You have spent the last few days on Thesa Station, taking in the knowledge that your world is no more. Perhaps you've made some friends (or maybe an enemy or two). Either way, you aren't expected to spend all of your time on the Station. El Nysa needs you, after all, and you promised you'd help the planet thrive. Are you ready?
Submit an AC-eligible thread with a new character as a participant for 2 OLYMPIA REP POINTS OR 2 WYVER REP POINTS, respectively, HERE or HERE. THESA STATION
All refugees on the station are called to the hangar where a large-scale teleporter has been set up; everyone will be sent to the planet together. Simply step onto the space between the arrays and wait. Before they depart, all new refugees will be given a starter kit!
 You may have heard about earlier technical difficulties, but don't worry. I promise everything is in perfect working order this time. I'd say I tested it myself, but since that's not exactly possible, you'll just have to trust me! (Please.)
The older refugees will also be there to guide you to ensure no one is left confused... or behind. Make sure you wait for them — I've been detecting something odd so I'll be having them meet you at the landing site. Good luck, refugees! Not that you'll be needing it or anything...
The arrays begin to hum and glow, quickly building into a brilliant wash of light. It creates a column that travels all the way from Thesa Station to the surface of El Nysa. With the night sky as a canvas, the beam can be seen all the way from Olympia and Wyver — a view that has the natives whispering of blessings.
As a sudden but beautiful aurora splays across the sky, the refugees down on the planet receive a message asking them to travel to the landing site — and warning them to prepare for what may come of the strange readings Zasere's gotten from the teleport itself.
Traveling through the light leaves the impression of blinding starlight, a strange sense of weightlessness, and a disorienting moment of total sensory deprivation. The radiance of your teleport hangs bright in the sky above you, a shimmering aurora that reflects off the calm waters below, visible for miles all around.
You've landed on a peninsula to the east of the South Outpost. There's little here — scattered trees on spring-barren plains, with a few overgrown, dilapidated structures poking out of the brush. All is quiet save for the keening of animals and the gentle lapping of waves against the shore. This lonely desolation is hardly the bustling cities and vibrant cultures you were promised back on the station...
BY CAMPFIRE'S GLOW. But waiting for you is a group of your predecessors, and with them, a veritable tent city, with portable stoves, coolers of food and drink, comfortable bedrolls, and cheerful rings of bonfires — all that you need to make merry of the night, courtesy of Overseer Voss, who has, thanks to his interest in blessed meteorological phenomena and refugees, decided to make a holy expedition of the affair.
Settle in, meet new comrades, and enjoy yourself, for you've safely completed your journey. But don't wander too far from the fires — the dark is closing in, and there's a strange, electric feeling in the air, the scent of ozone drifting on the breeze. And what were those odd readings Zasere mentioned?
A SHEPHERD OVER THE FLOCK. The spring sun dawns on a grey morning, already burning away the fog rolling in off the sea. It quickly becomes apparent that Voss and his entourage of acolytes have been up for hours, hard at work. They've set up a brightly-draped stage and a travel pulpit, magically enchanted to amplify his voice, and as the sun breaks over the horizon, Voss is all set to do what he does best: proselytize.
 As our Goddess has sent Her blessing once before to herald the coming of those touched by Her light, so She has done once again! Here you see them, those surrounded by the light of our Goddess, each of them bearing the mark upon their skin of Her holiest of hands! Do you not see? Do none among you bear witness to the righteousness of Her message? Perhaps this is why our people have shamed themselves in front of our Goddess—
[ He continues for another 15 minutes... ]
Nevertheless. See you them before us now! See them as they are, coming to our gates with Her reminder, that these people must be treated with the utmost respect and care. Thesa's divinity is not to be treated with such flagrant disregard! Those who She chooses are not ours to use as mindless fodder, to hurt, to torture — shame upon those who allowed such deeds to shame us under Her watchful gaze!
To those of you who have just arrived here on our doorstep, be not afraid! The Temples of Thesa welcome you to our home with hearts and minds open! Should you ever find yourself in need of solace, seek out the Temples, as there are no greater allies to you than those of us within the Temple walls. You are welcome all to Olympia!
As he steps away from the enchanted podium, he can be heard saying aside to an acolyte, "How was that? Heavy on the shame, but I think it went well!" While he will not leave the area immediately, his acolytes will politely turn away attempts to speak with him and remind anyone interested that they can leave a message at the Temples.
