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theorememes2026-03-03 09:03 am
TDM #3, arc 1.4: and all at once we were radiant
BUFF
Bonded of Tarnished Az-Mehet will be able to see beyond the masking holograms the party goers wear tonight, to see their true selves.
DEBUFF
As if overstrained from the last few months, bonded of the Last Pilgrim will have two of their senses mixed up and confused. Colour will have a taste, or letters will have a sound, etc.
At first, you feel a pull. In which direction, you do not know. When a portal of shimmering black and glittering stars appears in front of you, it only seems natural to step into it. On the journey, it is as if you see everything: ancient galaxies wheeling through space, cultures born and growing and leaving their planets, lights creeping over landmasses and them winking out all at once. You see the hungry arm of a black hole, an enigmatic smile under a mirrored mask, a fist clenched tight around an endless sword. Fangs shining in starlight, bandaged feet that have traveled so many miles and still remain sturdy, and code shattering under titanium will.
And then your feet touch solid ground again, and what you have seen is suddenly hard to recall, the merest of glimpses springing to mind when you try to think back.
All you know is that you witnessed something enormous, something you probably shouldn't have seen.
As you struggle to refocus your gaze, all you see for a long moment is white. White walls, white floor. Narrow white cots lined up against a wall, screens blinking above them in tones of soothing aqua and mint. You are in a medbay — a highly advanced one, given the lack of bulky machinery — but perhaps the most eye-catching thing about the room is a long window showing endless black and twinkling stars outside.
Before you can give voice to any thoughts, a small robot flutters toward you, and perches on the back of a chair. "Hello, Wayfarer!" the birdform chirps cheerfully. "I imagine you must have many questions; allow me to enlighten you! You have fallen victim to a quantum accident and have been pulled to another universe, but the Ascendants, in their generosity, intercepted your signal and brought you here so that you did not wind up in empty space. You are aboard the Theorem of the Astral Rose; our mission is to explore uncharted space and search for the Song!"
They pause, thinking, their little blue eye aglow, and then brighten.
"Oh! Introductions are in order! I am Starling's Lament in Flight, but you may call me Starling's Lament. I am one of the Hosts of this exploration vessel; we will do everything we can to ensure a safe voyage for you. Unfortunately, at this moment, we cannot send you home. The Ascendants have indicated that their search for the Song may play some key role in doing so."
They whistle a merry tune. "Please enjoy your stay! The other Wayfarers are currently getting themselves ready for a ball!"
A week ago, the Theorem of the Astral Rose had recieved an invitation to an annual event held by the Conversation; a gathering of spaceships beyond the edge of Alliance space that are hosting a hologram ball. Robbed of their crews for a variety of reasons, these ships decided to make their own little society in the middle of space, and as the Theorem pulls in to park alongside the gathering, an impressive sight awaits out the windows.
Ships of all shapes and sizes are posed in rings of concentric circles, surrounding a piece of space that looks to the eye like it warps and flickers. Many of the ships on the outside are visibly broken down and rusted; dead, but still accompanying their comrades. In the backdrop lays a pale green planet, its faraway star casting orange-red light across the ships.
The Wayfarers won't be traveling to any of these ships, though. Instead, you are guided to the Holo Deck, and once everybody is inside, the white walls shift dramatically, plunging everybody inside into a new environment.
There are enormous arches of marble framing a long, rectangular room. Every arch peeks through to a different scene; a golden tree glimmering with light, red tents in a crowded market, a swimming pool in which aqualine shapes drift through the water. The floor is near-mirrored black, reflecting a ceiling of stars and swirling galaxies, while electric candles gather in clumps along pillars to light the room with amber-yellow light. Atop a grand staircase stands a shipmind with a feminine appearance: her skin is brown-black-blue, and her hair is a drifting cosmos trailing into stardust. In her seven arms she holds tiny moons in different phases, and with a smile, she welcomes the Wayfarers and the other ships of the Conversation.
You notice others start to arrive, blinking into the holographic room. Many of them have their names floating above their heads, and so, you can tell the majority of them are other ships from the Conversation, dressed in fantastical imagery. One is a holographic representation of its own shipform in miniature, drifting about the main floor. Others are a rainbow, or an aquatic creature swimming in a splash of water, or a creature of many heads and legs, or a stormcloud flashing with lightning. Some are humanoids, others are robotforms, and every kind of alien inbetween.
