redmarsshit | redshift: tdm #5

redshift: tdm #5

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. don't be a sap.

Good morning, October 25th! Whether you're a confused new arrival or a current resident, you probably had some plans for today, right? Grab breakfast, visit a friend, pick some fruit, explore a new part of the massive city.

Well. Too bad. Because, as every single bot in the city will be telling you the moment you show your face, it's GOOP FESTIVAL DAY! What? You've never heard of it? Preposterous, everyone knows about the Goop Festival, it's one of the most anticipated holidays in Anchor! Haven't you been preparing for this for a week now?

The Goop Festival is a harvest celebration, in particular, a celebration of the sap-producing trees that grow wild in the Park, thick around the edges of the south side of the lake. The bots have been hard at work setting up the festival grounds in the shade of the trees in the balmy fall temperatures. There are spiles tapped into trees with buckets placed underneath that are already half-full of a thick, viscous, amber-colored sap. The bots have also set up troughs of shaved ice with long sticks nearby, with which they will demonstrate for excited residents (you are excited, right?) how to cool the sap in the ice and wrap it around the stick to make it a sort of taffy candy. That's not the only sweet surprise waiting, either.

A long table set up in the grass is loaded down with all sorts of delicious sap-related goodies, ranging from cupcakes with thick globs of sap-flavored frosting to sap-flavored jerky to sap sugar candies, and just about anything else you can imagine. There are a wide variety of offerings that would taste good coated, flavored, or glazed with the sap, which tastes sort of like a caramelized toffee. Another table is laid out that has row upon row of cups, each half-full of the sap, heated lightly to a thinner consistency and served similarly to hot chocolate - at least, if hot chocolate gave you a floaty, happy, hazy sort of feeling. Everything made with this sap does, actually, with the cups of pure sap having a stronger effect and items with less sap content having barely any effect at all.

Does this not sound like your cup of weird tree sap? Too bad. This is the GOOP FESTIVAL, and everything is shut down for this lovely paid vacation day. Spa? Locked down. Kitchens? Locked. Bar? Nope, totally shut down and the server bots are all down at the park. VR Gaming? Too bad, the computers are all shut down. Even roaming the halls and trying to stay out of the way won't help much...be prepared to be dragged down to the park to participate in this mandatory festival! Isn't it exciting?

b. familiar ground.

Every year in Anchor near the end of October, there's a very strange interaction between the protective dome over the city and seasonal radiation surges that happen in the wastelands. Some complicated combination of refraction and reflection means that for the last few days of the month, residents will experience some of the more benign effects of the red shift inside the city.

Did we say benign? Because while there may not be any dangerous radiation to melt your skin off, there are some mind-bending dangers. Characters experiencing the shift will find the world becomes distorted, warped, impossible to navigate; they are enveloped in auditory and visual hallucinations, and can become so disoriented that they can't even recognize people they've known for years. And characters will find that the citywide shift brings in slivers of other universes, little slices of places characters have never seen before...or places so familiar they make the heart beat hard with joy or fear.

And just like in the wastelands, the things that show up in these shifts are all too real. Characters may find themselves walking through a door into a scene straight from home, or from someone else's home. Whether it's a favorite place to share with a new friend, or the nightmare landscape you almost died in, complete with the monster that almost killed you, be careful. Everything you experience here is real, and if you die in the shift, you die for real.

Of course, the city has its own safety measures in place - residents experiencing the hallucinations and appearances of items and places from other worlds may find themselves locked down in the room they're in, trapped with the otherworldly effects of the shift.

c. the virus.

A few weeks ago, people in Anchor started getting a case of the sniffles. While some of the earliest cases might be clearing up, there are still a few people suffering, or people freshly infected by those who were sick earlier, including some of the new arrivals who may not even be feeling it yet.

Which may make the cause of some unexpected 'glitches' around the city a little unclear. Residents who are feeling the effects of the illness, or who are infected but not showing symptoms yet (or anymore) will find that their access to certain parts of the city are restricted. Suddenly, automatic doors aren't opening for them, as if they were ghosts, particularly when they try to access anything that may facilitate transmission of the virus. Suddenly, only some of the residents of the city will find they can't get into half of the MedBay, or the spa, the kitchens, the VR or games rooms, the bar...anywhere people gather or eat or sit close together.