Despite going off without hitch, the new refugees' arrival isn't entirely without incident. It seems that the "blessed" beam of light that brought the refugees down to El Nysa brought something else along with it — a sliver of the Storm. At least the beam was short enough that only a small fraction managed to squeeze through.
But it's enough to wreak a little havoc around the landing site and along the road back toward Olympia and Wyver — and even, for a few days, in the cities themselves.
THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE. The Storm is an undeniably destructive force, and that's proven with this small sliver's effect as it ripples across the continent. While there's no visible sign of its presence, strange phenomena soon begin to appear, corresponding with Zasere's odd readings.
They're innocuous little things at first. A sudden silence, animals going quiet, insects stilling. All technology, no matter how advanced, ceases working. You discover when you check with a friend, the clock on your phone is twelve minutes slow even though you'd swear only a minute had passed — time missing. Walking through the woods takes longer than it should when brushing past one bush leads to brushing past that same bush again — and again, and again, the area looping on itself. It keeps you trapped, going in circles for minutes, even hours, before finally releasing you in a random direction.
Or perhaps you'll feel a sense of deja vu, like you've walked down this road, taken this turn, seen that bird fly from this branch before. This is the second time that cat has crossed your path. The person you're meeting, you already know their name; you're certain you've already met.
WE GOT COWS. The Storm sliver also ushers in sudden, localized weather anomalies — heavy storms, blizzards, strong winds, and more. Affected areas range from just a few feet wide to nearly half a mile. One minute, the sky may be sunny and clear, but the next dark storm clouds roll in, unleashing torrential rain. Small tornadoes surge along the road, kicking up winds strong enough to knock people over and carry objects away. Hail hurtles down from the sky, but only in a ten foot radius. Temperatures fluctuate wildly between one extreme and the next, from heat waves to cold snaps. Soupy fog blankets the area, thick enough that you can barely see your hand in front of your face. Good luck finding your way!
FORGETTING IS SO LONG. The visions come on suddenly and with very little warning. One second, you're carrying on as normal — but the next, you blink and find yourself (and anyone near you) somewhere else completely. You may recognize this place as a moment from the past, one that you lived through. It's a memory, your memory, and it now replays around you in exceptional detail, unnervingly lifelike. Or you may not recognize it at all. It might belong to the person next to you, or to someone else entirely — a memory that the Storm has swallowed up.
Either way, the scene plays out just as it once did, and there's nothing you can do to stop it — or escape it. The memory surrounds you to no end: every door you open leads nowhere, every hallway you turn down continues on forever, every horizon you flee toward hangs just out of reach. And linger too long or turn the wrong corner, and you may find yourself abruptly stuck in a completely different memory. It's almost tempting, then, to give up, to let the past sweep you away...
But this isn't the full might of the Storm. Look closely, and you can see that in the walls of this trap, there are minute, hairline cracks, a facade of fractured glass. Imperfections in the memory where the real world is breaking through. It seems the only way to escape these memories is to find those cracks and break through them — by force, by will, or by some other method entirely.
The time is coming to make a choice — perhaps not a permanent choice, but unless you want to spend the rest of your nights out under the stars, you'll need to pick which city you will initially spend your time in. On the horizon, you will see that people have arrived to help you make that decision...
A FORK IN THE ROAD. Refugees and the hyper-religious wishing to hear Voss speak are not the only ones out and about under the light of the aurora. Citizens of both Olympia and Wyver have flocked to a point on the road midway between the cities and where the refugees have appeared, and they all have the same goal in mind: convincing the newcomers who have just descended in the blessed light of Thesa to come to their city and not the other.
They've come with bribes — that is, examples of what their cities have to offer. If you spent much time at the exhibition up on Thesa Station, you might recognize some of what's being shown off, though the offerings here are markedly more tangible, and shown off by hawkers wearing substantially fewer clothes.
A herd of pegasi accompanies the Olympians, while a line of flying serpents is stabled at a tent bearing Wyver colors. Refugees are given the chance to experience solo flights and are told that if they prove their loyalty, they may have the privilege of owning such fine beasts one day themselves. The Olympians have also brought couture clothing, jewelry, and makeup to offer a taste of Olympian splendor, while the Wyver delegation has brought along fine weapons, sense-enhancing jungle plants, and small vials of diluted dragon’s blood (drinking confers a temporary boost in strength) to demonstrate their might. The Olympians speak proudly of the glory of the Temples of Thesa; the Wyverns speak of the Volkkran Pact and inform newcomers that they can make a pilgrimage to the summit of Namarak Mountain at the next full moon.
