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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Grey skies and empty buildings, the promise of rain swelling in an unbroken net of clouds and the scent of saltwater in each breath. Shorelines and silence span the streak of curling, curved street between the Colosseum and Fear’s temple, where quick steps crack the quiet in two and echo through the spaces between buildings, the gaps where ruins used to live.

A rush of rhythmic crunching, steps made with the familiar ease of someone who’s been here for far too long, hurried out of habit rather than anything else. Kate can be found all over the islands, most of the time, but the west island remains her main haunt, whether the Lab or the Colosseum, continuing to work on pieces of last month’s investigations. She drifts from there to the guard headquarters on the north island, whether to spar with someone or simply to visit, and back to the eastern island where her home is nestled among Love’s housing. Plenty of nights find her on the south island, wiling away hours at the Speakeasy and sharing drinks with whoever comes in.

It’s easy enough to bump into her if you’re not expecting a blur of pink walking around the city, or perhaps you’re simply looking for someone to give you a hand. Now that she no longer works at the clinic, Kate can be found looking for just about anything to do. New projects to start, people to help.

Something that will pass the time when she can’t continue looking at The Door.

( OOC: Starters are below! Please check the OOC plotting post for other memory ideas or to hash something out with me. )

Breath clouds out from between chapped lips, rising into the air, past windows sprayed with canned snow and brightly coloured banners advertising new, lower mortgage rates (a family crowded around a perfectly decorated tree, mother and father smiling at the letter in their hands as two children rifle through presents with wide, toothy grins), and it curls into nothing. The queue at the hole in the wall cash machine shuffles too slowly forward and Kate wraps her arms tighter around herself and grits her teeth until her jaw aches. Even when it hasn’t rained in two days, the winter chills her to the bone and the damp still lingers on a sharp, stinging wind.

Three days since she arrived and three more until she can leave, but if this queue takes any longer, she’ll be running late to meet the others, and days of promising work might just go up in — well, in a cloud of half-frozen breath, all thanks to one ancient cash machine. She stifles a growl with a huff of breath, more tendrils of steam weaving their way up into thin air.

Why do they even need banks? asks a voice scuttling by in an accent thicker than either Faith or Alicia’s, disdain as thick as the clunking noise of the stranger’s heels as she passes the line by, eyes flicking over each shivering person. Kate’s grip tightens on her purse until the button holding it closed leaves an angry, red imprint on her palm, and the line shifts forwards again.

No’ going down this way again, fuck’s sake! comes another, a young man hesitating at the end of the street and shouting at his friend loudly enough that his words can be made out over the din of Christmas shoppers. Ye wanna get blown up? There’s accusation in his tone, pointed reminders of scars not yet healed, of perceived danger. This part of the city is more than just a street littered with quirky restaurants and the world’s oldest cash machine: it’s all Superhuman businesses, each and every person lighting up Kate’s world in colours threaded through veins, and it is, now — still — the sign of everything dangerous to those whose bodies run dull. Superhumans and their fighting all but destroyed significant chunks of another city a few years ago, and the question flared to life:

Why were they running around unchecked? Allowed their own places in cities and to just be undisturbed when they can be responsible for so much damage?

Kate lowers her head as the friend shouts back — Fuckin’ daft, ya pussy! — and there’s yet another protest, another I’m tellin’ ye, dinnae go doon there!, an urgency to the words that echoes off buildings and strikes down at some deep, suspicious part of her brain.

The building and ground tremble, and Kate’s already moving, already smacking the people next to her on the arms.

“Move!”

Oi, Galloway! Share!

Limbs are heavy and words are vague, the day stretching on — blue skies and hazy wisps of clouds above her, the heat of summer absorbed into a grey polyester skirt and heavy boots that earned her two weeks of detention.

She should be there right now, but whatever. Detention doesn’t provide her with the heady buzz that the joint dangling from her fingers does. Someone — fuck if she can remember her name, Wendy? Wa...luigi? Who fucking cares, they met half an hour ago. She has blonde hair with a chunk shaved out and a wild smile, that’s all Kate knows, that and the fact that she’s the one who nicked the joint from her grip and inhaled a lungful, coughing wetly before passing it to the guy who yelled for it in the first place.