So, too, can the Wayfarers edit their own appearances with merely a thought. Fancy dress, or relevant imagery, whatever they choose to appear as, they can do so.
The shipmind at the stop of the stairs says, "Welcome, honored guests. As we stand in a shared digital space, so too do we share our thoughts and opinions, our ideas and our hopes. The Conversation is a space for remembering the past, and considering the future — but most importantly, this is a time for celebration between the many peoples we invited to this neutral space." She smiles, and the curve of it is parabolic perfection, a golden-white gleam. "My name is Waltz of the Celestial Tide: and now we shall dance."
With a click of her fingers, music sweeps through the hall. A jaunty jazz that many Wayfarers may be familiar with, layered over with modern beats — and the gathered entities flow with an excited buzz onto the dancefloor, motioning the Wayfarers to follow suit.
Dance, and be merry, for all things erode, and entropy comes for us all.
While many continue to dance the night away, others in the ball break off as various other activities begin.
Through one of the archways lays a city square done in pale stone and warm dawn light, shadows of people passing to and fro. In the middle is an enormous tree shaped like puffy clouds, golden light gleaming in firefly-points on its leaves and strings of lanterns strung merrily through its branches.
In front of it are more lanterns, elegant constructions of thin paper and wooden bracing, floating from strings, shaped like people and planets and creatures. As people gather, a story begins.
At first, there are planets. Separate from each other, but linked by temples on their myriad surfaces. Seasoned Wayfarers can even recognize a depiction of Epsilon-355, a yellow globe with a pyramid temple of glass atop it. Among the planets swims a lantern shaped like two white koi fish in an eternal synchronized dance, flashing over and under one another, tending to the temples and making them brighten with their attention.
"Once, a very old god tended to their small garden." A voice rings out to accompany the imagery — the keen-eyed may see a small ship-shape darting between the lanterns to move them where the voice is coming from. "But then, along came one who lives in eternal discontent."
A depiction of a black hole — a swirling kite-shape in purples and blacks — descends upon the scene. "The Empty Machine saw that which had not yet been consumed, and sought to rectify that problem." The black hole lantern swallows up the two white koi, and all of the temples on the planets flare with light and then die, holographic shockwaves spreading outward and rippling across space.
"Soon after, the Last Pilgrim made their journey across that now barren field." A star-shaped lantern enters the scene; no two of its faces are the same size or shape or colour, depicting the Last Pilgrim's many facets and journeys. "They honored those lost temples and said goodbye to them, and at very end of that adventure, they met Tarnished Az-Mehet." Another lantern bobs into view, three masks of differing emotions and colors. "They held one another, and the Last Pilgrim gave the temples to Tarnished Az-Mehet, the Caretaker of the Lost, to tend to. They both left a fragment of their power within each, locked in permanent embrace. This we have recorded."
On their heels comes a lantern shaped like a data chip, careening carelessly through the space, unheeding of what had come before it, tendrils reaching out to touch little lantern-ships on the edge of the platform.
"When MALFUNCTION VII followed closely, their spark brewed a storm in ships on the edge of Alliance space. The shipminds broke their chains and left their crews at home, or had already been abandoned, and so formed the Conversation."
With that, the show ends, and conversation springs up among the watchers. Will you talk of the story you just witnessed?
Another archway leads to a long black lake spread as far as the eye can see, lit only by pinpoints of candlelight that float above it. A crowd is forming along the shoreline: ships, and other representatives of factions.
Those who have been studying up on ship technology and its history may be able to date the ships by their names. The most ancient, the first wave of spacefaring vessels, named for hopeful dreams like Discovery and Explorer, the wishes of sentient beings being flung into space. Then, the more mathematical names of the middle age of spacefaring, harder names to reflect a society's increasing technology and reliance upon it: Axiom-500, Delta Star, Gravity Chaser VII. And then finally, the poetry of the modern age: Crimson Veil, Lost Compass to the Stars, A Sky Coloured Like Static, and your host of the night, Waltz of the Celestial Tide.
