Priority Log - Part 2

[locomodo]

Log 06 Priority (Part II)

Still the Big Screen Car

The last two weeks have been a busy time at FONY Records! Maybe you've been working diligently on your upcoming projects — or maybe you've been fighting the sense that something is wrong. That this life, whether it's better or worse than before, is not your own.

Either way, passengers will finally receive a new objective on their phones...

> Looking back is blinding.



From here on out, characters can regain their real memories. They can do so randomly, but the most reliable way is to work with another passenger: they will know that by touching foreheads (yes, headbutting counts) for pairs, or huddling very closely for groups, they will unlock some memories for one or all of them — of course, it also allows the other person to see and feel everything play out, as though they lived it themselves.

It's memshare time!

As passengers regain their memories, their AU lives will start to fade. Production crews disappear, texts from your parents delete themselves, your favorite coffee shop is suddenly empty... Because you can't have both.

At least one character will need to reject the AU in order for everyone to progress; there is no minimum comment count. Characters may go both routes, but should ultimately prioritize one for the AC Poll.

Remembering

As characters regain the memories of their real lives, all semblance of their fake ones will rapidly disappear.

And choosing to remember comes with side effects: passengers are overtaken by a fierce chill as the source of the cold finally presents itself. The shadows in the empty buildings around them start to stretch out. These shades collect in huge swathes — and shape themselves into sharp, spindly arms and fingers. They'll grab at whoever passes, leaving them cold and constricted, making it hard to remember what's happened and trying to drag them back into the illusions of the AU. However, when these shadows have manifested, they're also vulnerable: they can be dissolved by using a strong light, like a fire, flashlight, or stage light. Even sunlight will do the trick, but physically resisting the shadows will grow more and more difficult as they sap warmth from everything they touch.

For those less physically inclined, the shades have one more weakness: real, happy memories. By focusing on something that brought them past comfort, however small, characters can drive off the shades little by little.

This force controlling the AU clearly lives in shadows. Characters can weaken it by confronting these shades, in which case they will find themselves alone with their memories and a ghostly, empty city of Danaca.

Resisting

But maybe you don't want to remember—maybe your life in Danaca is too good to give up, and you'd rather have this even if it's not real. Unfortunately, once the illusion starts to shatter, there's no stopping the cracks from spreading.

Characters that don't regain their memories through contact with other passengers (whether intentionally or unintentionally), will still find their fake identities starting to fade away, but their real identities won't be able to fill the gaps. Instead, they'll find themselves... hollow. Devoid of personality, hopes and dreams. Empty.

...And in that empty space, something else might slip in. The steady collapsing of Danaca has left plenty of strong emotions and ghosts hovering in the air, and passengers might find themselves embodying a powerful current of despair or anger. Or perhaps one of the false denizens might inhabit them (Chadsef, anyone?). Contact with another passenger might also ignite enough memory to return their personality, but it might also give them the wrong one; they might start acting like someone from their memories instead, such as a childhood friend (or enemy).

Regardless of the scenario, there is one common thread: an innate desire for contact with other passengers. Though they won't remember why, passengers will eventually be driven to reclaim their original selves through memshare with other characters. Whether they get everything back before they leave is up to you!

OOC Notes

AC Check is up! The deadline to submit AC is December 1st, 11:59 p.m. EST. Please note this is a day extended as we've pushed the log back a day, AC schedule overall will remain as normal.

Memshare: To add a little spice, memories do not need to be limited by your character's canon point. That is to say, sharing scenes from your character's future will also count as memshare.

Continuing Memloss: Characters may or may not regain all their memories prior to leaving the car, player's choice. The memshare mechanic will no longer be in effect, however players are free to naturally regain memories over time.

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for dimitri.

[shaft]

[ It's gotten colder lately, inexplicably. And though Danaca's weather is both reasonably mild and terrifyingly cold in the winter, Claude feels a little unprepared for it. It feels unfamiliar this year, like he can't ever remember having seen his breath in the air or a heavy snowfall.

Something feels... off. And he hates it, because the instinct just dangles there—a thread that he can't grasp or make sense of. There's nothing he can do but carry this feeling with him.

That maybe he should be somewhere else. ]

Ugh, this dreary weather is getting to me. [ He grumbles a little, huddling closer to Dimitri under the blanket, his forehead knocking into his chest.