She shrugs and reaches for the bottle sat by her brother, his eyes bloodshot and voice an indistinct drone, rambling about the movement of the clouds and how it relates to gravity, laughing when his friend from Chemistry class simply states: Aye, but it looks like a dick.

(Just fuck her already, Kate thinks, and the white noise in the back of her mind changes to a sound most could only describe as !?

The benefits of telepathy.)

Plastic crinkles under her grip as she tips cheap, lukewarm cider back into her mouth, tang and fizz thick in her throat and the thumpthumpthump of music from tinny speakers throbbing against her thighs and up her spine.

“Turn that shite off,” she calls over to the boy who demanded the joint, his hair falling loose of all the gel it’s been in as he runs his hands through it again and again.

“What—” his fingers scrape through softened spikes and her own trail over the curves of the cider bottle, nail catching and crinkling the label while he drawls out his question. “—do I get if I do?” Another rake of his fingers as he smiles wicked-sharp, and she wonders how sticky they are, how much of the gel has congealed under his nails along with dead skin and oils.
“Have to do it to find out,” she mutters, diving into her backpack and tossing a CD at that smug smile more than the boy himself, watching him scramble to catch it, limbs flailing in the same way Marc’s powers do when he’s still sleeping and they flare to life, lifting objects into the air.

“Good choice,” offers the voice of that girl with the name beginning with W (she thinks), too close and too warm, breath hot against her ear and a hand sneaking under the hem of Kate’s skirt to a din of male whoops and whistles, and all the noise is a million miles away. She barely notices the silence from the speakers as the CD is changed, or anything that isn’t a chin resting heavy on her shoulder as a girl she met half an hour ago smiles at her like Kate’s the best thing she’s seen all day.

No amount of coming down here makes it any easier. The walls still shrink around her, the path is still a slow trudge to a headache and exhaustion, to scattered thoughts and wild emotions. She doesn’t even bother to steel herself against the assault as the effects of the Door begin to pick up, simply rolls her shoulders and continues walking.

And, all too soon, there it is, vibrating and lighting up the dark, dank cavern it’s locked in. Her eyes flicker to a whiter hue for the briefest of blinks, and she’s blinded by the full spectrum of colour, by light a million times brighter than the blue that the Door visibly emits. To say it’s like looking into the sun doesn’t fully capture the intensity of looking at these powers, but it’s the only thing that comes close. The tang of copper filling her mouth, making her lungs heavy and tight, and scattered, screaming thoughts of danger, of something something something. Indistinguishable flashes of emotion and a wave of exhaustion.

Still. They’re all here for a reason. Kate curls her hand around her notebook and pencil until it hurts, and presses herself against the wall for balance, scribbling notes in unnatural light and flicking between normal sight and her power each time Sorrow tries something new. They shift back and forth, take breaks and speak of things in a blur, as though the world’s in fast forward until her hand hovers over the surface of the sphere.

The screaming doesn’t stop, but her heart thuds in her ears until everything else fades away and there’s nothing but herself and the millimeters of blank space between her fingertips and the Door.

Her hand brushes the surface and her power flares to life, fighting its way through an overwhelming amount of magic. Her heartbeat disappears and the shrieking, screeching noise rings in her head, vibrating in her bones, through veins and blood and her head lolls forward, heavy as a boulder — heavier, perhaps, as her powers drain out of her hand and mingle with a thing treated with caution even by gods.

WHATTHEHELLAREYOUDOING and a string of unintelligible, guttural words spat by a voice that doesn’t exist, has never existed, sounds like nothing and no one she’s ever encountered before. No language that existed on earth, at least none that she’s heard, but a tone rich with anger.

And then it burns. Burns and flares through her body, flames licking interior vessels, searing scars inside of her until trembling legs give way, body collapsing in on itself like a folding chair tossed against the wall, limbs heavy-boned and buckling underneath her, the Door’s presence deafening as it tries to tear apart her mind.

