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Back to Reality: Post-Event Plot Log

Who: Everyone
When: August 26 through September 9(ish). Begins directly after the simulation ends.
Where: Region 6
What: The simulation ends.
Warnings: Potential violence, mental manipulation and fallout. Label your content!

wake up

Consciousness returns slowly, stray visions sifting through your mind. A meeting. A quest. Betrayal and abandonment, days spent wandering a terrifying wasteland before finding shelter. What a strange dream! It has to be a dream, because you're safe. You're comfortable, and happy. You're just now waking up to greet the day.

But this isn't your bed.

Liquid surrounds you. Lights glow a clean electric blue on either side. You sit up, sputtering your way to full awareness as reality: past and present, fully sets in. You remember the Savrii's trick. You remember the storms. The simulation, crafted by the intermediaries and hijacked by one of their own to convey their own warning. But that nightmare is over. You've woken up. And you can see where you are now.

The stasis unit holding you sits in the middle of a small room that is decorated extremely simply, but functionally: a cushioned bed, lighting, a closet-sized bathroom. Your belongings don't seem to be present, aside from the TAB that sits nearby—and apart from the soaked clothing you wear, nothing you own is on your person. Some characters may feel an odd numbness in their minds—and find, on testing, that any superhuman capabilities they had appear to be suppressed. Several changes of simple clothes in approximately your size can be found nearby. The only exit is a single door.

Surprisingly to some, when you try it? It opens.

Others are emerging from their rooms as well, entering a long hall lined with similar doorways. This area seems to be nothing but housing, but the far end of the hall leads to a centralized room. A column stands in the middle, display screens facing out to all four sides. Projected on each is the same face: a woman, dressed in the garb of the intermediaries. She offers a small, sad smile, and speaks.

"We wish it hadn't come to this.

"For centuries on centuries, our means of conflict resolution have been unique. We do not kill. We do not imprison." She shakes her head, a troubled expression crossing her face. "We speak. Those of Thisavrou believe in trust and community. That any problem can be overcome through understanding: of oneself, and one another.

"But you have breached that trust too many times.

"You were meant to be escorted gently from our worlds. Without opportunity to do harm to others, but with no constraints on your own lives. Given a chance to live, in peace or war, where you desired. Where your violence, your chaos, would not bring ruin and murder to our streets. Where you would not risk the fate of all worlds.

"That opportunity has been taken. Through Siddony's betrayal. And through one of your own. For the third time in two cycles, the Ingress has been tampered with. All attempts to remove you and yours from Thisavrou have failed."

She shakes her head, breathing a soft sigh. Frustration. No—disappointment. "This isn't a punishment. We cannot allow you to bring harm to our people any longer, but neither are we cruel enough to make you live your lives out in a cage. We mediators are discussing more permanent solutions now—methods to bring your way of life in line with ours. But if you truly do wish to leave this... internment, of your own accord? Seek out your saboteur."

A quiet look at the display. "And if you are capable, reflect on your own deeds."

look around

The message ends, and loops back to the beginning. No contact method is given, and no response will be accepted. Further exploration of the facility you're in produces very little: more rooms, more hallways. Close examination might find signs of recent construction—clearly, this housing was put together in a hurry.

Those who exit the building might be able to piece together why.

The sun shines clearly over verdant grasslands and jungle. It sparkles brightly off the sea. It also glints off metal frameworks and construction that some of Thisavrou's older "new arrivals" might find familiar. Not long after the refugees from the Midway Hub came to these planets, a call went out from businessman John Hammond, offering work for any willing to help him build his own unique theme park: as Thisavrou's new Region 6. Less public was the news of his death, just a few months after, that brought a rapid halt to the project.

Still, it appears someone else has put the space to use.

