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.

---

locomo e2 traincation

FAQ & Game Info / Calendar / Taken
Applications / Reserves / Hiatus & Drops



FULL NAVIGATION

Comments

[shaft]

[ Sylvain's answer isn't entirely surprising. They might be best friends, but they can both be prickly about their problems. Even though Claude knows empirically that Sylvain knows everything about him, both good and bad, he doesn't feel... compelled to tell him anything.

So it makes sense that Sylvain might be struggling with something that he hasn't told Claude about yet.

But he will, because that's how friendship works. ]

Yeah?

[ He sets his phone down at that, watching as Sylvain contemplates that strange spam message they'd gotten earlier. It's just a bunch of nonsense; a single sentence, but he'd found it stuck in his head too. He doesn't want to admit it though, like admitting it would be uncovering something... Something. Something unsettling, and something that his instincts tell him to avoid. ]

... You worried your phone is hacked? [ He says instead. ] Do I want to know why?

[philandery]

[ Sylvain opens his mouth to quip back, a reaction still scripted into his behavior despite his awareness that this isn't their reality. He shakes his head instead, as if trying to free himself from its grasp. (Funny how these fake memories work, taking just enough of their mannerisms that it feels natural, despite everything that's been rewritten underneath. It's just so much easier to fall into the pattern that's been created for them...) ]

Nah, it's not that.

[ Maybe it's not really his place instigating a rude awakening, but he can't imagine just letting things run their course, either. (The last time he'd been trapped in a dream, it had nearly killed him and the others who'd wandered into the same car. So while "Danaca" seems relatively harmless now, he'd wager a sinister power lies underneath it.) ]

...I've got something to show you.

[ Because he doesn't think telling Claude will have much of an effect, except perhaps to cause him to question Sylvain's sanity. ...He pauses, because though he somehow knows what he has to do, he's very unsure the best way to execute it. ]

Uh, close your eyes first.

[ For a friendly... surprise. :') ]

[shaft]

[ Claude's expression flatlines a little, looking very much like he expects Sylvain to bean him in the face with a pie if he actually closes his eyes.

... Except Sylvain looks sincere. And he looks uncertain, and he's been unwell, so if he wants to play a game then Claude should play with him. It's how they've always been: two idiots cutting one another's IQ by half.

So he shifts on the couch, magnanimously facing Sylvain. ]

I dunno how much I'll be able you see like that, but whatever you say, big guy.

[ His heart is beating quick when he closes his eyes, but he keeps his expression neutral. This is just another day. ]

[philandery]

[ Ah, Claude looks so guileless like this that Sylvain is a little tempted to pull a harmless prank on him. To keep playing pretend just as he's always done.

But he isn't afraid of ugly truths. He may despise their reality built around crests but he accepts it all the same, with a festering resignation that will need more time and kinder influence to grow into positive action.

For now, Sylvain inhales quietly and leans forward, trying to ignore the tickle of Claude's breath across his mouth, hyperaware of their intimate proximity despite how often he lets strangers into his personal space. As he brings his forehead to Claude's, he instinctively settles his hands on his shoulders, as if to prevent either of them from escaping.

Remember...

His mind wanders to his last memory of Fódlan, though it isn't at all what he wants to conjure: Black flags lashing in the wind, the exhaustion of scaling a tower filled with treacherous vermin, the lingering stench of blood and grime. The monster at the end of it all, finally shedding its human skin.

"If it hadn't been for you..."

There's poison in those words, a curse that repeats itself as the memory morphs into another. The damp column of Conand Tower rapidly narrows into the confines of a well, water flooding in as light winks out overhead. Frantic shouts give way to sputtering coughs, fingers bloody and bruise as they try and fail repeatedly to find purchase on stone. It would be better to stop struggling. Eventually there's no more fight to give, anyway.

"If not for you..."

Waking up is not so different from drowning—alone and dark and cold. Snow falls relentlessly, this too a silent burial for anyone foolish enough to get themselves lost in the mountains, or left behind in the dead of winter. The chill becomes a numbing burn, and it would be better to lay still and wait for sleep instead.

"Hurry up and die already."

But it doesn't end. It continues in insidious ways, hidden bruises and spoiled meals and lie after lie. A child's hope whittled down to nothing, a brother's affection never to be returned. It continues until it becomes first nature to wear a mask and to hide in plain sight. Until it feels more natural to be hated than to be loved. ]

[shaft]

[ Claude tenses, unlike himself, when Sylvain draws close. It's half instinct, which is silly, because him and Sylvain have been in each other's space since they were kids, and half fear.

