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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Back in the day. Used to be a Hell Jumper.

[ It's a long story. But at least Donut's paying attention and doesn't look like he's about to drop into a dead panic. It's just a bad moment. Ephemera's had plenty of those. They pass. ]

You'll be all right. The gods like to fuck with people, that's all.

Of course it will. Has no one ever seen a sci-fi movie ever? That's how AI works.

[ Or how movies told him it works anyway. He has no idea how computers are made let alone machines like Connor. ]

Uh.. Are you going to touch me again?

[Because he has some awful memories he'd rather not share.]

[Because it's Pratt, Connor resist the immediate urge to say that 'humans don't learn' and instead just kind of nods a little in acknowledgement of the first remark. He's not wrong.

But as for the question--]

Yes, but sharing memories in this way is normal for us. I may be able to control it.

[Or maybe not, since magic and gods and whatever, but still.]

.....

[ .... you almost had him too. His brows furrow. ]

That's not true.

It hurts not being able to reach out and just touch Drake, but Ephemera breathes. Centers himself. Have to be deliberate about this.

At least they can press against each other. Take comfort from the closeness.

Ephemera rests his chin on Drake's shoulder, keeping his breathing slow and steady. "Yeah. Jumping. You'll like that."

Or at least he hopes Drake will like it. They shared a dream like this, once.

He closes his good eye, hoping maybe that will help, and offers up his bare hand.

In the memory, Ephemera is barely nineteen, scrawny and trying his best not to look uncertain as Chica checks his equipment with quick, brutal efficiency. They're standing in a pelican, a green-gray ground spinning below them with toy-sized hills and buildings down below. They're still within the planet's atmosphere, holding steady.

She slaps his helmet, hard, but her voice is clear and strangely gentle in their comms. "Congrats, kid, you managed not to fuck your suit up. Ready for the drop?"

Ephemera, who has never jumped out of a plane before and is secretly a little terrified of both Chica and the prospect of meeting gravity on a more intimate basis, stutters a bit on his answer.

"Eh, you'll be fine. Besides, I'll catch you if you're gonna die."

Then she steps back and drop kicks him out of the pelican.

It takes him a good ten seconds to stop screaming and then --

And then it's the rush of air and color and roaring noise and he can see everything. It feels like they're floating underwater only there's light and color and more things in his sightline than Ephemera ever imagined he'd see in one place and this has to be heaven, this has to be how it ends because he can't imagine anything better --

Chica laughs, flying alongside him.

"Told you, kid. Best thing in the universe."

And it is. He never wants to stop.

[ Ephemera cants an eyebrow. ]

Which part?

[ Ephemera thins his mouth. ]

People like that usually do.

[ In his experience, good people aren't usually the ones who end up on top. ]

She comes her, I'll kick her ass for you. Count on it.

Pratt is going to feel like an absolute moron when he comes back to himself. The whole reason he was out here in the first place was to avoid people so he could prevent transmitting terrible memories to random strangers, and what does he do? He finds the only person for a mile and then stands next to them and reaches out for an item from them so their fingers brush accidentally.

Of course that's what he does because Pratt's life is suffering.

"I think you control the ship. Or the lasers. Something like that." He says as he reaches for the game to check it out. But unfortunately they're not wearing gloves and the gods get one over on Pratt as Carlisle is treated to one of his memories--

Pratt is walking along the edge of a large lake, the air is crisp with a slight breeze, the sun barely peeking over the horizon. He tucks his hands into the pocket of his jeans, looking over as a heron unfreezes from its perch, extending its neck into the water with deadly precision and coming away with a silvery fish.

There's a grunt behind him and he's nudged forward, nearly tumbling into the water. "Hey now!"

He turns to his side and pats the brown nose there. The horse flicks its ears forward, snuffling Pratt's jacket pocket, and trying to chew on one of the flaps. "No I promised you a treat when we got to the ridge. I'm not falling for that starving act. You got fed this morning."

Smiling fondly he strokes the horse's shoulder before putting his foot in the stirrup and swinging himself into the saddle. "Come on, we're gonna miss the sunrise."