The facility you woke in was converted from the storage units—and remains one of the only structures operational. All the more so, now that the electronics and advanced machine parts have been gutted from the place. Still, if the Savrii aren't willing to allow technology to their "detainees", they certainly don't seem to be skimping on space. Between the empty enclosures, the nonfunctional EN-line tracks, and the half-constructed arena, the site has plenty of interest to explore.

About a mile out from the center where you woke, wanderers will reach a boundary—water on three sides, as the land is a peninsula, and the solid bubble of a force field all around. The landward site holds a gated checkpoint, usually closed, where Savrii (escorted by intermediaries) will pass through daily to deliver food and necessary supplies.

Those who approach this group, or attempt to force their way through the checkpoint, will find themselves subject to a strange effect: an active sapping of any violent or aggressive intent. Characters may speak with the intermediaries, but at this point, will find themselves unable to choose to harm anyone while in their presence.

look closer

The detention center is spacious enough, and the Savrii, for all their hostility, will not allow anyone to starve or die. Although they take care to limit options for escape, those with more specific survival requirements will be accommodated. Really, there's nothing left to do but self-examine. Sit in your room, consider the magnitude of your crimes....

...not your thing? Weird. Well, there are other sorts of trouble.

On the Horizon:
The sky over Thisavrou has always been a glimpse of chaos: the bright light of the Ingress, contrasted against the dark surging of the storms around. Siddony's warning and the simulation, however, might prompt a little more attention to the clouds. Or, perhaps, they're just more impressive now than usually. Those keeping an eye upward will find a roiling sea of darkness, red lines flashing intermittantly against the black... less like lightning, and a little more like cracks, pressing closer as every day gives way to night. In the darkest shadows, some watchers might almost make out faces, peering down at you. How imaginative!

...right?
Perchance To Dream:
While the effect will vary by individual, spending two weeks sharing a psychic vision doesn't pass without effect. You might find yourself finishing your friends' sentences, or having a more intuitive grasp of their mood. And particularly in sleep, the mind's connections will prove difficult to close.

For a full week after waking, all player characters will be prone to strangely vivid dreams. And even more strangely, not alone. Fantasy or nightmare, they may find their unconscious journeys joined by their friends—or by strangers they have never met. On waking, all such dreams can be recalled with perfect clarity: no different to the mind than if you had lived through them.
Dig Deeper:
Rushed as they were, the Savrii were very careful in their efforts to prepare this place. Providing rooms... ensuring safeguards. And clearing out all technology or dangerous objects from Hammond's half-constructed park.

The Savrii missed something.

Deep in the tunnels below the unfinished research lab, a single room holds a stash of cryo-frozen eggs. Inside, are the genetically modified versions of four different species found on certain Earth-adjacent worlds: Sinornithosaurus, Yutyrannus huali, Kulindadromeus, and Triceratops. Imported for planned release in the park, these species will grow to adulthood inside two weeks, and form a parental bond with the first person they see on emerging from an egg. Without extensive skill and training, bonding is no guarantee on obedience, howevever. And some lessons (say, "don't eat my friends") may prove a little counterintuitive.

Still, what's the worst that could happen?

[Check out the OOC post here for more information! As this log will stretch into the beginning of September, it can also be used for introducing new characters if their players so choose.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Agent Maine.

It's soothing. So soothing, that voice. Licks along the corridors of your mind, brings warmth and comfort where it's cold, so cold, you haven't been warm since the fall, since you lay staring at the sky and choking on your blood and you—

— red light flickers along damaged nerves, fills the jagged, broken edges. Dulls the pain and gives you something else. Something more.

Strength. Power. The means to have purpose. To be more than a weapon, beaten and broken and reforged, a thing to be wielded without restraint. You lean into it, let the flames crackle within, and listen to that voice.

Agent Maine, isn't that the soldier from the freeway?

It is.

The one that shot you in the throat?

It is.

The growl isn't human. It's wet and thick and it hurts even now. Heat wraps around your throat, blunting its sharp edges, filling you and urging you on and you snarl and you know, you know, that you'll win.

