emptynesters | [MISSION: A KNOCK AT THE DOOR] - An xxx Years Later Meme

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[MISSION: A KNOCK AT THE DOOR] - An xxx Years Later Meme

CHARACTERS: EVERYONE
WHERE: Station 72
WHEN: DAY :001
SUMMARY: The Hosts return from Research Vessel "Whaligoe".
WARNINGS: Disturbing imagery. Y'all know the drill. Please include any applicable warnings in your subjects lines as this one won't be maintained.

MISSION: A KNOCK AT THE DOOR

STATION 72
DAY :001

HOME SWEET HOME
AND JUST LIKE THAT, YOU'RE BACK. The tingling, half nauseated sensation of punching through the multiverse fades as the windowless stealth ship passes into the Station's landing channel. With a slow-motion jerk, forward motion ceases completely. After a few minutes - harnesses being unbuckled, kits roused from their racks -, the rear of the ship unfolds and there is the hangar deck. Everything is exactly as you left it days ago.

A voice bloom in your head. It says:

( You'll have to tell us everything soon. )
Not that there's much to tell. In the last - it's hard to say, but years? Surely it can't have been a decade - span of your life, you've been to a dozen worlds in a dozen universes. You've seen stars collapsing, you've watched empires crumble; you've seen peoples at war, the end of a dynasty, and the beginnings of new settlements in far flung places. The Whaligoe, a sprawling deep space research ship at the edge of a now distance universe from which you've just returned, is hardly the most exciting place you've ever come back from.

But maybe Cathaway's curiosity has something to do with your (easily won) cargo: sixteen large, heavy canisters carrying what the Whaligoe's crew had nicknamed 'Datafuel.' What they're needed for is a mystery. Why handling the canisters triggers some low sense of revulsion doesn't make much sense either.

( For now, rest. ) says that achingly familiar sensation of Cathaway - of warmth, of pleasure, of belonging somewhere that you never expected to but do. ( And welcome home. )

ALL GOOD THINGS...
THIS IS HOW IT IS: There are more Hosts on the Station now then there have been in a long time. It'll be years yet before until anyone could call Station 72 crowded (would that even be possible, with the way the Station adapts for its occupants?), but it's no longer the strange half-breathing entity it once was. There is life here. Sometimes it doesn't feel like being divided from everything that ever was or will be. Sometimes it feels like this matters. Sometimes it feels like this is the right thing. Sometimes it even feels like the moment before opening a door and that the things waiting on the other side are better. It feels like maybe this is ending. Maybe that's what hope is.

The Gardens have grown dense and beautiful. Life Support sprawls through a half dozen corridors. The hum of the Station is a cat's pleased purring. Sometimes, that feels good.

THE STATION
12 HOURS LATER

...MUST COME TO AN END
SOMETHING ARRIVES in the space between spaces. It's as a needle piercing flesh. It's the snap of a finger breaking. It's an animal scream.

It's a scream.

The Station screams.

Gravity twists. Sleeping hosts are dumped from their beds. Ships in the hangar slide against their moorings, tethers snapping. Corridors writhe. Walls become ceilings, ceilings floors. And then it all snaps back. A panic stricken moment of stillness is pursued by the rancid melting tang of go, go, GO--! in your bones.

The first strikes from Enemy ships against Station 72 feel like being set on fire. You know this more intimately than anything else you've known in your entire life: You need to escape the Station.
THE CAGE - Getting to the Hangar deck to the ships should be as easy as wanting to be there and turning a corner. But if the mental link alarm burning Hosts up isn't indication enough of something being wrong, the Station's interior makes that impossibly clear. Once recognizable corridors melt and twist into bizarre shapes; open doorways become collapsing tunnels; vast cavernous spaces appear with splintering pathways leading across them. Garden plants meld with walls to create unexpected jungles, gravity shifts, a swimming pool stands upright without emptying. Hosts will never find themselves faced with a dead end, but they will discover a veritable labyrinth before them. They are pursued by a constant certainty: move quickly, because all around them Station 72 is coming unravelled.

THE MENAGERIE - ...which is made more complicated by fact that as the Station falls to pieces, the shared mental link of the Hosts begins to go haywire. Symbiote abilities merge and mutate. Memories and feelings and shared hallucinations disgorge themselves across the station. The texture and intensity is so extreme that it would be easy for a Host to get lost in them. Maybe they're familiar memories; maybe they're completely alien; maybe they're a dangerous distraction or maybe - just maybe - they're the Station's last desperate bid to pass something important along before it's too late.