Ephemera was thinking of something specific, which means Drake got the memory he intended. Drake, on the other hand, was just thinking about his mother abstractly, so it isn't quite what he wanted that comes across, but it's representative.

--

This is not a terribly interesting memory, honestly. Drake is sitting in his car outside what looks like an accountant’s office at night, fiddling with his cell phone. There’s a missed call from “Ma” and he taps her name to call her back, settling into the seat and cracking open a can of soda like he’s getting ready to watch a movie.

“Hey Ma. Sorry I missed your call, I’m at work. Can’t talk long, okay?” Strange maybe that he’d say he’s at work at an office that shouldn’t be open right now, but Ma doesn’t seem to find it so.

“Of course, sweetheart. I’ll keep it quick, I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“You sound upset, what’s wrong?”

Perhaps you questioned at the start of this vision… why is he in the car? Not exactly for privacy, considering he has the windows open and is mostly just making agreeable sounds and barely getting a word in edgewise. No, it’s because he knew he would to plug his phone in part way through this call. All told, Drake is stuck on the phone with Ma for two hours. No seriously.

“I agree, if you’re hosting mahjong, it’s only polite that the ladies bring refreshments.”

Yeah, that’s about as serious as the crises get. At least no one has to listen to this nonsense but him, right? Oh, sorry.

“Do you want me to come by and look at the sink?”

“No, no, honey, I know you’re busy.”

“You said it’s been leaking since Tuesday, you sure?” He’s extraordinarily patient, even when someone pokes their head out of the office and makes a distinctly ‘what the fuck, Holloway?’ gesture at him. He sticks a hand out the window, give him a minute..

“Ma, I gotta get back to work. … I gotta go, Ma. Ma--”

But she’s off again, complaining about how she thinks there’s a chipmunk living in the gutters.

“And Mrs Taylor didn’t call you back about what the book was this month? You should follow up on that. Do you wanna call her now?”

When he finally gets her off the phone the timestamp says two hours and eight minutes, and a look at his call list shows she’s already called twice today. Her calls are interspersed with others of normal length, a few minutes here and there, but all of hers are over an hour at minimum.

Drake shakes his head and drags a hand down his face tiredly, then unplugs the phone and rolls up his windows to head back inside.

His mother is a trip.

--

When they come back to the living room, they're still holding hands, because apparently one touch is one memory. Drake gives Ephemera's a squeeze, and offers him a broad smile.

"She kicked you out of the plane?"

The gods. They're not mean. At least not most of them.

They're being pulled in too many different directions. It happens to people too, should they be loyal to their family? Their friends? Community? Town? Religion? Country? What takes precedence when everyone needs their help?

[ Poor spirits. He feels bad for them. ]

There's no humans because we're too proud to ask things for help. We think we're better than everything else.

[It's late, so late that it's almost circled back into early, and Newt is in the spare bedroom. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, bathed in the soft blue glow of the echo flowers. Most of them are silent, but the one on the end is singing, playing back a voice it heard some weeks ago, a woman's clipped British accent. The voice is faded though, muffled through static as the flower forgets what she sounds like. There's a cadence like she's telling a story or reading something aloud, perhaps, but the words have long since been lost.

After a moment, the flower sags and quiets, so he reaches to brush his fingers against one of its draping petals. It perks at his touch and the voice starts up again.

Newt doesn't hear Semiyon enter over the static, and he starts at the sudden hand on his shoulder, whipping his head around even though he knows who it is, and skin brushes skin, and there's a memory, or a heavy handful of memories. A lot of what Semiyon gets is emotions, vague knowledge of why things are how they are, smattered with snippets of images from time to time. It's like Drifting, not that he would know what that felt like.

The memory Newt gets, on the other hand, is straightforward. So that's where the picture came from. He blinks, his tired brain struggling to process what's just happened even though he's done something like this before, twice, over a year ago now, and he pulls out of Semiyon's grip.]

Jeez, dude, you need to be careful with the event going on.

[His voice is a whisper to keep the flower from overhearing.]

"They don't. Jacob converted it into a barracks." He frowns trying to place the memory. Being scared sure didn't narrow it down.