Like he knows that this is going to hurt.

Like he expects the pain, and hatred and loss that flood his chest when Sylvain presses their foreheads together, the sensations so potent they feel like his own as Sylvain's memories slip through the cracks of this illusion.

And in return, Claude remembers this of himself:

You're sixteen, and while the choices you've made in your life often mystify others, this time you wonder to yourself what on earth you were thinking. It would be one thing if you'd decided to make this journey on wyvernback (even if it would leave you more vulnerable to attack, the Fódlan troops at the border are well-versed in the ways of combatting Almyran wyvern riders), but you chose to be discreet.

Which brings you here: ambling across Fódlan's throat on foot, stuck in the middle of an ambush.

It's not ambush aimed at you, of course, no one knows you're here (probably), but it erupts chaos all around you nonetheless. Almyran warriors swinging great axes toward patrolling soldiers. Sounds of struggle, anger and pain surround you, but you're smart enough not to get involved, carrying no delusions of being a politician so savvy that you could calm the situation with a "let's all get along" speech.

Instead, you try to scramble out of the way of the ever expanding fray, eager to escape when a hand yanks at the back of your shirt. It's not an unfamiliar position for you, so your mind jumps to escape plans rather than panic, but before your attacker can even utter a threat against you, the grip is gone, a meaty thud greeting you in its place.

You turn just in time to see your assailant—an Almyran—clutching at his bleeding leg with one hand, and raising his weapon with his other while spitting curses, but he never gets the chance to bring his axe down. The next strike against slices cleanly through his arm, unleashing an unholy howl, while the next cuts across his throat. Just shallow enough that he has the option to each suffocate on his own blood or let his heart go still from blood loss.

Your hero, a Goneril soldier, celebrates his victory by spitting in the man's face. And you might not have been panicked before, but now, you're frozen. Something sinking all the way from your chest to you belly when the soldier looks toward you, expression softening from disgust to confusion.

"What the hell are you doing out here, kid? Do you want your head chopped off by one of these barbarians?"

The ice spreads quicker across your veins, and for a moment you don't think you'll be able to answer. You feel helpless. Hopeless. Like an idiot for thinking that one side of the border would be any different from the other. Why did you travel all this way? What was the point? Should you just go back?

... Except, you think, as you consider the soldiers stamping out what remains of the ambush, you can't. Giving yourself away now would probably cost you your life.

So instead: "Honestly, it's a really long story."

The memory feels ancient, even though it's been only a year, and Claude jerks back the minute it fades, jumping to his feet, wide-eyed and ready for battle. ]

What the hell is going on?

[philandery]

[ Sylvain doesn't expect to receive Claude's memory in turn, isn't any more prepared for the visceral emotion that overwhelms him when he does.

Battle roars around him as sudden as a clap of thunder, panic bubbling in his throat that's only carefully controlled by years of practiced adaptation. A familiar dread takes root in his stomach, not knowing who will try to spill his blood next—knowing he belongs nowhere, unwanted on either side of the border. Relief only to be met with alienation and utter powerlessness.

The exchange takes place in an instant, and yet Sylvain feels sick by the time Claude pulls away, heart rattling in his chest. Even as he tries to reorient himself he instinctively reaches out to catch the other boy by the wrist, in part a need to reassure him everything is okay (I'm sorry; It's not your fault), in part to keep him from running.

He blinks up at Claude warily, searching for any sign of recognition in his eyes. His voice, when he manages to find it, is hoarse. ]

...Wasn't exactly what I had in mind, but that's what our real memories are.

[ Is he starting to remember anything, yet...? Or is Sylvain just making things worse? His fingers curl a fraction tighter around Claude's wrist, regardless. ]

You have to snap out of it. None of this—'Danaca' is real.

[shaft]

[ Normally, Claude loves digging up secrets. Knowledge has always been one of his greatest assets, and the more he knows, the better he can plan.

But this, he wishes he could unknow. Wishes that he could remove the loneliness and the rejection from his chest. That he might forget how similar the icy feeling of frost rendering fingers numb is to the sensation of an assassin slipping into his bedroom at night. He doesn't want this bond or this connection; the shared history of a loved staring you in the eye and wishing you dead.

