lifeaftr | April Intro: Better Get to Digging

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April Intro: Better Get to Digging

INTRO LOG: APRIL

Who: New arrivals, and you!
What: New souls arrive to the archipelago of LifeAftr
When: April 4th and onward
Where: Cahypdo
Warnings: Mark as needed!

Waking up to the gentle proddings of what appears to be very curious, sentient trees isn't the worst wake up call LifeAftr has to offer. For our newest arrivals, however, it may be a tad…odd.

Situated in the valley between two mountains, Elower is a scenic village filled with the friendly Roaka, tree-like beings that are rather peaceable and happy to assist those who have just arrived. I'’s a peaceful location for one to start their adventures - though, unfortunately, it doesn't stay peaceful for long.

Cahypdo: You'll Bury Me Low
Those who have explored the new island of Cahypdo in the last month will undoubtedly recall the series of quakes that shook the island throughout March. With the arrival of LifeAftr's newest adventurers comes Cahypdo's largest tremor to date, striking without warning and more than enough force to throw even the steadiest and sturdiest of your number to the ground. With a low rumble, the mountains heaped on either side of the island will start to shed an abundance of slag and debris, pouring down their slopes. Anyone who's scaling those peaks risks being flung bodily off them when the outpouring of shale comes roaring down those mountains, and anyone at the mountain bases risks being crushed beneath.

As one might expect, unsuspecting newcomers aren't all that have been shaken up. Though protected by netting and retaining walls, the cliffs around and above the village of Elower can only take so much pressure before giving way - a threshold that has been crossed entirely. With a sound like thunder, rocks fall.

Everyone dies?

Only if you don't act quickly. Roaka housing is sturdy in build, enough to protect a decidedly less sturdy body from all but the heaviest of boulders. Hiding inside any of their village constructs built into the sides of the mountains will certainly save you from taking a new weight onto your shoulders. They will not, however, save you from being buried alive.

For those who become trapped inside any of those abodes, your options appear limited. Work to free yourself, or wait for help to arrive. Though, speaking of help, those outside may think to offer the Roaka a helping hand in getting their trapped people - and yours, at that - a few breaths of fresh air.

Before you suffocate.

Cahypdo: Stay Acting Brave
Such seismic activity will also stir up the local wildlife, of course. Those unfortunate enough to come across them will recognize the restless shark-dragon hybrids, hydrac, now prowling across the shorelines, while the wickedly fanged wabbits will also be far more frequent, traveling in larger numbers in the jungle and at the bases of the mountains. Taking care to avoid them would be wise - though another creature may make that venture much more difficult.

Lorbies have been unlocked in the bestiary!

A strange mix between owl and serpent, the recent quake has clearly startled these usually reclusive creatures into the open. Alone, a lorby is a rather skittish animal, prone to hiding from most perceived threats. Useless for food due to the toxicity of their flesh, lorbies do have the potential to be tamed...but this comes with its own risks.

A lorby may be prone to flight rather than fight when encountered solo, but in groups, these feathery critters are far more hostile. A defensive lorby emits a piercing cry alone, but a group is an almost ear-piercing experience, capable of rendering the unfortunate unstable on their feet at best, and unconscious at worst. For the days that follow the severe earthquake that so rocked everyone's foundations, any hope for silence is lost in the infrequent bursts of almighty screeching by colonies of lorbies who have so rudely had their homes overturned and disturbed.

While the lorby is omnivorous, it may not think to take a bite at anything so much larger than them. That doesn't mean that conflict with these fluffy creatures won't attract something much more willing to take advantage of the fact that you may or may not have been reduced to a prone sack of meat. If something else does arrive, you best hope that it's a friendly face.

If you're interested in keeping a lorby for your own, bear LifeAftr's companion limit in mind - two per character, and no more. The lorby is omnivorous and can survive off of most odds and ends: insects, fruits, berries, critters it can dig up in the sand, and more. However, the process of trying to tame a lorby is not always successful. We recommend use of a d10, with the following guidelines:

Rolling a 10: Critical success! This lorby will love and adore you, and may even feel comfortable enough to drape itself along your neck like a beautiful, furry scarf, churring softly all the way.
Rolling 7-9: This lorby will prove high-strung and timid, even if safely befriended, and will take several weeks to warm up to you. But once it does, it's yours!
Rolling 2-6: Failure. The lorby enters a state of distress and starts screaming. Hope you brought earplugs, or you'll be snoozing for several long hours for your efforts.
Rolling a 1: Critical failure. Not only does the lorby start screaming, but its panic attracts a colony of its friends, and they all start screaming too.