"Dressed like me? That's Rook. I helped them escape. Well tried to. Fuck I hope they got out." He runs his hands through his hair. Not only does he want them to have gotten free, but he was currently strapped to a chair starving to death for his actions. He didn't want his death to be in vain.

"That's right before I came here. Well .. a few days anyway."

[He's not even awake when Harlan first touches him, sending him into a weird montage of memories. He thinks it's a dream at first, but he never lucid dreams, and anyway, why would he be seeing it from Harlan's perspective? Is he dreaming as Harlan now?

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to him, he's sending things right back. A similarly dreamlike patchwork of memories, tinged with the comfort of being back in the same bed as the person he cares about more than anything else.

It starts with "I love you".

"I love you, too." He says it without thinking. What's there to think about? It's a given. But at the same time, it's a first. He's never said this to anyone else before, not like this. He means it. It's just the culmination of feelings he's been taking for granted for a while.

no take backs

right back at you

"I don't want to do this." But he did it anyway, didn't he? Is this the deal-breaker, finally? Is this the thing that separates them? Why is he more afraid of that than the chance he might kill someone? That he almost did? He should've known this was coming. Eventually he always fucks up. With Parker, with his family, even with that guy in the bathroom whose name he can't even remember anymore.

This is his own fault. He's such a problem, why is he always such a problem?

"Can we ever-" go back from this? I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry "Is there a way for us to, uh-" be okay again? Or is this it? He hears Parker's voice in the back of his head It's like I can't trust you anymore.

"Stop. You're not a burden, okay? I'm glad she found you."

Michael's not sure if anyone else has ever been glad about that. He's not sure anyone else has ever been happy that he exists. God this feels good. Michael didn't realize how contact-starved he was until now. Most of the time when people touch him, it's unwanted and unasked for and he tolerates it even though he doesn't want to. But this he actually does want, he just didn't know how much.

He and Harlan are alive again and they're hugging. It's the first time they've touched this closely. Even if Harlan is never okay with it again, even if this is too much and they have to stop, he's grateful for this.

He's grateful for lying in bed with Harlan next to him, warm on his arm that's wrapped around Harlan's shoulders. Maybe it's because of the event, but this is... it's nice. He takes a minute to listen to the soft breathing in his ear, the faint purring of the cat at the foot of the bed, the rain on the windows. He would give anything not to forget this. But their plan will work, eventually. It has to, right?

"Hey, so I have feelings for you. Just, uh, wanted to let you know." Michael doesn't even hear the part about not having expectations, because he's too busy processing.

No one has ever said anything like this to him. Does Harlan mean it? He wouldn't lie about this. Michael trusts him. Harlan's the first person who ever told him he understood. He's the first person who told him it wasn't his fault and meant it, even if it isn't true. He's the first person to know the whole story and still cut Michael some slack. He's the first person Michael went to when he thought there was no one he could go to. That wasn't nothing. It wasn't nothing.

It isn't nothing.

"I... think I have feelings for you, too." No, he fucked that up. "I mean, I didn't mean "think" like I'm not sure, I meant think like I'm pretty sure." Nope, still wrong. "Not pretty sure, I'm more sure than that. I'm sure. Yeah."

He's sure. He's never been more sure about anything.]

[ Pratt hesitates. But it's Connor and he's pretty sure if there's anyone who would understand if he has to witness something horrid from Pratt's past, it's him. He's obviously seen his own share of atrocities. ]

Okay, but don't punch me if you see something absolutely terrible.

[The way he says that makes it obvious that's a thing that's happened to him already.]

There is a long discussion to be had about Maglor's guilt complex and how he's handling it (and not handling it), but Fingon feels it should be handled some time far removed from this particular memory.

And by someone with more tact than he has.

"Really?" Fingon shook his head. "You know, sometimes I think I owe him one, if anything. That he tried to live again at all in the aftermath."

