thisavrou_log | ( may event log )

Entry tags:

( may event log )

Who: Everyone
When: May 19th and on
Where: The Moira + Amissis-Re
What: The aftermath of visiting the barren planet of Amissis-Re.
Warnings: Death, psychological trauma

E
V
E
N
T

L
O
G

imbibe the truth
"if you must leave a place, leave it any way except a slow way; leave it the fastest way you can."

This is known to be true: when looking at the calculations, combining theory and science and magic, attempting to prove or disprove something that has spent over a hundred lifetimes trying to perfect, continuous disappointment and failure are persuasive motivators. The Ingress has been called many things and has never been approached with any kind of certainty.

The host, who has generously allowed the crew to come and go as they please, who has stood beside the Ingress and assisted in temporary travel, is abruptly nowhere to be found. Their normally empty work station has three notebooks resting on it, different sizes and colors, and anyone that has paid attention will recognize them as items the host was constantly jotting down notes into. The first crew members to take them may keep them forever. And not long after noticing the host is missing, the Ingress begins to hum and turn, its once blue swirls twisting black and deep purples. Some will hear sounds coming from inside, echoing up from below the ledge, and some will see wisps of smoke. Others, the unlucky few, will be awestruck, unable to utter a single word.

Communication between the ship and Amissis-Re will be broken, meaning that the captains won’t know what’s going on in time to stop crew from jumping in. The choice, and the consequences, are completely up to each Moiran.

☄ BACKWARDS & UPSIDE DOWN

You’ve jumped.

This is your world, clear to you by the buildings, the people, and all the small details that tell you that this is home. Everything is off, but at first, you can’t place it. You take a step forward, but your body moves back. You lift your hand up, and it moves down. Every single, aching second that passes goes in the wrong direction. Your body feels younger, rather than older. What you might have known at twenty-five fades away, a distant memory that you can’t quite remember. Time is backwards. The world is upside down. The longer you’re there, the harder it is to remember who you are. Getting home is the same as it was before, but you’re completely at the mercy of the Alter-Ingress.

☄ THE WORST OF BOTH WORLDS

Leaping into the Alter-Ingress at the same time has shown Moirans a combined world, a perfect mix of both crew members’ homes. This jump is much the same, but the differences are abrupt and immediately noticeable. This isn’t equal proportions of good and bad, of both worlds swirled together seamlessly. It’s worse. It’s jarring. A jumbled-up mess. Buildings are cut up and smashed together, though nobody seems to notice that it’s not normal except you. Crime runs rampant. The very worst parts of both worlds exist in this one, and absolutely nothing of the good can be found. If you come across someone that you know, they, like this world, will only exhibit characteristics of what’s wrong here.

Be very careful about the choices you make here. Injuries will leave a lasting mark. Deaths will be semi-permanent.

☄ THIS ISN'T HELL, IT'S MY HOME

What is the worst reality that you can imagine? Death, loss, or misery? Perhaps physical or mental torment? That is not this place. You’ve dove through the Alter-Ingress and landed in the host’s home—minutes before it’s gone. The world inverts, folding in on itself all around you. People bearing a resemblance to the host run, some fall, and some are already gone. The host stands in the middle of it all and watches, taking no action. Those that are close enough will hear them speak, but to no one in particular.
“Time isn’t easily bent or controlled. The Ingress technology, this Alter-Ingress that I’ve made, it lacks permanency. No matter how many times I come back, I always end up right here.”
The insight is followed by the sound of metal against metal, rock crashing against rock, and the ground below you splinters and moves. Whether you fall, are crushed, or some other horror is sprung upon you, you’ll wake up on the jump pad above the Alter-Ingress, breathless and alone even with the crew around you. Choosing to stay in a loop of loss that can’t be changed rather than never return to Amissis-Re again, the Host never comes back from within the Alter-Ingress.

The captains ask crew to help make her creation unusable but not to turn it off.

( ooc: For questions, go here. )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ cw: psychological trauma, ptsd, suicide mentions in this thread ]

backwards & upside down
[ Not until he's falling does he really wonder what the hell he's doing. He hasn't really wanted to go back home, even if he's been considering it since they first stopped at Amisses-Re. Things hadn't been left off well, and after hearing about what happens, as well as actually visiting the future with Church and Texas, Wash has been afraid(?) to go back to where he'd been before being pulled here by the Ingress. Now he knows everything that's been wrong with Project Freelancer this whole time, knows that he and his friends have been lied to and used, and that his future...isn't particularly bright.

And yet, here he's jumped into the planet's Ingress to go back anyway. Without thinking it all the way through. He regrets it as he continues to fall, but there's no turning back now. He'll be home for a few hours, or...however long the trips last, but maybe he can make some good of it? At the very least, he'll be able to see his friends for a while. That'll be okay, right? It isn't like he's being sent back to stay.

