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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.
imbibe, but i'm melting a little thinking about dean's spaceship as the impala's little sibling
It reminds him distantly of peering into a memory bubble to get a glimpse of the contents except without the icy chill of memoria, but any serious thoughts of objective analysis of the phenomenon are driven from his mind by the very contents of the scene Sunday is witnessing. It's so full of warmth and love and joy -- enough to make his heart ache and a warm pressure build behind his eyes even as he smiles. It's wonderful to behold such a happy snapshot in a family's life, for all that it gives him a pang of longing to see his own sister again.
And then he blinks, and the memory is gone, leaving Sunday to witness instead the man across the table Going Through It (tm). Before he can formulate the words to say something, the raw vulnerability is shuttered, and the plate is sliding right at him. There's a clatter as Sunday drops his cutlery to try and stop it from knocking his drink over (it just clips the corner of his tray, but a quick grab keeps the glass steady). He half-expects it to go right on off the table onto the bench beside him, but thankfully friction stops it half an inch from the edge. Still! A rather startling follow-up that has the feathers on his head wings fluffed in agitation.
Sunday's eyes flick from the plate of purple meat up to Dean again. ] I heard one of our hosts say that it's customary - in the nearby system - to share thoughts and memories over meals, but I didn't realize they meant it so literally. [ He gives a sympathetic grimace, reaching over to push the dish further back onto the table. ] I wouldn't worry too much. If it's anything like similar such food where I come from, the -- side effects should not detract from its nutritional fare, and you may even find it somewhat spiritually nourishing.
[ Granted, he is talking about food that exists in a dream world where half the dishes are flavored with emotions and experiences anyway rather than, like, real food. But it seems similar enough to him. And... even though he says this, Sunday does now feel a little more hesitant to dig into his own neglected dish - at least not without knowing what he is going to be sharing. ]
space survival 101: pack bond w a spaceship
Yeah, I don't do "spiritually nourished."
[ Nourishing like a mirage in the desert looks nourishing, more like. Nourishing like peanut butter on a mouse trap. If that's the custom on-planet, that vulnerability, Dean's suddenly glad he missed it. ]
More of a sex, guns, rock 'n roll guy. So. [ So!!! So he doesn't know what. He's letting the plate hang out not-next-to-him to be safe. ] Not a great pick to be stuck on the USS Share and Care here.
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[ Sunday smiles faintly, shaking his head as he idly straightens his dropped fork and knife on his tray. ]
Of course, that's hardly the same as involuntary memory sharing, I realize.
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One Fear, is what. ]
If you're some kinda psychic, you better take your ass to another table before I kick it there. [ No, wait. ] Not that you're even-- that's not me sayin' you're right, alright? You think I do any feelings? I don't. And this ain't the same.
[ So actually yeah, he can admit his table buddy was right about that part, at least. Dear Sunday sorry about Dean, he's a feral raccoon in all ways emotional. ]
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Ah... My apologies if I overstepped. [ He takes on a mildly placating tone. ] However, listening to others and at times offering guidance has always been part of my job, so I suppose I can't quite help myself. Everyone has to deal with their burdens in one way or another.
sunday: does nothing wrong. dean: how dare you
It's a weird day, it's a weird situation, it's a ship full of weird people and creatures unknown that Dean nonetheless already thinks he needs to figure out how to keep safe. He got an apology. So sure. He can put it all under the "whatever, then" umbrella, shrug his acceptance, and move on. ]
So this whole... "ship's counselor" thing. [ Star Trek gives everything context, actually. It's a great foundation. ] That's your burden?
the best defense is a good offence-- >_>
[ Well, the proper term is Bronze Melodia, but even back home Sunday doesn't generally expect anyone outside of The Family to even know what the hell that is, so. ]
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People talk, you listen. Sure. ]
You, uh. You get to do a lot outside of takin' confession? [ Guy seems kinda young to be doing that for "many years," in Dean's personal opinion. How young do they start 'em?
"If that's what's needed" and "fulfill that role"... maybe he just needs to go apeshit. Worry about himself. Dean doesn't do therapeutic helpful confession-taking, but he definitely knows how to go apeshit. ]
honestly it would probably be theraputic for sunday if he went a little apeshit
Yes, I led a very busy life with many other responsibilities. [ Another sip, while Sunday considers how much he actually wishes to divulge to this perfect stranger -- they haven't even exchanged names, yet, and he had left his old life behind even before being brought here. ] However, all of that is in the past. Now, I am merely a traveler on a journey seeking greater knowledge and understanding.
In any case, where are my manners? My name is Sunday.
let him commit some violence!!! as a treat
It's not his business. He really shouldn't give a crap. But he basically never should and almost always does give a crap anyway, so what does he know?
Doesn't sit right. That's all. Kids never getting to be real kids. ]
Dean. [ He grabs his water, has a drink. ] Kinda sounds like you need to find a hobby, Sunday. Know what I mean?
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[That counts as a hobby, right? Of course, it remains to be seen if there even is a piano to be had on this ship anywhere (it will take time to thoroughly explore everything available), but given the apparent quest for 'The Song' Sunday imagines music of some form or another will not be hard to come by.]
