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theorememes2025-11-03 08:07 am
TDM #1, arc 1.0: we drift like worried fire
BUFF
Bonded of The Sorrowweld will find that the NPCs are especially friendly to them this month. Seriously, they just keep trying to give you things. It might get annoying.
DEBUFF
For those who are bonded to Tarnished Az-Mehet, you keep seeing shadows out of the corner of your eye on every screen in the ship, even your datapad. Something is lurking.
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!"
When you manage to get your wits about you -- it's a bumpy ride between universes! -- you start to leave the medbay. Starling's Lament has indicated that you are free to explore the ship, and nowhere is off limits to you. As you leave the cool white tones of the medbay behind, a hallway stretches out in front of you. Both sides are transparent, offering a view into the long dark of space beyond. However, unlike deep space, there is currently quite a lot to see.
On the left lays the broad curve of a planet, lush green landmass and white clouds skidding across its surface. Its star is just sinking behind it, lighting up the very edge of its atmosphere in tones of engine-burn orange and ozone blue, as long shadows cast by enormous space elevators creep across the landmasses. Its most eye-catching feature, however, are the hexagonal structures webbed across its surface, connected by fine corridors with all the geometric precision of woven spider's silk. You can just barely see the tiny dots of spaceships flowing around them, docking, embarking, shuttling between them.
"That is the Redline Trading Post." You hear a tiny whisper, and look up to see another robot — a beetleform, this time, with a shiny dotted shell — watching you curiously from its place on the ceiling. In fact, there are a number of other Hosts doing the exact same thing; a snakeform coiled around a barrier rail, a catform with bright yellow eyes peeking around the corner, a chirping droneform hovering some distance down the hallway. They're all fascinated by you. "But we will be departing soon. You will not get to taste the Galactic Snowball Nova-Cream, the shining culinary jewel of Redline. Sorry. I hear it is very tasty."
You look to your right, away from the planet and the Redline post, to gaze out into the depths of space. In the distance, there is a nebula, its gasses lit up in shades of coral pink and deep purple. It is pockmarked with stars both young and old, newborn stellar entities cradled in the depths of its life-making dust. Set against the dark of space, it is a flower in bloom.
It's beautiful, except—
The longer you look at it, the more something nags at the corner of your mind. A memory glances across your thoughts, unbidden. Something you hoped for, maybe; or something you fear. Whatever the memory, as you gaze at the nebula, a small piece of it curls, shaping in response to your memory. It is your face, reflected perfectly. Smiling, or howling in anger, or weeping.
Eventually, the nebula will go back to normal. But for now, it reflects the fears and triumphs of the new Wayfarers, a mirror held up in the darkness of space.
Once you make it into the bulk of the ship, the Hosts inform you that as they have just restocked all essential supplies, they will be throwing a party in your honor, and they hope you will sample the food.
Maybe you're incredibly dubious about this. Maybe you're starving after your long journey. Either way, you find yourself in the mess hall. It's less like a traditional mess hall and more like a park full of food trucks with seating in the middle. The food trucks are bright and eye-catching, Hosts serving huge heaps of food from their interiors, as their signs advertise everything from Earthen Ancient Egyptian food (As Close As We Can Reconstruct It!) to Raxalar Black Stew (New and Improved: Now Free Of Grit!).
Real grass is underfoot, and the picnic-style seating in the middle appears to be real wood. The lighting is a myriad; whimsical string lights strung between the trucks, floating globe lights playfully dancing like fireflies, and the luminescence of a dogform's patterns and a droneform's enormous eyes and a flyform's glittering trail. The Hosts are clearly excited.
And if the food happens to have... some kind of effect?
Well, the Hosts say, that's only to be expected! The attention of an Edict may, for a nano-second, turn toward the start of this voyage, and that's bound to make anything go a little wonky. Also, they've used some ingredients from the local system, and it's only customary there to share some thoughts and ideas and memories when you eat together. How else can you properly get to know each other?
This may or may not look appealing to you depending on your sensibilities, but it does smell incredible. Soft, savory red meat paired with the fragrant, earthy scent of the vegetable. The Red Buffalo is perfectly seared, and if you poke them cautiously, you'll find the spikes are entirely edible, as long as you chew well enough. If Wayfarers eat this, they will find themselves sharing a memory with the nearest person, a vision of the last time they were truly happy.