Residents may put together that it's related to the illness some of them have been experiencing over the past few weeks, but it might take a while, since these safety and security measures are affecting people who are showing no symptoms yet. Be prepared for a few days of paranoia while seemingly perfectly healthy people are locked out of common areas. What does the computer know that residents don't? Are these people security risks? Is it a system glitch? What could be going on?

c. the network.

Need to get hold of someone, call for help, ask the city at large a question? Need to warn a friend not to leave their apartment unless they want to be forcibly press-ganged into the Goop Festival? Maybe you need to hold your sat phone up to whatever crazy thing you're seeing and send out a recording to double-check if your eyes are deceiving you and what you're looking at is real?

Whatever the reason, the network is going strong, so feel free to include a post to it in your top-levels.

Mod Note: The "familiar ground" prompt will be active between October 29th and October 31st; "the virus" prompt will be active until the next introductory mingle, which will be kicking off the second part of the illness plot.

Navigation.

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[Carlisle's energies are still unbalanced, skittering frenetically beneath his skin. It feels like a dozen, contrasting sensations all at once, each focused on a different part of his body: tingling, searing, prickling, throbbing, freezing, aching. None of it lines up, made even worse by the outburst he just weathered through; even standing still, he is experiencing a burdening discordance, one that makes it nearly impossibly to think clearly. It's a miracle he is in control of himself at all.

Perhaps he will one day come to appreciate his marvelous ability to maintain his consciousness and stifle out the raucous distraction of the wild magic that keeps him animated, but for now, it's still a bit much to deal with on top of Qubit's clear disinterest in talking about... well, all this.]

I was hoping you would tell me without my having to ask.

[Carlisle does his best to keep his tone steady, impassive as he offers Qubit a chance to tell him something, anything.]

I advise you -- politely -- to not insist this is nothing, Mister Qubit.

Edited 2019-12-18 01:53 (UTC)

[ The tone is what finally puts some contrition into him. It's quieter, more controlled... cautious. The realization is a little jarring. Qubit's well used to handling Carlisle with care, double-filtering his words, taking pains not to anger him unnecessarily. This is just the same thing in reverse.

He's as dangerous to Carlisle as Carlisle is to him.

That's not news to Qubit - the notion's been bouncing around his head for several minutes - but this solidifies it, the realization that they both know. Is this how it feels from the other side? What must it be like to feel this all the time?

... Well, that road only leads to one place. Focus on the present. On the plus side, it means Carlisle's not immediately blaming him for what happened. He's not accusing him of wrongdoing, or demanding the truth. Maybe he just... genuinely wants to know. Not for any concrete purpose. Just... because.

Qubit's shoulders sag as he exhales. Come to think of it, he hasn't told Carlisle anything at all about himself, has he? He's a secretive bastard, sure, but total secrecy wasn't his intention. It just... never happened to come up. Everything so far has revolved around Carlisle, and Qubit didn't bother trying to change that. What must that look like from Carlisle's perspective? A complete stranger, bizarrely invested in his well-being for reasons unknown? That's hardly fair.

But where does he start?

Right where Carlisle left off, he supposes. ]

You're right. It's not nothing.

[ All these nothing skeletons. He takes another moment to compose himself, line up his thoughts. ]

... The children didn't die here, if that's any comfort. [ Probably not. ]

It was in Jackson, Tennessee. About two years ago. [ That long? ] There was - a terrible accident. Something got loose. A sort of... ultrasonic pathogen, a living sound. It only affected children, their immune systems couldn't fight it off, and from there the vibration liquefied their soft tissue in minutes, leaving only... their skeletons. Animated skeletons.