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Just Dean. No mister. [ Mr. Dean, the hell even is that, no one ever calls him that. Mr.?????
Something to work on. Whatever. Bigger fish to fry right now. ] Define "piano practice." Like black-tie event piano or Steely Dan piano? 'cause noodlin' around with some Steely Dan is awesome. Classical's a job.
[ People who asked: no one. ]
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In any case, he tilts his head a little, curious.] I was taught classically, if that's what you mean, though I am by no means on a professional level. Who's 'Steely Dan'? I don't believe I am familiar with him - them? [It's unclear to him if a singular artist or an entire band.]
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[ For the sake of Steely Dan, Dean will sweep his residual sharp-edged wariness under the rug. Well, he'll knock it off of his own face, at least. Put it aside for later or something. ]
If I ever find a tape deck around here, you'll see what I mean.
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A tape deck?
[ He's not wholly unfamiliar with the concept of recording things on magnetic tapes and reels - such deeply antiquated technologies still have their uses for their long-term storage stability in certain regions - but absolutely no one, not even collectors, uses them for music where he's from. ]
I suppose I will simply have to look forward to it. [ Although -- wait. Dean's words imply something that makes Sunday sit up a little straighter. ] Wait, do you have a tape with you?
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... damn it.
[ HIS WEAPONS... HIS CAR... NOW HIS TAPES... how much can one man have stolen from him? ]
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...ah.
[ And here he had hoped that maybe somehow someone's things had made it through? Which would have meant there was a chance other things might have and could be stored somewhere, maybe? Not that he has many possessions to his name anyway, but he would have liked his journal and the keepsakes tucked within it, if nothing else. Alas. ]
Well... we are all in the same predicament, it seems.
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[ Dean has to sulk over this extra hard, arms crossed and all, because now he's visibly disappointed this random dude at the picnic table.
Which he takes personally whether he wants to or not. That's how he's been forged in life's crucible. ]
"Get us up here with nothin' and then say we owe 'em for whatever they decide to give us" predicament.
[ WHERE IS YOUR RAGE. ]
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[ Instead of sulking or even letting his sadness about having his momentary hopes dashed linger, Sunday smiles briefly (the absurdity of Dean's sulking pose helps the smile be at least a little bit real in amusement), forcing his wings back into a more neutral position to hide whatever disappointment or displeasure he is feeling. He sees Dean's point, of course, and shares his frustration, and yet it remains a struggle to let himself share in the outward expression of it. ]
No such thing as a free lunch, as they say. And regardless of whether there is any merit to the claim that seeking The Song may help us return to our homes, there are few populations so exploitable as a displaced one - especially when the alternative is to apparently simply be left to drift through space.
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Dean doesn't know if Sunday knows just how fluently he's speaking his language, but that's fine. At least it means this guy is aware. That for all the fun little things on the side to be had, for all the apparent luxury, the situation still is what it is.
The less anybody up here actually trusts it, the better. Every good thing comes with a catch. ]
Exploitable. That's about right. [ Sam would love that word. It's very college. ] Nowhere else to go, nothin' else to lean on. Least when that happens back home, you're still home.
[ Not dealing with all this extra baggage. Complication. ]
You know what's stupid? They'd still get people up here if they just asked. [ He's a hypocrite for saying that on account of all his... being himself with his weird relationship to ever asking for anything, but that can't stop him from saying it. ] Hell, they'd probably have the whole roster full up in no time.
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In any case, he nods to Dean's speculation. ]
They probably would, particularly if they offered incentives. [ It would have to be the right kind of benefits, of course, to make sure to attract the kinds of people they'd want on an expedition like this. ] Of course, that presupposes they have any kind of control over who is brought here and from where.
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Somethin' always has control. I dunno how far up the chain it is. Maybe this ship's got no hand in all that, maybe they got picked to take on strays and it's over all our heads. But somethin' somewhere calls the shots.
[ He glances back at his traitor food, up to the ceiling, over their surroundings. Like he expects some extra clues to pop up out of the woodwork. ]
Figuring out what is step one.
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[ Sunday nods slowly, gaze distant as he thinks back about the process of arriving here once more. He's quiet for several seconds before looking up at Dean again.]
What do you remember about coming here, if anything? That is - not about when you woke up here but just before.
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There are-- some things about it, he guesses. Recollections that he should have but doesn't all that's left is knowing that things are missing. But that skirts the line of acceptable vulnerability to mention, in his personal very biased opinion. Getting too into the details and all.
Dean gets the details. That's his job. ]
Felt a pull, right? Followed through on it? Next thing I know, I'm lost in space.
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[If Dean truly doesn't remember anything else, then that's fine. Another data point for Sunday to ponder. It's just-- ]
I ask because I also remember a pull, but after that - and before waking up in the Medbay here - I saw glimpses of... something difficult to describe... [He frowns, trailing off as he tries once more to really remember anything more than vague impressions and sensations. But after a moment, Sunday gives up with a shake of his head and a sigh.] I have been wondering if anyone else recalled anything similar or if maybe it was a fleeting dream.
[His tone does not suggest that Sunday thinks it was a dream, however.]
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sorry for the delay! this week was uh... a lot
no worries! life loves to Be Like That
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