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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.
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Idk why I'm even arguing with a guy who messages weirdo shit at people out of nowhere anyway
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how about you say that to my face then?
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Tell me where you are and we'll see if you can back up that mouth in person
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upper deck. now.
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[ It's the first thing that's convinced him to get up in roughly two hours of bed-rotting, so it's for the best. It takes him minutes to get out the door, to the main lift, and then up to the deck itself – one that he's only seeing now for the second time.
The cascading stars and ripples of motion as they glide through space still fight to capture the eye, but his focus remains on seeking out his opponent. A man he's uncharitably envisioned and now is prepared to face, hopefully for a solid punch and a much-needed excising of energy. ]
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Cain beats him there, then, dressed in the neutral colors of a black zip-up hoodie and gray pants with a pair of boots, an ensemble from the Supply Shop. He scowls when he sees the other boy's approach, hands in his pockets, faux-casual.]
So it is you. Noctis, that your full name?
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[ This guy? The one that was offering to teach him how to fly is the one propositioning strangers and resigning himself to his fate on this ship? That throws a wrench in his plans, blue eyes narrowing as he sizes him up. ]
Does it matter? I knew there was something still off about you when we parted ways... [ That persistent niggling feeling that he wanted a way to blow off steam. That he should watch his back around this guy.
His own arms stay loose by his sides as he takes a few steps closer, still dressed in his own black fatigues and jacket from back home. ]
Yeah. It's Noctis. So what, you wanna' throw a punch at me now?
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What else is there to do? This ship isn't the same as the one he was on, and so he's just circling the cage, uneasy.]
Something still off, like what? You don't even know me.
[There's a suck of teeth, tch, as both hands surface from pockets so he can cross his arms.]
First you gotta say it to my face. You think that I'm rolling over and giving up?
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[ This guy– ]
I'm not changing what I had to say if you're not changing what you had to say.
So yeah. You're rolling over and giving up.
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And if Noctis holds his ground, Cain will get right up in his face, almost nose-to-nose. He uses every inch of their height disparity to his advantage, shoulders squared, chin pointed down. Clearly the kind of posturing that's well-practiced, a physical intimidation he's used plenty of times in the past.]
You're getting one more chance.
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This guy's acting like he wants to stay here and wait for direction, wiling away time with casual partners and dust-ups like this one. And now that Noctis is pushing him... he's what, still taking his time? If there's actual anger and determination in him, maybe this will wake it up. ]
You've given me more than that, unless you're hoping this act makes me back off.
[ His head tilts, acknowledging their height difference with a glance up into those fiery eyes. ]
... you'd be the shortest guy I took out this month. So you better show me something else.
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He doesn't say anything else in the moment after that. He just attacks — and it will be obvious immediately, by the style of his punch, that he's a brawler — pure power in the swing of a fist aimed at Noctis's face. There's no hesitation in it, expression unflinching as his other fist swings seconds later to follow it.
There's a kind of strength to him that suggests he's willing to take a hit just to land one, underestimating Noctis for his smaller stature and pissed off to do whatever it takes to shut him up. Him — maybe himself, the thoughts in his own head gone perfectly silent as soon as the fight starts.]
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The anticipated hit comes and it's a bold choice to make the first move and leave himself more vulnerable, one he almost wants to praise Cain for. Almost. He spins on an ankle, light on his feet in a hurried dodge backward that just barely spares him from feeling the brute force of that punch. He hits hard, doesn't he? And Noctis is rushing into this fight with his own powers currently unavailable to him.
Ignis would lecture him for letting too much anger fuel him in his combat style, but... Ignis is a worse fighter than he is.
The second hit isn't leaned away from, a sharp slam of his palm against Cain's forearm instead aiming to redirect it to the side. He'll need to create space for his own first jab, a quick fist aimed downward at his gut. ]
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Or when he takes one himself, exactly where he's already hurt.