This is as good a time as any to compare your plans with others around you and exchange contact information before going your separate ways with people who are going to the city you are not. When you’re ready to go, don’t worry about safe passage — the natives of each city will gladly escort you there in luxury.
OF WHITE AND GOLD. The people of Olympia are ecstatic that you’ve come to join them... So much so that they’ve prepared a grand tour of the city for the new arrivals. You will be introduced to the major businesses in the city, including businesses that they are proud to point out were founded by refugees.
Refugees who have been here for some time already are encouraged to pair up with newcomers to introduce them to the parts of the city they like best. To facilitate this, they’ve made arrangements with many of the business owners: new refugees who visit their shops (and older refugees who escort them) are given discounts!
Just a few examples of many: the Wyvernest offers free desserts to first time visitors with the purchase of a drink, refugees who visit the Silk Wyrms can have one custom (though not exceedingly expensive) outfit made for them for free, and visitors to Shades Darker are offered a half-hour session with one of the prostitutes at half price… or access to a private room, if they seem to have taken a shine to one of their companions on the tour.
Lastly, tour guides will point out that over the course of the next week, the train to Flona Cove will allow new refugees to board for free so that they can experience the seaside for themselves. With the weather finally starting to warm, this is as good a time as any for a visit to the beach, isn’t it?
OF RED AND BLACK. Life in Wyver is typically a sink-or-swim sort of experience — but in light of the valor recently displayed by their predecessors, the natives are now more willing to assist in getting newcomers settled. The entire journey here they have been talking up the virtues of their city… and now is the time to show everything that's on offer.
The well-known businesses in the city are prepared for the influx of newcomers. Some are giving out discounted samples of their products while others are offering a more hands-on experience: in exchange for working a few hours, they will give training in whatever task is being performed.
At the Forged, newcomers can learn the basics of crafting simple weapons (and take one of their successes home), while visitors to spas near the lagoons are trained in the art of massage. Those who wander to Falmi’s Ring can learn the art of pugilism or how to keep (and fix) books if they're more inclined to the gambling that goes on. Newcomers interested in Wyver's dragons can get hands-on experience at the Fields of the Exalted's nursery. While they walk from place to place, a guide may point out a job posting from Highwind Hires, noting that refugees can make a name for themselves outside official channels.
The last stop on the tour is the Undergrowth. The guides speak of the jungle in reverent tones and caution new refugees not to wander too far in. They warn never to explore alone, but also urge refugees to take time to familiarize themselves with it; after all, the jungle is an important part of life in Wyver, and those who are going to be living here should understand it as well as they do.
You've chosen your path, refugee, but that doesn't necessarily make it a permanent one. Watch out for the strange effects of the Storm, which linger still in the two cities and everywhere in between for the next few days before dissipating just as mysteriously as they came, but otherwise enjoy the welcome and make yourself at home — after all, this is home now.
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▼ closed to richie.
It's strange, to see it all go down from this end, a spectator. Detached, watching the mirror-image confrontation play out in the theater, like some kind of stage show. All memorized lines and pitch-perfect timing. Forgetting Richie, for a stark and selfish moment, his hand gropes for Red's. Pulling her insistently away from the stage, and what's about to happen upon it. (On one end, the eerie mirror-image of the two of them. On the other, closer to the three of them watching from the present, is the Camerata. Asher, and Royce, and Grant, and Sybil. Cornering Red on the stage. And him, just seconds from getting in between them.)
But it happens just as quick, the second time around. And whether he likes it or not, it plays out just the same way. (Asher points out to Sybil that she'd told them Red would be alone. Grant spews some self-righteous nonsense about what needs to be done for the good of Cloudbank. Red stands defiant, and soon—)
Not much time. He tugs Red back again, imploring. They know how this ends. They don't have to stick around to watch it.]
Hey.
[Urgent, if hushed, as if the players on stage have any chance of hearing them. He swallows, keeps his voice steady and fingers locked through Red's, looks Richie head-on for a second before locking back toward Red, as if daring him to voice a premature what the fuck—]
Lets just...go.