Bear in mind that these are only guidelines; you are free to predetermine successes or failures as you'd like, presuming your character can sustain the companion! Our discord channel has a room for dice-rolls, if you prefer.

All new arrivals will awake with knapsacks, their names stitched to the front. The contents of said knapsacks can all be found in your acceptance notices!

As a final note to those who participated in the Test Drive Meme, bear in mind that 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.

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

[Obviously.]

[It loosens a tension he was aware had spooled itself up in his chest. He just - he had to check, and he has no idea how to explain that he had to check, except that he can maybe...explain it away. Explain it away because things are chaotic, because showing up here is always a mess, because so much is already happening, so of course there'd be some confusion.]

[The Roaka seems to be wise enough to know not to interfere. He spares it a quick glance to one side, a nod, and then - back to Maine.]

What's the last thing you remember?

[Déjà vu is right.]

[ Brief as it is, Wash's nod to the Roaka acts as a signal to Maine. The hallucination (because it has to be that) isn't a threat. His grip loosens slightly on the Brute Shot, though he doesn't remove his hand entirely. He's still too on edge. Too uncertain of his situation — a feeling that's mitigated most effectively through taking action.

Wash speaks again, and Maine turns his head to face his friend fully. They've had this conversation. It was in a place with stone walls. A place he dreamed of before that fucking bunny showed up. And he echoes himself as he answers: ]

Briefcase.

[ Said with a slight flick of his free fingers towards the briefcase in question. It rests behind him, leaning against his knapsack and obscuring the embroidered name.

Then, wondering if it'll sound as nuts aloud as it does in his head, he adds: ]

Stone walls. Handcuffed. [ "To you," he doesn't say. Instead, he pauses before finishing with: ] Rabbit.

[A low breath, slow and careful and...okay. Okay. They've done this before.]

[He lied to him.]

[The realization is what comes after: the jolt of recognition that he purposefully implied that they were from the same point in time, when they weren't. They weren't and still aren't, and how much of that he can chalk up to dreamlike strangeness is still...unknown.]

It's you.

[That's not what Wash means to start with, but - ]

It's really...you.

[ Something strange and cold tries to settle between Maine's shoulder blades. He shakes it off. Physically shifts away from the sensation, dropping his hand from the Brute Shot's grip as he does so.

He doesn't know what's going on here. He doesn't like not understanding the situation. He likes the shock in Wash's voice even less.

Why is his presence so confusing? What the fuck is wrong with Wash?

Uncertainty gnaws at him again. He crushes it beneath his heel and takes action.

It might be a stupid thing to do. There's a chance that this atmosphere could be toxic to humans, or anything that isn't a tree-creature or plant. With his HUD on the fritz, Maine has no way of knowing. He decides to risk it. Reaches up and — after taking a breath — hits the seals on his helmet, then pulls it off.

Maine looks older than he is. Always has. But compared to the way his body ended up, he may well look like a fresh-faced recruit. There are no scars from the fight on the freeway. No dark shadows beneath his eyes from sleepless nights with Sigma. His gaze is intense, alert, and a little perplexed, but it's decidedly Maine.

Dark eyebrows rise in a succinct message — "no shit, Wash" — more confused than annoyed. Then, never one to leave it off unnecessarily, Maine pulls his helmet back on. ]

[It's him.]

[It's really him. No scar tissue mottling his throat. None of the vacancies that Sigma would leave in his wake. Not hollowed out. Not even hurt. Just staring at him, like he doesn't understand what Wash is getting at. And he wouldn't, would he.]

[He owes him an explanation. He does, he just...doesn't know where to begin. Not after his last explanation went so badly. Where does he start?]

[Immediately, the answer there is obvious. Wash slides his fingertips beneath the seal of his helmet, yanks it off, and then he's looking at his old teammate.]