I thought so.

The fire roars, basking in your hatred as you drink in its desire. Always there. With you. Knowing you.

Sic 'em!

You obey.

Edited 2017-08-27 19:14 (UTC)

This is wrong.

North doesn't know where he is, but he knows it isn't home. He knows it isn't his any place he's ever known. This cold, this broken feeling, it's foreign to a man who's put so much work and value into family, into preservation of love and of self.

It's when he realizes whose voice he's hearing that the dread creeps into his bones, that snarl ripping his heart in two and injecting ice into his veins. He can't feel the pain, but he can feel the distress, the visceral desire to scream.

He forgets about finding out where he is. He forgets about everything. The only thing that matters is escape, is the cry of fear from a young voice as familiar as his own these days. He has to find South. He has to get Theta out of here.

It isn't the same shattering, screaming, tearing feeling as when Epsilon had torn into his brain, but there's the same creeping feeling of something alien except this time it's not in his head, it's everywhere. It's a weight laid on top of him, crushing, suffocating until he can hardly draw breath. It's fire and cold all at once, that leaves numbness in its wake.

And then there's the words. The growl. He knows that growl. It's been friend and enemy, monster and friend.

"Meta?" It's not Maine. That feeling is wrong.

A child's scream. Distress. Panic.

What?

The roar of the fire is too loud. Pull back. It clings, flares bright, embrace comforting and right—

A friend's voice. "Meta?"

Don't know that. What is that?

Pull back to hear more. Pull away.

The ice hits him like a fucking sledgehammer. He hisses, breath escaping in a white plume, and fuck, his throat...! He reaches to grasp it, hears a crack, realizes that his armor is coated in a thin sheet of ice.

Thin now. Growing thicker.

His hands come away red. His throat is torn open. Bleeding. Shouldn't it be warm? Blood is warm. But it's so fucking cold.

Hands shaking.

No.

Focus. Breathe.

How can he breathe without a throat?

Bloody hands press against his bare head. He tries to speak — "Wash?" — but it comes out in a sick gurgle.

Flames lick his legs.

Agent Maine. Let me help you.

Sink into the warmth. Let it grow.

Edited 2017-08-29 23:42 (UTC)

'Let me help you,' croons the voice, soft and sickly sweet, and North feels something twist in his gut that halts everything else. Guilt, followed by confusion, followed by a realization.

Sigma isn't here.

The layers start to lift. Chains of fear and desperation break from around North's neck. He can hear another voice. Washington.

The urge to fix and to protect springs forth, but if it's for Wash or for Maine he doesn't know.

"Maine," he urges, calls out--he can't call him Meta, not when he knows the man is still there. The Meta is Sigma's creation. Agent Maine is still alive.

That voice. That fucking voice. He recognises it and it brings it's own coiling terror. Fear that is not entirely his own spikes and curls in his mind, trying to drag him down and down and down.

They'd tortured him. They'd ripped him apart over and over again.

"Maine!" he calls out. "Anyone?"

"Maine."

North's voice echoes, grows softer and softer, and suddenly it's pitch black, he's blind again, and North's voice returns, rising above the crackling flames.

"Maine. I'm not going anywhere. You aren't dealing with it alone. Breathe, big guy. Breathe."

From some point high above, there's a flash of purple armor. And then comes a stream of images and sensations: a tired but smiling North in a diner; a pat to the side of his helmet; the sniper's voice on the radio telling them enemy movements; the feeling that he's breaking into pieces, but North is holding his wrists, holding him together, the only stable thing he feels because fuck, fuck, how could he do any of that?!

Agent Maine.

"Maine! Anyone?"

Maine recoils from the fire. Twists away to try and find that voice.

Wash needs help.

The images and sensations come from all around this time. Two faces, years apart, smiling equally bright; a voice cold with anger ("get the fuck off him"); drunken laughter beside a table made of crates; bandaging Wash's bleeding knuckles and wishing he could do more, wanting to protect his friend, his best friend, but he knows what happens, and he knows he can't be trusted.

