hadriel_logs | Event Log: Memories Past

Event Log: Memories Past

Who: Everyone
What: Memory Share Event!
Where: All around the city
When: November 14th-20th
Warnings: Please remember to tag all warnings for memory shares!

Have you ever looked through someone else's eyes? Heard through their ears, spoken with their tongue? The gods have tried to teach some of you empathy, but it's time you learned the hard way, exactly what the others here have been through. For a week, every time you brush skin to skin with someone, you'll experience a memory of theirs: happy, sad, it doesn't matter. All that matters is that it feels real to you.

The first touch may come as a surprise- it lasts only for a split second but may feel like an eternity, where you're trapped in someone else's memory. After that, it could be more expected, and some may even figure out how to control it and share specific scenes from their past with others. Or, you might wear gloves and long sleeve shirts for awhile, nobody's judging.

Maybe curtail the handholding for awhile- or go right ahead, if that's your thing. After all, you never really know somebody unless you've walked a mile in their shoes, right?

► This log covers November 14th-20th.
► Feel free to make your own logs as well
► Please tag headers of threads with content warnings where they apply
► Please put your character's name and open/closed in the subject line of your starters!
► If you die in a memory, you don't die in real life, but if you do die in real life please let us know here.

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The gods have become a means to an end for Rey, as well. Some are more reasonable than others. Half of them she can't stand, the other half she can at least tolerate.

She isn't here to argue with Atem, though. Rey would hardly be the first person to champion for the gods when it comes to those smearing their names.

"Well, Sorrow's at least been willing to work with us. The others are either useless or pieces of shit -- like Rage and Love." One is obviously more personal than the other.

"Think fast!" That's the only warning she gets as he tosses at her something that seems to be a wooly sweater, but it probably itches way too much for anyone to use it.

"I get it, you've told me that several times before. Sorrow is cool, Rage and Love suck. I got it." It might be terse, but he really doesn't want to talk about them, yet again, isn't there anything else to do in this place? It doesn't fix anything, and it only sours the mood.

Edited 2018-11-19 04:41 (UTC)

[Ugh, of course it would be drug related; if humans weren't murdering each other or androids they were doing whatever drugs they could find--most of which, incidentally, had a tendency to lead to murder--and it seems that's not unique to his world. Unfortunately.

He doesn't have any reason to question the outcome being anything but what Drake tells him, so he settles for feeling... Relieved, maybe? At the knowledge that he made it out of the situation. Normally he can tell a little better which emotion he's feeling when it's one he's familiar with, but everything going on right now has made it all a little mixed up and confusing.

The scars are interesting if just for the sheer fact that it's fascinating how humans heal, being incredibly different from how androids do so, and so he considers them curiously for a moment.]

I'm glad you survived. Did you have enough evidence to convict your attacker?

[He presumes so, with the witnesses and all that, but he also means for the crime Drake had been initially investigating.]

[ Drake lets him get a good look before he lowers his shirt, then shakes his head. ]

No, we wound up not being able to go that route. Don E killed him, for one thing. The little guy you saw? Meaning there were other factors, like how it doesn't count as a defensive kill if you're also a drug dealer with motive. The whole situation was really messy, and I wasn't working my friend's case officially. But we did find his body, eventually. Buried in that same field.

[ More than anything it was the zombie thing, but he can't well just tell Connor that. ]

[Right, yeah, the being dead thing is a problem for the actual conviction part, but the case can still be marked solved which is more what he meant. But either way, the answer makes sense even if it's unfortunate, and Connor is quiet several seconds because what exactly do you say to that? He has to consult his programming, although once he does he finds he actually means the sentiment when he responds.]

I'm sorry, about your friend.

You're inside a lavish, white-marbled palace, by a set of stairs. You see a man in his mid-twenties, leaning on a cane. There's something familiar about his face, something in the set of his brows.

And then a second person, a youth of about 15 or 16, ascends the stairs. This one, though, you definitely recognize; though his hair is shorter and his frame is slimmer, it's definitely Ianchus.

"Don't tell me you were in the sailors' district again." The first man's voice is hard, clearly disgusted.

"And if I was?" Ianchus' voice is bright, his eyes

Ianchus laughs with boyish mirth as he passes him, taking the steps two at a time.

