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theorememes2026-01-03 07:00 am
TDM #2, arc 1.2: as she bends toward the sun
I sing for you and me
I sing across the sky
To find a place of life
Where all of this is true
I bring this into you❞
BUFF
For those who are bonded to the Fathomless, they will, one night, wake up from a startling dream in which they remembered a memory they had forgotten, or had glossed over.
DEBUFF
Bonded of the Empty Machine will experience insatiable hunger this month, and will never feel satisfied no matter how much they eat.
At first, you feel a pull. In which direction, you do not know. When a portal of shimmering black and glittering stars appears in front of you, it only seems natural to step into it. On the journey, it is as if you see everything: ancient galaxies wheeling through space, cultures born and growing and leaving their planets, lights creeping over landmasses and them winking out all at once. You see the hungry arm of a black hole, an enigmatic smile under a mirrored mask, a fist clenched tight around an endless sword. Fangs shining in starlight, bandaged feet that have traveled so many miles and still remain sturdy, and code shattering under titanium will.
And then your feet touch solid ground again, and what you have seen is suddenly hard to recall, the merest of glimpses springing to mind when you try to think back.
All you know is that you witnessed something enormous, something you probably shouldn't have seen.
As you struggle to refocus your gaze, all you see for a long moment is white. White walls, white floor. Narrow white cots lined up against a wall, screens blinking above them in tones of soothing aqua and mint. You are in a medbay — a highly advanced one, given the lack of bulky machinery — but perhaps the most eye-catching thing about the room is a long window showing endless black and twinkling stars outside.
Before you can give voice to any thoughts, a small robot flutters toward you, and perches on the back of a chair. "Hello, Wayfarer!" the birdform chirps cheerfully. "I imagine you must have many questions; allow me to enlighten you! You have fallen victim to a quantum accident and have been pulled to another universe, but the Ascendants, in their generosity, intercepted your signal and brought you here so that you did not wind up in empty space. You are aboard the Theorem of the Astral Rose; our mission is to explore uncharted space and search for the Song!"
They pause, thinking, their little blue eye aglow, and then brighten.
"Oh! Introductions are in order! I am Starling's Lament in Flight, but you may call me Starling's Lament. I am one of the Hosts of this exploration vessel; we will do everything we can to ensure a safe voyage for you. Unfortunately, at this moment, we cannot send you home. The Ascendants have indicated that their search for the Song may play some key role in doing so." They whistle a merry tune. "Please enjoy your stay! The other Wayfarers are currently on planet Epsilon-355, you may join them at any time!"
And so, you take a shuttle down to the planet; an orb of a nearly unbroken gold landmass and pale pink clouds scudding across the surface. On the journey, the pilot Host recites for you why this planet was picked: it is a possible match for a planet mentioned in a story about the Last Pilgrim, one of the most enigmatic of the Edicts. If there are scraps of the Song to be found, it may be in the path they traveled there.
PLANET TYPE: arid world
ORBITAL CHARACTERISTICS: close orbit to native sun, no eccentricities in orbit
ROTATION PERIOD: 31 hour days, 405 day year
NATURAL RESOURCES: iron-rich silicate, limonite, titanium oxides, sodium, nickel
BREATHABLILITY INDEX: safe for humanoid respiration
WEATHER PATTERNS: occasional sandstorms, very little rain
LANDMASS: 98% of planet
AVERAGE TEMPERATURE: 31c
SURFACE GRAVITY: average
BIOSIGNATURES: indicates a narrow range of native life
ARTIFICIAL STRUCTURES: none found
On-planet, activity is bustling.
Research & Archives pinpointed a clue in the story that would make finding the Last Pilgrim's trail easier to find: a pathway of bones that the caravan traveled upon. It is unknown how long this pathway is, or even if it still exists, depending on how long ago that story came from.
Science & Engineering, meanwhile, concluded that the golden sand of this planet is wholly unlike the sand of other deserts, made up of not just silicon dioxide and fossilized marine life, but of many inert chemicals and minerals, a scattered rainbow of compositions. Epsilon-355 was, they concluded, at one point the closest planet to its sun, and that has sown a strange field upon it: the golden ash and viscera of a star's fiery tempest and the powdered remains of a destroyed moon. It is, quite literally, made from stardust and moondust. The glass that litters the sands was put there by chaotic lashings of star plasma, whips of heat so intense they penetrated through the atmosphere and raised burned lines of melted sand over its surface. Luckily, the orbit of the planet has since taken it too far away from its star to do such damage again.