"It's not your fault. It's me. I'm fucked up."

Lying.

Agent Maine.

The images fade, and suddenly, all three of them are on a cliff.

It's not Sidewinder. Maine has never been to Sidewinder. This scene is nothing like reality. But in this dream, it is the cliff. The knowledge is absolute, as is the knowledge that Carolina is at the bottom.

Maine's armor and bare face are splattered with blood. His throat is torn open; he couldn't speak if he tried.

It's so cold.

Edited 2017-09-03 16:26 (UTC)

The images fill him with nostalgia that isn't his own. They make him feel a desire to comfort Wash that he's been struggling to find recently. He sees a smile he misses seeing, and there's a tiny undercurrent of hurt from North's end at the thought.

But then they're there. A cliffside, cold, and not anywhere North remembers, but he knows. He knows where they are, he knows what happened, and he knows that Maine is nothing but filled with suffering in this moment.

He moves immediately, and puts his hands up to grab one of Maine's shoulders.

"Maine. Buddy, hey, we're here." There's so much blood. North looks for Maine's eyes. "We're here." We. Him and Wash, together.

It's North, North like Wash remembers him in the Project before... before he'd left. He'd always tried to take care of them, even if sometimes he'd been patronising as fuck. But he'd always been there. Until he hadn't been. Until there'd been no-one. It churns up a sort of bitterness in Wash's chest and part of him wants to shout at him; how dare he act like he gives a damn when he hadn't cared back then?

And part of him still misses it, and that hurts more.

The cold hits him and then he's got more things to worry about than North. The snow flurries around them and Maine's armour is covered in blood. Wash's stomach lurches. Where's Epsilon? He has to find him before the Meta does. His only ticket out of here. And North... what is North doing?

Maine's eyes are locked on the edge of the cliff. Glazed over. Horrified. He hears North's voice, but it's muffled, like he hears it from underwater. Like he's drowning.

We're here, North says — but it's just North. Wash called for help, but Maine couldn't find him. He doesn't know where his friend is. All he knows is that Carolina is at the bottom of the fucking cliff.

He did this.

A different scene unfolds around them. Unlike the others, each intricate detail is crystal clear. A reflection of reality. A memory burned into Maine's mind. With it comes the knowledge that this isn't real; this is the past; nothing can be changed.

Maine is twenty-one. He's standing beside a Pelican. He's supposed to be watching the last of his squad board, but no one is moving. He and three other black clad Helljumpers are frozen in place, staring up at an impossibly bright beam of light shooting down from the sky.

The aliens are glassing the planet.

His mind is swirling with rage, terror, and despair. How can humanity survive against that? How the fuck are they supposed to win?

The scene changes.

He's sixteen. He's already bigger than everyone else in his squad. But he's small; he's so small compared to the Brute holding him in the air.

He's trying to get free. He's kicking and punching, but it doesn't even flinch. He's not strong enough. He's so fucking small, and he's not strong enough. Then the ape hauls its arm back and throws him and—

The scene changes again. It's a nightmare, blurred at the edges and sharp in the details of Carolina's face. She's powerful. Confident. Indomitable. His leader. He'd follow her through hell with a fucking smile.

And he's got her by the throat. He's holding her up in the air, and she's kicking and fighting, but he can't even feel it through the thick fur covering his arm. She's so small. It's so easy to lift her higher, pull his arm back, and throw her off a fucking cliff.

The scene changes again. They're back at the cliff. Carolina's twisted body is at the bottom.

He did this.

Maine's knees hit the ground. Bloody fingers dig into his scalp. He's trying to scream. Every effort tears his throat open a little more. Every breath is agony.

He's cold. He's so cold, and he's empty, and he destroyed his team. He destroyed everything he has. Everything that matters.