"Jealous?"

---

"Are you daft."

Jebel never seems to raise his voice; indeed, his voice seems to be the sort that wouldn't gain any strength when raised, anyways--might even sound a little pathetic.

The Ianchus he's speaking to is the one you're more familiar with; grown into a strong, virile man who exudes a powerful aura. Jebel, on the other hand, is the same as he was over a decade ago; thin, a pronounced limp, a bitter look on his face.

Ianchus' response is as airy as ever: "They wanted a show, I gave them one!"

"You punched him in the face!"

"Ah! That I did. Did you expect me to actually beat him? With my skills?" Ianchus laughs, with a shrug. "I ended the match. He invited me."

"You're unbelievable." Jebel's jaw is set tight, his nose wrinkled in clear disgust. "Are you even thinkinghow it must have looked? The crown prince's brother hitting him during a gentleman's match?"

"I'm sure Oli's reputation will survive," Ianchus' voice is easy, though his eyes flash dangerously. "Ah, why don't you ask him to fight you next? No doubt he'll go easy on you if you ask him nicely."

"Don't you have a boat to catch? More responsibilities to shirk?"

"Not for a few days, no. Do you want to fence? Or perhaps I could finally take you down to the Districts? Come now, big brother, dont' you want to have some fun for a change?"

Jebel doesn't say anything--just flares his nostrils and turns to leave, Ianchus grinning behind him.

Thank you. At least his mother was able to bury him, finally.

[ He's going to approach the topic of Connor's memory again now, gently, since they seem to still be on decent terms... they're alone in HQ, so they can talk about this, but Drake's eyes drift to the door as if he's worried someone will come in right as he says this out loud. No one does. ]

Do you think they really knew all along that deviancy was possible? That you guys weren't just the machines they advertised. And they put androids into circulation anyway?

What?

That was you? Why the hell did I see one of your memories?

Fast think! Rey snatches it with one hand, immediately sensing the low quality and ugly design.

No, this wouldn't do even on a good day.

"Smartass," Rey shoots back, before returning the sweater straight at Atem's face. It's a hard throw, even with something as light as a sweater. But the fabric is heavy enough.

[Connor's gaze follows Drake's, glancing toward the door as well, but indeed they're alone and it's okay to talk. Isn't it? He doesn't want to, still, even if maybe a part of him does.

He also, of course, remembers having a similar conversation not long ago, while the visitors were in the city; that just makes it easier to come up with an answer to the question.]

Most likely, yes. It's difficult, knowing what we do now, to believe that CyberLife was unaware that deviancy was both possible and more than a simple simulation of emotion.

[Like they'd told him, and he'd believed. Why wouldn't he have? He was made to be loyal, to an extent other androids weren't, and so he trusted and did what was asked of him and believed they were telling him the truth about the situation until it had become obvious they weren't. What he knows and feels--and what the other androids know and feel--isn't a simulation.

Or is it? If he was made to go deviant, then where's the line? Is this all just a complex layer of his programming? Even if deviancy is real, is he actually deviant himself?

He doesn't know, and he doesn't know how to figure it out, and that's part of why he's been trying to hard to ignore what Amanda said to him and not think about it. There were so many things that had happened in that one interaction that had shaken everything in him, and he doesn't know where to start with even one of them let alone all of them.]

So... they were profiting off slavery and they knew. And they didn't say a word for androids the whole time, just let people die in a war that then they wanted to take control of? Through you.

[ That's seriously fucked up. Drake actually looks straight up angry on Connor's behalf, on all androids' behalf, even though he only knows the one. ]

I'd ask what the hell was wrong with people, but there's no point. I'll never actually understand that kind of thinking.

[Connor shifts on his feet, agitated, fiddling with the fabric of his jacket; he still hasn't uncurled his arms from around himself and doesn't do so just yet either, needing the nonsensical reassurance it provides. This is all still so new to him, even with his time in Hadriel included, and so just simply not thinking about the situation has been his main method of handling it.

Which he can't do when talking about it, obviously, hence his sudden restlessness and the odd desire to try to escape even though he definitely isn't trapped here physically or otherwise. But instead he just nods, gaze shifting around the headquarters again just to avoid eye contact.]

