than the darker stuff he'd found at the jungle's edge, but he'd sanded down the edges with the rough palmfuls of the beach at his feet, bored holes into either side. It had taken work, but there plenty of abandoned coconut shells about the beach and just outside the jungle, and from there he could pick at the fibers and plait them into a rough twine to be tied around the back of the head, or hung over the ears. Never pausing to examine the instinct that had him fashioning what he made, because to do so would inject a sour ripple of fear in the pit of his stomach. Not that he's unused to it by now.

He picks up the first of his failures, and holds it up, briefly, to his own face. The firelight catches his eyes through the slightly lopsided eye-holes, glittering. The shape of the nose is little more than a rough, slightly raised bump in the wood, and it lacks a slit for the mouth entirely. But the eyes - it has those. A way to see out from behind the shield.

"Here."

He offers it out to them without a second thought - one of two masks, crudely carved, but nonetheless functional. He lifts the second from the sand, with its darker wood and its flatter expression, and wonders if that was some subconscious pull on his part.

He'll never know now.

"If you don't want someone to recognize you," says Tim softly, "then you hide your face."

Regardless of what most may think- Chara is, in fact, still a child. One that stands tall in the face of things some adults would recoil away from; hide away, curl up in the fetal position, cry over. Seek pity and bemoan their fate over for the rest of their lives. And they will never do those things. They will never not stand tall; despite any bumps in the road, despite plans going awry. They will not falter. They will not hesitate.

Sometimes, the only way to move forward is to find the easiest answer possible. The one that doesn't require them to think of a potential future so out of their control, they'd rather obliterate this entire island than face it.

Better not to think on such things. Better to let others live their story as they had intended, than to regress and steal it away.

They watch as he picks up the mask; holds it to his face as if obscuring his very self. Murmurs almost gently to them- his own advice upon facing such things. Hide yourself away. Obscure every aspect of what once had been, until there was no point in recognizing them at all.

It's just Tim's way, isn't it?

"...Kittu." Chara raises their voice, head turning in unerring accuracy to where their Partner stands, only several paces away. Nothing else has to be said.

Demons like them come when they're called.

They do.

Or perhaps, like the imagined ideal from a prophecy, they were always, already there -- like a guardian, an angel. Or more accurately, when you cut away the fibrous, perfumed tales: like nothing at all. Frisk's eyes lift at their chosen name, the one that won't make their life hell but might have been the one that deserved to. Their face is steady, forehead beaded with sweat, their hair slick and tamed down into a bun as they close those few feet to stand next to their Partner.

To the first child.

They inspect the masks. Their eyes are invariably drawn to the second one, with its darker complexion and the genial, inoffensive set to its carved expression. They hold out their hand for it, patient.

Nothing else has to be said. They had been listening. The real kindness, here, is that Chara and Tim were polite enough not to talk about them as if they weren't.

They've both taken pains to conceal their identities - perhaps that's why they were separated in the first place. No longer two children that are functionally identical, at least on a surface level. One's hair is shorter, the other's longer.

But they still come when the other calls, even if their name is now an alias. Yet another mask, pasted up over what someone might consider recognizable.

They're drawn to the darker of the two. Maybe there was something stuck, tin-rattling in the confines of his skull, that couldn't work itself out any other way. Maybe it was just working the wood in a way that some part of him (~~them~~) found familiar.

Regardless, he passes it to them.

"...sanded it down as much as I could." His tone is low, easy, conversational, barely audible over the soft crackle of flame. Don't need a smokescreen over something that isn't even there, do you? "Shouldn't splinter you any."

They allow their Partner first pick without complaint, taking the second offered once Frisk has made their choice. It is smooth; better work than they would've expected from Tim, but then... they've never really been in a situation where his experiences were capable of being of use, were they?

"We appreciate your consideration." Chara says calmly. It's easy to speak for the both of them- simple to take the effort of having to thank him off their Partner's shoulders. "And what of yourself, mister Wright? Will you also be wearing a mask?"

...

"And walking miles?"

It's- haha. It's perhaps something they should have spoken to their Partner about first, but then

They know Tim far better than Frisk. Simply fixing his SOUL back to the state it had been in prior wasn't SAVING him at all.

Like them, he'd be better off.

Frisk is grateful for their Partner's generosity in handling the conversation. They still nod, because it's a communication comfortable to them; and Tim, though still just short of a stranger, is a comfortable existence in their sphere. Funny, how every memory and fond thing of their former lives has been cast out in a red-dripping fire, and yet the only person to actually be a threat to them...

Is helping them.

Frisk is thankful, and can tell from Chara's demeanor that they are too. Perhaps their vote of trust is closer to a business transaction, but that may be one of the sturdiest kinds to be found.

It's Chara's final question that throws them, a little.

Their eyes slide from their Partner to Tim. And back again. It's surprising, but the implication is easy to discern, and Frisk simply tucks the mask into their knapsack without comment. Not exactly a businesslike transaction, then... at least maybe not so much as the knowledge of a mile in one's shoes.

Ha, ha.

Regardless, Frisk says nothing.

And walking miles?

Good question. He hasn't planned that far ahead - hasn't had any reason to. His consideration lies slack and heavy across his own shoulders, but he's carried heavy burdens before. A few more secrets, a few more lies...what's the difference, in the end? He knows where he's bound, and he won't be weighing himself down any more or less than he would otherwise.