[Please.]
tagging this now is a mistake yet here we are
It's a reminder that this place has nothing for her. Not anymore. Not after this.
She reaches for Boxer's hand the same time he reaches for her's, as if to remind herself of what is real. She hears Boxer's voice, from further away — right on the stage, in fact — and then her's, tense and angry. Both of their eyes on Sybil, who watches, impassive. She only shakes herself out of staring when she feels the tug on her hand. The voice, closer this time, asking her just what she'd expect — to leave. She knows that neither of them need to see this again. Richie doesn't need to see this ever.
So, Red reaches for Richie's wrist; to tug him back, as if it's a chain. Just as Grant raises the glowing weapon in his hand to throw it across the room, just as Boxer on stage pushes the Red on stage back, just as the Transistor meets Boxer's torso, seems to slide in, as if its a knife cutting through butter—
Then, nothing.
She braces herself for what's coming up next — what she isn't prepared for is having the light of the building behind her. To see the familiar but definitely not welcome glow of the Transistor right in front of her. Boxer's dead body. She flinches ( more of a reaction than the first time ), backwards as if it's like a sucker punch to the gut — just as a static voice fills the rest of the silence.
"Red, where are you? Where are you, where are you... Don't be gone, please don't be gone, I can't—
The hand holding Boxer's tightens. Not again, not again, not again— ]
JOKES ON YOU i won't get to it until four days later
At the moment, it's playing fast and loose with secrets. Laying 'em all bare with no warning and no permissions asked. When he's jolted up and around and finds himself on the stage of some glizty affair, red curtains and Blade Runner glow from the architecture, lights built into the Art Nouveau facades, he has to cast around for an anchor. He finds it in the twinned forms of Red and Boxer, one pair at his side while their doppelgangers are harried by a quartet of slickly dressed aristocrats. He can smell the money off of them in way they hold their backs in proud lines, the haughty sneers, the way they speak.
She was supposed to be alone. For the greater good of Cloudbank.
The sword is in the wrong hands. And suddenly, Richie knows exactly when they are. Boxer's giving him a pointy look but buddy oh pal, he knows when to clam up and if there ever was a time, this must be it. He nods. Red's grabbing his wrist and yanking like he's an unruly child (if they can't find the fissure quick enough she might found out exactly how much), the white haired bitch on stage is eyeballing the past couple like they're dirt under her shoe (did they expect to leave), and the eldest man raises the microchip wonder blade, and Richie finds his head unable to turn, his eyes growing wider with horror instead of closing with prudence.]
No—
[But voiceless gasps from the future can't change the past. The sword flings.
He does shut his eyes then, turn away with his free hand clapping to his mouth as his heart thunders in the tight cage of his chest. He can hear it squelch, cut a nest for itself into that steady gut.
Then there's a flash of darkness. They're outside now, like someone spliced together the film edit wrong and cropped two scenes together that never should have met. But there's old Boxy, sitting heavy on the alley ground with a blade of how many feet standing proud in his middle like the angled hand of a clock. Time's up!
Richie can feel Red flinch next to him. Sees the old Red standing at the foot of the corpse, devasted and still as a marble statue. And Boxer's gone, not even a twitch, just the down-turned crown of his head and the arms splayed to the sides, open palmed. It looks so like a religious tableau.
His throat has thickened. The present man is standing with him, but he's looking at something too hypnotic to face reality. The sight suctions him in, draws the water from his eyes in two streams out of the corners, glimmering blue and green in the alien light of the electric avenue.]
Oh god...oh shit...
[Then the voice crackles in. The sword lights up with each sound, like a pulsing line of a heart monitor. But Boxer's mouth isn't moving.
'Course it won't.
Richie steps loose of the pair. Inching towards the wreckage of their past. He sinks to his knees, staring at the corpse. The sword. The girl.
"Don't be gone, please don't be gone, I can't—"
He looks back to them, helpless and horrified. He looks rather like a child in the moment, wide-eyed and stunned silent. He wants to say sorry but the words have jumped ship. There's nothing he could possibly do.]
update: richie is cancelled before we even get to clown town, bye
The second the cool air of the bay hits him, he drops the Transistor to the familiar pavement of the alleyway to catch Red as she flinches backward, pulling her toward him to hold her against his chest, as if to shield her from what comes next. (Do a better job of it, this time.) Won't help much, really. She'd lived this already, had plenty of time after the attack at the set to memorize it.