It's the same thinking occurring here.

[With the gods, and them being brought here to be used and to die in a war for the gods' benefit. That's part of why he hates it here so often, and part of why he doesn't trust people here; they just go along with it, or even argue that this is all perfectly fine even though it makes Connor's synthetic skin crawl to have escaped being used as an object in one world just to find himself in the same position in another.]

Saw me? How?!

[He's scared and worried that Jacob might have shown up and broadcast his torture again. Or the forced confession. Something. But most of all Pratt is confused. He gets up, looking at her perplexed.]

I was?

[He's braced for impact, expecting her to cave his face in.]

I'm not better. Worthless. A traitor. No one was supposed to know.

"Have you heard of the Brazen Bull?"

Ianchus' voice floats up in the musty air of the small room. He's in a bed, sprawled over a larger man, who's absently stroking Ianchus' back. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what they've just been doing.

"Highness?"
The man's voice is questioning, though there's some trepidation there. The sound of someone who knows all too well who he's talking to.

"Mmm." Ianchus reacts to the use of Highness, but he presses on (it's clearly something he's tried to curb before, to no avail). "It's a massive sculpture of a bull, made of bronze. Used in olden times, by other civilizations." He turns over, resting closer into the crook of the man's arm, freeing up his hands to gesture emphatically.

"It would be hollow inside, with a hatch allowing entry and a system of tubes leading from the chamber to the mouth. They would put a man inside it."

There's a noise from the other man, a sound bridging on discomfort, but Ianchus seems enthralled with the picture he's painting.

"A fire would be lit under it, the heat in the chamber of the bull rising steadily. The man inside would pound and scream, but the tubes would change the sound, distorting them into bellows." He bites the knuckle of his index finger, staring up at the ceiling. "And fragrant herbs would help mask the scent of burning flesh."

His companion seems at a loss for words, only able to hold him in an encircling embrace. Ianchus makes a little noise and then rolls over again, pressing his sweaty forehead to the sweaty neck, their bodies close together. "It sounds romantic, doesn't it? Ah, but I'd love..." He makes a little noise as his hips roll under the blanket...and then he pauses almost comically, lifting his head up to look into the other's face, which now wears a mask of concern.

"Ah, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He laughs, almost bashfully, and leans up to kiss the other man. "You don't like this kind of talk, do you?"

His lover makes a soft noise, returning the kiss, his smile looking relieved.
"It's alright, your Highness."

"Shhh. No, no. Let's do something more fun." Ianchus takes one of the large hands, kissing the palm and resting his cheek in it. "Why not something you like? Ah! I know what we haven't done in a while."

The memory fades there, like evaporating summer heat.

Edited 2018-11-19 09:55 (UTC)

[ Drake tilts his head -- it's not that the thought hadn't crossed his mind before. That they were brought here for someone else's war, to feed and fight for them. He considers his words carefully. ]

I thought the same thing when I woke up here. That it was going to be just living under someone else's boot with how they screw with us for food. Same situation I was in back home, if I wanted to live I had to do what somebody else said no matter if I wanted to or not. But there's one difference: the intent behind why we're here. They didn't bring us in on purpose, they're not the reason we're stuck. So in the end it feels a little more symbiotic. We're dead without them, so we have to give them what they need too.

I'm not going along with it because I trust them, or like them, or am okay with being used and manipulated. It just feels necessary on both sides even if the power is out of balance.

Fingon is out and about this week, anxiously preparing for the worst possible future move (and castigating himself for voting for it every minute.) He can often be found in the shops, picking through supplies for what might be needed, and at other times in the orchard. Often he's near the newly planted trees, harp in hand, stubbornly singing to them in a fair, strange tongue.

Other times he makes toward the beaches, with a net or a fishing rod in hand. For long hours he attempts to catch fish, setting aside what he catches to be dried and preserved. Other times he shakes his head impatiently and makes his way out into the water. Who knows when he'll have another chance to swim after they are done here?