[ He rubs his eyes with one hand - they're still dry, though. Despite the content, this is something he can discuss without upset. It was horrifying at the time, of course - unspeakably tragic. But all the horror and tragedy since then have sort of put it in perspective. And even back then, Qubit wasn't the one hardest hit by it. ]

We managed to eradicate the virus, fortunately... before it could spread any further. But by then it was far too late for the victims.

[Well, that is something, and a horrible something, from the sound of it. Carlisle has dealt with many an undead in his time, most of them former adventures and warriors, shambling husks with no sense of identity or morality. Risen beasts were rarer, but not unheard of, certainly not when a talented necromancer was afoot. He has been lucky to never have to deal with undead children.

Well, he was until now. He doesn't exactly have a soft spot in his heart for kids, but there's no denying the tragedy of something like this happening to them, their entire futures stolen from them in a matter of minutes. They were damned through no fault of their own, irreversibly changed through circumstances rather than choice.

Perhaps it wounds Carlisle so because he can relate. He presses a hand to his middle absentmindedly, resting on the same spot he grasped reflexively in his agony. The scars still ache from time to time through the relative emptiness he feels there; he assumes what pangs he feels now are from the agitation of his energies rather than compassion.]

But why are they here? [He tries not to sound accusatory; neither of them can handle that right now.] And who are 'we'? Those other people?

[He cocks his head slightly toward the ruined picture.]

[ Already standing sideways to the picture, Qubit turns his head toward it - which, coincidentally, should allow Carlisle to see his expression again. It's still a stoic mask, mostly, except for the upward curve of his eyebrows. ]

We called ourselves the Paradigm. "Earth's mightiest protectors." ... That was the intent, anyway.

[ He points to it casually, without any real force. ]

See the man in the center, there? In the white and red? ... That's the Plutonian. Tony, to his friends.

[ Tony, before. Tony, the way Qubit wants to remember him. His brow creases further, and he feels the thing stirring in his chest- No. None of that. He pulls his eyes away, focusing instead on a spiderweb pattern of cracks in the wall. ]

... He lived here.

[Carlisle watches what little of Qubit's expression he can see, trying to read him the way he would someone coming to his church to confess their sins. It may not have been his place, but he often couldn't help but try to determine whether or not they were legitimately repenting for their misdeeds, or simply confessing because it was the socially acceptable thing to do. He saw a lot of both in life: hardened, ruthless men honestly begging for the Clarity's forgiveness, hoping to turn over a new leaf; unremarkable individuals acknowledging their petty wrongdoings, but refusing to change their ways for the better, leaving with the smug satisfaction that they could do it again and be forgiven just as easily; lost and aimless folk who sought any kind of direction in their lives, and hoped the divine would give it to them if they asked hard enough.

Qubit's expression, as much as he tries to mask it, gives plenty away when combined with his body language. There is longing, anguish, private torment etched into his brow. Gauging by his casual gesture, he's doing his best to bury it all down, down, but there's only so far down it can go before it hits stone. Keep burying and it'll pile up until it can no longer be contained. As a man who did the same himself loads of times, forced to maintain his composure for the sake of his name and occupation no matter what horrible accusations were being thrown at him, Carlisle can relate to that, too. He cracked under the pressure on occasion, but only once he was in the sanctuary of his estate, where he could drown himself in liquor. No one could see him there; only he could judge himself, and he was never kind when he did. Drinking himself in to a stupor was easier than dealing with the mounting anxiety he felt as his affliction worsened.

Easier, but not a permanent solution. Even death wasn't a permanent solution.

He pulls in another breath and tries to paint a more complete picture for himself. Paradigm, their intentions good. Qubit was one of them, which does take steps to explain why he would be so focused on working for the good of Anchor. It's in his nature. That's reassuring. However, it all went wrong somewhere along the way, and the accident in this Jackson, Tennessee place was likely not the first signs of trouble, nor the last. Qubit points out Tony first, his expression winding tighter before he pulls his eyes away. Was he the catalyst? Possibly, if this was his home.

... 'Home' in the loosest sense, of course. Who lives somewhere that is unbearably hot and has a collection of dead children?]

I assume he lives here no longer, and that Paradigm is no more.

Correct. On both counts.

[ He's quieter saying that. Somber. He's aware of what Carlisle was really asking, though, and clarifies - ]

Kaidan and Gilgamos are still around. Or were, when I left them.

[ He wonders, sometimes, how they're getting on in his absence. He intends to master time travel, of course, and return to the exact moment he left - he intends to be there for them, to help rebuild the world, after the Porter took him from it at such a precarious time - he would never abandon them for this long, not with so much left undone...

... Yet at other times, he wonders if, perhaps, everyone's doing just fine without his "help."

He tries not to wonder that too often. ]

We didn't find out about this until much later. Well after Jackson.

[ He tilts his head back, absently turning his eyes to the ceiling. ]

Looking at it now, I think... it was his way of trying to undo what happened there. That was the only thing he wanted, really. A do-over. [ Sighs heavily. ] Don't we all. But... some mistakes can't be unmade.

[That sentiment strikes Carlisle hard, his chest aching from the impact. He's thought more than once on what he'd do if given another chance at life, at avoiding this ultimate, undead fate of his and all that came with it. He's considered which would be better: if he'd died earlier to circumstances within his control, or if he'd never lived past the injury that cursed him in the first place. It's easy for him to view both as failures, personal mistakes: he was such a coward that he couldn't even die properly, not even when given the chance. Would he have done it if he'd known about the Blight Heir? About what he would do to the people of Bear Den?

As much as he'd like to change it -- all of it -- Carlisle has always known there's no rewriting the past; he must keep pressing forward, making amends and using his skills in the hopes of appealing to his goddess (and himself, a man in desperate need of some reason to validate his existence). It's either that, or he ends up stagnating, suffocating, drowning in his own regrets. He's done enough of that for several lifetimes, if his Revenant form and his embittered temper are any indication.

It's a difficult undertaking, and one he's still not sure is worth it, but it's all he has sometimes. His brow furrows, his arms folding in a barely flexible fashion as he tries to protect himself from his discomfort.]

Those children were better put out of their misery than existing like that.

[There's no cruelty in his voice, but a purposeful sobriety as he fights to keep his tone even. Qubit knows well enough how Carlisle feels about undeads -- and unlike many, he knows why he would feel that way, why he would take umbrage with anyone being kept in that state, forced to live with what they'd become and all the horrors associated with it.]

Oh, there was no misery to put them out of.

[ He means that to be reassuring, but it comes out sounding ... sort of resigned, almost clinical. He turns back toward Carlisle, finally, and taps one of his temples. ]

Their brains were destroyed with the rest of them. By the time their bones got up and walked, the child was already gone. So they didn't suffer long. [ a twitch of the shoulders that's barely a shrug. ] Not that that makes it any better, but.

[ But they were mindless, that's what he's getting at. There was no awareness in them, only the drive to seek out the living and propagate the virus through their screams. It only looked like they were begging for help. ]

[Despite the cold, clinical nature of what Qubit is saying, Carlisle seems to take comfort in it regardless. He spent many years dispatching the undead; it was always easier not to view them as people, but as creatures. Unfortunately, that now puts him in a position where he logically has to view himself as a creature, as well -- as something less than human, an aberration barely deserving of his existence.

It's not something he would wish on anyone, certainly not innocents, and in that moment where the skeleton tugged at his coat, seemlingly begging him for answers, Carlisle saw himself in them, a man in constant argument over his identity and self-worth, pleading for someone to give him purpose enough to keep moving forward.]

Ah. Truthfully, there is some relief in knowing that they weren't... well. [He gives a little shrug himself. That they weren't like him, alone and confused and struggling to adapt.]

What happened to your friends? To this 'Tony' and all the others?

[ Qubit's quietly glad of it too, in a way. The situation was terrible enough as it was; what would they even have done if the children were still conscious?

But then Carlisle drops the million-dollar question.

Qubit closes his eyes, takes a deep breath through his nose, his mouth going tightly drawn. And really, does he need to say anything? He already named the two who are still around. Carlisle's a smart man, surely he's picked up on the hints. ]

[Yeah, Qubit doesn't need to elaborate. Carlisle has lost enough people in his life to know the agony of it, the struggle of grieving. He never did learn how to cope with it properly; it was easier to focus on his work and those who needed his guidance than it was to guide himself through his troubles. Whenever he felt that intolerable loneliness eating at him, he would bury himself in his work or he would drink, putting off his grief as he settled into the denial that his uncles would return one day, and all would be well.]

I see.

[He glances back at the picture, at all those proud faces of Paradigm, and for a moment, he's back in his father's study, gazing up at the painting above the mantle of his father and his uncles. Though long gone, the burden of their absence never got easier to bear, the weight always that much heavier when he gazed upon that painting. What would they think of him now?]

And I suppose what happened to them cannot simply 'be fixed,' no matter how much you may wish it.

[ No. Not simply.

In the end, he couldn't turn back the clock. He managed to give Tony a second chance, but not the do-over he so desperately wanted. And that was only Tony. What about the others? Did they deserve any less? What about the people of Sky City, of Singapore, of Earth, of the galaxy, of every distant world they ever touched? The victims not just of Tony's rage, but of Hornet's fear, or the General's desperation, or Qubit's -

- or just Qubit? All the victims of Qubit's rage and fear and desperation and devotion and grief and that thing that keeps clawing at his heart from the inside, even now?

But it's not a "thing," obviously. There's no thing, no separate entity that he can blame. There is no Hyde to his Jekyll, no Blight Heir to his Longinmouth.

There is only Qubit, alone.

The long silence breaks with a shudder and a quiet, strained gasp. He clenches his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut, but he cannot stop his face contorting, or the first burning tears from spilling down his cheeks. ]

[Oh. Oh no. Oh no no no, that was probably not the right thing to ask, Carlisle realizes belatedly, his brow knitting with worry as Qubit's impassive mask finally cracks. He doesn't know what to do or what to say—

But sometimes, there's nothing one can say. None of the consolatory platitudes offered to him years ago brought his family back, and it's the same here. And as ashamed as he may be to admit it, there is respite to be found in unadulterated emotion, in allowing the facade to come down and letting oneself feel. Carlisle was once too practiced in that, in holding himself together until he was alone. It was then that he could scream and sob and drink himself into a stupor, but never a moment before; he hid how the weight of his responsibilities wore on him, caging his unfettered emotions until he could suffer in his anguish alone.

That had not ended well for him, given how such behavior gave way to embittered resentment, which in turn gave rise to a true monster wearing his face. He cannot take back what he did or what he became... and he would do just about anything to keep someone else from suffering the same way, particularly someone he considers -- however privately -- a friend.

Qubit is not alone, though perhaps he doesn't realize that, or is unwilling to admit it. Shoulder those burdens, carry that weight, it's all on you -- it's painfully familiar rhetoric in which Carlisle assumes Qubit is unfortunately well-versed. They may be very different men in a lot of ways (and Carlisle is still on the fence about whether or not he even counts as a person anymore), but he cannot bring himself to let Qubit suffer completely and utterly on his own, no matter what may have happened to his teammates. Qubit has genuinely tried to help him, after all, Carlisle is sure of it -- he ought to do the same, if he can.]

I- I'm sorry, Mister Qubit. [He steps a little closer, palms up in a gesture of openness, harmlessness.] I... I know what it is like to have lost everyone you ever cared for. It was long before the Blight Heir that I lost what family I had, and I wonder, even to this day, what part I played in their deaths. Was there another way? S- something I could have done differently that would have changed the outcome?

[Not that Carlisle knows that Qubit is directly responsible for some of the deaths he shoulders, and indirectly responsible for others, as opposed to ends of the Longinmouths due to unfortunate circumstances well beyond Carlisle's control; however, the survivor's guilt, how it eats a person alive, how it can change someone and twist them into a husk of their former selves -- that, he knows. He flicks his wrist, conjuring a small square of cloth akin to a handkerchief, and offers it to Qubit.]

