redmarsshit | redshift: tdm #4

redshift: tdm #4

Redshift: Welcome to the v͖͕̺̲̘̱̜͎o̴̦̣̠̦̘̹͞i̯̖d̛̪̬͈̱̦̝͍̕.

▶ Click here to read what characters will experience when arriving in Anchor.

▶ All TDM threads can be considered game canon, and current players are welcome to either top-level on the TDM so prospective players can tag them, or use the prompts for logs or network posts on the communities. All threads on the TDM can be used for Activity Check.

a. the red shit.

There are rumblings in the deepest, most overgrown part of the agricultural area, where until very recently there was a lingering pocket of red algae. The good news is, the red algae is gone! The bad news is, it all got eaten by a mutated bear-thing with giant antlers. The algae did a number on the poor thing, doping it up and confusing it to the point where everything is an enemy.

What’s worse? The algae has adapted, colonizing the creature’s entire body. The algae has mutated in the process, releasing a protective cloud of toxins that causes severe hallucinations, as well as some of the protective and euphoric qualities that the red algae originally possessed. Which means the mutated, antlered, bear-thing is accompanied by a small army of other creatures, from large to small, who are all very invested in its survival and also are being driven crazy by its presence.

Prepare yourselves for one hell of a hunt. These animals can pop up almost everywhere in the agricultural zones, and when they do show their paws it’s to go on a rampage.

b. fashionista.

It wouldn’t be Anchor if the bots weren’t fucking shit up.

This time, the spa bots have gone full stylist coach, chasing down residents and trying to do their hair, nails, makeup, or change their clothes. In some cases, they're literally sweeping people off their feet and carrying them to the hot springs, massage rooms, and spa areas to be pampered. Too bad most of their cosmetics are fifty years out of date and the closests they’ve raided either had another resident’s clothes or moth-eaten dust-covered rags.

Is that the jacket Idris Elba was wearing in the introductory video? It kinda looks like it.

But it’s not all bad! The bots actually give great massages and fantastic mani-pedis. They also have a small stash of fresh cosmetics and clean clothes that got left behind in the spas. They might not fit great, but they look pretty good!

If your character doesn’t practice proper self-care, well. They’d better watch out. These bots have a particular eye for the sad, the filthy, the tired, and they’re going to make sure you get some damn fine pampering.

c. whole foods: 2.0.

Remember that whole Whole Foods grocery store thing that happened? Well, the grocery store and the zombies are still there. Only now there are more zombies, and two giant supply trucks have shown up, one behind and one in front of the store.

The one at the rear of the store can be accessed fairly easily. It’s painted to look like a giant United States flag, with a dramatic crying eagle emblazoned across the back doors. Inside, there is beer. Lots and lots of beer, and a bunch of semiautomatic rifles. Also some skeletons. Seems like the guns and booze didn’t help them.

The one in front of the store is thickly surrounded, the creatures clawing at the plain white sides of the semi like there’s something precious inside.

If Anchorites can make it through, if they can fend off the monsters and keep from getting torn to pieces by a hoard of bloodthirsty beasts, they’ll find out what that precious truck contains.

It’s twinkies. A semi full of twinkies. We hope you’ve got a sweet tooth, Anchor.

Navigation.

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[ Yeah, Carlisle, see how you like it! ]

[ Being a stickler for pronunciation, Qubit repeats the term to make sure he's got it. ] Eksth'alva. [ And he even gets the glottal stop on the first try! Not bad. Anyway, back to the theoretical deep dive. ]

Which is...?

[ He has literally no idea what you're trying not to say, my dude. ]

Nothing. It's nothing.

[Except it absolutely is, and the nervous twist in his brow says so. His eyes avert themselves, landing on the remains of Ol' Shittybones, his throat tightening. He couldn't fully control his aural influence before, and he seems to have an even worse handle on it now, his abilities reaching into both the living and the dead. Qubit has been patient with him, and Carlisle knows good and well he can't deal with this on his own.