Marc tosses a foam shrimp in Kate’s direction and she catches it between her teeth without breaking stride, grinning once she swallows and flourishing her hands in a mock bow.

“Try harder!” The afternoon is warm despite the time of year and Kate hurries down the first third of the hill with all the energy of a child who has the promises of the world at their feet. Freedom, the countdown to the weekend and Marc’s birthday too slow for her liking, the promise of barbeques and trips out buzzing under her skin and in the air. She turns her back to her brother, tugs a leaf from a hanging branch and lets it flutter to the pavement, a spot of vibrant, living green among old, dried gum and unwashed cement.

“Kat, catch!” Marc almost catches her off guard, but try harder already, brother, she knows that trick already. She spins, with all the grace of someone who is all but meant to be an athlete, and snaps up the next thrown sweet with her hand instead of her mouth, dropping the cola bottle onto her stuck out tongue.

“Loser.” But her voice rings playfully when he catches up and their paces match again, down the winding hill to a stretch of street lined with countless houses, all standing tall against the pavement, low-lying sun bleaching everything to white as they turn the corner. Kate ducks into stretched out shadows and blinks until her vision comes back.

And then the world stops. A magpie stops pecking at scraps of food in the road and a weight presses onto her chest, crushing lungs and heart as white blobs stomp their way out of a door half-off its hinges. Kate’s legs move before she can really register it, blurring under bright yellow tape and past houses where eyes peer out through living room windows, around policemen who react too late to the streak of twelve year old darting through their work at speeds that leave her dizzy, not enough air in her lungs, limbs and chest burning and the word no on repeat.

One more house—

But the door open is the same shade of cornflower blue as the powers she sees and there’s a stain on the carpet where her mother tried to repaint part of the passage without laying down paper. Somewhere behind her, a woman yells Kid, stop! Someone stop her! and aching, burning legs kick into gear once more.

No. She has to— She has to—

The stench of blood fills the air, thick with copper and embedded in the carpet as it squelches underfoot (It’s just one kid!), stuck in the back of her throat as bile winds its way up.

No. She has to— She has to—

Legs shake and she pushes at the door to the office without really thinking about it (For fuck’s sake, Johnson), silencing the world behind her and heaving in a breath which tastes of copper and death. The desk sits in front of her, gleaming and freshly polished, and if it wasn’t for the papers scattered into a pool of red (red going brown, dark, crusty brown all too much like the plaits that fall down her back), it would look so normal.

… She can’t see her mother’s favourite pen, her mind latches onto, scanning bookshelves with her eyes and looking everywhere but where brown curls poke out from behind a desk leg. Knees buckle and fingers twitch, darkness creeping at the corners of her vision when no amount of breathing gets air to her lungs, nothing, nothing, nothing—

But unseeing brown eyes and organs trailing out of cracked, cavernous ribs as she stumbles away from the opening door and collapses against the desk.

Edited 2018-11-14 20:55 (UTC)

Whr r u?

Message one of one, and Kate bites the inside of her mouth as she taps idly at the keys of her phone. Why are they bothering, why is Marc, after all these years of obsessing? He has his answer, their parents are avenged. It’s over and this battle, their attempts to get rid of Rosenberg, it’s pointless, isn’t it?

She paces by the window, eyes following the blinking lights of an airplane against an inky, velvet sky; straight lines painted by specks of red and the click of Kate’s phone closing as she presses at the bond in the base of her skull.

Why?

And there’s no answer. Nothing but the vague certainty that he’s alive, provided by the buzz of white noise that constantly lingers.

Whr r u?

It burns into her eyes as the indistinct noise of Marc’s presence echoes through her skull, another call for her presence, as all consuming as the lack of response from her brother. Her decision comes in a snap, as sharp as the crack of her phone hitting the wall and the screech of the window as it protests being opened.