Where else would he want to be, though? Other than this swanky apartment, offering graciously by his parents, in a warm bed with a boy that he likes. He'd be happy spending several days like this, not just this moment. ]

I hope I'm not getting that weird flu that's going around.

[overruns]

[ The last few weeks have been pleasant. No major incidents after the garbage heap, and they've settled enough now that staying over at Claude's place is comfortable—even with how busy things are, it's nice. Except that even here, even knowing that, there's a thread of restlessness that tangles up his thoughts, a growing sense of wrong that he's tried to shake for weeks and can't seem to shake.

It's like constantly feeling late for something. Having a dream about an exam that doesn't exist. Standing somewhere and forgetting where you're going, and where you came from. He's already zoning out a little when he Claude bumps into him, bringing him back into the moment and swaddling the covers a little closer to them both. ]

Are you not feeling well?

[ He doesn't seem feverish, but they've all been a little under the weather lately. ]

There's been a lot of people out sick at work lately...

[shaft]

[ Dimitri pulls the blankets around them, and suddenly Claude can feel himself tense. He moves on instinct, and he's pulling away before he even realizes what he's doing, jarred by the proximity.

He's pushed himself up on one arm when he pauses, puzzled by his own actions. ]

... No. Just a little cold.

[ He eases back down onto the bed, head falling onto the pillow while he pulls the blanket up around his nose. ]

Not everyone is as used to this weather as you.

[ Even though they've grown up together in this city, braving all the same seasons. But Dimitri's just better at weathering the chill. ]

[overruns]

[ There's a moment of stark, but passing awkwardness as they settle into place. ]

I guess not.

[ The actual drop in temperature doesn't bother him, strangely. There's something nostalgic about huddling up in blankets and actually putting on a light sweater instead of expecting the weather to hover at perfect beach temps all the time. He still goes quiet though, the space between his brows scrunching slightly as he frowns. ]

But I've been feeling strangely myself.

[ It's not the flu. ]

[shaft]

Yeah?

[ He looks over at Dimitri, taking in his furrowed brow and smiling despite himself. It's an almost bittersweet smile, like he knows that he's holding onto something that'll soon slip from his grasp.

Which... Makes no sense. They've only just started dating. ]

Want me to kiss it better?

[ He shifts onto his side, pressing a hand to Dimitri's cheek, letting his thumb stroke over his cheekbone. It's both familiar and foreign, and he almost feels like he's overstepping, but he doesn't draw away.

Instead, he just pulls closer, pressing his forehead to Dimitri's and relaxing. ]

[overruns]

[ He feels a chill as Claude snuggles closer. Not from the temperature this time, but fear. He suddenly squeezes Claude's hand, trying to hold him, but something in him revolts at the nearness of him too, nearly jerking away when Claude taps his forehead against his. There's no time to react once it happens.


You are thirteen, and you have lost everything.

But your smoke-scorched lungs and wounds are tended to by the Kingdom's finest healers, and they are on the mend. After all, you are the crown prince, the only son of the now-late king, and the whole of Fhirdiad would lay down their lives to save you, seeing to your care day and night. You are the hope of thousands. The last miraculous star in their sky. 

It is no wonder you survived, despite having no interest in doing so.

No, all you've cared to do is this: cry your strength away in great, pathetic sobs. Sleep in brief fits before newly minted nightmares startle you awake. Then, when your energy finally flatlines, you force down food that tastes like nothing, stare deeply into nothing. You think that in exhaustion you can wait for the feelings to crust over like a wound, something that aches in a lingering scar rather than sharp, luminous pain, but it never has the chance, because your childhood home is suddenly empty and yet still so very full of memories, teeming with opportunities to remind you of everyone that you'll never see again, and their faces and voices never leave you, not even for a moment.

Yes, you've decided. It would have been better if you had died. The thought visits you often, sometimes in whispers, met with dim acceptance rather than fear. But herein lies the problem: you cannot die. To fall on your own sword would disgrace you as knight—to waste away would bring dishonor on your father's strength. And even here you know that to die meant opening a rift of power that would fill itself in any way it could, no matter how unsavory; it is already impossible to hear news from outside the castle walls while you recover, and the reins to your country have slipped out of your burnt fingers, with more chaos bound to follow.