He doesn't want to feel anything toward Sylvain, if it means being seen in return.

He shakes his wrists free so that he can stand up, head and heart racing as he tries to parse the man in front of him, because his instincts tell him to get out of this situation—always as slippery as a fish—except the illusion tells him that his confidante is right here.

... Except that he has no refuge, not really. Not in any person or place other than himself. He's always made sure of that. ]

You— [ He needs- a plan. A way to get out of this. ] You drank my blood. Those weren't just Halloween costumes.

[ ... That's one way to do it. ]

[philandery]

[ Sylvain isn't surprised that Claude wrenches away from him, and the bitter lash of disappointment he feels isn't new. Of course he doesn't want anything to do with Sylvain, he never has. This—their little friendship—has all been no more than a silly fabrication.

But it doesn't stop Sylvain from desperately wanting to help Claude. Because he seems troubled, because a part of Sylvain still believes they've grown up together all their lives. ...Because Claude's reasons for acting the way he does seem so painfully obvious in retrospect, that Sylvain can't really stay resentful. (After all, isn't he himself very much the same way? Distrustful by nature, isolated by habit.)

He can't just ignore what he's seen, even if Claude tries to. ]

I— [ Wait, of all things to remember he had to go there? Sylvain sputters for a moment, blinking wide. ] That was a one-time thing!

[ If Claude had been trying to derail the conversation he has stunningly succeeded. Sylvain drags his hand over his face, lingering over his jaw. ]

And besides, [ you started it ] you were trying to rip out my innards.

[ Two wrongs... make a right...? ] ...Tell me you remember something else.

[shaft]

That's pretty messed up, even for a "one-time thing". [ He shoots back, but his tone is dry, the lack of heat making it clear that he doesn't harbour any resentment over it.

Besides, Sylvain has a point, he was trying to dig a hole in his abdomen.

But the minor detour manages to achieve its goal: Claude can feel himself growing a little more calm, and a little less agitated. It gives him a second to digest—a moment of clarity that helps him to look past his won discomfort, and remember that he's not the only one unsettled here. And for some reason, Sylvain is reaching out a hand.

It hadn't been so bad, having him as a friend. ]

I remember that we've hardly known each other a year, much less ten. [ He falls back onto the couch with that answer, sighing and rubbing a hand over his temple. ] How... long have you known that this life was fake? Is it just you?

[philandery]

Yeah, yeah, it's not like I wanted any of it to happen either. [ His face scrunches up at the recollection; Halloween was the worst.

Also the worst: Awkwardly waiting for Claude to recount the not-as-nice details of what their relationship (or lack thereof) is supposed to be. They've probably bickered more times since they've been on this train than anything else, and Sylvain isn't exactly pleased at the idea of having spilled his worst memories into Claude's lap. It doesn't give him any sense of relief, only the same apprehension Claude must feel having involuntarily surrendered his own secrets.

It's not like anything really changes between them, and yet... Maybe just a little, some of the tension eases when Claude collapses back on the couch next to him. (At least Sylvain doesn't have to keep up the front that they're celebrities, or even best friends.) ​]

After I got sick at the gym. I think that fever must've triggered the memories or something. ...Or the other way around.

[ He leans back against the cushions himself, staring blandly up at the ceiling. ]

I thought I was going crazy at first before things settled back in. I'm not sure who else has realized—maybe anyone else who's gotten sick lately.

[ He then rolls his head so his gaze falls back to Claude, his expression wry. ]

I figured, since we were "best friends" and all, you'd probably at least hear me out before calling me crazy.

[shaft]

[ Sylvain's logic is sound, and his comment about his real memories being linked to his illness feels like it has merit. There are several people at FONY who had gotten ill lately, and they were all people that Claude had encountered prior to waking up in Danaca. It seems strange that their memories would come back on their own however... What is the test here?

He meets Sylvain's gaze, thoughtful, quirking an amused smile of his own. ]

Best friends, huh... I have to wonder what this place was thinking.

[ Friends, him and Sylvain? When they could barely have a conversation before it was soured by one ill-timed comment?

And yet it had felt so easy. His behaviour as Sylvain's friend wasn't out of character save for the fact that him and Sylvain aren't friends, but the humour, the demeanour and everything else was still Claude. A Claude who didn't hide himself, perhaps. A Claude who found the reward of a relationship worth the risk of hurt.