However, as soon as the sensation of falling as lifted and he feels his feet on the ground, Wash can feel that there's something wrong. It only takes a few seconds of standing there in the hallway of the Mother of Invention for the feeling to be confirmed. Moving to turn his head to the right, he finds himself looking to the left. That, he probably could have passed off as no big deal, if it had only happened the one time. When he tries again to glance right, he's looking further left. There's something so inherently wrong about your body moving the complete opposite direction that you will it to that with only two attempts at moving, Wash is already feeling the starting of a flutter of panic in his chest.

He takes a deep breath through his nose, but it ends up an exhale. This isn't right. This is really, really not right. Heart hammering in his chest now, he attempts to remain calm, though his panic is already beyond his control. There's a tremble that he can feel in his hands, and he takes an unintentional step backward. Except he moves forward. ]

What--?

[ Is this... Is this real? It can't be. That makes no sense. No one has said anything about strange experiences like this after going through the portal. He'd have heard about something like this happening, someone would have reported it.

He's been having trouble with his head. If anyone is aware of that, it's him. Ever since Epsilon, then exacerbated when he'd spoken with Tex, he's been dealing with a variety of issues, but never anything like this. Never backwards movements. Identity crises? Yes. Little to no sleep? God, yeah. A small handful of other things too, but never this. Does that mean he's getting worse? He certainly hasn't been getting better, but... A whole new symptom, a completely warped reality?

While he tries to process, tries to figure out what to truly make of this, Wash is standing stock-still, frozen in the middle of a hallway somewhat reminiscent to those of the Moira. He's shaking, he's afraid, and for the moment, he's completely forgotten about the person who was to jump in after him. Whether they've come through yet or not, he hasn't noticed, too focused on his own issues to be aware of much else.

...He could probably use a hand. ]

[For all that they've never talked about it, Rinzler isn't completely oblivious to Wash's difficulties at home. He'd glimpsed it when they met, in the halting lag that followed his own introduction as a program. He's felt it scan-sense, the strange metallic port buried deep inside the user's head, aching and empty for code to fill the gap. And, of course, he'd overheard it on the network. AI. Unstable. Questions of identity and self-termination, memories so damaged he'd wanted them wiped. Epsilon.

Rinzler knows this, but Rinzler hasn't said anything. It's the user's business—Washington's business. Not his. And if Wash considers it worth the risk to go home despite it all... that's his decision too.

But not alone.

Wash had come through after him, when Rinzler flinched away from one programmer only to return to the possession of the one who'd broken him before. He hadn't left, and if the reasons are still too foreign to completely parse, the value in the gesture is too much to ignore. If it's too much to return, that's no excuse for failing to try. And if Washington is planning to go home? Rinzler's going to make sure he can return the way he should.

Still, this isn't at all what he'd expected.

He rezzes in just behind the user, disks in his back and batons at his side. First diagnostic reads as normal. The second? Glitched. Scans report data from the opposite side, and the sharp incline of his mask to check periphery doesn't go the way he'd intended. Neither does his step. Direction is reversed, but motor functions report no error, and the enforcer's low rattling rises, echoing through the corridor as he tries to process the fault.

Wash's exclamation of alarm is an unexpected help. Not him, then. And not what the user had anticipated, either. Rinzler stills, letting his backwards-scans trace a full circle. No source he can track, but physics distortions aren't entirely new to the program. And this is... space? Space is reversed, and the program experiments, drawing an arm inwards to place it against the wall, clenching fingers to spread them outward. Oh, this is going to be interesting. And require a full remapping of his motor functions in the short-term. With a little adjustment to correct for angles, Rinzler reaches (away from) towards his MID, and (lifts) presses his fingers in the correct sequence to project his usual textbox. It appears just past Wash's shoulder.]

Spacial settings: backwards.

Not standard?

[ He's still mid-panic when the appearance of a textbox causes him to give a start. Of course, when he jumps, it's in the opposite direction that it should be which only adds on to his rising levels of concern. It takes some messing with his head to get it facing the right direction to see the text properly, and even then it Wash requires a minute to realize that it's in a familiar colour.

~~Exhaling~~ Inhaling a breath, there's a pause, an internal struggle to want to glance one way over his shoulder and having to move the other way to do so, but it gets done. Finding his eyes on Rinzler, he stares. ]

...No. No, it's definitely not standard. It's the exact opposite of standard.

[ This just got weirder, though. Now it's a combination of his life back home and his life on the Moira? Maybe the program's presence should be cluing him in to the fact that this is real, that it's reality that's abnormal and not him. But it doesn't. With the idea, the possibility already planted in his mind, Wash thinks his brain must be playing tricks on him. It must be making him see Rinzler to try to fool him into thinking that somehow, this backwards mess is real.

Deciding to try avoiding movement altogether if he can because it's only unsettling him further every time, he sets his jaw. Since he's not a computer program, even if he finds himself having to remind himself of that far too often, he can't simply adjust his motor functions to suit the situation. There's nothing he can do to fix this.