One would think I, of all people, would know how to put the ghosts of the past to rest. I have yet to find a way.

Edited 2019-12-22 08:19 (UTC)

[ While Carlisle speaks, Qubit presses one hand to his eyes, the other to his waist. The silent sobs keep coming, the tears keep flowing - he's given up on trying to stop them altogether, but he still doesn't want Carlisle to see him like this. What good is he like this? What purpose does it serve?

He has enough presence of mind to listen, though. And he recognizes that Carlisle's trying to reach out to him, to commiserate. There are similarities, common threads in their subjective experiences of grief, as there were between him and Peter. Losing everything. Failing the people they were supposed to defend. Going back over the events, analyzing each inflection point ad nauseum, searching the past for opportunities to do better, kicking themselves for each one missed.

But just as with Peter, comparing them twists his gut with an intense, visceral repulsion. It's not the same. Carlisle's spent his entire life struggling to overcome the stigma of his curse, only to have it all backfire through no fault of his own. He's a good man who deserves so much better than he got, not a bastard who got better than he deserves.

Eventually Qubit opens his eyes, dragging his hand down his face - only to find Carlisle offering him a handkerchief, of all things. He stares at it for a moment as if he doesn't know what it is, but then takes it and wipes his eyes. ]

... I'm not sure ... there is a way.

[ His voice is trembling. It sounds alien to him. He dabs at the sweat dripping down his forehead.

For some reason, he's reminded of something Reynir mentioned a while back. How mages can hear the voices of the damned, the trapped souls that scream and scream and never stop. There's no respite, no way to turn it off, and only one way to cope. ]

Perhaps we'll just ... get used to it.

[Carlisle nods, politely averting his eyes as Qubit blots away sweat and tears. No one wants to be seen for the mess they are beneath the stoic visage; he's been there.]

Perhaps. Either we will find the strength to shoulder our burdens, allow others to help us carry them, or be crushed beneath their relentless pressure. All unfortunately difficult choices.

[His eyes flick back to Qubit, the glow of them still vibrant, but sharply focused.]

But for now, we should find a way out of this place before you melt.

[That's his way of insisting they can discuss this further at a later date, if need be, as Qubit has offered him a few times before.]

[ Yeah. Yeah, those options sound pretty accurate. Though he has to wonder how much anyone actually could help him carry this. Kaidan could, maybe - he's never known anyone so resilient, and she always could read him like an open book. Anyone else, though? Hm.

The suggestion that they leave takes a moment to register in his mind, but when it does, his relief is palpable. Carlisle's satisfied for now, and offering him an out. Thank God.

But as he's about to agree, the portrait catches his eye one last time, the ghosts of the past smiling down at him. And it occurs to him, seeing them all together again, united, happy - that it's not just the Paradigm that he misses. It's the Paradigm. The lofty ideals. The dream of a better world. The hope. It was poisoned from the start, of course, he knows that now. There's a lot he knows now. There's so much he would do differently, if he had it to do over...

... He thinks, not for the first time, of Mallus.

He tears his eyes away, glances to Carlisle briefly, then to the doorway on the opposite side of the room. ]

Couldn't agree more.

[Qubit looks to that portrait one more time, and Carlisle lets him, hoping he's finding some solace in the memories of the friends he so misses, of days long gone and never to be found again. He knows he wouldn't find even a speck of respite in such reminiscing, but maybe Qubit does.

He waits quietly for Qubit to address him again.]

Lead the way. I assume you'll warn me of any further skeleton-filled rooms, and help me plan accordingly.

There aren't any others.

[ There's a certain finality in the way he says it. He went over the entire place the last time he was here. There aren't any more rooms full of corpses. Nor should there be any other nasty surprises.

But he won't find closure here, either.

Qubit leads the way. They've wasted enough time here, anyway... and they have work to do. ]

[ Handwaved: They eventually find their way back out. Qubit takes some samples of "black bile" from Carlisle's clothing for later testing.

They'll have to test out the Tube some other time. ]

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redshift: tdm #5

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cw: vague suicidal ideation

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