[ To not feel anything: that's been her goal in life for such an impossibly long time now. For any other person, to feel nothing might sound like a nightmare, a world of flat gray, but for someone who's almost hypersensitive to emotions, it's a dream. The grass is always greener on the other side, isn't it? ]

Fucking lucky. [ She breathes out in minor awe and poorly veiled jealousy. She knows George wasn't bragging, she's never come across as the type, but she can barely help her statement. ]

I... [ I wish I couldn't feel anything but she holds her tongue, opting for appealing to her curiosity rather than her own selfishness. ] Have you always been like that? Or do you just have tougher skin?

[ It's easier to think about George right now; it helps pull her attention away from herself and from the things she's witnessed. ]

"As you shouldn't! When your parents call you hair commander, your hair has to live up to certain standards!"

Fingon puts on his most comically earnest face, then laughs. "Strange, though. I had half-forgotten your parents' house could actually be quiet, even if the reason was that most of you were asleep."

It was your home. [ He smiles at her understandingly ]

We all wish to return home, I think.

Curufin was the most cunning of my brothers. Although for law, Caranthir might have been better! But he is not here, and Curufin is. It can't hurt, to ask. [ He agrees ]

[The memory is over as suddenly as it started and Harlan sits up. What the hell? He checks the pockets of his sweats but, no, his focus is on the nightstand. He did not accidentally cast Detect Thoughts on Michael. That's good.

So... is this an event? It has to be, even though it's a little early in the month. Michael is already stirring, but Harlan drops a hand to his waist to hurry that process along.]

Um. I think... I think I just saw some of your memories.

[Were those memories? They felt like memories. He felt like Michael in those moments, felt a tangle of emotions sit thick in his chest with a stillness he's never experienced before. Instead of love arriving as frantic, bursting energy, he felt it in an undercurrent, a warm, rolling wave rising up from something deep as opposed to the sharp strikes of lightning, a pulsar vibrating against a supernova backdrop. It was a steady thrum, a pluck of an E string left to echo in air heavy with rain. It was a foundation where Harlan is used to only momentum, velocity, and it was for him.

He can hear himself asleep and breathing against Michael's ear. He can feel his arms around Michael, can hear himself sobbing voicelessly into Michael's shoulder even though he had been deaf. He sees himself turning red and grinning like an idiot when Michael says he's sure, and the thrum is back, the rumble of an earthquake though there's nothing but steady ground underfoot. He feels Michael loving him.

It's bizarre, bizarre as shit, but, christ, his brain couldn't have made that up. That was real. His fingers tighten in Michael's shirt and he feels his own brand of love crack him open, all wildfire and kinetic energy. He's going to cry, there's that familiar swell under his eyelids, but he's still processing. He's not sure he'll ever quite process what he felt through Michael as being connected to him. That doesn't sound like something that could ever be real.

Maybe, though. Give him a minute.]

Can I ask you something?

[It comes out automatically.]

"Not quite. But I know what our host are doing - I know you saw a memory, although which I do not know."

Not a bad one, he hopes.

(Very much Not Handling)

That incongurity is enough to startle him out of another mope-cycle, and Maglor blinks at him.

"I'm pretty sure Maedhros would argue the opposite."

That makes him laugh. "I do wonder sometimes what our parents were thinking - you're not the only one with a slightly odd name!"

Maglor's makes some sense at least. But poor Caranthir!

He snorts, amused. "You're a fine one to talk, your house was just as bad, and there were less of you!"

Wash was there for this. In fact, it's about him, but there's no way he could have seen it from Tucker's perspective. Couldn't have known what the other man felt, not really, even though intellectually got the point. He'd tried putting himself in the other soldier's shoes many times before, for many reasons, but now Hadriel had put him in Tucker's head and he could feel it for himself.

It's kind of horrible, what he did to his friend, while trying to protect him. The hollowness of it, the sense of loss even though Wash on the other side knew he was okay, he'd pull through. He'd still been ready to die for them, and for Tucker...

Shit.

When it's over and they're back at the kitchen table, the plate of pancakes he was passing still halfway between them where it was when their fingers brushed, Wash feels shaken. As many times as he's apologized for this, and for the implant bullshit, as much as he thought he understood... now he knows.

"--I'm sorry," he says abruptly, though it's not clear what he's apologizing for. The accidental transfer, or something that he saw.

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Event Log: Memories Past

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