He'd sequester himself away as he did years ago, hoping to spare those around him from tragedy, but where is there to go in Anchor? Where can he hide that his compulsion cannot reach? It reached so many in Bear Den, after all, well into the hills and the valley below. He cannot let it happen again, no matter how much he does not want to talk about what he is -- what he's done. Maybe Qubit could help, but only if he knows what it is he's dealing with.

Carlisle always told those who came to his confessional for help that they need only ask for it. They weren't Longinmouths though, people with a bloodline to live up to... but frankly, even he's hardly a Longinmouth at this point.]

Well, it- it is something. [He's back to wringing his hands together, his fingers grasping at themselves as though it'd help him think.] The manipulation of that energy in such a way that it- that it animates the undead, I... I shouldn't be capable of it. It is unusual. Largely unheard of.

Edited 2019-10-26 06:24 (UTC)

[ Generally speaking, concepts like eksth'alva are too abstract to be much use to Qubit, since they're so difficult to pin down and observe and quantify, but he's trying to get a handle on it. The immediate hurdle lies in how the term sort of conflates life with magic, when to him they're clearly not equivalent at all. Drawing on "life energy" would be weird for Carlisle, what with the fact he's not alive and all, so framing this stuff as "magical energy" is a little less of a stretch.

As he tries to extrapolate what makes this so unusual, he finds himself revisiting the "life" definition, but... even then, it doesn't quite track. ]

How do you mean? I was under the impression the undead were fairly common where you're from - is it something other than eksth'alva that powers them, usually? - Or do you mean that you in particular shouldn't be able to do it?

[His frame stiffens; his fingers, entwined with one another, curl in response. Don't make him say it, Qubit. You know. He knows you know.]

Me in particular.

[ ... Ah. So that's where this is going. Qubit glances down at the shitty bone pile, and takes a couple steps away from it, in that way you do when you're trying to pretend you were just going over here anyway, but when there is absolutely no reason for you to be over there except to avoid the thing you're avoiding.

He's not going to make Carlisle say it. But he hasn't forgotten what happened the last couple of times he said it. ]

Because you're not alive.

[Carlisle notices how Qubit steps away, perceptive enough to realize why. His reaction was untempered last time they were out here, more colored by the bitterness and anger characteristic of Revenants; however, he's had time to work on it, to think, to talk to those who knew him elsewhere, who cared about him. He has found some grounding, however unsteady it may be in a place like Anchor.

He pulls in a breath, trying to manage his nerves. It's easier when he's not being accused of being undead - he's acknowledging a truth he's slowly learning to accept as his reality. He's been working on that, too.]

I'm not like them. All that I told you before is true, Mister Qubit. I can show you when we return to Anchor, but- but I should not be capable of raising such abominations. I should be even less capable of controlling the living. And the fact I can apparently do both is... unsettling. Uncomfortable. Horrible, really.

[And tells him a lot about what happened to Bear Den. He's not sure he's ready to face that just yet.]

[ Qubit folds his arms, listening. That his observation didn't set Carlisle off this time tells him Carlisle's beginning to accept it - not emotionally, of course, but intellectually. Also, the tacit confirmation tells him that he was right all along, which is usually something he likes, but in this case it just rings hollow.

(That he said "show" instead of "tell," though, doesn't escape Qubit's notice. Show him what, exactly? Why does it have to wait until they get back?)

It's understandable how reluctant Carlisle's been to admit this, though, in light of his undisguised loathing for all things undead. Maybe he simply hasn't been able to admit it to himself until now. Becoming something he finds abhorrent, and moreover, being able to create more like himself, must be a special sort of hell for him. ]

It is troubling, I'll admit. Especially that you can do both unconsciously.

[ They can't gloss over the danger. Mind control is a pernicious thing, even without conscious malice behind it. It's not hard to imagine a sequence of events in which Carlisle, completely by accident, kills everyone in Anchor and raises their corpses under his command. Horrible indeed. ]

... But the good news is, that part of it is solvable. I've known plenty of people who've had trouble controlling their powers, over the years. If nothing else, we may be able to mitigate the risk to others while you're still finding a long-term strategy.