The city becomes nothing but a blur of lights on a dark canvas, but if she knows anything, she knows the rooftops at night as surely as she knows the weight of the weapons pouch on her thigh. She doesn’t need to think, just to push, harder and harder, each street marked by the call to her brother

Say something, dammit!

—Thought you were done with this. His voice in her head rings out breathless and annoyed, but all that matters is that it does, just as the din of weapons clashing and bodies being thrown finds her ears. Kate drops to the street with a roll and a grimace, immediately tossing a knife at a well-built woman with her attention on Jay’s half-stone form, effectively distracting her long enough for Jay to grab and restrain her. A woman they all know from around the headquarters, loyal and skilled and spitting at them, calling them traitors.

“It was bullshit, Karen!” cuts in Carl, though with an axe in hand and the continual pop of teleportation, a dancing distraction with a licence to kill, he radiates nothing but the certainty that talking isn’t going to work.

Of course it won’t. None of them would have been swayed either, a few years ago, and Kate huffs out air and dodges the attempt to sweep her off her feet with ease, turning a throwing knife into a held weapon, blocking the pipe aimed for her head with one eye still on the battle. Alicia, with the customary strain of mind control visible in her brow, stopping an Agent from laying a finger on Diana and allowing her girlfriend to move forward (and Kate’s eyes shift before the claws come down, her chest aching and the familiar knot of dread in the base of her stomach twisting); Carl, still popping in and out of the fight too quickly for anyone to lay a finger on, smiling as though this is all a game; Faith, her fire blazing a trail through the alley, never actually hurting any of their opponents but creating an effective dissuading obstacle for anyone trying to run for back up, and Marc, tossing telekinetically lifted objects out with accuracy, stock still and confident as blood drips down the temple of the man he’d been fighting and Kate’s heart clenches, her breath comes short, and the world narrows to that streak of red illuminated by licking flames, so thick that it isn’t until a leg blocks her view that she feels her lungs fill again.

Your left! It’s all but screamed from her mind, but the moment is a blur. A figure darting behind, the glint of a blade, the slow and inevitable way it drags across a pale throat. Her knees locking, heart an aching stone lodged in her ribs as fatal, fatal red stains Marc’s dirtied white shirt.

The pipe she’s holding back disappears, the sound of a crumpling body a vague thing in her ears, hands laid on her warm and firm, pulling her back as a blur of red hair and golden, shining light, kneels next to vibrant blue hair pooling onto the floor, stained dark by blood.

And, above it all, a deafening silence.

[Scott is all around today; he's been getting to know his surroundings despite hearing the rumors of a move coming soon. He's out of his armor, settling a bit with the idea that he probably doesn't have to be walking around with all that protection 24/7. Luckily wearing his causal wear under his armor meant that it came with him. He doesn't want to be walking around armed to the teeth all the time, looking as if he's always ready to shoot someone. Besides, should anything go wrong, he has biotics.

He can be found anywhere really, poking around and whatnot, but a place he's probably returning to regularly is the Speakeasy, usually having a drink or just relaxing in the comfort of people around him. He's not being very cautious and therefore easy to bump into no matter where he is.]

(ooc: I have a plotting comment here and instead of writing them all down just let me know there if you want a particular thing and I'll write a starter for it below!)

Immediately, Scott is pushing his partner, Liam, to the ground to duck behind some rocks, quietly hissing, "wait, look!"

He points to the wreckage of their shuttle, aliens with hard and bone-like exteriors looking around the wreckage with guns, kicking over crates and poking about. They spot another member of their team; Fisher, he's hiding with his armor darkened and banged up, shivering behind a piece of debris.

"Oh shit, what was first contact protocol again?" Liam asks, looking to Ryder.

"No deadly force unless fired upon."

Liam laughs shakily, or is that a light scoff? Hard to tell. "Yeah, said no one in the field ever. How do we handle it?"

"Take it easy," Scott stresses. "We only get one shot at 'hello' with these guys."

"Yeah, and Fisher gets shot in the head if we're wrong."