It's his own fault. He isn't protecting his abdomen, where the mended skin of a bullet wound is fresh from the medbay, more healed than it would have been with ordinary technology but still sore, still healing into the evidence of a scar. So the quick fist hits him and he stumbles back, snarling. It's clear that he's in pain, though he masks it with anger.]
Fuck— you...
[In that moment of recovery, Cain has enough time to slide loose the medical scalpel he's hidden in the shoe of his boot, blade flashing silver under the pale starlight. Because he fights dirty like that.]
you rang✨
Counterintuitively, it makes him feel safe. Nothing's controlling him, simply asking him to follow, and Jonas does until he's standing under a blanket of stars. He stays there, staring up, until he feels dizzy and everything begins to spin—then there's a commotion.
Voices. Soft at first, then gritted through teeth, and made harsher still by flashes of fists. A fight between two men he recognizes. It seems so bizarre in that moment to be spectating with the nothingness of outer space; he should let it conclude as it will. There's nothing he can do about it. It's none of his business. It's dangerous, but they'll be fine... right?
That's wrong. Or it feels wrong. Jonas, still human—he hopes—can practically hear his heart pounding rapidly at the appearance of a knife. )
Hey! Hello, you've got an audience! ( He calls out to them over the balustrade of the viewing balcony above them, up a curving flight of wooden stairs. With no prior plan to move from his spot, far safer away from the argument, he's questioning himself as his legs nonetheless take him down to their level.
That scalpel keeps him at a healthy distance, arms thrown up now to appear larger. )
Jesus, you two again? Are you kidding me right now? We just got here.
faints
But the jab itself was quick and dirty, not forceful enough to cause a backlash in damage and certainly not enough to make Cain stumble back. The pain that flashes in angry eyes is one he knows, and recognition blooms alongside realization. He said he was injured before he got here, something Noctis had rightly assumed wouldn't be enough to make him turn down a fight. But maybe it should've been.
For a second he even expects him to call time, but instead Cain's snarl is met by an agitated growl of Noctis's own at the sight of a weapon, no fear visible in his expression while his anger mounts. ]
Is this what you want? Huh? You wanna' gut me? [ Arms suddenly slide out of his own jacket as he strips it off, draping it over one arm in case Cain goes for a lunge that he can tangle in cloth to disarm him. Hardly a defense but better than nothing when he's unarmed, and blue eyes stay locked in for signs of movement until he hears a familiar voice. His glance up is quick, so quick he's not sure if the vast expanse above them is playing tricks on them. ]
Jonas? [ Teeth grit as he returns his focus to Cain, though as soon as Jonas descends the stairs and enters his periphery he's extending an arm to him. ]
Keep back. This doesn't have anything to do with you – this is between me and him. [ And should he approach he doesn't know Cain well enough to predict what he might attempt. ]
😳
You wanna gut me?
Cain hadn't even thought about what he wanted. He just, in the act of wanting, did it — hand fixed around the slender blade, the weapon burning a hole in his pocket since he'd picked it up on his way out of the Medbay. No one had even noticed him do it. Would he gut Noctis? How far would he go? A slash across the back of a forearm. A threat. Maybe, if he had to.
Their interruption stalls Cain's thought process, black eyes landing on Jonas, and cold tension draws him still.]
You two know each other?
[That familiarity, how quickly Noctis goes to his defense — it has to be.
Cain's arm lowers as if he might be able to hide the scalpel at his side from Jonas's view, either through fear of judgment or just his self-protective nature. He's almost nonchalant about bending down, tucking it into his boot, movement disguising the way he wraps an arm around his abdomen when he stands back up.]
What, did he tell you about this? Couldn't fight me alone? [no he literally just told jonas to stay back] Figures.
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( It'd be wiser for him to exit while tempers either cool or fire back up, but would he have made a difference at all? Does anything they do count in a universe that doesn't even care they're here? The shifting in his mind from earlier dissipates, though not without a reminder:
Nothing matters.