Only a handful of Hosts converge on the Hangar Deck, but it's clear from the straining sensation of every air molecule that there's no time to wait around. As the Hosts board back onto the stealth ship, portions of the very surroundings begin to melt as quicksilver: the floor, the exterior walls, neighboring ships. Through these pools pass a cacophony of shapes both strange and familiar. The Enemy comes in many forms.

--Which are rocked by an explosion, a host evaporating in a shocked impact that seems to destabilize one of the primary quicksilver portals. Standing in the doorway leading to the armory, The Prince reloads the Albark rocket thrower. "Leave!" he barks, aims again.

Three things happen at once: ( Open it! ), says a voice you know and the Prince fires; the quicksilver portal bursts around the second explosion like a wound and the void it opens to isn't the dark of the In Between at all and from it the Dark looks back like a wolf in the dark with eyes like rasping scissors snapping wide which with every star in the universe says

I SEE YOU.

and the Hangar Deck collapses beneath the shuttle as the boarding ramp screams closed. The ship falls like a stone. It falls forever.

A PLACE WITH NO NAME
DAY :003

SYMBIOSIS
THERE'S NOTHING on the stealth ship's long range sensors. The universe you've fallen into is as empty as-- twin narratives exist in the mental link. One is bone still, the outline of a place that used to be. The other is the too loud mish-mash of information that leaked through the symbotic link during Station 72's collapse. It's confused and unfiltered. It's how to fly a ship; and it's a girl's face that isn't your species and you've never seen her, but you miss her anyway; and it's an ocean you know; and it's exactly how many dry rations are packed into the shuttle's cargo; and it's the echo of an animal screaming and it's--

Quiet. It's mostly very, very quiet. There's no dread, no fear, no burning ache of the world ending. It's empty.

Open it, someone said. So someone does: a canister of Datafuel is cracked open and from it spills something wet and horrible. It's run through with ropy white filament threads.

Someone opened a Host's head once, you know (you do know, even if you weren't there). It looked something like that.

Anyone who touches the 'Datafuel' falls immediately into a comatose state. It lasts for twenty hours. When they wake up, they know where to go.

IN A MIRROR, DARKLY
THERE ARE NO WINDOWS in the stealth ship, so when it jumps to the logged coordinates it's impossible to tell where or what it's jumped to. It's quiet. With a slow-motion jerk, forward motion ceases completely. After a few agonizing minutes - does anyone move? does anyone do anything? -, the rear of the ship unfolds and there is a hangar deck.

It isn't the one you left. It isn't attached to corridors you know. This place is quiet like a shed insect skin.

In the cold low standby light of the shuttle's interior, one of the previously comatose Hosts (maybe it's you) says:

"Welcome to Station 144."

((OOC Notes: Welcome back! For ~~one night only~~ however long you yahoos want to keep a meme alive for, your sybmiotic home away from home is...well, some version of it is around anyway. Did you play in the game, but don't want to play the same character? Go for it. Want to play the same character, but say they're a different version than the one you played in game? Have a party! Didn't ever play in S72 but want to noodle around? Have at it! Just want to pick up more or less right where you left off? I ain't gonna stop you (although I might gently recommend that Some Time Has Passed since we left Hyrypia).

For anyone who needs a reminder on how the game works, info links are in the navigation below. No, this isn't any kind of game canon. It's a meme, Jan. Don't overthink it.

Have fun. :)))

NAVIGATION • PREMISE • SETTING • FAQ

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

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( WELCOME HOME )

What a bounty.

[ says the man who did not attend the mission; an ancient thing even before he had arrived on the station, busy more and more with scientific endeavors and the matters of the station and its deeper roots than entering the field and the fray. he turns out so rarely, blossoming into rolling darkness and hungry beasts when he does, his patience an infinite thing -- his mercy shriveled up and decayed.

the white of the station does not suit him, in layers of black and gold - pale scars lining one side of his face, the sharp grey of his eyes sweeping over the canisters. slicing them apart, cataloging and categorizing. in his hands, the worn edges of a datapad that has seen better days and kinder treatment is filled with his collection. his notes. it's where his examination of the canisters goes now, as he walks around it in circles, laying the back of his hand to the surface to test temperature. ]

She says one thing, I want the opposite. Tell me now, while it's still fresh on your mind -- did you retrieve their research notes for me? I understand personal requests get... mixed up, especially in the heat of the moment. But this is -- we could use this for something quite unique.

[ his voice oozes something warm and paternal, but the warmth never reaches his eyes. the sensation of something old, something eldritch perched opposite of you rolls in dark, frigid waves from him. this is the darkling, aleksander morozova, a general and a scientist and a monster that doesn't bother trying to hide himself ( or his use ) all these years later. difficult to love, more difficult to avoid. ]

( IN A MIRROR, DARKL(LING) )

Cathaway and the Prince are dead. They live on within us, mourn them however your heart needs.