"I'll walk as far as I need to," he says simply. If it takes him off the edge, well - he'll burn that bridge when he gets to it, won't he? His eyes flick over to Frisk's, briefly, and away again. Prolonged eye contact was never comfortable for him growing up, and he doubts any child likes to be pinned down with a scintillating stare. In times of distress, deal with the quiet ones first.

But Frisk - Frisk is always quiet.

Funny, that.

"Is that what you want?" The question is posed to both parties, though he has a hunch as to which of them will see fit to answer.

They know precisely what they want. It hasn't changed, not since September. Not since a man took their Determination, and used it as a crutch. Tried to apologize- to sympathize, with them on things they simply refused to budge on.

They just want to reach the End. If it turns out that ERASURE won't take them the entire way... it's taken them some of it. Rid them of ties they didn't need. It's not as fast as they wanted- it's not as fast as either of them wanted.

But they didn't ask, did they? They assumed; they had Frisk cut their hair, listened and added to a story of two children who never climbed a mountain, not even once.

Is that really what Frisk wants?

Chara stays quiet. Their eyes trail to their Partner, because in the end, their motions remain the same.

I, your humble servant, will follow you...

Is that what they want?

What a silly question.

In the expectant silence that follows, Frisk senses the gravity of any answer they'll give. What do they want? They wanted... a happy ending. Not for themself, but for everyone who could still receive one. They wanted to let go. They wanted it: love, LOVE, forgiveness, Resets. They wanted it, and they wanted all to stop.

Chara's eyes are on them. Dripped in the color of their SOULs. A thought occurs to them, and their own gaze lifts to Tim, studying the quiet steel of his jaw, the ash in his skin and in his eyes. They don't think about the state of other peoples' SOULs much. They're not the type to make that judgement.

But for some, they wonder.

...

Their answer is the same as always. It's one that isn't theirs.

"We haven't a choice. We go."

We don't have a choice. We go.

That's the crux of it. If that's their decision, who's he to steal that from under anyone's feet? You can't sway someone from that. You can't rip that option away. Not when it's the one thing that offers you some semblance, some modicum of control you never had.

He isn't surprised. He nods. Returns his gaze to the fire as it crackles in flurries of red and orange. Hisses of sparks kicked up into the air, slivers of molten gold on black.

"All right." He's already tied to them out of necessity - a pill bottle hidden up someone's sleeve and a warning unspoken. It's wisest never to trust. "If that's what you need, that's what we'll do."

To whatever extent they want to interpret it, to whatever extent they want it to be - we.

His eyes flick up once more to meet Frisk's. "Kittu." Then - to Chara. "Kid...one?"

Frisk speaks, and Chara looks back to Tim, arching a brow. Is he satisfied?

Apparently. There's no protest to the words. They wonder how much of that is just a natural inclination to accept such paths in life- and how much is his own, unnatural understanding of what they've been through.

They don't bother asking.

"Kidwun." Chara agrees easily, smile as natural as ever. Which is to say- not at all. "We cannot promise a reward for your assistance, Tim."

Frisk seems contented to slip back into their own, quiet role. Without prompting, they retrieve their the mask and don it, and instantly they're struck with the feeling that -- nothing about them has changed, much, save for the sense of something to hide. An eye drawn to an expressionless mask, more quickly than to an expressionless face. But there's something about that they almost appreciate.

It's a truth, masking a truth, masking the lie of Kittu. Two truths won't right the lie, but isn't it a little amusing? Maybe two truths in a row will appease the average person, and they won't think to dig any further.

Either way, they're quick to look back up at Tim, their voice muffled behind carved wood. Indeed, it hasn't splintered them at all.

"But thank you."

You hide your face. That's how you keep people from knowing who - what - lies underneath. Maybe the shape of your crouch or the twitch of your limbs gives you away, or leads them to suspect what it is they're dealing with, but they'll have to catch you first, lever that all-concealing disc away from your face and bear the expression that lies beneath.

"I'm not doing this for a reward," he says. His shoulders jerk in a shrug. "You deserve to have someone in your corner."

There's a good chance neither of them will believe him - or at least, Chara has a good reason not to trust that.

They deserve, both of them, to have someone in their corner who can remember why they're in that corner in the first place. He's not the ideal candidate in any case, but he's the only one they have. All in all, that's pretty damn unfortunate for everyone.

They'll make do.

They deserve it, do they? Chara's smile takes on a sardonic edge; they don't say it aloud, but Tim doesn't need them to, does he? He's just as capable of interpreting their expression as their Partner is.

No. They do not believe him. Calmly, they lift the mask to their face, settling it over the bridge of their nose.

It feels wrong. But then, so has everything in this place.

"How much of your medication do you usually require a day, Tim?" He could always try to lie- but then, they can count. And a dubious answer may have them seeking out answers from people he'd prefer them not to ask.

Edited 2017-08-27 12:29 (UTC)

Not exactly a surprise, no. What reason would someone have to believe a liar like him? When you've been let down the number of times they have, what reason would they have to believe anyone when they make that sort of claim?

Which is precisely why they'll have to make do.

"One...two capsules, maybe. Depending on how bad a day it is." Are they liable to have bad days here? He can't say just yet. "I can stretch it out. Long as I need to."

He glances over his knapsack, the meager supplies he's already counted and double-counted.

"You guys set for food or anything like that?"

August Intro: You Think...You Wink...You Do A Double Blink...

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could you maybe stop attacking me with music

oh like you won't get me back

I absolutely will ngl

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idk what the tag order should be feel free to go next if u want Zero

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lol welp

u hecked up

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