He stops short of them, equidistant now and forming a triangle with his interference. Mediating shouldn't be a priority right now; finding cigarettes should be. Still, they both helped him out a great deal—so he owes them. Cutting into a fight might not be the best return on their investment in him, but maybe it'll be worth it in the long run.
Glancing between them, his eyes settle briefly on Noctis. )
You guys brought whatever this is into a public space, and you think nobody's gonna have a problem with it? Like, he already put his shit away. It's done.
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Oi– [ That jacket is thrown to the ground as he takes a step forward, the insinuation that he'd asked for help – from someone as emotionally vulnerable as Jonas has been, on top of that – doing nothing to pour water on his temper. Selfishness tells him there's no need to calm down and that there's no arbiter in their fight other than them, but still his gaze flashes to Jonas before returning to Cain. ]
Is he right? Huh? Are you "done"?
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For now.
[Not looking at Noctis deliberately when he says it.]
He's pissed no one's doing anything to get out of this place. [This said to Jonas, only now cutting his glare back to Noctis, as if he'd rather not look either one in the eye when he talks.] You wanna leave, Jonas?
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Unfortunately, he knows where they're both coming from.
Throwing a hand up at Noctis when the jacket hits the ground, Cain's attempt to drag him into the shit with them is parried with a sharp snort. ) Oh, Jesus. Are you five-year-olds? I—really—cannot even begin to express to you how many levels of not-your-fucking-problem my opinion on this is.
( Levelled at Noctis: ) It's been a day. Tops. If he doesn't wanna go back to Mars, how is that, like, literally any of your business?
( Levelled at Cain: ) And if he wants to see Eos again and he's pissed he's got no help, why in God's name would that bother you?
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Is your opinion not our problem or do you wanna' keep telling us what is and isn't our business? This doesn't involve you.
Forget it–
[ Resentment for the situation grows as he misdirects some of that anger towards someone with whom he's actually had decent interactions so far, and he leans over to just as quickly pick up that jacket that he'd discarded. ]
If you're done, I'm done. That's all I came up here for.
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But when he watches Noctis begin a retreat, residual misplaced anger burns back up, an ache as dully painful as the one on his abdomen. The wise thing to do would be to let him leave.]
C'mon. Don't run off yet. Let's hear your big plan to save the day for a bunch of assholes you don't know, half who probably don't even want the help.
[His arms fold over his chest, stance still tight with tension even as he adopts that affectation of thinly-veiled indifference.]
Maybe it'll even change my mind.
[With how sarcastically he says that... lmao. Sorry Jonas, mediation unsuccessful.]
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( Jonas is familiar with Noctis' need to lash out, and though it doesn't make him feel good, it doesn't make him feel bad either. He feels disconnected from this moment, perhaps because of his earlier dissociation; the fog hasn't lifted yet. Maybe it never will.
That's fine. It helps, somewhat. He can stay level, look at this problem from the outside in.
Next up is Cain adding fuel to the fire. Arms open in a very overt "What the fuck?" at him as he prods at Noctis, who—despite talking back to them—is mature enough to begin the process of leaving. )
Cain, Noct already helped me out of a tight spot, alright? So, he's been pretty effective so far. Fortunately, he doesn't need to prove anything to you, and fortunately, no one's forcing you to go home.
So, like, if you could suck it up, that'd be really great for the current situation.
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It feels... like a setback. And it's hard for that not to make him angrier. ]
It's okay. [ Suddenly, and this time it's a pacification to Jonas as he glances back over his shoulder. ]
Even if you didn't show up I wasn't gonna' keep hitting him. He needs to go to the medbay before he tries that shit again. [ And though it isn't outright goading there is an intentional dismissiveness in that tone, a clear warning to an injured young man that underestimation won't be a good look on him.
With that he does turn fully back, heading to that lift with a new unwillingness to look back and a strengthening desire to avoid anyone and everyone for at least a few hours. ]
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