[He can do it both unconsciously and easily, so easily that he never even realized he'd raised the skeletons in the truck until they came rattling from the back. He's always had to channel through his hands to release such energy, whether it was for healing the flesh or obliterating the undead. How did it travel so far without his knowing? Why could he not feel it?

He folds his arms against himself much like Qubit, his fingers picking at a wrinkle in his sleeve as he caters to his nervous habits. He has no idea how long he spent as the Blight Heir. The final annuls of the Town Chronicler only cover a year and half after his death, but with the way the town looked, it had to be much longer than that before he awakened as himself once more. How much had his abilities changed in that time, his attunement shifting toward the necrotic? How much had they intensified after his passing? Was it possible they were enhanced in some way?

He fidgets uncomfortably, his mind turning. His capacity to heal had always been a gift in life, his true talent -- he'd mended gruesome wounds that would otherwise kill a man, brought back a number of individuals from the very brink of death. He had such a command over his energies that people were almost willing to excuse the fact that he was the cursed son of the Longinmouth line. His only real limitation had been the frailty of his mortal frame -- and it was a severe one, given how his condition tolled his health from the inside and out. His arms would go numb if he channeled through them for too long; the more energy he expelled, the worse the pounding in his head would be, so thunderously loud that it became far more bothersome than the ink that trailed from his mouth, his eyes, his fingernails.

In his final year, he could hardly work for how impairing it was. His body was exhausted, but his energies remained alive, agitated more and more with each passing day. And once he was dead, the shackle of his affliction was gone; his energies were unbridled, unrestrained, and in the worst possible way. The people of Bear Den -- his congregation, his elders, those who had looked to him for help and who he'd known his entire life -- never had a chance, did they?

He trembles silently. He can't think about this -- not now, not out here with Qubit. When they get back, but not now.]

My long-term strategy should be to rend myself from this existence, Mister Qubit, [said so matter-of-factly, as though it's something he's accepted for longer than he's been undead] but... I was unaware I would rise like this. Who is to say the remains of my aura will not somehow manifest themselves as an incorporeal wraith once my physical body is gone? And what humanity would I have left in that form, if any?

[He shakes his head.]

I cannot risk that. Not here, not- not ever again. If there is- if there is any way to mitigate the danger I- that my abilities present to others, I am more than willing to listen, if you would help me.

[ As Carlisle speaks, the cool rationality drains from Qubit's face, replaced with... pity. He knew the man's situation was bad, but it's beginning to dawn on him just how bad.

He hadn't realized Carlisle was considering suicide. And seriously, by the sound of it. Perhaps the fear of it making things worse is all that's stopped him attempting it. But that's not a strategy, damn it. And it's not a solution Qubit will accept. Not now, not ever.

... Until all other options are exhausted.

NO. Not ever. There's another way. There's always another way. (But not always. What if there isn't? What if, to save the innocents of Anchor, you have no choice but to put him down? You could do it. You could be the one to pull the trigger, Qubit, you've done it before-)

He notices, abruptly, how tightly his jaw has clenched, how painfully he's gripping his own arm. He forces those to relax, but his forehead remains knitted with determination. Carlisle is his friend. A good man who's been dealt an unspeakably terrible hand. He'll find another way. That's what he does. ]

Of course. There are plenty of things that could work. We could - [ he unfolds his arms to start gesturing with them ] we could try dampening your mental influence with a - a modified psionic resonator, perhaps devise something that can alert you when your power's active - it might even be possible to nullify them completely, on a temporary basis - although that might be more of a last resort, if your eksth'alva is what's keeping you together -

[ You're rambling again, get to the point. ]

- but of course I'll help you, Carlisle. Ending yourself isn't the answer. We'll find another way. I swear this to you.

[ He shouldn't swear it. Don't make promises you can't keep, Qubit.

But - he has to try.