And to die now meant leaving your father's last wish unfulfilled. It plays over and over and over in your ears, a hoarse and haunting scream, and by the time you sit up and your nurse scrambles over to your bedside, your mind is made up, the grief-wrought expression you've worn replaced with something else entirely.

It is not your own resolve that heals you. It is not about what you want. When you cry your last and bottom out on sorrow, you reach for what's left, and it is a borrowed determination, a stubborn drive to make right the grievous wrong of your survival. At the nurse's worried face, you pause, and you think. A smile would be best. You arrange your face into your best approximation of one, and she looks relieved, and you realize that a ruler is nothing but a pillar, a foundation for others to build greatness upon. ...A prince. A pillar. A king. An avenger. There is so much left that only you can be. Your voice rattles from disuse, but you grip her hands firmly, a facsimile of strength that you're sure will speak volumes anyway.

"I'm all right." ]

[shaft]

[ The contact, brief and sparing as it is, cuts through Claude like lightning. The space around him shattering, no longer familiar, a home that he'd been in for the past year, but something unknown and uncomfortable. And there's Dimitri, a stranger, but his pain visceral and burning, laid about before him the same time as

The scrapes burn across your legs and your sides as you lie on the grass, eyes turned toward the sky. The grass tickles your bare feet, the evening wind cool enough to soothe your aches where the dirt road had dragged against your legs, and where the rope around your wrists had rubbed the skin raw. You're used to your father's efforts to mold your behaviour into something greater than you are, and while it hasn't helped your manners any, you've gotten remarkably good at emerging relatively unscathed.

The bruises that mottle your abdomen and face are from something else entirely, already starting to fade. It's something that might've left you spitting mad when you were younger, but now, almost fifteen, you've learned how to keep your calm.

Along the borders of Almyra, the war makes heroes at the expense of families and children. You don't know about the orphans and casualties yet, about the tragedy and strife that haunts them, you only know of the brave that venture out to the Throat, earning glory with the blood of women and men.

Your brother is one such star. He'd left for the border at the age of sixteen, spending five years making a name for himself before returning to the capital to receive thanks from the king. He's young and handsome, enchanting the women and children of the palace, and he hates you down to his core.

So he requests to spar with you in the evening, with an axe to the back. And he offers up a demonstration of his leadership skills, by arranging that his companions do the same. This, too, once burned rage in your chest, potent and furious, and you once screamed and shouted until you realized that it never made a difference. But now, like your father's discipline, you've learned the best way to survive these situations is to keep hold of your temper. Normally it's a point of pride for you, that you're clever and slippery enough to rob others of the satisfaction they want out of your blood, but this time you catch eye of your brother, and you don't see the anger or hate. You see disappointment that cools into disgust, as though you were being tested, and you failed.

"Nothing ever changes, does it, Khalid."

That, for some reason, infuriates you.

Which is why you slip poison into his wine at dinner, knowing full well that there could only be no other culprits when he kneels over onto his plate. You couldn't even feign remorse when your father had turned his gaze toward you.

You don't feel it even now, as you push yourself up onto your feet, thinking about the quiet darkness around you, and the golden lights of the palace in the distance. You realize you feel nothing toward the sight of it, toward your home or your family. So your gaze returns to the stars and you follow them west. And suddenly, you wonder to yourself if perhaps your brother was right. Maybe you do need to change. ]

[overruns]

[ The memory exchange is searing, so vivid that being pulled back into the present is a jolt, like they've fallen into Claude's bed from a great height. The covers flail as he startles back into reality, but he can barely move, frozen in shock. The residual feelings run through him like waves, everything between anguish and fury, love and disdain.

It's his own life—his real life—and Claude's history played side by side, context and reality surging back into his mind as the room spins. This is... not right. This is Claude's apartment, but suddenly it isn't. He grips Claude's arms and stares at him, an almost wild look in his eyes, mouth dry. ]

What... what was that?

[ Why did it feel so real? (If this is Claude, then who is Khalid?) ]

[shaft]

[ Claude feels a little like he's losing his mind. Seeing Dimitri before him with two different histories: a boy that he'd known for years, and nursed a harmless crush on, and a foreign prince who's a stranger to him, but who he's now seen at his most painful moment.