It seems the Hosts aren't quite sure of the appropriate alcohol content of substances, as this will burn all the way down, chased by a cool, sparkly feeling all the way down one's esophagus. It tastes of sweetly sour plums, and a potential hangover tomorrow morning. Wayfarers that imbibe this alcohol beverage will start overhearing the thoughts of those around them, as if they are perfectly in tune with everyone.
Ah, a perfectly homey looking meal, sweet and savory, gently steaming. These are a must-try for any Wayfarer with a sweet tooth, proudly boasting of the agricultural and apiary skill of a nearby alien culture. The buns are perfectly fluffy, the spiced honey is warming. What's not to love? After eating this, Wayfarers will find themselves and the nearest person sharing a vision of themselves as they might have been had they gone down the worst possible path in their life.
This isn't the Cherry Cola! you may or may not be familiar with, but it's interesting that whatever alien came up with this came up with the same Earth word. Or maybe the Hosts got it from Earth? Either way, it's fizzy, it's sparkly, it makes you feel like you're floating on rainbow bubbles. Upon drinking this, imbibers will telepathically project outward a vision of the most beautiful thing they've ever seen.
Dear god. What is it? Who came up with this? Who is even brave enough to try this? It certainly… has a taste. It… has an appearance. Whether either of these things are good is in the eye of the beholder. Wayfarers adventurous enough to put this in their mouths (or other eating appendages) will find themselves uncontrollably speaking aloud of the thing they long for the most.
Eventually, it comes time to launch.
The Hosts are a blur of activity, some of them packing up more delicate equipment in case of errant gravity waves during initial propulsion, some of them herding the Wayfarers into a seating area reserved specifically for the safety of its occupants during launch, deceleration, and rare turbulence. You are informed that engine flare will be so bright it will rival a star for the next twenty-five hours of engine start-up burn, but you will only need to stay strapped in for half an hour or so.
As the Theorem's enormous engines start cycling, the entire ship seems to hum in melodic song. And after everybody is strapped in, that's when the intensity starts. Gravity seems to want to push everything toward the stern, and Wayfarers are pressed hard against their seats with the inertia. After half an hour, the Hosts cheerily announce that everybody is free to get up and move around — but you might want to stay near a window, as they will be doing a low dive through the nearby planet's second moon's atmosphere, and it will be quite the sight.
Soon enough, the moon becomes visible. It is of unbroken crimson red, though subtle shifting in its surface lets you guess that it's water rather than earth. And then, as the Theorem rolls gently to the side, the view in the windows nearly perfectly split between moon and space, that's when you see them, swimming through the atmosphere.
To call them fish would be inaccurate — they are not in an ocean, or any body of water — and yet, that will be the word that springs to mind for most Wayfarers. Some of them are sleek and small, schooling in packs of shimmering white and ochre. Others are long and pointed, appendages pointed backward to exude a bright pink gas that propels them forward and which trails after them like oil slicks in the air. The locals call them x'enuda, the Hosts tell you, a combination of words that mean to fly and cunning prey.
They swim closer, swarming outside of the window. Some of them swim through, phasing through the shielding and windows alike, to dance gently in the interior of the Theorem, darting to and fro. If any Wayfarers find themselves curious enough to reach out and touch these creatures, they will find themselves similarly phased, capable of passing through matter for the next few minutes before the shared electrical field wears off and returns them to normal corporality. The external shield will catch you if you phase right through the ship's floor, but you may need to swim back up. Others may find themselves suddenly craving company, as if the x'enuda's instinct to remain safe in a school is catching.
"All Wayfarers, please report to the docking bay!"
As you filter into the enormous cavern that makes up the docking bay of the Theorem, you see rows of smaller spacecraft. Some of them are sleek and light, like they'd be as free as a feather during aerial combat, while others are bulky and spacious. Many of them have designs in alien languages on them, or bizarre looking mascots, seemingly for good luck. As the occasional screen informs you, you are free to claim any one of the ships as your own, but first, Starling's Lament would very much like to give a presentation.
Past the rows of ships lays an expansive opening in the side of the Theorem, many stories high and wide, a shimmering forcefield the only thing between you and space. Beyond it, you can see the quickly fading shape of the planet and moons you left behind as the Theorem continues acceleration. It is in front of this that Starling's Lament has set up a large hologram of a star map.
