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Priority Log - Part 2

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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a. oh, you haven't heard of LORENZ HELLMAN GLOUCESTER?

[ Even though Claude isn't going to answer the AC Poll due to being a mod character, he has no desire to stay in Danaca. While it wasn't bad having friends and a warm relationship with his parents, he has way too much on the go to surrender his dreams at the young age of 18. Besides, it's kind of sad to live a lie (lol).

Still, he doesn't regain his memories quickly enough. He's walking around in a muddled state of sort-of-real Claude and sort-of-AU Claude when a chill passes through him. Suddenly, his posture is straighter, his nose more upturned, and his expression more full of disdain.

His number, previously a gold on his collarbone, suddenly changes to purple.

If he spots you, prepare yourself to hear the anthem of every incel: ] Whatever are you doing, wandering around with such a dreary expression? Your demeanour would be better served if you could manage a smile.

[ At least both men and women and everything in between will all get this same treatment. ]

b. whatcha got there? a smoothie

[ Eventually Claude manages to escape the Ghost of Lorenz, regaining more and more of himself, which is when he feels a different chill. He notices the shadows—of course he does—but it's fairly obvious that stabbing them doesn't do much, and he doesn't have any magic at his disposal, so it's easier to just sneak around and try to avoid them.

It's a little terrifying, because they can move across a room in the blink of an eye, and their long spindly fingers look very pointy.

Which is why he doesn't mind seeking safety in numbers. So when he spots you, he lifts a hand to wave, but at that very moment a shade appears, catching his hand in its own...

And so, Claude is left paralyzed there, high-fiving this shade like they're old bros and not a twinky human faced with a terrifying monster. ]

... [ Without moving, he turns his eyes toward you. ] ... Hey.

c. wildcard / memshare

[ i plan to incorporate some memshare into the above prompts, but if you'd like to skip the foreplay and go straight to memshare, just comment and i will hit u with a memory! or just wildcard me C: ]

[ Apparently, Sylvain had gone and gotten himself sick. It's not particularly surprising, with the changing weather, the long hours, and the physical demands of his new role. Whatever he had seemed to be spreading too, people struck with a sudden cold and chills. Waves of dizziness and disorientation.

It almost feels like there might be more to it.

But for now, Claude is clear headed and comfortable on Sylvain's couch, legs tossed over one of the armrests. ]

You know, I don't know if binging Selling Summer until 4 in the morning counts as getting rest.

[ His attention is on his phone, though he glances up to see what Sylvain is up to. ]

You've really gotta learn to relax.

[ The onset of symptoms had happened so quickly that Sylvain had written it off as food poisoning—but that hadn't been the cause. By the time his fever had broken so too had the illusions of his life in Danaca—though Danaca itself had persisted, stubbornly sunny and bright and unchanged around him, save for an unsettling chill. Other passengers regard him as the FONY coworker he most certainly is not, and he still receives text messages from Claude checking up on him, as if they've grown up knowing each other all their lives.

It's not the worst feeling in the world, but it isn't entirely pleasant either, feeling more and more like Sylvain's operating on stolen trust—even if he hadn't exactly been the thief himself.

His gaze darts over to Claude now, a familiar headache encroaching whenever he tries to hold onto the two memories at once, fabricated and real. At his "best friend's" advice, he huffs softly in a poor attempt at laughter. ]

...That's not something I ever thought I'd hear.

[ Sylvain, renown skirtchaser and slacker? Being told to relax? He shakes his head, a wry smile on his lips. (How in the world is he gonna convince Claude none of this is real? Not even the highly-anticipated and shocking season finale of Selling Summer...) ]

Guess I've had a lot on my mind.

[ He frowns down at his phone, rereading the newest objective for the umpteenth time. > Looking back... ]

[ 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?

[ 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. :') ]

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

[ 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?

[ 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.

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for sylvain.

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for dimitri.

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A, I have now and I hate it

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