After long-range scans, Wayfarers were able to find signs that pointed to a large deposit of inert biological material that lay to the north-west.
As you pack up your camp, the weather is clear, and the sky is bright. For most Wayfarers, adjusting to the 31-hour cycle of Epsilon-355 has been difficult, but midday naps and staggered sleeping schedules have made it easier. The sand has proven to be a constant irritant when the breeze picks up, but the creatures largely prefer to hide, and there have been no more sightings of the barren-racers. It seems they travel only alongside the sand-whales, and the sand-whales only emerge after a storm.
With all of your supplies stocked on people's backs and the hover-sleds the Hosts have brought for easier travel, you set off to the north-west.
After the storm, the glass outcroppings had been scrubbed clear, and they still remain that way. The path north-west takes you through something of a valley, bordered on both sides by sharp juts of the glass, enormous spikes just waiting to impale anybody who sets a foot wrong. As Wayfarers move through this valley, the reflections feel like they are watching you, but you can never quite catch any coherent image in them outside of your own selves.
Until, that is, you happen to glance at another, and see a vision of something you regret. A past action you took, a decision you made, a fate you changed. It's a static image, like a photograph reflected in the glass's surface, and it does not fade when somebody else looks at it.
They all remain like specters lining the path you are taking, watching your every move.
After two days of travel, you find them.
At first, the Wayfarers find the trail of bones mentioned in the scrap of story you're following. It is just as described: a pathway of enormous bones, presumably of the last titans the story refers to. They are neatly laid in a winding pathway over and between the rolling sand dunes, bleached white by sand and time. Most of them are meters long: humerus bones three meters long lining the path like a border, rib bones twice as tall as a person creating elegant fan shapes.
On the side of the path, greater remains may occasionally be seen. Enormous titanic skeletons half-buried in the sand, watching the pathway, like they simply laid down and died as eternal sentinels.
Astute observers notice that the skulls are all pointed in the same direction, and so, that is the direction you follow, until finally, you find life.
You hear them before you see them; music and laughter carrying through the light breeze. And when the Wayfarers crest a massive dune, you look down upon a valley where there winds a serpentine path, and upon it walks a long caravan of people. You catch up to them, and as you walk alongside them to get to the front of the line in hopes of finding a leader, they all greet you warmly, like old friends that simply have not met yet.
There is a brightly painted wooden wagon with a group of old women in the back, their faces stained with red ochre, their eyes blind, and their mouths laughing. A young boy wearing red pearls leads a metal hover-craft with a pilgrim painted on the side, and a pack of young children in aquatic water-suits run with him, giggling bubbles into the water in their helmets. Young women of dark skin and magnificent wings trail in a line behind a four-legged robot, singing helio-cycle poems and carrying bowls of vivid fruit. You identify what must be the lapho-beasts from the story: huge quadrepeds built like a gorilla with hooked beaks, the size of a three-storey building, plodding along at a sedate pace, their backs lined with rolled up tents, and barrels of grain and water that sloshes with every one of their thumping steps. A small group of tall entities with featureless faces and elegant robes walk along a pair of rock-skinned hexapods. A squat creature with a head shaped like a mushroom dances alongside them all, strumming music on a long instrument that emits color and light with every note. Everywhere you look, there is music, and laughter, and celebration.
It takes a while to get to the front, but there, you meet the ringleaders of this pilgrimage. The first is a tall robotic entity with limbs as thin and straight as sticks, a narrow rectangular face, a bright red woven cloak, and a hat that resembles a dǒulì, wide and conical. Her name is Elegance, and she introduces you to her wife, Rēza, a short woman who resembles an upright moth, with large furred wings and compound eyes, her antenna waving in the breeze. The scarf around her neck and mouth is of many colors, and looks charmingly handmade, a little rough around the edges.
They tell you that this caravan has been traveling for thirty days, and they are not far from their objective. The unknown temple, they believe, lays little more than a week's travel away. Everybody you see has come here from local systems, hoping to find something in the Last Pilgrim's footsteps. Thousands of pilgrimages have been doing the same, one after the other, for eons.
Everybody, they say, finds something different. Something you did not know you needed until that very moment.
If you ask them if the Song is to be found there, Rēza laughs, and says they do not know. But perhaps, if you need it that badly, it will be what you find?