If I'm wrong, yeah, is the bitter thought that flashes in his mind like a neon sign that's impossible to ignore. The two get up and step over the rocks, weapons put away and hands in the air as they begin to approach. "Nice and easy — we only go hot if we have to," Scott warns, his heart beating faster and faster and his mouth drying up from anxiety.

The alien says something Scott can't understand, but he can understand Fisher alright, crying out about being hurt. Shit, shit, shit, shit.

"He sees us," Liam warns from behind him.

"We can't understand you! We're not here to fight. That man's with us."

They're closer now — too close probably, because the alien closest to Fisher raises its weapon and begins to beat Fisher with it. Scott pulls out his pistol and aims for its head, shaking and out of breath already which causes the first shot to hit its shoulder instead, but it stops him. The next shot doesn't miss. He can hear shots ringing right by him, trusting that Liam is taking care of the other one, and he does. Once it's all over they rush over to Fisher. "It's over," Scott offers.

Liam is immediately at Fisher's side. "You okay?"

Fisher holds his head, looking to be in a lot of pain, his words coming along with sharp inhales. "So much for making peace with the locals. Thanks for jumping in."

Scott sighs in frustration. "I wish I didn't have to. The first aliens we meet and we try to kill each other? That wasn't the plan."

"Then we need a new one," Liam pipes up. "At least we know what's what. The brochures were light on aliens who want to shoot your head off."

Scott merely sighs heavily yet again, while fisher speaks up sounding tired and ragged. Frustrated as well. "We still don't even know what they wanted."

Liam lifts his forearm in front of their downed teammate, what looks like a holographic interface scanning him. "The way they treated you? Blood samples. Lots of them."

"Who says we'd even understand?" Scott cuts in. "Or that they'd understand us? It's a new galaxy. I guess it's too much to expect that they'd play by Milky Way rules."

"They broke the rules in any galaxy!" Liam insists with anger.

Fisher adjusts himself against the wreckage. "But why go after us like that?"

Liam moves to a stand with his gun at the ready. "Only thing I know for sure is their guns hit as hard as ours."

The memory fades.

One moment, Wash is stepping aside to let a stranger pass him in a narrow shop aisle, and the next he's on a planet he's never seen before, observing aliens he's never encountered. He's somehow aware that this isn't his experience, but it sure feels like it is. The other species proves to be hostile and whoever he's seeing through the eyes of reacts just like he would -- fast and efficient taking them down to save a comrade.

New galaxy. Not the Milky Way. But he tries not to worry, because these aren't UNSC soldiers either. The armor's way too different. He just has to ride this out because as familiar as it feels, it's not his world.

When his vision blacks out Wash can feel himself tilting, and he stumbles into a shelf as he comes back to himself. Back to the shop, where the stranger who brushed past him is down the aisle giving him a funny look. Wash straightens back up and wonders if he should even bring up what he just saw at all... it's clearly some Hadriel bullshit, maybe a memory the guy doesn't want brought up. But. It's so familiar.

"Hey, uh. I just saw -- what's the "new galaxy"?"

Scott isn't even sure what happened; he did notice something odd, though. How the stranger paused when Scott squeezed by him in the aisle. For a second he thought maybe he just really doesn't like being touched — maybe he's one of those types that absolutely freezes on contact or something, even if it was just a brief brush of the shoulders. Either way, he's glancing back at him once or twice as he continues on his way when the guy just stumbles like he lost his balance.

His brows furrow in confusion but he doesn't hesitate to walk back over, a few cautious steps, just to see if the guy was alright. He doesn't have much time to question him, though. "New galaxy" — where did he...

"What?" he asks at first, sounding completely dumbfounded. It takes him a moment to piece together what he's asking, the fact that something just now didn't feel right, which prompts him to give an answer after all. "...Andromeda galaxy?" There's a pause. "Did you just — you were going to say you saw something?"

"I don't know, I said-- you said it wasn't the Milky Way. I saw rough terrain, a crashed shuttle, and aliens. Not like any I've ever met, and someone called it a first contact?" It's confusing, having been in the memory rather than just viewing it from outside like those dreams, over a year ago now, but that's what it felt like. Real as anything but not his.