“Whatcha reading, Papa?” the tiny elven boy hanging off a dark-haired elven man’s arm asks. “Will you be done soon? You promised we would go to the park-”

“‘What are you,’ Findekano,” corrects Father, bent over his luxurious desk. “I’m sorry dear, but I can’t play at the moment; I’ve a few messages I need to look over. Can you wait for another hour or two?”

The boy looks crushed- but then he rallies and climbs into his father’s lap. “Do you need help? I can help you read them, see?”

He reaches for the nearest piece of paper, halfway covered in what looks like his father’s handwriting, “To High Prince Feanaro, you self- ab-absorbed cu-”

The paper is snatched out of his hands. Father looks red.

“Findekano, dearest, go outside and play. Please. I’ll be with you soon, I promise.”

He clears his throat, “And I trust you won’t mention any of this to your mother?”

Edited 2018-11-19 06:20 (UTC)

“You don’t need to watch me,” the small girl on the white horse tells her brother, tossing her dark hair indignantly. “I can ride by myself.”

“You can ride a pony by yourself, Risse,” Findekano counters, affectionately reaching up to ruffle her hair. “And you have no idea how much I’m letting you get away with, just by letting you on Alasse. Do you know what Mother said when I tried this sort of thing at your age?”

“That you’d break every bone in your body,” Irisse says, and heaves out a giant sigh. “Fine. May I use the bow as well?”

Findekano grins, and hands her a bow sized for her childish hands. “Ready for the targets, little sister?”

Her eyes are alight. “I’m ready for anything. Let’s start.”

Edited 2018-11-19 06:21 (UTC)

“Shh, it’s all right. It’s all right, you understand?”

It doesn’t look all right. If anything, the scene is about as far from all right as one could possibly imagine. Fingon stands uneasily on the wing of an eagle about the length of the Colosseum, clutching what looks like a naked corpse in his arms.

It’s not a corpse. Skeletal, yes, and bruised and terrifyingly scarred besides, but upon further examination, it’s clearly not a corpse. Corpses don’t breathe and what’s more, they don’t mutter.

“...you have to kill me, please, kill me and run…”

“No” Fingon snarls, “no, that is not happening. I came to find you, and I am not leaving without you do you understand? I just need to figure this out….”

He looks up, following the not-corpse’s oddly-bent shoulder to the emaciated arm that is still attached to it. To the place where that arm is attached to the steep cliff-face by a steel cuff without seam or keyhole.

To the hand that appears above the cuff, already a mottled black and green.

Fingon looks ill for a moment, then his face hardens.

“Maitimo,” he whispers to the prisoner, “Maitimo, do you trust me?”

A shaky nod.

“Alright. This is going to hurt- but in the end, you’ll be free. Just stay strong for me now, and I’ll do the rest. I promise”

And with that he pulls a knife from his belt and positions it at the prisoner’s dangling wrist.

Edited 2018-11-19 07:12 (UTC)

"I pray she is." Maglor says softly, mood slipping low. "She was innocent, when she died."

"A little accidental sanwe-latya is hardly a burden." Maglor agrees.

He laughs softly. "You were a child! You're allowed to make mistakes at that age, Finno."

[He blinks in surprise. He doesn't know what she saw, but he knows memories are being shared, so - well, it's actually not a difficult thing to guess at all. Adam smiles, a little wry, a tiny bit bitter.]

I wouldn't know, I've never gone. But my classmates always had to one-up each other somehow.

He'd known, of course, objectively. But seeing is a different story, and Maglor reels backwards from his cousin with a broken keen, the sound tearing inhuman and dangerously powerful from his throat.

It might be his brother's name, maybe.

She certainly doesn't mind small touches - she embraces him often enough - but letting him see that hadn't ever been her intention. Sansa gasps and instinctively reaches out to hold him, worried that he has seen something terrible. Truth be told, he has and it is her doing.

"Uncle? What is it?"

"I saw...a vision? Your brothers were sleeping in one bed with...Huan? That was the hound's name, wasn't it?" she smiles sadly, "It was sweet."

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Page 18 of 112

Event Log: Memories Past

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The Castle

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The Brazen Bull (cw: mild torture talk, sexual themes)

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Fingon | OTA

in mind more swiftly

younger in the years of the Eldar

in anguish without hope (warnings: references to imprisionment, torture, mutilation))

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