He figures he'll have to simply do his best to wait it out and try to not think about it like he has to with all of his more "usual" fits. ]

It's not right. It's not supposed to be like this.

[ Yeah... This is going to be a challenge. ]

[Nonstandard. Rinzler's mask tips in answer—up, before he remembers to rekey the sequence and turns the motion into a nod. He's not sure why Wash feels the need to repeat the fact of deviation so many times, but if this isn't the way his universe should work, then there are two possibilities. Either the entire system is glitched (possible, certainly, but Rinzler hopes not)... or there's a source to it. Some local disruption they can find and reset.

It's enough direction for the program to focus on. It's a goal to see, to find, to fix. But if the extent of Wash's difficulties is a little past parsing, it hasn't escaped Rinzler's notice that the user seems to have given up on moving at all.

First things first, then.]

Can still move. Reverse directions.

[The program's helmet turns, glancing up and down the corridor. No threats yet, at least, and if he'd prefer a location with more shelter, they're not likely to get there if the user's insisting on remaining rigid.]

Sit down if necessary. Practice.

[ Fortunately, he can read Rinzler's text without moving his head. The words aren't helpful though--he's already aware that movements are backward, it's just that reversing the directions of your movements is hard. That, and trying to move one way only to move the opposite way is wrong. ]

I kn- I know.

[ Stumbling a little over his words, his panic beginning to get difficult to control, Wash shuts his eyes behind his visor after a short fight with his eyelids. It doesn't help calm him though, because it feels like his eyes are wide open while they're obviously not. ]

Practice isn't going to help. It's too-- It requires too much thinking.

[ And thinking is already challenging as it is, but adding in the constant need to be thinking about and aware of moving himself the opposite way he wants to go in order to get where he wants? That's asking for disaster.

Why is he even talking? This isn't actually Rinzler. He's talking to himself, to an imagined Rinzler, not to anything real. By now, Wash's breaths have become shallow and he feels almost weak. Shifting, breaking his rule against not moving because otherwise he's feeling like he's going to fall on his face, he thinks deliberately, pulling his arm in toward himself in order to stretch it out and place his hand against the wall, then leaning the opposite way so that he's putting some of his weight onto his arm, using the wall to hold himself up. Even that simple action is exhausting in a way.

Dropping his head forward, which actually sends it tipping backward, he feels a shiver run up his spine. Though he's obviously aware that everything is backward, it still makes him gasp. He's fucked, isn't he? This is it. This is the end. This is where he hits the point of no return and never returns to normal mental status. His mind is ruined, and it's all the Director's fault--all Epsilon's fault.

Just thinking the name makes Wash's body freeze up, his free hand ~~clenching into a fist~~ stretching his fingers wide. ]

I can't... [ His breath shakes. ] I can't do this.

[The vocal glitch doesn't escape Rinzler's notice... but at the line that follows, the program's noise skips a beat in sheer exasperation. He hasn't performed as much of his own experimentation as he'd like, and is reluctant to display visible uncoordination, but a few (backwards) forwards paces brings him up to Wash's side. The steps only look a little spastic... though to Rinzler's credit, they improve visibly in a short time.]

Necessary.

[From close range, it's easier to track the smaller tells. The gasp. The freeze. Rinzler frowns behind his helmet, taking more careful watch. This user isn't weak. Why would a directional change glitch him so completely?]

Can.
Attempt: stand up.

[ The footsteps don't catch Wash's attention until Rinzler is already next to him, at which point he instinctively turns his head to look at him. ...Except he finds himself looking at a wall. A long, low breath that jitters obviously is forced in and out, a weak effort at trying to regain calm, and the freelancer slowly moves in the wrong direction in order to turn his head the way he wants, to get a look at the program.

The one that's not actually here. ]

It's not.

[ Again, he's talking to it. Why? It's got to just be himself that he's arguing with, and there hardly seems any point in that. ]

I can't. --Makes it worse.

[ There's a slight tremble to his voice now, though he's fighting to keep it out. The more he moves, the more overwhelming it is, the fact that he's officially lost his mind.

He never stood a chance, did he? The moment it had been decided that Epsilon would be his AI, he was screwed--destined to end up here. Insanity had been inevitable. And it makes sense, doesn't it? Considering Alpha's torture had ended in him fragmenting off pieces of his personality. What had anyone expected to happen to a person if they had to remember that like it was theirs?

A noise escapes Wash then, something like a combination of a pained gasp and a grunt. He's making this worse on himself. Thinking about the memories only puts them into focus, triggers them. Just brief thoughts of Alpha and his torture has the images flashing in front of his eyes, send him there into that moment, and it's then that Wash knows he's lost this battle. ]

Just-- Leave. Leave me alone, I-- [ Shrinking in on himself, he shakes his head, and his head moves in the opposite direction than he means for it to all over again. This earns a frustrated yet desperate: ] Stop.

Agent Washington | ota

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Bruce Banner » open

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Leonard Snart/Captain Cold | Open

Zam Wesell | closed

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject