Entry tags:

⸻ tdm

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!"

REFLECT

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.

IMBIBE

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?

RED BUFFALO SHANK WITH SPIKED LOTUS

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.

UPSIDE-DOWN PLUM SPARK-WINE

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.

GOLDEN BUNS WITH SPICED HONEY DRIZZLE

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.

CHERRY COLA!™

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.

A CAKE. MAYBE.

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.

INITIATE

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.

FOREWORD

"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.

(CODE)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

REFLECT ^{CW: Self-Harm, Suicidal Ideation}

[ Last time Vincent felt this numb was when he lost both of his arms to a salvage job gone wrong. Yet this time the phantom pains and sense of loss aren't due to something, but someone.

Johnny's gone.

Knew it'd be hard to let go of his tapeworm, but this is... Didn't understand that becoming intrinsically linked to everything that makes up that someone else meant losing a piece of himself too. So yes, he won against Arasaka by destroying their tower of horrors, Mikoshi's servers—but it all tastes like ashes in his mouth.

And now he's here, drafted into another battle he doesn't quite understand. The stars are beautiful but they cannot fill the void gnawing at his soul, begging to be filled with the presence who used to be there. Doesn't even see his face in the deep purples and coral pinks—instead it's Johnny's. Always Johnny.

I see your eyes, I know you see me
You're like a ghost how you're everywhere

That night in Watson, his apartment. How Johnny smashed his head against the window, told him to stick some iron in his mouth and pull the trigger. His roiling anger washing over all, so thick Vincent tasted it at the back of his mouth, coppery, pungent. Vincent craves it. Acerbic anger to wash away this nothingness like the tsunami Johnny Silverhand was.

Was.

Vincent shuts his eyes tightly, lips shaking. Bumps his head against the viewing glass. Then does it again, over and over, harder, faster until the whole window shakes. Maybe if he splits his head open, like Johnny did that night, he'll feel something again. ]

FOREWORD

[ Whatever it is going on down there, it has nothing to do with Vincent. He needs a project, stat. Anything to distract him from what (and who) he's left behind.

Support. This isn't his battle—or it won't be until he gets more info. With his cyberwear non-functional and fresh off another battle, he'll be no good to anyone as a fighter until he catches his breath. But logistics and repair? That he can do. A nomad's bread and butter. His form of Zen.

Stellar Nomad. Fate's funny like that. Trades maneuverability and speed for steadiness and personal space. It's no fighter, but right now a base of operations appeals more than joyriding or racing. Can be his new Galena. It's even red like that ancient, beloved piece of junk of his.

Multi-tool on hand, V wastes no time getting into its guts. He's wrist-deep in an electronic panel, under one of its wings, when half of his body pops out from under, holding out his hand. ] Hey, can you pass me that fuse-looking thing? Chip. Thanks.

WILDCARD

[ OOC: Feel free to plot something else at me, PM me or PP at tsuchinoko if you'd like to work something out. ]

Edited 2025-11-05 16:53 (UTC)

This? [ Jayce picks up the chip carefully, turning it over in his hand, before dropping it into the other man's palm. ] What does it do?

[ It's nothing like what he's seen before, but he picks up a spare that's sitting on the table, resting his hip against it as he studies the craftsmanship. He can't even guess what it's for, but he can admire the artistry of the soldered lines, all running across it in an intricate matrix.

There's just so much he can learn here and Jayce is trying to absorb as much of it as humanly possible. ]

What's wrong with the ship?

[ Vincent closes his hand around the chip, letting the lines of soldered metal bite into his skin ] No idea.

Nothin', far as I can tell. [ But it's not about anything being wrong with the ship, but making it his. This ship is too pristine, lacks the customization of ownership, the crust of experience—long, jagged lines that are too deep to be buffed out, the raised, scar-like hallmarks of soldering between two mismatched pieces.

It's too damn pristine, eerily so. Museum piece. ] But can't know what I got—how I can improve it—if I don't take it apart. [ Vincent crawls from underneath the ship's wing, standing up. Black coveralls tied at the waist, a sleeveless white t-shirt, muscular arms that are not organic—the hands, specifically the fingers, are made up of plastic-y synthetic fibers and metal plates at the knuckles—paint the clear picture that this guy is exactly where he should be.

Also smells like ozone and motor oil the closer you get. ] And maybe if I take it apart I'll figure out why my chrome's non-functional. [ Right, next place, new people, new terms. ] Cyberwear. My arms. My everything, really. [ 'Borged out just to be a regular human. The look he can take it or leave it, since there's utility to hiding in plain sight. But being unable to pull off superhuman feats of strength anymore, what's the point? Might as well go 'ganic. ]

Oh. Right.

[ Jayce looks at the ship again, this time with a different perspective. ]

Yeah, that's how I do it too. Pull it all apart and see if I can improve it while I'm putting it back together. [ Jayce had ruined a few things in their childhood home growing up doing just that, to the point where his mother had started hiding the more expensive things until his skill caught up with his passion. ] I like it, until I start working on too many things at once and there's projects everywhere.

[ That's where Viktor had come in, stabilizing him, focusing him, pointing him at one problem at a time until they were a well-oiled machine. ] What did you do then? Before you got here?

[ Jayce has seen augments before. They weren't so common in the city, but down beneath it, the people of Zaun had them, most showing them off. Bright eyes in colors that Jayce had never seen before, arms, legs, jaws. Jayce had learned real quick not to stare. ]

They're not working? [ That does get him looking, but his gaze is more like someone trying to diagnose a problem than gawking at the mechanics. Later, he might, impressed by and curious about the design and what they're made of. ] It's not something I've ever worked on before, but if you need a second pair of eyes, hands, or someone to bounce ideas off of, I'd be happy to help.

Only way to do it. [ Vincent winks, mood lifted. Always nice to be among fellow techies. ]

Merc. [ Solo won't make sense to people here. Shortening mercenary should still be intelligible, he hopes. ] 'Fore that I did this. And other things. [ All flows from the same well—be an asset to his kin. Can't tinker with new tech if you don't got it. And since most people, corpos or not, don't want to do legitimate business with nomads anyways... ]

Baseline works. Ain't blind or crippled. [ Be in real trouble if nothing worked at all. Be a prisoner in his own body, a horror he's already familiar with thanks to losing his arms in the first place, and Johnny's former dilemma. ] Software's non-existent though. Softlocked. No more feats of superhuman strength or speed for me. [ Might be a blessing in disguise. After Arasaka Tower, might do him some good to abstain from the chrome.

Like a Buddhist monk foregoing earthy pleasures from enlightenment. Attuning to his soul and body once more—or what remains of it, at least. ] Appreciate it. I'm good with hardware but software's beyond me. [ Too esoteric. Cannot be touched. Doesn't want to, not after Mikoshi. The prospect that he too might now be nothing but 1s and 0s frightens him. The AIs from beyond the Blackwall weren't people, not really. Something far worse, unfathomable and so, so angry.

Doesn't want that for himself. ] Far as I can tell, nothing's broken. It's like... like someone wiped me clean. No OS 'sides the wetware all humans are born with. [ And no Johnny. It's all so eerily quiet inside his mind. ]

BUFF

DEBUFF

V | Cyberpunk 2077

foreword.

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foreword.

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Reflect

Return his emotional support domestic terrorist ASAP

lmao! limited edition emotional support domestic terrorist returned

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Foreward

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reflect; cw reference to possessions/supernatural influence on mh

CW: Suicide Ideation

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Foreword

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wildcard; un: darknight - I am so sorry

un: shinigami — no need to be sorry

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