Wash sizes the stranger up, trying to confirm what happened. His voice is the same as the one in the vision and he's the right size. Okay then. This'll be a fun week or two.

"You fight pretty well," he comments offhandedly, and there's the instinct to offer his hand to shake but Scott can see the moment he decides that's a terrible idea right now, with what just happened, and yanks it back awkwardly. "I'm Wash. Are you new?"

"What?" he repeats again, brows furrowed further and lips twisted in a look that's stuck halfway between being confused and a little freaked out. But he shakes his head a bit to rid himself of those feelings so he can assess what the hell is happening. It's the attempt at a handshake — the quick withdraw upon some realization that makes things sort of click for him. They brushed shoulders, the guy froze up, stumbled, and now spoke of things that he probably shouldn't know. Somehow, he saw it.

"Uh, shit. Thanks?" He laughs awkwardly, nodding his head a bit in greeting since yes, a handshake is a terrible idea. "Ryder. Just got here a few days ago so you'll excuse me if I'm having a little trouble understanding how literally anything around here works."

He makes a...vague gesture, indicating things like this right here because honestly.

Ephemera's in a relatively good mood. That might not last, but he's enjoying it while he can. He'll be wandering the shops looking for groceries and - more importantly - fresh paints and can be found at the armory or at the beach just watching the water. He's out of armor today. He's going to be regretting that fairly soon.

Out of armor, he's just a regular looking guy in jeans and a sweatshirt....and an intense facial scar. Easy to bump into.

( Starters below. OCC plotting comment here Hit me up at

mirrorfaded with any questions. )

"You'll never really understand it, nobody does, but you can figure out what's happening and learn to tell what's god bullshit. They mess with us on purpose, seems like right now we're sharing memories, which..." To be as polite to his new acquaintance as possible, instead of screaming 'fuck you' at whatever god decided this was the new game to play with them, Wash just flips off the ceiling.

"I've seen worse, at least. So where was that, exactly?"

Scott's eyes trail up to the ceiling as Wash flips it off, offering a small nod of understanding. Everything, predictably, all goes back to these beings claiming to be gods. He can't blame the guy for being sore. And at the possibility that people's memories can just be viewed by complete strangers...well, he's glad it wasn't anything after that little incident. It only got so much worse from there. Or something really embarrassing. That would have also sucked.

"Habitat 7," he answers with a bit of a sigh, not for lack of wanting to talk about it, but just because the whole situation still stings like a bitch. "It was supposed to be a lush world with a tropical region and everything. One of the worlds we surveyed for a potential home when we left the Milky Way. Too bad the planet and everything on it tried to kill us. 0/10, would not recommend."

They've decided as a group not to kill the enlisted soldiers. Only the officers. The captain timed everything so only a skeleton crew would be on board, minimal personal manning the ship, and the two other Hell Jumper squadrons off on assignment. Can't trust the others would see it the way you do. Can't trust that they wouldn't side with the officers and that's an awful thought, isn't it?

Ephemera and Crow

Crow have been dragging the enlisted soldiers kicking and screaming into the airlock. Can't hurt them too bad, they're not in full armor. But some of them want to fight, which makes it difficult, and he knew that corporal, the one who played cards with them. The one with the wild red hair and the broken nose where Ephemera kicked him.

Wouldn't say down. Had to do it.

"Hey! Hey! You bastards, what the fuck are you doing?"

Crow grunts. Activates the lock and leaves the soldiers, the ones still in good enough shape to stand, to pound uselessly at the door.

Ephemera lingers. Crow grabs him by the shoulder, hard. "No."

There's still work to do.

Inside, Rodriguez and Barrows have the officers lined up on their knees. No piece of armor among them, all of them full of righteous fury. Rodriguez has blood on his gauntlets where he's been beating the commander. The man's not dead yet, but Ephemera can see the shine of exposed bone on his scalp.