As they start to explain once everyone is gathered, the map currently shows the region of space you are in. It is an enormous quadrant of multiple galaxies, some pinwheeled in shape, some circuler or tube-like. A line arcs across it, heading into what is clearly less-explored space, beyond the area colorfully marked as Alliance territory. Eventually, that line stops at a star, which then magnifies to reveal a six planet system, the second planet from the star circled.
This is your first objective: designation Epsilon-355.
There are many stories of which planets the Last Pilgrim has set foot upon, and yet, nobody has ever verified any of them. This, the Ascendants claim, is the closest match they have found for one of those planets in a scrap of story: a land of golden sand and shimmering glass, where pilgrimages track their way across the Golden Barrens desert. The planet is small and unassuming in the hologram, and the details next to it are scarce: relatively normal gravity, breathable atmosphere. More details will become available as the Theorem gets close enough for in-depth scans.
If there any notes of the Song to be found, they may yet be found in the Last Pilgrim's footprints.
Presentation nearly over, Starling's Lament directs you a series of tables that have neatly assembled packages of gear. Once you have picked your Division, you are welcome to claim the technological tools of its trade. You can also look at the spaceships available to claim, or even just watch out the docking bay door as you leave the planet behind and head deeper into space.
Welcome to the mission, Wayfarer.
no subject
The cigarettes feel like a personal affront, though.
And the web of some kind of civilization glittering on the planet surface below, taunting him, reminding him of the unseen threads that gathered above Nieve, that's somehow even worse. He's curious if there are cities down there, the same as the one he's so familiar with, full of others who are out of place.
They're not going to find out, though, and he's powerless to stop it.
So, yeah. Booze is probably a bad idea, but it's an idea, and that's more than anything else he has right now. ] Then let's dust, yeah?
[ After you, Dean. ]
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Well. Maybe not really. The good life choices can wait for some other day. ]
'Let's dust.' Absolutely. [ Damn, that's cool. He never gets to say cool shit like that. Dean gets started down the corridor, looking for the last place where he can remember seeing something with You Are Here vibes on a wall. The freakin' Enterprise has a bar, how could whatever this ship is called again not have one?
Nah. He's gotta believe. ] Where'd you get in from, man?
no subject
City called Nieve. I own a club there, the Golden Apple. Typical den of vice in the good time neighborhood. So I guess if there ain’t nothin’ servin’ drinks here, at least I got the leg up on runnin’ one, yeah?
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It's probably a tad... classier than the roadside dive bar scene he and Sam tend to hit, but that's just life. ]
If they got nothin' on tap, I'm begging you to pick up the slack. [ Bathtub stills in space? It could happen. ] What else are we gonna do at the end of the day, man? Knock back some herbal tea? Break out a jigsaw puzzle?
[ Be so for real. That's never been in the cards. ]
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[ He laughs a little at that. ] Start a book club and knit sweaters. Hell, I'll get a clip joint goin' if I gotta. They want us sittin' on our hands when we ain't plumbin' the stars for some kinda song... They got the wrong number. Ain't an idle hands kinda fella.
[ By the time they reach the Paper Lantern, Ladon's already spinning ideas for business ventures in his head. Much as he dislikes the situation he's found himself in, he has to admit: it's ripe for some good old fashioned criminal exploitation. ]
no subject
That's about the most he can ask for anymore, these days. ]
I dunno, I always thought I'd look good in a cable-knit. [ A little joke as a treat.
But hey... at least one bar. That's a start. Wouldn't hurt to have more, but Dean's biased like that. ] Keepin' it clean would be a bitch, though. Not much of a clean-hands guy, either.
no subject
He does wince at the oontz-oontz-oontz racket the bar is currently playing though and makes a note to ask the barkeep to change the tunes. ] Looks like they got a robot pourin' too. Can't say I like that.
no subject
[ The motel tubs hate to see a hunter's wardrobe coming. Stuff of nightmares. And yet also so handy for day to day living. Even in this, salt's the truest lifesaver. Lemon juice just has a nicer smell.
A man's gotta have his preferences.
He takes a nonchalant sidelong look at that robot, even though realistically it probably doesn't care at all about some guy staring at it. ] What, you like your drinks better with that personal touch?
no subject
[ Tell me you've had a lemon and vodka thrown in your face by a drunk flapper without telling me. ]
Dunno, just somethin' that ain't right 'bout somethin' that don't drink servin' it up. [ And with that, he'll be vaulting over the bar to the confused beeping of the Host currently occupying the bartending position. ] 'Scuse me, Sparky. What's your poison, pal?