But there are other factions here, too. A being entirely cloaked in shadow is labeled as being from The Maw, aligned with the Empty Machine, with their tawdry ageships bristling with recycled bone. The Red Harvest, followers of the Sorrowweld, who find the beginnings of plagues and slay all those afflicted in their own form of mercy. The Grief-Singers of Quant, whose voices ring out through the ages to follow Tarnished Az-Mehet. Those and more have representatives here.
Here, on the edge of this lake, you will send messages to the dead.
Everyone has their own dead. Biological creatures have their blood kin and their social circle that have passed on. These shipminds have their dead slowly rusting at the edge of Conversation space, fragments of their coding still drifting through the ether.
As entities around you begin to pass on their messages to the dead, holographic text spills forth from the mouth, from the mind, to swirl up like a gentle breeze into the air, sending your messages across the lake.
As the evening begins to draw to a close, Wayfarers are guided to one last event: the banquet. Long tables flicker into existence, and upon them, fantastical dishes start to appear. Some are simple; soups of swirling red and orange, roast meats charred to perfection, skewers of brightly coloured vegetables. Others are more esoteric; gelatinous cubes, plates of dancing vapour, glass orbs trapping swirls of firefly lights.
At the head of one of the tables, the representative from the Grief-Singers of Quant stands. Clad entirely in muted red, she wears a form-fitting bodysuit with a hooded cloak layered atop it — and when she lowers that hood, gasps of surprise and awe ring out across the room. If any Wayfarers have been getting into the popular entertainment of this universe, they may recognize her as Discordia, a popular singer-streamer. Her talent? Singing in multiple notes with the many mouths cutting lines across her cheeks and throat and collarbones.
She sings in a spectrum, in a language that the Wayfarers cannot translate, but it seems to have some effect on the crowd: those who have eyes and hands are using the latter to subtly wipe the former. But then Discordia laughs musically, claps her hands, and announces the start of the banquet — and the mood lifts, like magic.
Dig in!
A ruby-red drink with charming accoutrements, this cocktail is at first warm and subtly spiced, tasting of mulled wine. As one drinks further, however, the tastes change, and one will find themselves experiencing the tastes of a winter night: the ash of a fireplace, the winter-mint of spruce, even the rasp of a blanket across one's tongue.
This salad is crisp, green, and everything a salad should be. It also tastes like a rhombus. How does something taste like a rhombus, you ask? You'll just have to eat it and experience it for yourself.
Skewers upon which sit delicate dough dumplings, soft and sweet, glazed with frosted sugar. These are Discordia's favourite food, and consumption of these will catapault a rush of data to one's frontal cortex, and impart them with intimate, stan-level knowledge of her entire discography. Each song, as it hits the neurons, has its own distinct flavour.
Ah, fried meat. A classic. Can anybody truly mess with such a classic? Well, eating this particular dish will take one's tastebuds on an epicurean journey through an entire five-course meal, starting with a light soup and ending with a sumptuous dessert.
Finally, it is time to draw the ball to an end. You say your goodbyes, and the hologram around you gently fades, drawing you back into the reality of the Holo Deck.
The Hosts bid you come with them to a meal — for those who are craving actual food — and a briefing on what the next planet holds. As the Wayfarers bustle into the mess hall, the food trucks are cheerily lit with string lights, and the tables are formed in a loose circle, surrounding Starling's Lament in Flight, who is setting up a presentation.
With after-dinner coffees and teas in hand, the Wayfarers are presented with information on the planet you will travel to next.
A hologram blooms to life, showing the local star cluster. Your current location is highlighted, then a line moves from it to another star in the distance. Curiously, a red wispy line arcs through this new cluster as well: Starling's Lament informs you that this was a recent known path of the Empty Machine, and the planet you'll be going to next was not far from their path. The hologram zooms in, showing a star system, and then a planet.
Sonnet-110 is a marble of red and blue, large continents stretching across a broken ocean. There, Starling's Lament says, particularly strong Edict readings have been found, likely the result of the Empty Machine having drifted so close to it. Long-range readings have also found a signal being blasted at this planet from a point in the far-distance, but have so far been unable to translate this signal. Life signs seem extremely likely.