They know what they did. They never thought somebody would say enough.

In the corner, Hunter is standing watch. He's got his helmet off. Absolutely nothing on his face but a cold, steady calm.

Then he takes his axe. Nods to Rodriguez.

And they begin.

They each kill one. To make it fair. Rodriguez beats the commander to death with his fists. Chica uses her knives. The twins start kicking. Barrows uses a garrote.

Hunter takes the axe. Removes his officer's head in a single blow. It bounces.

The floor is tacky with blood before long.

Ephemera goes last. He decides to make it quick. The man stares at him the whole time. They'd been friendly once, if not friends.

"You killed children," he explains.

The officer stares at him. "We're at war."

"Yeah. But you killed kids."

Ephemera shoots him in the head. And the memory ends.

The space is dark and industrial, with the sharp smell of armor polish and spray paint. You have the feeling this is a storage compartment that's been repurposed as a sort of armory. A workbench has been set up and that's where the man with the scarred face is modifying his armor.

It's not Ephemera. The man has the same scar, the same dark hair, but he holds himself differently. Every motion is harsh and clipped, practical to the extreme. His expression is sharp, edging onto cruel.

"And what would you do if those people were here, now?"

He's speaking to a deceptively plain looking man.

"Would you kill 'em?"

This man is not Ephemera. Not the one you know. But there was someone else before.

Meet Sharkface. And the memory ends.

Ephemera is lying on his back, shirtless, while someone applies a tattoo to his chest. It's not done, but the words have been outlined. Redemption. His eyes are red. It's clear he's been crying and the woman sitting by his side, blonde and striking, looks like she's been crying and only recently stops.

This Ephemera has no burn scars. He's much younger.

The woman holds his hand loosely.

"Chin up, kid," she tells him gently. "You know the drill. Feet first into hell."

"Feet first," Ephemera echoes, and closes his eyes.

The tattoo gun buzzes. And the memory ends.

It's a party. Loud music is blasting and the room is filled with people dancing, drinking, making conversation. Most of them are in fatigues and the bar, such as it is, has clearly been fashioned out of spare supplies in a military hanger bay. A much younger Ephemera is sitting on the ground with his squad, squinting intently over a hand of cards. A raging game of poker is underway. The participants have bet on ammo clips, chocolate bars, and in one case a plastic baggie full of what look like buttons. Ephemera has thrown in a pack of cigarettes to the mix, intent on his cards.

He's also losing. Badly.

A blonde woman, strikingly beautiful, throws a comradely arm over his shoulder.

"Kid," she says, shouting over the noise, "you really suck at this game."

Everyone laughs. Even Ephemera.

And the memory ends.

Kettara has spent most of her time since coming to Hadriel out on her own, avoiding the crowds. Avoiding civilization, really. There are so many humans and she doesn't know how to contend with so many of them at once. She's decided to face her trepidation head on and may in fact approach your character, determined to make a good impression with a bone-crushing handshake. Humans like handshakes, right?

Right?

She'll be wandering through the shops and the beach.

( Starters below. OCC plotting comment here Hit me up at

mirrorfaded with any questions. )

This memory is loud and chaotic, though happy. A young Kettara - perhaps eleven or twelve - is dancing hand in hand with an older troll woman, laughing wildly. A large bonfire has been built on the edge of a beach, the night sky gleaming above them. Other trolls and orcs are standing a little apart from the fire, cheering and clapping. But only Kettara and the troll woman are dancing in the fire itself.

Strangely, the flames don't burn them. The troll woman lifts Kettara up and roars. The crowd cheers and the flames whip around them, suddenly taking shape. Like shadow puppets, animals appear in the fire - wolves, dragons, raptors. Even fish. Kettara reaches out in wonder and the flames curl around her almost gently. She laughs, spreading her hands wide, and the fire jumps in response.

The troll woman kisses her on the head and the crowd roars. And the memory ends.