There must be some way to save Carlisle Longinmouth. ]

[Carlisle would argue that ending himself is not a farfetched solution. If he'd passed away before he isolated himself in his family estate, perhaps his body would have been found, burned, and cleansed of what lingering traces of tainted aura he had, never to rise as an undead at all; if he'd thrown himself into the Cottonmouth after his curse first manifested at his father's funeral, he'd have been buried well beneath the river's waters, his uncles safe from the tragedy his affliction was said to bring; if he'd simply died after his failed Hunt, he'd have never been cursed at all, and perhaps his entire bloodline would be alive and well. Qubit doesn't know he was damned well before his demise. How could he possibly understand?

Carlisle's embittered remorse about his circumstances brings rise to his Revenant nature, but as he brings his eyes to meet Qubit's to retort, he sees determination in the other man's gaze, a strength he wasn't aware he had. It gives Carlisle pause -- and maybe even shame he wasn't sure he could feel anymore -- as it quells the ire stirring within him. He feels plenty of shame about a myriad of things, sure, but not about the fact that had he died earlier, things might have been better. The twice-cursed are said to be harbingers of malady and misfortune, and that is certainly what he's experienced time and time again. The thought that his life might just be a series of tragic coincidences isn't encouraging, either.

It isn't a sin to exist. It's hard to believe Poison's words when the world and culture he comes from have so ingrained into him the superstition and paranoia regarding his condition that they inform his nearly every decision. Carlisle used to worry he made things worse by merely existing when he shouldn't -- now he is utterly terrified he will do the same by not. That dread is all that stayed his hand for so long -- that, and the vain hope he might be able to appeal to his goddess enough that she would somehow cleanse him of his affliction. Perhaps that was never possible, but it gave him purpose all the same. That direction in his life kept him moving, working to be anything other than the failure of the Longinmouth line. His devotion and success as a healer are arguably the only accomplishments he has to his name.

And look where it got him. His home is in ruins, the people he knew and cared for now monstrous shades of their former selves, and he's trapped in another world and poised to do the same again, should he ever lose hold over himself. He went from the failure of the Longinmouth line to the bane of it, and the thought that he may one day become the Blight Heir again, what last vestiges of humanity he has slipping away for reasons beyond his control, is his latest, most overwhelming anxiety.

Nothing he did before made his ultimate fate any better. Why would that change now? Why should he bother trying? Why should he not just walk into the endless wasteland all around them to spare the people of Anchor the potential hazard that is his very being?

He was alone before, isolated, sequestered away because he so believed it was the right thing to do for those around him, for his lineage -- for everyone but himself. He is not alone now. Despite all odds, he has people who are willing to help him -- Poison, Pratt, Qubit. People from other worlds and times with access to resources and knowledge he cannot even fathom. They may be able to help him; he needs only accept what help is offered.

He cannot even begin to understand what a modified psionic resonator is, but the way Qubit rambled about the possible methods of dealing with his uncontrolled abilities does speak volumes of how strongly he feels about this, about finding another way -- about helping him when Carlisle has possibly put him in more danger than not in the two times they've been out here. That means something to the clergyman.]

How it is you can sound so confident about that, I will never know, but I appreciate your fervor all the same. That, and the fact you did not leave me out here last time when you knew what I was, and what danger I presented to you.

[ For a second, Qubit thinks Carlisle's going to protest. Thankfully, he doesn't. Which is good, this isn't a great time for a moral debate in any case. How do you argue for the essential dignity of humanity in someone who's no longer quite human?

Still, he's determined to make it work. And it's not the first time someone's mistaken determination for confidence. Qubit has plenty of experience acting more confident than he feels - it's kind of his default state of being at this point.

A flicker of surprise crosses his face at the suggestion that he could have abandoned Carlisle out here. Certainly it was an option, and it wouldn't have been totally unreasonable, but... he shakes his head. ]

... It never crossed my mind.