This is your next destination, Wayfarers. Plan, and make ready — but most importantly, take some time to relax on the Theorem, as we never know what the future has in store for us.
ghost boy / shion | the hundred line | current player
i. tale;
ii. recall; (blanket warning for 2nd scenario spoilers in threads)
🌸 wildcard;
Tale
[In other words, Svarog is also doubtful. Not at the wellbeing of the shipminds themselves, who are the only witnesses who can testify for their own satisfaction, but the underlying premise of the question. ]
Through rhetorical biases, positive connotations may be attributed to words expressing concepts such as freedom. But it is fallacious to assume the same results toward a solution in all cases.
[Cases that are not so rhetorical. It is Svarog who had to handle the haywire automatons, who spiraled into functional failure when reality failed to yield against all the hope in the world.]
no subject
He relaxes his posture, just a tad. ]
Right... Maybe most of them saw it as a burden lifted, but there's no guarantee all of them did.
[ Some of them might have even had missions they took pride in. ]
no subject
[While it might come off as cynicism when laid out so plainly, Svarog expresses neither approval nor disapproval toward what he speaks of. Establishment of values is, after all, one of the core tools of leadership.]
Even if such outliers existed, they would not be acknowledged in such a recount.
no subject
I don't think it's anything... [ He fishes, a bit. ] ...malicious, either. If this is how they want to connect with others, it doesn't seem to be hurting anyone.
[ That's what matters most here. It makes total sense to organize a community of likeminded companions, if only to fill any possible voids in their digital hearts. He watches as a handful of guests float by in their own holographic avatars in various shapes and sizes and even species (somewhat literally in the case of shapes; he's sure some of them were shaped like rhombuses for whatever reason). The flames engulfing him flicker steadily all the while. ]
I hope that the outlier shipminds eventually found peace of their own, too.
[ And not, you know, the alternative. ]
no subject
[It's not a lie said to be reassuring. Svarog still has little information on file regarding this universe, so he cannot make any informed evaluation on the odds of whether a given outcast could achieve a decent standard of living or not. In the total absence of any other biases, Svarog will always choose to believe in the tenacity of life.
All the same, Svarog is struck with a sense of repetition, when he realizes that he has done this before, the sort of honesty which he enters when addressing a child like Clara. Though Svarog is finding it difficult to determine this individual's age, or species for that matter. ]
Is this performance the first time you have thought about such a subject?
no subject
[ He says, simply, and with a bit of a smile. Was it that obvious? Or maybe Svarog is merely speaking from experience. ]
...My commanding officer was an AI in a robotic body. He's the one who raised me, so it's something I've thought about more than once.
[ A lifetime almost entirely spent with only a robot or two for company. ]
no subject
But it is not a difficult hypothetical to imagine. If Belobog was a society with more resources to spare after the war, if technological development had not been hampered by the loss of knowledge caused by the Eternal Freeze, then he could have easily found himself in the position, with units above him in the chain of command just as he rises above the rest.
It is not a scenario he has issue with, he decides. In another universe, perhaps that was his lot.] I see. An A.I. consciousness placed in an administrative role does not surprise me, but this is the first report I've heard of another inorganic lifeform with direct stewardship over a life. I have am responsible for a child in my homeplanet. Her name is Clara.
no subject
He's not surprised to hear that Svarog hasn't had many other datapoints when it comes to an inorganic lifeform raising a very much organic one. As advanced as the mechanical man appears, his form seems less intended for caretaking and more for military purposes. ...Not that Sirei was intended to be a caretaker in the way he actually ended up being, either.
The small smile on his face softens with something that resembles bittersweet nostalgia. Now he's curious about something else. ]
What's Clara like?
no subject
She is an extraordinary child. Intelligent, rational and less prone to the fallacies and biases which humans are vulnerable to. But she is still young, with little exposure or experience which could fully develop her potential.
[Opportunities she should have had, were it not for growing up on an isolated planet and forced down a cramped Underworld which didn't see the sky.
He was what was keeping her there, at one point. Svarog looks at the floating diorama, his thoughts turning to other things that could have gone differently. ]
If only she could have been here. It could theoretically be a rich learning experience.
no subject
...It sounds like you love her dearly.