[ In the chill of the dark hangar deck, bedraggled and bloodied across the face ( his hands bleed, he blinks blood from the corners of his eyes and coughs wetly into the dark sleeve of his attire -- ), he appears as though he's been through as much hell as the others. ~~Don't worry about the unease that you feel, the prickling of your thumbs, the sensation of dread that crawls down your back.~~ Though he may not be the first to step into that gloom, he is at the forefront of the endeavor. Raising his hand to the Station, reaching into it thoughtfully, the frozen waste he has for a heart opening like a rift hidden under snow. It is horrific, the way he reaches into the guts of the Station, into the echoes of the symbiotic link and wrenches.

The lights begin to come on. ]

And do not fear for our future.

[ Says the fearful thing. ]

In her last moments, Cathaway appointed me. I will lead you now -- any questions?

( WILDCARD(S) )

In the panic that probably ensues while the station is being assaulted and MURDERED, the Darkling is conspicuously missing... Right towards the end, he'll turn up. Come the hell at him at any point before or after. Even pre-meme, if you like. I LOVE THIS GAME.

[ The station rumbles underfoot, dying screams and the constant decay of sleeping hosts as they perish in their sleep pummeling them all like bullets, like needles; piercing, shooting pains that leave yawning chasms in their wake. While they die, while the others scramble -- he steps deeper into the station. Following the paths that are laid out for him with unrelenting focus, he recognizes the folly of this place: it allows him to traverse where he needs to go, even if that need will result in one more death. One more death at the hands of something other than the Enemy.

He finds her, right where he expects her to be. ( Right where the station leads him, right to the doorless frame. ) ]

Cathaway.

[ He calls her name and wears no disguise; the darkness that pools at his feet festers with eyes and mouths and claws. ]

I'd like to thank you, for all that you've done for us.

[ The station rumbles again, costing him precious moments as he orients his center of balance before he enters the command room. She does not look frail to him, does not look like an old woman just past her prime; silver-shot, beautiful in her age, powerful because she is a many-splendored thing with roots as white and deeply-set as the symbiotic influence within them all. Gratitude seems like a waste of time, in this moment.

But he's not truly here to be thankful, in the end. ]

And I want to reassure you: I'll take very, very good care of them all in your stead.

Edited 2019-02-09 15:37 (UTC)

[The command deck is a small, bare chamber. It is a room without lines or measurement on its not-organic floor, its walls tilted with some faint asymmetry. Strange, how the similarity has never been exact but in this moment - as the Station frays - the command deck seems like a Nesting pod scaled up to fit what might live here. And something does live here. Or has for a long, long time. Now, at the end, it is making itself into the shape it knows as comfort for young and dying things with Cathaway at its exact center.

When the Darkling finds them, she's turned away with her head cocked faintly to one side as if fixated on some distant sound. She's still, wired shut. This place hums with a strange and brutal quiet even as outside of it, the Station's death spasms go increasingly tattered and keening.

Eventually though-- eventually, eventually, eventually-- she does turn to him and his sharpening dark. She smiles, and the expression has never reached the woman's eyes but something in it here is especially hollow. That body in the center of the Nesting Deck may not be frail to his eye, but it is a shell.]

Will you?

In the time we've spent together, have I not allowed you to groom me for this?

[ He gestures with open hands, while the station rattles and cries. Each step carries him closer, across the smooth floor of the command deck. A comforting room, a swaddling chamber for young, for the vulnerable and scared. It has taken him time to come to his own conclusion on what it means to be a part of the hive. Soon, he brings himself to her - to the Station, the shell it inhabits. With a tender hand, he strokes hair from her temple. As always, his choice of words are clever, particular. He picks them out the way one would hand-select blooms for an arrangement, offered to her in shades of blooded red and midnight. Frosted at the edges.

He withdrew from missions, to inhabit the halls and the arteries and the depths of the station. ]

Are you afraid?

[ He asks her. He asks the dying Station. ]

[She waits for him there at the exact center of the command deck, bright eyes unblinking and the long curtain of her pale hair casting almost no shadow. She is there, but she isn't. She is watching him, but she isn't. She is speaking--]

Yes.

[--so softly, but hardly saying anything at all. There is so much work to do, it's like some animal thing she has her fingers wrapped around and squeezing. Be still, be still, be still says every part of her both local and distant. Hold this position.