[Wash, by contrast - looks older, more battered. There are fresh scars laid into the freckle-mottled copper color of his skin. His eyes are bruised purple from night after sleepless night. His helmet hair is fucking terrible, the way it's always been, violently blonde in a natural way he'd always detested - but it's grayed out at the roots.]

[His smile is right-angled, tired, and more than a little melancholy.]

Thought I might've started seeing things. It's...been known to happen.

[ Holy shit.

It's not an eloquent thought. Not even a helpful one. But that's the first thing that flashes through Maine's mind, and it's accompanied by a visible jerk of surprise. Because holy shit, Wash looks terrible. Like he's been bludgeoned by one horrible mission after another for years.

But that can't be right. Maine remembers Wash saying 'seven or eight months,' not seven or eight years.

Some part of Maine argues that the stone place was just a dream. That this place may be one as well. The rest of him thinks that this feels pretty fucking real. And if this feels real, and Wash remembers the dream, too…

Utterly baffled, Maine belatedly realizes that the Roaka is still nearby. He makes a sharp, impatient shooing motion, as though he's waving off a fly rather than a tree-creature even taller than himself. Then, temporarily disregarding the briefcase (the mission) at his back, Maine steps closer to his friend. Like peering down at Wash from a different angle will erase some of the years — or like he's the one seeing things, and getting closer will somehow help him unsee it. ]

Those things're...fine. They're not gonna hurt us. We're fine. [He directs the last bit at the Roaka, neutral but firm. It seems...unwilling to just leave the pair of them to their own devices, but he meets the tree-person's eyes with enough iron behind them to apparently get it to back off.]

[Some part of him screams it: get back, get your hands on a weapon. The part of him that trained itself to anticipate the Meta's every movement in preparation for the inevitable betrayal that would probably get him killed goes rigid, desperate for a weapon, for some distance between them.]

[The part of him that's too tired to care lets it happen.]

It's okay, buddy. I'm okay. Just...tired.

[He's not hurt. Not in any tangible sense.]

Are you...okay?

[ Wash's declaration that he's "okay" earns an audible scoff from Maine. A quick, wordless "bullshit" without much thought behind it. Much as Maine trusts his teammate, he knows what he's seeing. And what he sees shouldn't be possible.

The massive man stops just out of arms reach. Stares down at Wash through his visor for a moment, then mimics the other man and pulls his helmet off again. Concern is plainly visible alongside Maine's confusion; he has no fucking idea what's happening, but it's easy to see that he's not buying just "tired."

One muscular shoulder rises in a shrug as Maine brushes Wash's question aside. He's fine. He's always fine. Always survives, no matter what mission he's sent on. More importantly (to him): ]

Said "months."

[ It's not an accusatory statement. If anything, Maine sounds like he thinks he may have heard it wrong. He's not even sure if it was real. Not sure if Wash remembers it at all. ]

Yeah. I did.

[Fuck. He's come up against the barrier of his own deception far sooner than he had time to plan for. Part of him didn't want to fucking hope, but that was a stupid instinct, and he really should've known better. Should've known to at least plan, prepare.]

[Where's all that paranoia gone, Agent Washington? It's not good for an actual full night's sleep but it's good for something, and he's been pouring it all in the wrong directions.]

I've been here...for months. Back home, it's been...a little longer.

[ A deep frown settles on Maine's face as he continues to stare down at his friend. That Wash intentionally deceived him doesn't cross Maine's mind. (He rarely realizes when those he trusts are lying to him.) Instead, Maine is struggling to make sense of an impossible situation. Struggling to understand how Wash looks so much older than he should.

Dark eyes move away from Wash's face, flicking quickly over his armor. Noting all the differences between this model and the one he remembers Wash wearing. He parts his lips, intending to ask how long it's been…

And then Maine presses his lips back together. Buries his confusion and concern; forcibly drags his attention away from his own bewilderment and back to the situation at hand. Not the impossibility of it, but the practical question of how to survive. ]

Sitrep.

[ All business. Like he's not feeling half-crazy at all. They can address what happened at home — how long it's been — after Maine knows what their status here is. ]

All right.