Elegance and Rēza are happy to have you travel with the caravan, and encourage you to meet with everyone. They also think it would only be appropriate for you to help with the caravan's various ventures: the story-tellers are trying to compose an epic poem to mark their trip, and the hunters are catching local flora and fauna to stretch out their rations. Or, you can join the sand skimmers, racing on their boards with brightly colored sails taking them through the dunes, scouting ahead for an oasis to seek more water.
Medical, perhaps, might be asked to help with desert-given injuries, sand rashes or injuries from the bone pathway. Engineers might be approached to help with the sand stuck in the joints of mechanical entities. Research & Archives might be pulled into hearty discussions about the story set on this planet.
When dusk begins to fall, the caravan draws to a stop, and they begin to make camp.
The Wayfarers do the same, setting up your tents and supplies. The carvan sets up in a series of circles, some small and contained to family groups, others large to hold dozens of people. Silverthorn is gathered for small fires in the middle of the circles, and many set about making dinner. Soon, the smells of smoke and dried meat fill in the air, stews bubbling with vegetables and foraged Firelight Brush roots, Speckled Runners turning slowly on spits to roast. Grain is pulled from barrels and pounded into powder on wide, flat rocks, mixed with scant water supplies to make a bread that is nonetheless fluffy and pale yellow once its dark crust has been broken open.
The caravan gladly shares their supplies with the Wayfarers with no expectation of the same in return, though it would certainly be polite. The lapho-beasts lay down so that their burdens may be taken off their backs, and slumber noisily next to the circles, curled almost entirely around some smaller ones.
Once dinner is served, the caravan turns to the members of the Theorem's crew, and begs: tell us a story.
You see, they have been traveling for a month, and they have already told each other all the stories they know. Stories from their own lives, stories that they were once told about others. Here, in this desert, the only currency worth anything is stories, and they are all eager for new ones. Is that not the domain of the Last Pilgrim? Is it not an honor in their name, to share stories of progress, of journeys, and of learning?
Children crowd around you eagerly, old men and women with sparks in their eyes lean in close, and the light-making music-playing creature of before hushes everyone, readying the crowd to listen to whatever story you choose to tell.
Or perhaps you are more content to listen as other circles share the stories they have told already, finding new details to highlight or new questions to ask. Either way, a lot of tales are being told around these fireplaces, and it would be wise to listen to them.
You spend the next week traveling.
It's not easy. On one day there is another sandstorm, and the caravan has to hunker down and wait it out. The following day is spent avoid the sand-whales and the barren-skimmers, but luckily, they don't go near the path of bones. You make friends with people in the caravan, you share stories over spiced drinks and good bread. You help where you can, and in return, the caravan shares everything they have with you.
You learn that they are here chasing a story: a rumor that visiting the temple at the end of this pilgrimage will grant them something they want. It does not cure illness or bestow riches, they say, but it gives you something you never knew you needed until that very moment. Some of the caravan have nothing besides the clothes on their backs, and some of them are wealthy, and some of them are seeking meaning. Some of them are from Alliance space, others are not.
A week later, Elegance and Rēza call the Wayfarers to the front of the caravan. You will have first honor of cresting the next row of sand dunes to catch the first glimpse of the temple. And as you scramble up the dune and peak its crest, you see it in the distance:
A long, almost mountain-like range of sand dunes, taller than any you've seen so far. Beyond them, the pale purple sky is lit up with fractal reflections in every color; atmospheric blue and x'enuda pink, the same orange as the optics of a robot family in the caravan, the gentle gold of the Theorem's shield.
Whatever is beyond that dune-range, it is giving up a spectacular light show.
They say it will take another day to get there, but for today, you will stop at an oasis. 
The presence of water has allowed tall canyons to form around its exterior, so you must descend downward to find the shady oasis. The water is a perfect aqua blue, so clear you can see the very bottoms of the shallow pools. Here, there is life different from the tough, scrubby plants you encountered among the dunes: plant-life whose roots are able to draw in water from the pools, crowded around the edges of them in small clusters of orange and red leaves, white flowers peeking out among them.
First, the caravan must take enough water to fuel itself. But after that, anybody is free to take a dip, to bathe themselves or merely to enjoy the cool water.
If you do, you'll find yourself curiously refreshed, like you've just gotten the first decent night's sleep in a while. It may even cure minor wounds, and ease the aches of travel.
Tomorrow, you will finally find the temple that the Last Pilgrim visited.
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(Or, more truthfully, because any of his own memories he's caught a glimpse of haven't been things he wants to talk about. Just sounds better when there's a pragmatic excuse.)