Warmth bleeds in at the base of his skull. A whisper of comfort. Companionship. He slides his hands over it and curls in on himself. Listening.

North is the only one even slightly self-aware right now, and it's not even full. He's entrenched in the dream right along with Maine and Wash. He has no idea what's going on, but what he does know is that Sigma is here, somewhere, some form of him, and that he's getting after Maine.

North won't let it happen again.

The scene changes pummel his psyche with fear and guilt, but he fights through it. He fights through it because Maine is suffering somewhere in front of him. He fights through it because Wash is here and no amount of arguing makes North think of him as any less of a teammate.

So when they return to the cliff, and Maine sinks to his knees and curls over, North reaches for him. He grabs for his hands, and he holds onto him.

"Maine. Listen to me, it's North, I'm here."

He can see the plasma rippling across the planet's surface, the ground melting and bubbling beneath it, becoming molten and dead. They'd sent him the message that home was gone and he'd never had the heart to look at the photos of a dead planet again.

He stumbles in the snow; it cuts into him as he tries to reach Maine, stinging his face, his fingers. He sees flickers of movement out of the corner of his eye, tries to reach them.

"Maine!" What's happening? Why is Maine on the ground?

He remembers a gun in his hands, pointing at North. North? North is-

"What are you doing?"

The big man's hands come away easily. At the nape of his bare neck, where he'd covered that blessed warmth, the flesh is bright red. It looks like it's been burned — branded — with the lower half of a complex symbol.

If Maine knows it's there, he doesn't say. Can't say. Brown eyes are locked on North now. Desperate. Pleading. It's no expression Maine's ever shown before. But he's never done this before. He's never attacked Carolina. He's never turned on his team.

Then North's visor shatters. The pattern is exactly the same as York's after the grenade.

Maine recoils like it's North burning him. He drags himself back, away, all but throws himself towards the sound of Wash's voice. His bleeding throat leaves splatters of red in the snow. York's dead eye keeps staring.

You followed orders.

He did.

Do you regret following orders, Agent Maine?

No. He doesn't.

Agent York abandoned his team.

He did.

The consequences of his actions are his responsibility. There's no reason for you to feel guilty.

But—

Look away, Agent Maine.

He does.

Maine turns away from York's eye. Turns away from North's comforting presence. Looks for Wash.

Wash has noticed him. Noticed him for real. And just as he feels that, he sees Maine's desperate look and the mark at his neck. He sees him recoil, and he pulls off his helmet immediately, looking to Wash where he stands and trying to latch onto that. Fuck their feud, fuck their pain. They're losing him.

"Wash, you've gotta help him, he needs us." The look in his own eyes is burning determination and intensity. It radiates from him like the glow of a heat lamp. "We can't give up on him."

For a moment, all he can see is the Meta lunging at him, bloodied armour, guttural growl. A monster hell bent on regaining its lost power, on taking Epsilon.

But it's not. It has it's helmet off and that- that's Maine. His friend. His partner.

His breath is stuck in his throat, a knot of it that threatens to choke him. He can hear North, can see him through the snow. Part of him wants to refuse out of spite. How dare North tell him what to do? He's dealt with the Meta before. He can do it again.

But it's Maine. North is determined to help him. And Wash doesn't want to lose his friend again. Not when he could change things.

"Maine!" he calls out, taking a stumbling step through the snow towards him. "Maine! it's me."

It's Wash. Wash, older and tired and beaten down by life. It hurts to look at him. To see all that's happened to him. But it's still Wash. Still his best friend.

So, he ignores the pain. He pushes aside the warmth that he knows could ease it, and he looks his friend full in his war-weary eyes.

A wet, gurgling wheeze fights its way past the ruin of Maine's throat.

Breathing. He's breathing again.

Fuck, it hurts.

He pulls in another breath in spite of the pain. Feels himself shaking with the effort. Does it again. Keeps his eyes locked on Wash, because he has to be here. He has to be here for his friend.