[He owes him that much. (How much? How much do you tell him?) Well, he'll figure it out as he goes. Improvising isn't ideal, but sometimes it's the only option you have available. He can at least say he's gotten better at it.]

[Wash jams his helmet back over his head, as if closing the window to the physical shift might make it easier to regard the passage of time, or lack thereof.]

But not here. This place is pretty unstable, and I don't want to be here when another rockslide starts up.

[ With a nod, Maine accepts that condition and turns his back on Wash. Slips his helmet back on as he moves to collect his belongings — the knapsack with his name on it and the silver briefcase that he'd killed for.

(Save for the metal dataport at the base of Maine's skull, the back of the big Freelancer's head is bare. "Metastability" isn't a word he knows, let alone a concept that would dominate his life.)

There's a moment spent debating how to best carry everything. Then Maine scoops up both briefcase and knapsack in his left hand, takes his pistol in the other — he'd prefer the Brute Shot, but it's easier to keep that on his back — and turns to Wash with another nod.

Lead the way, Wash. ]

[Wash's gaze lingers over his old teammate's just a bit longer than it should - taking in the bare skull, the knapsack, the pistol, the briefcase. It takes time to order and reorder his thoughts into something he can verbalize, the way it never did before. He was far better at spitting out words, back then, going toe-to-toe with York's wit and making up for the stoicism of some of his teammates.]

[But eventually, he nods and starts moving for the island's mana pool.]

You see what's in your pack yet? Everyone gets one when they show up here. Sometimes you get stuff that's useful, and sometimes you get stuff that's...not.

[ The delay is an odd one. The silence that accompanies it isn't comfortable. Maine bears it without flinching, fighting the nagging sensation that he's being scrutinized. Tries not to think too carefully about why.

There'll be time to ask questions later. Right now, he needs to focus on the objective.

When Wash finally moves, Maine follows. Keeps his eyes on their surroundings, alert to any sign of potential threats. Trusts his teammate to navigate — Wash is the only one among them that knows where they're going, after all.

To the question, Maine shakes his head. ]

Just woke.

[ Woke up to an unknown creature prodding him, then nearly attacked it on instinct. Good thing Wash ran so fast. ]

Fair enough.

[He remembers the dream - both of them - but that doesn't mean that the explanation was enough to fully contextualize where they've both ended up. It took Wash, for his part, some days of...adjustment.]

[He had help. He and C.T. were fumbling through it together, until one day they weren't.]

Mana pool's down this way. We can take it back to where I'm...living, I guess you could say.

[ The mention of a mana pool brings more memories of the rabbit to mind. Something about sigils, flowers, and transportation. Then the word "living" comes out of Wash's mouth, unceremoniously dropkicking those thoughts right out of Maine's head.

Living. Not staying, or camping, or anything that speaks of something short-term. Living.

It's been seven or eight months, Maine reminds himself. It's reasonable that Wash would start calling his base of operations the place that he lives. It may not even hold the same connotation for Wash that it does for Maine.

Still.

Maine falls silent as they move. He's thinking. Processing. Struggling to decide whether he believes this is real or not. It certainly feels real. And he can't imagine why his unconscious mind would spit out an image of Wash looking so … ragged.

When they arrive at the mana pool, Maine finally speaks again: ]

Hallucinating?

[ Which may be a stupid question to ask of a possible hallucination. It's not one that Maine would voice to many, either. But Wash is his friend; Maine trusts him. ]

I don't think this is.

[He'd ask, but...he's seen him before. Maine. Maine, as he knew him best, before his throat was torn apart with a full magazine and stitched painfully back together, before his mind was injected with a ball of napalm given voice and given the means to act upon the world. He's seen him when he wasn't certain he'd ever see him again, and he'd known that he wasn't real because everyone was seeing something.]

Hard to verify a...subjective experience. Unless I'm seeing you too. [The word gets a little higher than he means it to, tenuous, close to snapping, but - he reins that back in.]

If it is, it's a pretty consistent one.

[ From the corner of his eye, Maine looks down at Wash. Wonders at the odd stress in his friend's voice. Wonders, and adds it to an ever-growing list of questions — right alongside why Wash asked his name.

After grunting in acknowledgment, Maine considers Wash's words. Finds himself almost immediately annoyed that there's not something they can do to get a definitive answer. He doesn't like uncertainty. Prefers things to be concrete, or at least actionable.

