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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...
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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no subject
[ For all of Fódlan's obvious flaws, for all the painful memories they both have there, it's still home. Sylvain misses Faerghus like he might an old friend, knowing the best and worst of it. Misses the winter, the festivals, misses their classmates and even their academy days. ]
I agree. Ingrid and Felix would chew us out if we let ourselves forget.
[ He laughs, making a face. But is it really better going back to a world of constant loss and grief and obligation? Dimitri's family gone, Glenn as well... A world where their lives have already been decided for them the moment they were born. Dimitri to ascend the thrown, Sylvain to take up his father's mantle as Margrave.
Even so, he can't say he really cares for a deception as flimsy as this one. In a way, they're still the product of someone else's design—none of this had been a conscious choice. ]
...Maybe in this case it's better to ditch without saying goodbye. Y'know, the thing I always get into trouble for.
[ They had their fun, and now they have to cut ties. Better to be cold about it than to be dragged down with lingering illusions. ]
no subject
He knows he needs to recover the full history. He huffs. ]
Easier said than done, I'm afraid.
[ He breathes out between his teeth, trying to gather the chaotic haze of his thoughts. Maybe Sylvain is right and the answer is that it's better to be cold, but Dimitri's emotions run hot, feverish; he's worried about his family, but they aren't real. He needs to find the exit to this car, but he barely remembers the train. If he doesn't get a grip soon, he's going to get them both hurt—killed by the craggy, gnarled limbs that form in the darkness.
He looks over at Sylvain, who he's once again having to rely on. ]
—I can fight, right? [ He recalls that much about himself, at least. ] I can't remember how.
[ Which sounds ridiculous, but it's a life skill he'd really like to regain now, please. holds out hand, give mem ]
[ doesn't actually remember anything about fe3h ]
[ Sylvain offers him a lopsided grin, though there's something else behind it too, almost regretful. Dimitri trains day in and day out, out of some sense of ingrained necessity that goes beyond practicality. Felix and Ingrid too—a way for them to process their grief (or veil it), he thinks. Sylvain is the odd one out of their little group in that regard, finds escape via slacking threefold.
He lowers his eyes to the ground for a moment, huffs a soft laugh. ]
Here I should say something chivalrous like 'I'll protect you with my life!' —But you're definitely stronger than me. I can at least help you remember... I think.
[ He turns to face Dimitri and reaches over to nudge his blond bangs out of his eyes, affectionately careless. ] ...Ready?
[ He warns him to hold still (lest he accidentally give Sylvain a concussion), and tilts himself forward, until his forehead bumps amicably against Dimitri's. It's a familiar gesture, even if one they haven't used since they were kids, and Sylvain purposefully tries to remember the last time they shared a moment like this.
Instead he conjures a memory neither of them have seen before.
It's spring once more, the year begun anew, and Gronder Field burns.
You've followed your liege along a reckless march to Enbarr, your victories thus far a product of relentless fighting and luck that borders on divine intervention. The Professor helms the Kingdom's forces alongside (and in many ways in the stead of) its King, her expression deceptively placid as she surveys the enemy troops.
On the other side of the war are your former classmates, your former friends. Familiar faces from five years ago, ever lovelier, ever grim. You knew this day would come but your stomach sinks anyway, and you wish nothing more but to turn back to Garreg Mach, to Faerghus. You think that fighting in the isolated reaches of Gautier hadn't been so bad after all—better to gut a stranger than an old acquaintance.
You know the outcome of this battle already, because there is ever only one, and it is not compromise. You are trapped between two ideals that demand blood and flame to see to fruition; subjugation, and vengeance.
You believe in neither, but you ride into hell anyway because you're desperate enough to reach the end of this madness, you don't care whether you fall in the process. You trample down a young foot soldier and behead another bowman with ease.
You do not have to luxury of avoidance or choice. Edelgard's generals are strong (Garreg Mach's finest), and they pose the greatest threat to the Kingdom. Many of them you remember well, even fondly, but nostalgia serves no purpose here.
After all this time you still think back to your brother, how his death had been terrible but ultimately justifiable—he had become a monster. His remaining men had been a blight among the populace. Cornelia's dogs had been traitors to the crown. The imperial soldiers had laid siege on Garreg Mach and invaded your home.
You'll later recount each skirmish that has led you here and you'll wonder who will be the one next to justify your death—one that would be just as much unforgivable, just as much deserved.