This Kettara is much younger. She's three or four at most, a scrawny child with a mess of red hair, needle-like tusks, and a ratty slip barely covering her shoulders. Wooden walls rise up around her, shoddily constructed. There are bed mats on all sides and on the mats, adult orcs. Some of them are sleeping but most are still awake, if not precisely conscious. Many of them stare blankly into the walls. Some murmur to themselves. Others weep.

Some, like the orc woman that Kettara is sitting next to, barely seem alive at all.

The orc woman is young - barely an adult herself. But despite her youth and lack of armor, anyone can see that this orc was a warrior, once. Her shoulders are massive and thick scars cut over hard muscle. One of her eyes is missing, the wound long since healed. Tribal tattoos loop up both arms and down the woman's chin. And she has long, thick red hair.

The family resemblance is unmistakable.

Kettara is tugging at her mother's shoulder, then her hair.

"Ma! Ma!"

The orc woman doesn't seem to hear her. After a moment she rolls onto her side, putting her back to Kettara.

Kettara beats her tiny fists against the woman's back and begins to wail. None of the adults pay attention to her.

Cecily encounters Kate at the Speakeasy, before she realizes what event the gods have in store for them today. She orders, but nothing alcoholic, and hasn't even said a word yet to the other woman as she reaches out a hand to accept the glass of water that's been presented to her and brushes the other's arm - barely.

Then, she seems it. Cecily is launched into-...something, some scene that she doesn't recognize. The Inquisitor gasps, eyes wide as she tries to get her bearings. The setting is unfamiliar, and though Kate seems a little unsteady, she also seems to have a purpose here. Kate doesn't address Cecily at all, and she assumes (based on past experiences with Hadriel, a few times over now) that this isn't the present reality at all. It's a vision, or a memory, or else some other kind of hallucination.

First, my body goes. Then: my mind.

"Kate?" she asks with urgency, but is ignored. The other woman approaches, writes, then reaches out a hand to touch

the

...

"Kate!" It isn't a worried shout, but it's an urgent one. This is it, she thinks, without much by way of evidence. The Door is before them, and coming into contact with it does something awful to Kate. Before Cecily can process really any of this, she's snapped back into the Speakeasy and falls from her chair with a loud series of thumps.

The water glass is untouched, and the Inquisitor is stunned into silence.

Even in her new, adjusted life, Cecily is very busy. She takes up her Guard duties as best as she can, patrolling various parts of the city. She lives in the Second Spiral, she she'll travel to and from there at least once each in the day. She can also be found in the Speakeasy, where she's sitting alone without anything to drink at all, or throwing a stick on the beach for a large dog that runs up and down to chase it.

She isn't the touchy-feely type, but the accidental brush of a hand or arm is entirely possible...

( hit my up at

kairaptor for any additional details or plotting! )

[ Cecily, looking perhaps slightly younger and with two good arms instead of one, is up to her eyes in dirt. Not literally - yet. Rather, the Inquisitor has a shovel and is digging feverishly, sweat glistening on her skin and blood evident at her hands where the tool has rubbed away the skin. She has been here for some time, though she does pause (however briefly) to have a conversation with a many that cannot be found in Hadriel at the present.

The scenes are similar, in a lot of ways. After she speaks with Dorian Pavus, she goes on to dig up two more people: Sharon Da Silva, who is a current resident of the city, and a blonde man, both of whom had been buried underground and who had required quite a bit of effort to unearth.

Those who were in Hadriel before it moved from underground may recognize - or even remember - the scene... ]

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Event Log: Memories Past

kate galloway / will match format

open / cw: bombings

open / cw: substance abuse, bad teenage decisions

closed / uh not really sure if there's a cw for this?

closed / cw: death / murder, gore

closed / cw: death / murder, blood / violence

Scott Ryder | open, will match format

First Contact

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Terrence Ephemera | ota, will match format

no subject

no subject

Mutiny (cw for murder, gore, mention of war crimes)

The Counselor

Tattoos

Squad bonding

Kettara Bloodthirst | ota

Fire Dancing

Internment Camps

no subject

cecily trevelyan ; ota

buried alive