Not just seen, but felt himself. A hopeless sorrow, and a heart that won't stop breaking.

He almost feels on the verge of tears himself. ]

Shit. [ Is his incredibly meaningful response, offered before he pulls back, flinching away from the touch until he's out of the bed entirely, a shiver running down his spine.

He looks down at his hands, unusually rough and weathered for someone so privileged. ]

We've been idiots.

[overruns]

[ He feels as though he's teetering on tears, something caught in his throat. The sadness—his own, terrifying and unfamiliar—and secrets—not his, but somehow just as real—are overwhelming. He suddenly feels that he knows too much about Claude, and nothing at all, and an artificial, lingering affection that starts to fade when the real emotions swirl in, too much to process. He has never felt contempt for his own, immediate family. The feeling winds through him with unpleasant tension. His own memory sits heavy beside it.

The mundane complications of dating a coworker suddenly morph and twist into something much more tangled. He sniffs once, trying to find his composure. ]

Who... was that?

[ He's an idiot. Claude is right; they've been played for fools. It's all on the tip of his tongue, the front of his mind, but part of him can't shake the illusion yet. Maybe he doesn't want to. The color has drained from his face, the room growing cold. His voice sounds strangely apprehensive, even to him. ]

—Claude, what was that?

[shaft]

[ There's a new problem ahead of them: the fracturing of their memories and identities. How long have they been in this illusion? Years or months? How much of their memory is real, and how much was them while under this spell? He needs information and, more importantly, a plan.

But still, he can't calm down. He's always careful to control his emotions, rather than the other way around, but there's a despair so deep in his chest. A sense of loss that he can't dog. It feels like he's been carrying it for years rather than minutes, and it's made him so, so weary.

How is he supposed to face forward, after feeling for himself the uncertainty of Dimitri's existence? Does he brush that under the rug to focus on the larger picture? ]

Looks like we connected on a level beyond just the physical, your Princeliness.

[ A little joke, to help lighten the mood. He pairs it with a small smile, casting his gaze around the room, stopping at the window where skyscrapers are no longer visible in the distance. ]

We've both probably got a million questions for each other, but first I need to check something. [ He meets Dimitri's eyes again, uncertain. ] Do you still trust me?

[overruns]

[ He sits up properly, scrubbing his face as his mind pieces itself together. Princeliness. Faerghus and Almyra. He can still feel unfamiliar grass beneath his feet, a night breeze and a clear sky. The frustration that burns in his chest and behind his eyes is something he's familiar with, but it's not his. It's a secret that could burn the tenuous bridges they've built so far.

But they'd talked about trust before, hadn't they? When they were walking towards that cauldron. He's starting to remember now, even if it's murky and perplexing. He'd asked Claude to believe in him—was that when they really started to be friends? Not in grade school, sitting at the same assigned table?

He can't return the smile, just lifting his head out of his hands for a moment to regard Claude. ]

...I don't think you mean harm. [ Claude's origins could paint him a spy, but after all that they've been through, he can't view him in bad faith. Dryly, ] So long as you keep your poisons to yourself.

[ His brother seemed like a bully who deserved to pass out face-first in his food, though. He just wonders why someone would hate their own younger sibling so fiercely—Rufus was never fond of Dimitri, and the feeling was very mutual, but it wasn't such bald-faced disgust. They didn't raise blades at each other. Thinking about it, the memories creepy back naturally, even if he lets out a rattling sigh.

Does he want these back? Does Claude? ]

I want to trust you. [ Which version of him is talking anymore? ] And I do, but... [ He frowns a little, the habits of these past few weeks having him reach out, gingerly taking Claude's hands and looking up at him properly. It's not really like the real him, reserved with his touch—but he can still enjoy the freedom they have right now, fading as it is. ] There is so much we haven't told each other.

[ He doubts that either of them have ever shared the scenes that just played out, and it's a lonely thought. ]

[shaft]

[ For a second, he almost flinches back. He thinks that the revelation that everything they'd experienced was a lie, coupled with the truth of Claude's ancestry might be too much to accept. That Dimitri will say no, and that'll be the end to the closest thing he's had to a real friendship.