Until then, you continue to fight like you want to die. ]
mood
My body may be stronger, but you're resourceful.
[ Obviously, considering he's managed to figure things out far past what Dimitri's discovered. So they can call it even. He trusts him—and surely nothing they could see would ever shake that.
But despite their childhood memories together, both of them get something very different.
It has been two years since your 'execution.' The day when Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, last of the royal line, was killed for his trespasses.
And, well—you consider yourself a corpse, too. A prince executed for murdering his own uncle, the king regent, in a fit of rage. Some people question it, but most don't, and you quickly figure out why they simply do not care: their lives are too saturated with their own suffering to speculate on royal affairs.
And you cannot blame them. You've lived in the poorest corners of Fhirdiad now, hiding under the enemy's nose in your own capitol city, practically invisible because no one wants to turn an eye towards the destitute. The citizens in the slums never knew what you looked like. They do not question why your eye is missing, or the reason behind your sour expressions, the drawn and haunted look that you wear so well now.
You see their suffering. You experience the plight of the common people. You do not speak to anyone, have not in years, but you listen to them as they gripe outside of taverns or in the streets as they do their back-breaking work to earn mouthfuls of bread, not even a fistful of coins. And Faerghus nobility does not live a life of extravagance, but you realize how lucky you were anyway. Your thoughts turn distantly to fixing these things, the good you could do if you fought for your throne. The thought makes your chest ache in a way you can no longer decipher.
But.
For all that you listen, the voices of the dead are louder. They buzz in your ears until the noise makes your entire head ache to bursting. So great are their regrets that they claim your dreams, your waking moments, your idle and active thoughts both. They clamor for vengeance. Ask why you have yet to achieve it when you have lived for so much longer than they have, now. At the height of your madness, you can see their shapes in the night, trapped in the twilight between worlds until you ease their suffering. You loved them. And they cannot rest, so neither can you.
So instead of vying for the throne, you do this: you learn the forests and live off the land. You know exactly where you can catch a battalion of Empire troops on their way to another province. You take them by surprise and kill the soldiers to the very last, either with your bare hands or their own weapons; you catch a captain of the Imperial army with a lance through the gut after the rest of his men are dead, littering the dirt path in assorted, bloody pieces.
It takes time to die from a wound to the stomach, so you speak to him as he dies. Or mock him, really. You tell him of the atrocities that his armies have committed, the innocent lives they have ruined, the lands they have tainted with Edelgard's ambitions. Whenever his pain is not enough for you, you twist the lance.
He has the strength to speak around a mouthful of blood and call you a hypocrite. A worse monster than they will ever be.
But you knew this already. And after he finally passes on, the dead do not quiet at all. ]
no subject
His hand drifts to his face, feeling over his eye socket and surprised to find it filled. He can still smell the putrid stench of blood and mangled entrails, musty furs and unkempt armor.
Treason, destitution, madness, retribution.
Sylvain wonders how anyone might stay intact bearing the emotions that quake through him, clogs up his chest and pounds in his skull. His pulse rises, a cold anger burning in his veins. The feeling of betrayal lingers, materializes at the corners of his peripheral in the suggestions of human form. ]
No.
[ Whatever he'd just witnessed, he can't accept it. Not Dimitri. He's trembling as he places his hands on Dimitri's shoulders, on his cheeks, trying to substantiate their reality. (He thinks distantly of Felix's words—his warnings, and still he cannot bring himself to believe that this is the future awaiting them.) ]
That can't be real.
[ His voice is hoarse, and he feels so utterly powerless it's astonishing he's still standing at all. ]
no subject
War. How could that be? How could...?
He puts his hands atop Sylvain's own, not sure what to do with them. ]
...It wasn't real.
[ His hands are trembling, both with fear and fury. How dare this place show them such a thing? Was this wretched future meant to be a warning, or a threat? All falsehoods. A horrible joke.
Except... that it had felt so real. The man they'd seen was not so different from the boy he is now. It is all his cruelty and his depravity taken to their natural conclusion; they're familiar feelings. Genuine ones, no matter how deeply he's buried them. It makes it all the more frightening. ]
Waging war? Killing Imperial troops? This is some— [ he squeezes down, upset in his own way ] some ridiculous farce masquerading as the future. We cannot let ourselves fall victim to it.
[ It's just like a bad dream. It has to be. ]