[ And that's the unvarnished truth. Even Qubit himself seems a little taken aback. Not just that Carlisle would think him capable of it (he probably is, let's be real), but that it honestly never occurred to him as an option. Perhaps it's just not in his nature to give up on people so quickly. Or at all. Is that a good thing or not? He remembers Modeus taunting him about it, even while using it against him - "So you're jeopardizing the entire world in order to prioritize the life of one person. Again. I expect no less of you. It's part of your charm."

Did he do the right thing then? Is he doing the right thing now?

He can't let himself ask that question, though. Because he already knows the answer.

Instead he smiles, playing it off. ]

Glad my proclivity for reckless self-endangerment is good for something.

Or someone, in this case.

[That's not what Qubit meant, but given the number of times Carlisle has addressed undeads as its and things, he does his best to avoid the same kind of dehumanization for himself. It helps him distance himself from what he truly is, if only mentally.

Despite Qubit's seemingly good nature about having his life risked for nothing, Carlisle cannot help but apologize more. He owes the man some explanations, even if he doesn't know all the answers himself. He looks back toward the hole the shamblers are digging in the distance -- it is quite deep now.]

I apologize for not telling you sooner. I have been struggling to accept it myself -- even more so when my abilities are not what they ought to be. Commanding the undead, even passively, is... new. As is raising them.

[ Qubit shakes his head. Water under the bridge, dude. ] You're telling me now. And I appreciate that. Clearly it's not been an easy pill to swallow.

[ What with the whole Becoming An Unholy Abomination Before Goddess And Man, and all that. That's never gonna be easy to adjust to. He notices the detail Carlisle leaves out, though. ]

And commanding the living...? [ That's not new, is it? ]

[He grunts quietly in his discomfort. His careful avoidance and choice of words mean nothing to someone as perceptive as Qubit, clearly.]

I assumed myself rendered incapable of it. I had hoped I was. My affliction granted me that accursed gift, and it seems not even death could free me of it.

[ Yeah, funny thing about weasel words: they don't work so great on fellow weasels. ]

Being "twice-cursed," you mean.

[ They never did get into what that meant, did they? Is the power one of the curses?

Also, it occurs to Qubit suddenly that ... he doesn't know how Carlisle died. Did he already take his own life once, and his current state was the result? It's a chilling thought, but not one he's going to voice. Not right now. He isn't sure he wants to know. ]

[He nods.]

It is a rare affliction in my world where one is said to be cursed twice: once for dying, and again for bothering our gods by inconveniencing them. They all have... abilities. Gifts they awaken with. These abilities are not widely recorded, as the twice-cursed are not socially accepted in any way. I used to believe myself slighted, cheated out of living. I did not ask to be damned. I did not- I didn't ask to bring down my entire lineage.

[He sucks in a breath, biting down his emotion before it escapes him in full, but his tone betrays him: there is bitterness there, anger. Resentment at his circumstances and a struggle to accept them, despite how he may try.

And he is trying, but every time he thinks things can't get worse, they do.]

Apparently, there is more meaning to the name of the affliction than I realized. They are cursed in life, and in death, they— we rise as Revenants. And... I have realized just now, earlier, that my unique set of abilities are what truly made me an abomination.

Edited 2019-11-08 06:32 (UTC)

[ Qubit folds his arms, listening intently. So it's caused by... dying? No, he was still alive under the curse. Dying and... being resuscitated, then? It sounds cruel. What kind of gods would curse someone to a life of ostracization over an inconvenience?

... Okay, no, lots of gods, come to think of it. That part tracks.

So now Carlisle's a "Revenant," whatever that means. He can hear the capital "R". The fact that they already have a term for it, though, means he's not the first of his kind. ]

What is a Revenant? Had you encountered them before, in - your work? [ He almost said "in life," but maybe that's not the best phrasing. ]

[Carlisle shakes his head.]

They are rare, an anomaly even among the undead. I see now why that is, if only twice-cursed become them.

[He picks again at that wrinkle in his sleeve, trying to bury his nerves; his discomfort is evident.]

