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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.
no subject
Honestly, he's pretty bad at lying. One of the main (only) reasons he's been able to get away with keeping that particular can of worms shut so tightly here, among Wayfarers, is because he can hide behind screens and text whenever things get too dicey. But when conversing in person, it's another story. His eyes go wide, and the awkward look that crosses his face stays too long to be called a trick of the light. ]
It... It sounds like you'll fit right in, then. The crew could use people with a lot of interplanetary experience.
[ Not his smoothest save of a subject change. ]
Those hostile lifeforms... Do you know much about them?
no subject
[ Bea shrugs. She's sensing some discomfort from him, but isn't really sure how to address it or what sort of adjustments she needs to do with her words. A brow is raised as she spots the change in his demeanor. ]
There's still studies being done about them even in my time. It's not really easy to do that when, y'know, they're not physical and cooperative.
no subject
That is impressive. It's hard to imagine how you would defend against something like that. Some sort of specialized weaponry or... magic, I presume.
[ Hemoanima could probably do something to that effect, he thinks, but he can't say for certain. Meanwhile, Bea has supposedly already taken down some of them as part of her duties, corporeal as she is. ]
no subject
[ Yeah, she will just brazenly admit that. She smiles and hums like a giddy kid proudly showing off her artwork. ]