And so, in the vein of dreams: ]

Could pinch.

[ What? It might work. ]

[Wash laughs. It's not a full-throated thing - just a breathy little huff of noise, tired and strained.]

Yeah. Yeah, you could. Would verify whether we're both really seeing this, sure thing.

[Whether he's really seeing his friend.]

[(He's seen him so many times, too many times, to know if he's really seeing him.)]

[If a pinch would do it, he won't complain. He'd forgive entirely too much, over and over again, for no reason besides the obvious: that Maine is here, and he's his friend, and he'd give anything it took to hold him back from what waits for him past this exact moment.]

[But he can't.]

[So instead, Wash crouches, picks one of those flowers that always grows near the mana pool, and twirls it between gloved fingertips.]

[ That's not a great laugh. It might be better than nothing, but it still sounds bad. Still emphasizes how tired Wash obviously is, even with his face concealed by his helmet.

Maine puts those feelings aside. Hums in consideration as he mag-locks his pistol to his thigh and picks a flower as well, mimicking his friend once again. The flower is a nice one, Maine thinks. Has a long enough stem that he can hold it between two fingers while he uses his thumb and forefinger to … well. Pinch himself.

Fully armored, there's not a whole lot available to pinch. But unlike most Freelancers, Maine's shoulders aren't covered by an outer shell. So he pinches the black bodysuit covering his upper arms. Grunts a little when he feels it.

Dammit.

Seeking a second opinion, Maine gestures to Wash and taps the same spot — "pinch."

Sure, it's ridiculous. But it's less ridiculous than trusting a giant rabbit. ]

Oh, what? You're serious?

[Maybe Maine can hear it: the smile in his tone, right-cornered and wry. It's a simple measure, but...it makes sense, the way things here follow their own kind of shitty logic. They met in a dream, and it felt like a dream - a more linear dream than most of his, and less horrifying than his dreams tend to be, but it felt like it enough for him to accept it at face value.]

[Not so much anymore. Can't shrug that away.]

All right, buddy.

[He's quick about it. Reaches up at the black bodysuit and pinches, and - yep. Feels real.]

[ Simple, direct solutions are often the most effective ones, in Maine's opinion. And he feels the pinch. It feels real. He doesn't think that a hallucination could do that. Combine the sharp twinge of pain with everything else…

Shit. This probably is real.

The big Freelancer nods; he felt that. Then, determined not to think on it too hard until he gets that sitrep, Maine raises the flower.

They throw these in the pool, right? ]

[That kind of reaction is one of the things about Freelancer that Wash, though hard-pressed to admit it, might genuinely miss. The ability to take whatever shit is happening and assimilate it into your world-view, because combat won't wait for you to be perturbed or shocked at the presence of anomalies - of aliens, of A.I. jabbering to each other, of armor mods going haywire. You take it into account, and move on.]

[Have your existential crises on your own time.]

Think islets. That's where we're at.

[By we he means the Alpha A.I. you probably have no idea even exists and the plant-tiger that our former teammate adopted, but you know what? He's going to save those explanations for when he has to make them.]

[Fast travel now. Explanations later. A good philosophy.]

[Wash tosses his flower in before he can catch himself second-guessing that.]

[ As far as Maine's concerned, rolling with the punches is the only way to live. If he let himself go to pieces every time an orderly mission went to chaos, he would've died on his first deployment. All he can do is move forward. Deal with whatever emotional bullshit crops up later — or just suppress it until it explodes in the form of anger. Historically, Maine has favored the latter.

"We" gets another look. He hadn't thought to ask Wash who else might be here. But he doesn't interrupt to do it now. He thinks "islets," waits until his friend tosses the flower, then — feeling a little ridiculous — Maine follows suit.

Before Maine can wonder how the hell this is supposed to work, it's already done. ]

[Wash at least has the benefit of experience with teleportation, thanks to Grif's grenades. (He still refuses to call them "futurecubes" out of principle of it.) He can take disorientation in stride, shaking away the disconcerting feeling of the ground abruptly no longer being the ground beneath his feet.]

[Breathe out.]

All right. Ground here is solid.

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