Unlike most aberrations, they retain some semblance of who they were in life. A Revenant born of a warrior will remember how to wield his weapon; a Revenant created from an evocationist will still command magic, despite that undeads are usually incapable of such feats. They are creatures of pure malice, recalling just enough of who they used to be to imprison them in bitter torment. They resent their failings, and those who lived when they were not allowed to.

[Spoken like someone who knows good and well what all that feels like on a personal level.]

[ What a horrible fate. One life of suffering ends, and another begins. Can you even imagine that? Trapped in your own decaying flesh, remembering just enough about your former life that it drives you to madness. It strikes him as a vicious cycle, too - if the twice-cursed weren't feared and isolated, if they were allowed to live normal lives, what malice would they have to cling to? ]

... But you're different. You remember yourself fully, and you don't strike me as a "creature of pure malice."

[ It's a question in the form of a statement. Why? ]

[The unsaid why? does not go unnoticed by Carlisle, but he can't say for certain why he is the way he is. Was it his goddess who awakened him? A necromancer? Or a terrible case of serendipity? He can't be sure. What he does know is that he was the Blight Heir, a true horror, and that's something he's not sure he'll ever be able to accept, much less forget. He can't after what he did -- he shouldn't, and no one else should, either.

He wrings his fingers, his eyes hardening on them as he pushes his voice from its hiding place in the back of his throat.]

I am not one anymore.

Edited 2019-11-18 10:20 (UTC)

[ Qubit's eyebrows rise, but not much. He wishes he were more surprised, but he was half-expecting that answer.

He's finally starting to understand the full scope of the problem. The last time they were out here, Carlisle unknowingly commanded a dozen corpses to attack him - and that was just a moment's anger. Now imagine him consumed by it. Filled with resentment and malice over the life he endured, unable to find peace even in death, lashing out indiscriminately at anyone unfortunate enough to get too close. The living and the dead alike, falling under his thrall. And if anyone had the strength to resist... Qubit's eyes fall to the half-zombie nearby, its entrails spilled out on the blasted sands. Even if one somehow resisted his control, how long could they hold off a horde of their undead neighbors?

It turns his stomach. He doesn't know what to say. ]

Carlisle...

[Carlisle's eyes are still on his hands, his fingers wound so tight that the radiation suit over his gloves threatens to tear. He releases his grasp, his entire frame shaking as he crosses his arms. He talks to fill the void, trying to give himself time to recompose; he's more earnest than he means to be, words spilling out of him before he can catch them.]

I thought I fell asleep. It felt so long, and simultaneously as though I'd only just nodded off in my exhaustion, like an unintended nap. Yet, when I awoke, everything had changed. I had changed.

[His hands curl in on themselves, the glow of his eyes brighter in his agitation.]

My family long ago swore themselves to protect Bear Den. I thought they would be in good hands when I passed. As the last of our bloodline, I willed the town everything we had. I could hardly sleep in those final days, but I rested well then, thinking the people would thrive long after us. What followed -- it felt like... dreamlike, unreal. Vague images I could barely recall. Feelings that couldn't have been mine. Faces I should have been able to recognize, but were suddenly foreign to me, their features twisted in agony.

[Across his face is a mixture of shame and disgust, all of it aimed internally. There is bitterness too, the kind of volatile resentment he attributed to Revenants just moments before -- it identifies him now, is as much a part of him as his lineage. He feels it wearing into him, and turns away from Qubit to spare himself some embarrassment. His words come out harsher through his gritted teeth.]

I awakened as myself, yet remained in a nightmare. I am a contradiction, the antithesis of all I ever was and all my family stood against. I wanted so desperately to be anything but the failure of my bloodline, and I became the scourge of it. Everyone I had ever known, everyone I looked to and who looked to me for help, people I had known my entire life—

[Something in his throat gives him pause; he swallows it down, and pushes a breath through him, in and out.]

I realized only just now, out here with you, what happened to all of them. How they ended up the way they were. How they died, and how they reanimated. What I did to them.

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redshift: tdm #4

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cw: suicide & murder talk

cw: more of that

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