Takes all of them a moment to really recover from the show, though. Unsurprisingly. For his part he clutches Red close before she has a chance to do much else. It's a first for him, from this perspective. To see from the wide angle and with his wits about him what it looked like for her while he was coming to terms with being not quite as dead as he could have been. To hear his own voice through the modulation in the Transistor, as Red stumbles her way through her bearings, folded in on herself to look small, weighed down by the ridiculous length of her dress— The sight of it is heartbreaking. He closes his eyes against it, ducks his face into Red's hair with a sick rush of vertigo and a creep of cold shame as Richie collapses next to them.
All this—shouldn't have happened. And what is there to say about it? That it's over? That they're fine (he's...fine. He's not alive, exactly, but he's...it could be worse,) that it worked out for them in the end (sort of, better than he'd allowed himself to hope, once—) And there's nothing he'd like to do more than to pull her away from the empty city as it's pulled apart around them again, the panicked prattle that he'd never meant for her to hear. The fear in his voice when he couldn't find her. The slow desperate realization that came with it. I'm here. I'm over here, I'm over here, I'm... still here.
Quiet, if not as steadily as he would've liked—]
Hey. That's not— [It's not real, that's not them, not anymore. It's over, it happened, and there's nothing to do about it. Nothing left to fight for, here. No one left to rail against. Nothing they can do to roll back the clock. Hey takes a breath and tries again.] It's over. You're okay. And me, I'm... I'm right here. Both of us.
[Three of them, actually. Remembering Richie, he lifts his head again and finds him looking pale and rattled several feet away. In the near-distance, past-Red approaches the flickering blue-green light of the blade with her arms wrapped tight around herself, and his chest clenches again.]
C'mon. We shouldn't— [Shouldn't do this. Stand here and watch it all play out like it'll be any different this time. Drag Rich along with them. How much longer, before the Process start showing up?] ...Lets not stick around.
update: thread is cancelled because i took a million years, sorry
It's not to say that she doesn't feel anything, because she definitely does ( her stumble backwards is proof enough ). Her gut twists itself into knots, her heart seizing painfully. It doesn't get easier the second time, and she expects it won't be any better the third. Or the fourth. Her personal little hell, played out in front of her.
But Boxer clutches her tighter against him, and that's the wake up call ( kind of like hearing his voice had been, the first time ). Her body standing still as her eyes harden, her mouth shut — her face a stone cold mask, in complete contrast the open despair on Richie's. And in complete contrast to Boxer shielding his eyes, she tracks memory-her walking through towards the familiar teal-glow.
She swallows. Nods, almost distracted, her eyes on ... her ( this is getting old, fast ) as she stands over the corpse. She hates the fact that she remembers exactly what she had been thinking at the time, the exact moment grief made room for anger. Red's hand moves to clutch the back of Boxer's jacket, only tearing her eyes away when the sword gets pulled out of ... the corpse. The rest of this, she presumes, will play out in picture-perfect sequence, all the way from here to the end.
So, her eyes land on Richie. She's in no position to worry about anyone else, really, not when the Storm seems to be keen on dragging every ugly memory out from the closet. But it's hard to ignore the surge of — something, when she meets eyes with him. Shakes her head, briefly, as if to answer a question he's asked.
Her eyes flicker over to the sparks on the ground as her memory self walks away, dragging the sword behind her. It's a good enough cue to gently tilt her head off to the side in an attempt to lead all of them away. ( She let's go her hold on Boxer's jacket, too, only stepping away when his grip loosens. Slowly, but surely. ) There's nothing else that they can do here, really, aside from avoiding the Process and waiting for the storm to let them be.
— And as if on cue, they're back on dirt roads, trees occasionally dotting the fields around them. No sign of glowing buildings, the night replaced by day. Just like they've left it, she presumes, if she can consider that leaving in the first place. Red's lips set into a thin line, jaw tensing more the longer the silence stretches around them.
( Some part of her starts preparing for the questions she's sure Richie has. What happened. Why it happened. If this is why Boxer is ... the way he is. How far they managed to get before the Storm destroyed everything. She hates that whether or not she wants to answer is completely secondary. )
Eventually, she tilts her head again, this time gesturing at the open road ahead of them. Same logic applies — there's no reason to stick around. ]
no fuck you i'm wedging my clown meta in if it's the last thing i do