But even so, Claude... doesn't want to think of himself. He doesn't want to focus on the memory that had slipped out, the way he hates that these bits and pieces of himself have been dragged out and put on display. Instead he wants to think of Dimitri, like he had been these past few weeks, and to prove himself worthy of his trust.

—Not that Dimitri even gives him the chance. Claude had tried to lighten the situation—his way of coping—but Dimitri is painfully earnest when he reaches out, taking Claude's hands in his own, and while his instinct urges him to pull away, he stays in place.

It's... calming. ]

You're right. [ He speaks slowly, half out of awe and half purely because he's so out of his depth. ] But you probably understand why.

[ Because Claude doesn't have to have known love and acceptance the likes of which Dimitri had received to fear losing it. It's the reason for his distance. Why he keeps his emotions under such careful control: after everything, all the hatred and malice and plots, he doesn't want the world to see him break.

If it were him, he doesn't know how he would go on. But celebrating that Dimitri's found the strength to continue doesn't seem right either.

Carefully, he squeezes Dimitri's hands. ]

These are secrets that should be shared freely... [ He hesitates a moment, because he should move past this and forge ahead. He and Dimitri have no obligation to each other.

He can't offer any help, not when his presence has no permanence. ]

But I won't forget what I saw. For your sake, Dimitri.

[overruns]

[ They clearly had very, very different upbringings: there's no way he could've really comprehended Claude's childhood without experiencing it for himself. It's common for noble homes to be contentious, but to be utterly rejected by his own kin, hated and reviled by them... as a child, Dimitri is sure he would've crumpled in the rubble of such a house. It makes him bristle. Who could do that to a child? To their brother, who had never done them harm?

He doesn't get any of it. But what he does understand is Claude's position. He knows why these moments are secret to them—why it will likely have to stay a secret, no matter how open they've been. Even if it should be easy—just as it's been so easy to live the last few weeks in open, easy honesty—the reality is that their lives will never be simple.

But it's still... nice. To be able to confide in someone. People never know what to say to him about the Tragedy; it always turns a conversation awkward, stilted, or ends it altogether. Distantly, he relents that it was good that his parents's deaths were so highly publicized, if only so he didn't have to surprise people with the unpleasant fact that he was an orphan. He doesn't remember the last time he'd really spoken to anyone about it. He's certain they weren't as gracious as Claude.

He lets go to wave his hand. ]

...Thank you, Claude. But it's all right. You should put it out of your mind—I know it isn't pleasant.

[ His expression is a little lighter, though. He's grateful. The violent shift of his memories isn't as jarring as it could be. ]

More importantly, do you remember anything else?

[shaft]

[ Claude's expression flatlines slightly at Dimitri's dismissal, even though he understands it. Sometimes you don't want your identity and interactions to just be a summation of your most painful moments. If Dimitri were the one handing out "sorry"s about Claude's childhood, he wouldn't want them either.

Sometimes it's enough that someone acknowledges what you've been through, and just soldiers on with you.

With his hands free, he ruffles Dimitri's hair. ]

Only because you asked nicely.

[ Then, his demeanour shifts, brows furrowing as he tries to figure out where to go from here. ]

I know that this—place that we're in isn't real. We're on a magical train... On a journey of self-improvement?

[ But beyond that, the details are fuzzy. He's Claude von Riegan from Almyra, and he left his home to come... Here? To Danaca?

He blinks at Dimitri. ] You and me haven't known each other for years.

[overruns]

[ As a royal, he should be more mortified that someone saw him at his lowest, weakest moment... but it doesn't bother him much. He's not ashamed of what he'd gone through, or how pathetic he was; if he gained anything from the experience, it was empathy. A new understanding of grief and suffering.

But every memory and emotion attached to Duscur is upsetting, unpleasant—he wouldn't inflict them on anyone, except that he just did. At least Claude isn't bothered too much, even going so far as to tease him for it, which he just frowns at in response.

He absently musses his hair back into place, slowly carding through his memories. ]

Right... We only first met in school.

[ Not that long ago, actually. It's hard to remember the exact details, but it certainly wasn't a schoolboy crush that he'd fostered for several years as they grew up together. They were certainly not on the verge of dating.

His old memories are sneaking back, but they don't erase the new ones. Embarrassing... ]

And we only really became friends on the train.