[ He's already rifling through the bottles, looking for anything that looks vaguely like his favorite malt whisky. ]
no subject
The rituals are intricate. ]
I'm a simple man. If it smells like scotch, I'm sold.
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[ The little smirk says he's kidding. He raises his glass in a mock cheers. ]
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If I want water, I'll find a sink. [ Dean will meet mock cheers for mock cheers here. It's so important to be able to deliberately look away from the Horrors and pretend to not give a crap about them. Or like the whole situation. Just in general. ] You keep all your standards about that high, buddy, I might actually pass muster.
no subject
[ He takes a swig of the alcohol and yup, that's a whisky all right. Not exactly top shelf, but it'll take the edge off. Eventually. ]
Toldja where I'm from, what about you? Where'd the space circus scoop you outta?
no subject
Not exactly from anywhere. Born a ramblin' man, you know? [ One of those things that's part lie, mostly the truth. Used to be from a place, not from there enough to count it anymore, no home base or whatever that they always go back to. ] Me and my brother, we travel around. I mean, we didn't for a while, but we-- we're doin' it again now.
[ Well. He rolls his eyes, because being pissy about it is better than feeling any of the complicated, more fragile emotions that revolve around that whole situation. Angry's easy. Knock back a drink, find something to break. And easy's good. ]
Would be doin' it, if it wasn't for the space circus. Last stop was out by Farmington Hills, Michigan. Met up with an old friend, had some fun.
[ Found out LARPing is awesome. Gave a pretend army that one speech from Braveheart. The supernatural murders are all secondary to the fun parts. ]
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[ He's picking up fellow older brother vibes, but who knows? ]
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[ Dean huffs, shakes his head, but the pride that starts to color his tone is impossible to cover up. ]
He'd already be elbows-deep in the library figurin' this whole operation. I mean, I would have to drag his nerdy ass outta research.
[ The price Sam pays for being the brains, in Dean's humble (not humble) opinion. ]
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[ Having Frid and Lorne around would make this so much easier to navigate. But he's done it on his own before. Sort of. ] Wouldn't be lettin' mine outta my sight. But he's twelve. And hittin' the teen trouble-makin' years early, by the looks of it.
[ Yeah, he's hitting the whisky again because oh, Conrit is a whole different can of worms... Probably because Ladon feels so responsible for him. ]
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Yeah, he probably wouldn't wanna let Sammy out of his sight for a while even though his brother's a grown man. Lots to agree with. ]
Oh, man. If he's startin' that early, you're in for a steep couple of years, pal. Kids, you know? Hit that age where they gotta... push back on everything. Gotta ask why, gotta mouth off. [ Usually to dad, and then you gotta get between them and smooth it out but it's barely a patch job and it never lasts.
That's a whole other thing, though. ] Hey, growing pains, right? No one ever tells you those go both ways.
[ He raises his glass in a mock-salute to that. ]
no subject
[ He needs a cigarette so badly. Damn Hosts and their anti-tobacco bullshit. ] ... Broke the other kid's nose, though, so at least he decked him good, yeah?
[ He has such great priorities. ]
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Attaboy, Conrit! [ Schools are a dime a dozen, man. There's more important things happening here. ] Thumb on the outside, right, not tucked in? Good form?
[ No, okay, no, it's like. It's not a good thing, exactly, kid that young getting into fights at school. That's problematic behavior. Right. ]
I mean, you know. If you're gonna get kicked out for a fight... [ A shrug. ] Might as well put in that kinda work.
no subject
[ Is there some pride there? Hell yes. Ladon does not like how Conrit seems to have inherited the Ceto temper, because he knows how rough it can be to keep under control. But he's also decent about picking out his friends. ]
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Can't teach you how to pick the right friends in any school. Take that as a good sign, right? Once he gets outta this teen rebellion crap, at least you know he's got good instincts.
[ If that's any kind of consolation whatsoever.
And as the thought occurs to him, extremely belatedly considering they're having a drink and talking about their brothers: ] Name's Dean, by the way.
[ He offers a hand. Might as well be official about it. ]
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He grins, then takes Dean's hand for a firm handshake. ] Ladon. You just narrowly escaped bein' nicknamed Cable Knit, yeah?
[ Not that that'll stop him. ]
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I've been called worse, but worse is a hell of a lot easier to explain.