Cathaway doesn't flinch as if in pain, though he touches her and it radiates through the link they share. It is liquid and gold and searing bright, the sharp high feeling of an unmanifested grief.]

You will be too.

[That's how this works.]

Yeah, right.

[ Asuka doesn't really "know" him. Not in the sense that one might know a friend or an acquaintance. She's never tried to get close to him and she's never enjoyed the feelings that come dropping down their link. But he's always there; a presence in the web that makes up their crew. That doesn't mean she enjoys it. ]

I'm not following you. You don't just get to put yourself in charge!

[ Her good eye burns bright and hateful and suspicious. ]

Who do you think you are?

[ She's too tired for this. She does it anyway. ]

Search yourself, you'll find that it's true.

[ while not the type to outright lie, he is particularly skilled at bending and manipulating the truth. he curls his fingers, lighting the station slowly but assuredly. rousing it, reaching into it. it feels less like a call-response and more like an insinuation of whatever blackness it is that makes him up. the work takes a toll on him, new to the role as he is. ]

Cathaway has passed the mantle on to me. I may not be the eldest host among us, but I have worked with her for years now to prepare for this... inevitability.

[ Asuka is bright and burning; she singes the edges of the frozen river that is the Darkling as he slips, fluid and graceful, into her personal space. Leans down to meet her mismatched gaze, dipping into a polite bow to her. ]

I'm a friend. We both want to keep everyone safe, correct? [ He speaks to her privately, voice pitched to express that he needs her. He needs her on his side, he needs her help. ] They are hurt, scared, we've been gutted... Cathaway has entrusted me with your safety. Will you help me keep them safe?

[ She doesn't like him. She doesn't like the way he seems to oozs and fill the space around her. She enjoys being wanted - needed - but it's not enough to tear away at her acorn or her wariness. Not yet, anyway.

She's not a little girl anymore. ]

I don't know what you really want.

[ She doesn't step back, but she does put a hand out, presses it hard against his chest to make him keep his distance. ]

I just don't think you< get to put yourself in charge!

Our safety.

[ She pushes him back, and he goes; it's only polite to remove himself from her vicinity, when she's so insistent. There's a measure of truth in that. He truly does want them all to be safe, to be secure. To have time to lick their wounds and mourn their dead, as so many have died. The station is a new thing ( 72, the second -- ) and he needs time to settle into its bones. Can't do that if the hive is buzzing, mistrusting, focusing on him when it should be turned outwards. ]

Who do you think would be better in command but a general, young soldier? Our resident commander?

[ Lexa. Not Shepard. ( Has Lexa survived the assault? He hopes so, he feels that she would understand him the most. She was always willing to do what it took, to embody the role. ) ]

Steve Rogers? Your hot-headed hero? Perhaps yourself?

[ To a certain degree, Asuka will always be mistrusting. Her whole life has been a lesson that people in authority often don't care and are just as likely to betray you for their own gain as they are to lead you to victory. She's tempered that here, but it's still a part of her. Still one of her formative experiences.

So she won't trust. Not easily. ]

Shepard could do it.

[ She speaks without hesitation. Shepard is one of the people she trusts, almost implicitly, to lead her out of danger. ]

Hell, Misato could do it.

[ Of course, he mentions Bakugo and her eye narrows in a little glare. The problem with everyone living in each other's head is that nothing is really private anymore. She doesn't tell him to mind his own business, but she thinks it really hard. ]

I'll council with them on matters, as Cathaway worked alongside the Prince. As we all must work together, especially now.

[ As if Cathaway, or the Station, has actually entrusted him with anything. However, to perhaps soothe her ruffled feathers, he can easily agree to seek out other bastions of leadership. Shepard rings a bell. Misato, only at a distance. Enough to recognize that they are skilled, experienced. If it settles her, even a little, he'll concede to a temporary democracy. Even if it's something that is not, and has never, been in his power to stomach.

He's old. He's patient. This is not the final move he must make, nor the hill to die on. ]

Make no mistake -- I do not intend to step down from the position I have been entrusted with. I welcome their help, if they'll consider it. If you will, as well.

[ Asuka stares at him, long and hard, brow furrowed as she tries to decide what he's doing. There's something oily about him; about the way he feels and the words that come spilling out of his mouth. She can feel him through the link and she doesn't really like what she feels. ]

Maybe I should help lead.

[ She curls her lip. She's not as arrogant as she was in her youth, but she's still whip-smart and now she thinks she knows how to act a little better. How to think. And she wants to keep an eye on him. ]

[ She is unruffled within the crowd, calm and cold. ]

( Don't lie to me. )

Edited 2019-02-10 00:48 (UTC)

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