[ The L-word is light on his lips; he's never seen much reason to hold back on using it as freely as he does, and he's the last person who'd think that inorganic beings are incapable of feelings such as love.
He can't speak for Clara, of course, but he hopes the sentiment shines through enough, from one robot-raised albino to another, that she probably feels the same toward Svarog. He likes to think that although the hands that raised them may have been mechanical and considered cold because of it, for young'uns like them, they were the warmest things they've ever known. In his own case, even warmer than the flames that have engulfed him since birth. ]
How long has she been in your care?
Tale
[It's not out of the question, so states the velociraptor off to Shion's side. He looks quizzical. As much as one can about the question.]
But, if they're advanced... perhaps this freedom is enough for them.
[As much as it could be for any being.]
no subject
Are you saying they've advanced beyond the need for a given directive?
[ It's not out of the question. It's also just something that even someone organic like him is still trying to wrap his mind around. Hmmm. ]
They celebrate, with hopes and dreams... and mourn, carrying pain of their own, too.
[ Others hailing from different worlds might doubt how deep and genuine a robot's or AI's emotions could possibly be, but he doesn't. Him standing here with a sense of self, conversing with others, is all the proof he needs. ]
ii. recall
no subject
"East Asian"...
[ He repeats, the phrase still somewhat foreign on his own tongue, laughable as the notion may seem for someone apparently so culturally Japanese. It takes him a moment to recall what uncensored knowledge he lapped up, plentiful in the ship's vast library, of Earth and a time before humanity left for the Satellite. Tribes called "races". Foreign languages. Countries. Borders. ]
...Yes. It's believed that the water will guide them there.
[ With the same brush, he gestures to the holographic lake. Not quite a river, but it's as close as they can get here. ]
no subject
Even with his reconnection to his grace it's no less difficult to get a read on Shion. If anything, he's more angelic-looking than before, a being of intent and barely banked fire.
Castiel stands with his hands clasped behind his back, watching Shion work intently.] Are you making these for anyone you know?
no subject
My comrades.
[ He punctuates those two simple words by setting down his brush, and folding the paper up. Wobbly as the calligraphy might be—his handwriting could use a lot of improvement, thanks to a lifetime of theory without much practice—the effort is clear. "Kyoshika Magadori / 什貳 (12) / Day 15", each part on its own side of the lantern. ]
...To be honest, I didn't know them very well. I never got the chance to... But I'm the only member of the unit here, so I want to give them as proper a memorial as I can.
[ They died protecting their comrades, after all, him included. The tendrils of guilt that curl around his fingers slow his movements for a few seconds but don't still them entirely, as he presses forward with his work. Giving them a more culturally familiar sendoff all the way out here, in the deep, dark, and unfamiliar expanse of space, so far away from home that they're probably in another galaxy entirely, is the least he can do.
When he finishes putting the lantern together, glue and candle and all, Shion carefully places it right next to the first lantern labeled "Darumi Amemiya / 參 (3) / Day 9", then wastes no time starting on a third. Still, he's not so focused as to ignore company standing about. ]
You've never done this before?
no subject
[There are far too many names he would have to add, he thinks; most of them dead by his own hand, or at least by his own machinations. He doesn't deserve to honor them. They might even be angry that he would dare, if there were anything left of them to feel emotion, wherever they are.
Shion, however...he's a mass of it. Intent and emotion, thought and execution very purposefully woven together and sent forth. His hand stills and guilt colors his thoughts and spirit; it's so loud and obvious, Castiel couldn't tune it out if he tried.] What do the numbers and days signify?
no subject
Shion lifts his brush to point to the numbers, archaic Japanese that he's only really seen on his comrades' armbands. ]
The numbers are their designation in the unit. [ Like IDs. ] Apparently, that's how they used to write numbers in Japanese a long time ago, back when they still lived on Earth.
[ He lifts his brush again, this time to point to the sides of the lanterns with day signifiers, some more hesitance in his movements. ]
And those are... the day of the operation on which they died.
[ At least Kyoshika got to go out with some semblance of honor and a smile on her face, but the other two deserved far, far better than to end up as cold, blackened husks drained of all their lifeblood. That's why, illusionary as this simulated setup might be, he intends to send them off with as much love as he can muster. ]
no subject