Exploration Event: Neverwere

[lifeaftr_mods]

EXPLORATION EVENT: NEVERWERE

Who: Everyone!
What: Your wildest dreams come true!
When: May 15th to May 18th
Where: Ziziphus, those still on Ensō...and Mu
Warnings: Mark as needed!

Then Know That My Life Was Just a Killer Dream
You can find most of the information you need in the OOC info post! In the meantime, feel free to use this log as a catch-all for your dream worlds, as well as detailing your efforts to free one another. Whether they're on Ziziphus or Ensō at the time of the dreams' capture, your character is free to access as many dreams as you like, as the interlocking mental landscape allows for that sort of crossing over apropos of nothing. And time, of course, is very fluid in dreams - many days, months, and years can transpire in a matter of mere minutes.

Will you fight your way free from Ziziphus's vines or Mu's thrall, or are you content to die in your sleep?

Remember to let us know if your character dies during this event!

Event Timeline

[ ♆ ] May 15th: The vines make their move, ensnaring characters in ideal fantasy worlds
[ ♆ ] May 17th: The Storyteller will make contact with those they can, as well as issue information and a potential solution
[ ♆ ] May 18th: Those that have not freed themselves from the vines or from Mu will suffer a death

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LOGS ● OOC ● STORIES ● MAIN NAVIGATION

( CODED BY BOOTYCALL )

Comments

[postictal]

So you're just gonna leave to make me deal with it on my own?

[The question is vicious, sparking, a smoking gun of electric, indignant outrage wrapping a coil around his throat and tugging taut. And it's completely at odds with the reasonable, rational, relaxed man he's always been.]

[He's...always been.]

[onegreeneye]

No!

[That comes out sharper than he'd planned, and that alone sends a spike of alarm through his chest. He... doesn't usually get mad or snap at people. He doesn't. Does he?]

It's not-- Tim, you don't have to deal with it, just-- I'll figure it out.

[postictal]

Figure out my existential crisis for me? [His tone is pitching violently upward, nearly cracking.] Great, thanks. Be sure to tell my doctor the solution once you figure that out!

[He doesn't - he doesn't have a doctor. He doesn't have - he doesn't need to see a doctor, not regularly, so why - ]

[onegreeneye]

Your-- [Wait. What? Why would Tim have a problem here, he's-- he's not the one who's somehow managed to forget a whole goddamn person.

Is he?

Ginko forces a couple more breaths, curls his fingers tight against the table. It's one thing if it's just him, but if Tim is having trouble too...]

Tim, I-- sorry. Wh-what are you having trouble with?

[postictal]

I can't remember either.

[He hisses it out between clenched teeth, the words low and taut and garroting tight around his throat like a lump, like some fucking impossible pressure he can't chew away.]

[onegreeneye]

You--

You can't remember Chara?

[Okay well that would be. A Problem.

How would someone forget their own child?]

[postictal]

I remember how we met. I remember.

[His hands are trembling.]

But I - Ginko, I don't have a doctor. I've never needed to see someone for... [He trails off.]

[Why did he think that he did, even for a moment? Why did he turn to that mental landscape of white walls and featureless halls and empty faces, with that mixture of relief and terror?]

[onegreeneye]

[Slowly, Ginko sits back down, his brow creased and mouth pulled into a thoughtful frown. Leaving... isn't an option anymore. Not if it's not just him, after all.]

...Is that all that's off for you? Or is there more?

[postictal]

I feel like I should - I don't have a history of memory loss. I don't. But I -

[He feels like he should. It feels wrong, it feels fucking wrong, oh god.]

I don't remember. I feel like I do. Like I - should.

[onegreeneye]

[A history of memory loss. Ginko rests an elbow on the table and leans forward, pressing a hand over his mouth, staring at the table's wooden surface as if that might explain... anything.]

It'd be one thing if just one of us was having problems like this, but-- it can't just be a coincidence, right?

[Why would they both have sudden existential crises at the same time if there weren't a reason for it?]

[postictal]

I don't know. I don't - why'd you come here? Do you know?

[His tone spikes upward, pitch and volume climbing at a rate that should make people turn in their seats, should draw their eyes, should raise eyebrows. But it doesn't; the world simply continues to buzz and hum around them, as though nothing is wrong.]

[onegreeneye]

[He winces, tension twisting up further in his chest, ready for-- for something. What's he even expecting? So far as he can tell Tim isn't angry at him - he hopes he isn't, anyway. So why does he feel like this is going to go south at any second?