Such is life. Easy come, easy go. Dean looks over to Cas, already annoyed, then to the nearest dumbass reflective glass surface for context. Which sort of takes his annoyance right off the table.
Seeing himself at whatever age is one thing. Seeing the look on dad's face in high definition is-- something else. He never forgot, how could he, but time likes to do its thing, soften the edges of recollection to let the feeling do the heavy lifting. He turns away from it like the image just reached out and physically slapped him.
Cas is being very quiet and discreet about it, at least. Hard to get angry-angry about it when he's being all considerate, so Dean settles for being a prickly bitch instead. ]
Yeah, thanks for the healing words. [ Why does he have to be like this. Nobody answer that. ] You're wrong, but A for effort. Good talk.
[ Deja vu, is what it is. How many times can the same bad memory get brought back up in his adult life? Frigging ridiculous. ]
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...but that isn't the real issue, is it?] You're right, [he says eventually, picking his footing carefully around scattered bits of glass and bone.] Trying to tell you otherwise would be lying. If you hadn't left that night, perhaps the shritga would have been too timid to approach the room. And you were at fault for more than just that.
[Such as,] It's your fault that Sam had something to eat every day.
It's your fault that Sam learned how to read, and that he passed third grade science. It's your fault that your family had shelter at all the winter of 1993.
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What's he even supposed to-- do. With this. All this knowing. This saying things like it's just normal things like that to say to him. Why does it even matter past that initial "you're right"? Get real. ]
Stop that. [ No literally. Stop. We're stopping rn, he's turning Cas towards him by the shoulder.
Everyone else can pick their way around them for a minute. ] Last thing I need is you feelin' sorry for me. Alright? I mean it, that's the absolute last thing.
[ Which is probably what's happening here. But even the idea of that is somehow infinitely worse than getting one of those sad, Dean-you-should-talk-about-it looks from Sam. Not least because Cas is wasting his VALUABLE hydration energy on Dean's bullshit. ]
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Truly, with all the love in his heart, what the fuck is Dean talking about.] Dean, I've never once pitied you. I admire you.
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But still, ultimately, somehow even worse than a pity parade. It's almost like there's no winning. And yet..... he still softens out a teeny tiny bit. Sorta fond, completely in spite of himself. ]
That'll happen when you've got heaven settin' the bar. [ Burying the bar, more like. The bar's down there with fossils. ] No offense.
[ He doesn't care too much if it's offensive actually. Fuck heaven, we hate the other angels, we do NOT know what God's problem is, and Cas is the only part of it all that's ever been worth hanging onto. Normal things to feel. ]
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I'm not trying to tell you that you're perfect, [Cas tells him quietly, direct eye contact, a hand on Dean's arm like he's trying to deliver his conviction via osmosis,] and I won't tell you how you're flawed. I won't tell you how to feel about your father. I'm not trying to put you on a pedestal. You aren't a god or a demon or a monster; you're a man.
[Squeezes his arm and leans in, ever so slightly.] A very good man.
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Cas has a way of doing that to him. Resolutely saying things about him that some selfish starving animal in Dean's chest can't help but try to latch onto. It's always been in there.
It means everything. It's not good for anything. Dean kinda feels like a live bug pinned to a board. Squirming. Uncomfortable.
So he cuts his gaze away, makes it settle over Cas's shoulder instead of lingering on his face, huffs with "you're proving my point" intention. ]
Yeah. Thanks, Cas. [ There's no bite. He's playing argument-dead. He's tired. He's gnawing the meat off of his thrown bone of praise and grateful for it. He's missing Purgatory's simplicity for the billionth time. He doesn't actually know what he's doing.
It's fine. ] Shine's really comin' off of this alien-planet apple right about now. At least back home, we can work out what our brains are feeding pretty quick.
[ This is gonna be Dean's theory until disproven. That something somewhere feeds on the memories or the feelings of every poor son of a bitch who takes this pilgrimage seeking something greater. ]
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I have thoughts on that, [he muses, accepting the metaphorical turnoff in the conversational road as he adjusts the straps and handles of the gear so they can continue their trek.] It has to do with this 'Song' we're supposed to find.
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Better to keep swimming in the waters you know. New line of conversation is more interesting anyway. ]
You got theories, I wanna hear 'em. [ Couldn't say "thoughts" because he was just super clear about not wanting to hear some of Cas's thoughts. ] Couldn't exactly bring the library down with us, so.