Big, blood-splattered hands fumble in the snow. Scrambling for purple armor that held him together, when everything inside of him wanted to tear itself apart.

North hears that wheeze and it's like a defibrillator, starting a heart he hadn't realized had stopped dead in his chest. He looks between the two men almost frantically and starts waving Wash closer. He can put aside their differences, for Maine. Neither of them ever want to see him going through this again; North knows they can find common ground there.

Scrambling hands will find an armored arm to grab onto, and tight grips in turn. He'll keep him steady, if he wants to stay on the ground or stand.

"Maine, we're here. Neither of us is gonna leave you, buddy."

He meets Maine's eyes, and it's Maine. It is him. Wash's chest hurts to see him like this, and he wonders if this is what it was like, Maine's last gasp before he became the Meta.

That wet breath prompts him to move faster, jogging the rest of the way up to him and then going to his knees in the snow in front of him. He reaches out, pulls back, unsure of what he should be doing, and then reaches out again to touch Maine's face. His fingers curl, unknowingly against the tattoo at the back of his neck.

"It's me. I'm not going anywhere. Just... breathe."

Contact. Support. Warmth, stemming from something other than the flames licking the inside of his skull. Maine squeezes North's hands in turn. Leans into Wash's touch. Draws in another painful, shuddering breath.

Memories bloom around them. Quick things lasting no more than a second, leaving little more than impressions in their wake. Thumps to his armor; arms slung over his shoulders; hands ruffling his hair, attached to grinning faces high above. Shouts of laughter and victory and joy. Strength. Courage. Sacrifice.

Brothers. Friends. Family. Team.

The distinct impression that, for Maine, they're all the same thing.

The great rend in his throat slowly begins to stitch itself shut. Each gasp draws in a little more air. At the back of his head, where Wash's fingers are curled, the symbol begins to fade.

Finally, Maine is able to choke out half a question. His eyes dart from Wash's to the cliff's edge, then back.

"Caro—...?"

The rest is lost in a wet cough. He squeezes North's hands tighter. Tries to focus on breathing. Thinks of Carolina's body. Tries to breathe, anyway.

There's a rush of relief as things warm around them, as Wash relents and joins the effort in earnest. North squeezes Maine's hands right back to steady him, ignores the intense pressure of the man's grip, and he tries his best to follow whatever Maine is feeling.

"She's fine," is the first thing he reassures, and he gives off a sense of finality with the statement. Carolina is fine. The Carolina he knows in this city is years past a simple fall from a cliff. She's fine. She lived, and she grew stronger. She's fine.

Wash doesn't look away. He won't. he can't. Not now. Not when they're so close. He knows they're close with that weird certainty that comes with dreams. Just like he knows that if he lets go now, he'll lose Maine and be left with just the Meta once more. He'll be left alone.

"You know Carolina," he says quietly, "a little fall has never stopped her."

The dream fills his words with a certainty that he wouldn't quite feel if he was awake. But here? Yeah, it's true. Carolina can survive anything.

Conviction fills their words. They believe it. They believe that Carolina is okay. That she survived what he did to her. They believe it, and Maine trusts them.

Wash and North. His teammates. His friends.

Maine's free hand rises to curls around Wash's arm. His eyes flick to North. He holds onto them both, and the remnants of the symbol vanishes. He nods, accepting their truth, and the body of their leader disappears. He breathes in again, and he doesn't choke on his own blood.

Around them, the snow melts away. There comes a sense of warmth. Security. Solidarity. Purpose.

He didn't kill his friend. He didn't destroy his team. They're cracked, but they're not broken. He has them, Wash and North, right here. No raised weapons. No division. Teammates. The way it should be.

He nods again. Smiles, just a little.

"Thanks."

They've got his back.

The lingering flames in Maine's mind wither to ash.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Back to Reality: Post-Event Plot Log

wake up

look around

look closer

dream: Σ

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