...More so than it has, anyway.]

I'm... I'm not sure. I was in town, I thought I would... stop by? [Wait. Wait.] What-- what town is this?

[postictal]

...Tuscaloosa. Alabama.

[It doesn't take him as long to dredge that up as he thought it would, which swells his heart in his chest, ever so incrementally. Maybe - it's okay. Maybe he's not fucking losing it. He still knows what town this is, what state this is - he still knows, and it comes to him with that automatic relay, like a reflex. Like signing a slip of paper, or saying his phone number, the instinct burned into neural pathways over years of retread.]

[onegreeneye]

[Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

He... stops by here whenever he can. He checks in on friends, like Tim, stops by locations that are familiar to him, like this bar. He's supposed to know this place.

So why doesn't he recognize the name?]

I don't... where is it?

[postictal]

The States? Alabama, the state?

[There's a desperate strain to his tone, to the arms pulled tight around his chest. How would someone not know the state of Alabama? What the fuck is this?]

[onegreeneye]

The-- what 'states'? Where is Alabama?

[He's trying not to get too loud, to let his voice become too harsh. His hands press together on the table, fingers lacing together and holding on tight until his knuckles turn white. Why doesn't he know?]

[postictal]

The United States. North America. Wh - this is basic geography, come on.

[Dreaming. Bad dream. Bad dreams he doesn't get, except the nights where he does, where he wakes up with sweat-tack and tight lungs. Dreams of what?]

[Dreams of what, Timothy?]

[onegreeneye]

[America, the United States, those are terms he's at least heard - a blonde-haired girl picking at scabs, staring at him in confusion and wondering how he'd never heard of Maine - but--]

I-- I've never been there.

[He doesn't choose to say it so much as the words just tumble out, harsh and desperate for any kind of an explanation that doesn't mean he's just losing his mind.]

I'm from... from Japan. I've never been to North America at all.

[postictal]

You're here. You're here now. So how -

[There's panic in the disparity, in the way none of it lines up, but there's something else burning in his throat - something painfully akin to relief. The sweet scent of rot, the ache of understanding that this isn't real.]

I'm seeing things. I'm...it's my head.

[onegreeneye]

I don't know.

[It's not possible. None of this is possible. Or at least it shouldn't be.]

What... what do you mean, you're seeing things, what here do you think you're imagining?

[The bar? The town? Ginko himself?]

cw: internalized ableism

[postictal]

It's...I'm not right. I'm -

[What is he, he - he's fucking crazy, isn't he? He's fucking out of his mind, he's lost it, he's losing it, losing it, losing everything, just - just wrung out and empty and seeing things and - ]

I'm crazy, right? I'm fucking crazy, I...

[In that precise moment, the table beneath his hands cracks, a loud roar of splintering wood that nearly bisects it across its face. The roar of the surrounding crowd has faded to a dim hubbub, and then to nothing at all.]

[...when did it get so empty?]

[onegreeneye]

Why would I know if you're crazy-- [Okay. Calm down, calm the hell down, just--

He winces, jerking back from the splintering wood of the table, the sound all the sharper in contrast with the sudden quiet in the bar. Ginko is quiet for a couple moments before speaking up, his voice quiet and shaky.]

...If you're seeing things right now, then so am I. Whatever is going on, it's-- not just you.

[And if it's not just Ginko, and it's not just Tim... some piece of a puzzle slides into place, forming a picture, however vague, that seems obvious once it's been painted.]

There's something else in play here. It's not us.

[postictal]

[It smells rank. Like something was left to die behind the doors. He could tear the door open and step out onto the street and, for some reason, it feels an awful fucking lot like he'd just find himself standing in an icy pool of utter nothingness, chill and void and leaching into his bones.]

Then what?

[It's whispered, rusty and horrified.]

What's that smell?

[onegreeneye]

Something. I don't know yet.

[He takes a step away from the table, looking around, searching for... something else, some clue.

Then he stops, brow furrowing.]

I... don't know.

[He's not sure he wants to.]

[postictal]

Why's it so empty?

[The words break - he feels, abruptly, acutely, like he did when he was small, huddling in the corners of white-walled rooms and counting down over and over again until he could make the monsters go away.]

[Except there were no monsters. He grew up fine. There's nothing in his head. There never has been.]

[(But he can feel It like a weight, pressing on the back of his neck.)]

[(Watching.)]