Maybe he really wasn't himself at all. ]

That was almost a month ago... [ He blinks, as if realizing something. ] Did you ever come back to yourself, only to revert back to your Danaca personality?

[ ... He wonders, what happens if reality doesn't stick? What if the hold of this fake life is too strong? ]

[philandery]

[ Sylvain snorts at the rhetorical question, but answers it anyway. ]

It was thinking that you needed a positive influence in your life, duh.

[ He's joking, fully aware he's the walking trash-fire of the two. In all Danaca hasn't been a huge departure from his actual life—one scandal after another, the consequences of his bad decisions simply scaled to modern size. The same symptoms of the same sickness.

But in this version of reality he had recovered and become someone better, and it's Claude who had been by his side. Saw something in him worth sticking around for, worth trusting. It's a weird feeling to digest, though it slips away the more he examines it, a daydream turned transparent in sunlight. ]

...Sort of. Not a complete backpedal, but— See that just now? I'm still using words we don't have back home. [ Sure, they've picked up vernacular here and there from the other passengers before this, but it's like he's learned half another language just being in Danaca. ]

It goes the other way too. I almost got into a car accident 'cause I totally forgot how to drive in the middle of the road.

[ It's been... A Time, to say the least. ]

It definitely hasn't been easy trying to remember what's real and what's not. Sometimes I still feel like... [ like he can tell Claude anything ] ...like Fódlan is just a strange dream.

[ But it isn't. And now he not only has his own memories, but a small fragment of Claude's, too. Sylvain doesn't look away from him when he asks: ] Do you want to go back?

[ He wouldn't blame Claude if he wanted to stay here. ]

[shaft]

[ That sounds jarring beyond belief, caught between two lifetimes and never knowing which one is more real. Just these past few minutes have been disorienting enough for Claude, grappling with the knowledge that his life might be make believe, not knowing which parts are real and which have been implanted.

His hands are rough, more comfortable on the string of a bow than on the skin of a person—that he knows is true. But his feelings of concern toward Sylvain, the way he's troubled by his words and the urge he feels to reassure him...

Is that real? ]

Yes. [ He doesn't hesitate in his answer, a flicker of distaste over his features at the thought of remaining in this illusion. ] There's too much I need to accomplish in Fódlan to settle here.

[ He stops then, sounding a little judgemental when he continues, ] It's pretty obvious I didn't know what to do with myself without it. I mean, massage therapist?

[ That's so not him.

He shakes his head before fixing his attention on Sylvain, the sight of him taking him back to the memories that had snaked into his mind.

He feels like he should know what to say, given just how similar their experiences have been, but he doesn't have the words. For now, he puts a hand on Sylvain's shoulder, squeezing gently. ]

Thanks for snapping me out of it. We'll figure out the rest of it together.

[philandery]

[ He's only had access to a very small cross section of Claude's life, but in the blink Sylvain had lived it he had known his aspirations, understood his resolve as if it were his own. That determination lingers past the suffocating fear and dread, and Sylvain's own consciousness reframes it as feelings of awe. Claude runs toward his problems while Sylvain is first to dash the other way, to let his frustrations fester and resign himself to a future that can't be changed. Claude is the embodiment of the "what if" Sylvain too often asks, but never puts into action.

He remembers casually asking him, some cars back, why he'd left Almyra—without considering everything he had risked to step foot in Fódlan. That he still risks by simply existing in his own skin, and will continue to so long as their world stays the way it is. It's flooring to think on, and desperately lonely.

He doesn't know what he can say that won't come off as patronizing, or pitying, or simply impulsive. He offers a quiet smile instead, deceptively easy for all the thoughts rattling loudly behind his skull. ]

...You've really got your work cut out for you, huh?

[ Let me help, he's so close to saying, though he can't be sure which version of himself wants to. He has no idea what would actually qualify as 'help' either.

Regardless, it's Claude who reaches out first this time, quite literally. Sylvain's brows shoot up to his hairline when he feels a hand on his shoulder. This is... not really them at all. It's painfully awkward. He doesn't squirm or anything like that, but he does level Claude with an amused look. ]

I thought you were done playing therapist. You gonna give me a massage or something?

[ He gives his hand a friendly pat and returns it to him with a chuckle, his smile crooked. A Sort-of-Handshake-but-Not-Really. ]

No need to thank me, but I am gonna bank on that big brain of yours to get us out of here.