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 )

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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?"

"Noted. I'm sure we'll manage." They'll simply have to pay attention; learn the bad days from the good. It would be easier, if they could trust him with this.

They don't. And they need him.

Chara tilts their head, smile clear enough in their voice.

"We weren't eating at the castle; I doubt we can't simply bend the rules here, as well." It's as simple as focusing on that little moment, on the beach. A time in which Frisk was Determined, and-

And Chara doubles over, like they've just been punched in the gut.

That little moment, on the beach. A time in which Frisk was Determined, and --

-- DdettermSPRs̴̬̘̻͍͉ ͇͎̣̰̰ͅ save, and --

-- Chara doubles over, like they've just been punched in the gut.

Frisk doesn't. They suck in a breath, thin and sharp behind their mask, and stagger, catching themself on one foot as if shoved from behind. Both hands fly up to their chest and intercept a wild flash of red light that blinks rapidly over their sweater like a shattered neon bulb.

They remain silent, poised like a statue long after the light fades and a sharp, electric stink of ozone fills the void instead.

He only has time to get an inkling as to what they might be attempting before Chara wrenches, like some leaden weight has just slammed them through the middle. Frisk's hands cup around a brief sputter of scarlet that hovers there, haloed in their fingertips, and disperses just as swiftly as it formed.

The hot reek of ozone cloys at his lungs, sizzles in his nostrils, and he jerks on the spot, briefly reaching for the way Chara's doubled over.

Briefly.

He jars to a halt before he's closed the distance between them, and lets his shoulders and his hands drop. He knows better than to grab at someone like that, when they're already reeling. The prickle of phantom fingers on his skin stings, and he can't - doesn't - won't parse which set of memories those belong to. Because it doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter.

Stick to what matters.

"Are you hurt?" he says, low and urgent. "Either of you?"

It's lucky for him that Chara doesn't notice the motion, too caught up in whatever just happened. They breathe, slow and deep, prior to straightening out. Hand not on their stomach, but their chest.

They eye the area for a long moment, before their eyes shift to meet their Partner's.

"...It's corrupted."

It is not the neatly composed voice that Chara would usually strive for. For the first time in a long time- potentially the first time since Tim has met them, the emotion that Chara is currently feeling is clear for all to hear.

They're afraid.

"Our SAVE."

"No."

In response to Tim, of course -- hurt may not be the word for it. It is certainly something else. Slowly, Frisk reaches for their mask with one hand and pushes it up their forehead, revealing their expression: one eye clenched in a wince, the other wide enough to show the rusty color of their eye in the sunlight. Their other hand stays over their chest.

They can feel it beating -- no, it's -- pounding. Like a bassline of palpitations. A hot knife carved from bone-splinters in their ribcage. The rhythm isn't... the SAVE isn't...

It's corrupted.

They stare at Chara for a beat, a pound, and grind their tongue between their molars.

"It still worked. I think."

It's corrupted. They're trying to claw together everything they are into some kind of familiar patina, a protective drape over that moment of unanticipated weakness, but there's the emotion naked in their gaze regardless, boring out across the sweep of sand. It flecks in their scarlet gaze like sparking embers.

The discomfort is palpable, radiating from them both like a fever. One rusted maroon iris has yawned open, the other clenched shut.

It's corrupted.

The nuances of that statement, again, escape him, but nothing about corrupted, or the way it impacted either child, can be good. The sparking ozone prickles at the hairs at the nape of his neck, pocking his arms with gooseflesh.

"I don't think..." No. That's not on him to make that judgment call. He's not their parent, or even their guardian. He's just some guy. Some liability they now have to protect, and is trying to repay that by protecting them in turn. So don't make it a judgment.

Form it into a question.

"Is that worth it?"

It still worked, says Frisk, and Chara exhales slowly, attempting to force their breathing back to something less haggard as they examine their hands. It's true- they feel less hungry. Less worn down than prior.

Undoubtedly, it still worked. The process of forcing to do so, however.

"I'm sure you'll find yourself comprehending this easily enough, mister Wright," Chara begins slowly. "but in our own world, our SAVES had a far greater capability than they did in Sol Raveh. It was only upon our arrival there that they began to affect us, and us alone."

They cast another look at Frisk, sharp eyes examining them for any signs of discomfort. And they know, without stating it, that the most likely reason for this is due to their actions. Another consequence, for their failure. Another burden.
"It's possible that being further removed from our world has caused our power to deteriorate further. In which case..."

...

"We may need to reserve it's function for emergencies only."

Which means eating again. Sleeping. Things they hadn't needed to worry about before, suddenly brought back to the forefront again when they were no longer in a place where such resources were easy to attain.

To say Chara's displeased about this revelation is an understatement.

Yes, it still worked. As the pinched feeling uncoils from their SOUL, Frisk allows their hand to drift back down to their side, and the finer nuances of their condition slide into focus. They feel less overheated; less of the magmatic heat absorbed into their tanned skin. The parched feeling in their throat seems that much less urgent.

It worked, but there was a cost. And they'll add up. They just don't know exactly what they're paying with, yet.

Emergencies only. Frisk understands what this means, too, and their hand lifts again, flipping the mask back down over a now-still expression.

"Fine."

If Frisk is displeased, it can be discerned only in the curtness of their statement itself; their tone has refused to budge.
Why bother? They are not above consequences.
Still, they add after a pause:

"We'll make it worth it."

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postictal - 2017-09-09 18:37 (UTC) - Expand

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

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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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