[ So it's all about percolating on what they do know or guess at knowing. ]
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Uh, yeah. You wanted them to beat our less-poetic asses 'cause you liked it better. Said it was, uh. [ He tips his head to one side. Cas be saying shit, is the thing. He says all manner of weird shit. At that specific point in time? Even more weird than usual, to say nothing for completely unrelated to the other shit they were trying to deal with. So big catalogue to cross-reference, but Dean knows he remembers this one, so if he can juuuuust... ah. Aha.
Snaps fingers! Points! ] More in tune with "the spheres." Rude, by the way. If we could see the damn spheres, we'd have been all over it.
[ He knows that's not the point. Gotta rep for humanity, is all. ]
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[The wheel of the equipment dolly catches on a particularly awkward spear of glass; Castiel pauses to move the wheel aside and kick at the glass until it shatters.] Molecules vibrate at frequencies unnoticed by most mortal creatures. Waves of radiation travel through space and interact with these vibrations, change them. The Neanderthals were more sensitive to these vibrations and their interactions with waves. You could say they sensed the change in tempo.
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Yeah, buncha real Nostradamuses, those guys. [ Pretend the vibration waves thing doesn't sound cosmically compelling and offputting in equal parts: check. ] You sayin' you think something changed up our tempos? We hopped spheres?
[ Not as good as motel bed magic finger vibrations, that's for sure. ]
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If this were a consistent melody or wavelength, even just a few individuals would be able to recreate it. Group consensus would've uncovered its origin by now.
Calling it a 'song' might be poetic license. Angels have, in the past, been referred to as living music. [So, maybe the 'Song' isn't a literal sound, but an entity that exists as a vibration or a wavelength, similar to an angel. An entity will have intent. An entity could evade efforts to identify or capture it.
Maybe they're not so much adventurers as they are bounty hunters.]
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It tracks, though, the rest of what Cas is saying. Dean remembers talking to that Jonas kid some after the sand whales popped up, about how everyone was hearing something different. Psychic mojo bullcrap. He's gotta admit this theory sounds way more believable than scouring the galaxy for someone's old LP.
A long-lost Edict? Something bigger than that? Something less definable? Who can say. No one, apparently.
Dean turns it over in his head a bit. ]
Dude, I think that makes us Dorothy.
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1/2
2/2 dean be like "just like blorbo from one of my movies." and it helps no one.
Movie reference. Wizard of Oz. Anytime you hear me say "we're not in Kansas anymore" and you're thinkin' "you haven't been in Kansas lately"? Same thing. It's, uh.
[ Can Dean just say, 10/10 subject change for him, way better to be thinking about right now. Cas is actually the best for this. ]
Basically this chick and her dog get picked up by a freak tornado and dropped off in some other world. Fantasy world. Y'know. I actually gotta show you this one sometime, Cas, 'cause they did stuff with Technicolor that was-- [ Stops himself, very bravely.
He'll infodump about that later. He thinks that Cas might like it though. As much as Cas ever really cares about movies or TV. ] Whatever. Her whole thing is she wants to get back home. And everyone tells her she's gotta go see the Wizard 'cause he's gonna be her best bet to make it there. Right? Some mystery dude no one's got any real details about. And wow, wouldn't you know there happens to be a road you gotta follow to get there. So Dorothy gets herself a lovable gang of misfits, fights a wicked witch, yada-yada-yada, not gonna do spoilers, not the point. Point is [ Dean maybe kinda lost track of the point tbh. They're on a quest through the emotional-torture desert, okay, cut him some slack. ], that's us now. We're Yellow Brick Roadin' this bitch.
Hell, we might not even be Dorothy in this equation. All of us might just be the guys she picked up, hopin' the Wizard can do us a solid too.
[ He will be Scarecrow. Cas can be the Tin Man. He doesn't know who their Toto or Cowardly Lion is yet, he'll figure it out. Even though he doubts the answer is gonna be that they had the magic in them all along or whatever. Just realistically. They are probably gonna have to kill something to get what they want. ]
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Could be coincidence.
In fact Castiel is returning to the tried and true hunt for what similarity between some piece of media and their current predicament just made the connection in Dean's brain (an exercise that ranges from confusing to fascinating to frustrating and, indeed, can be all three simultaneously) when he hears the next one.
Yellow Brick Road.
Oh no. Not those assholes.]
Dean, [Castiel interrupts with some mild urgency, a hand on Dean's arm,] You haven't been there, have you? To Oz? You really shouldn't go there, Avalon isn't a place for mortals. I understand you enjoy Technicolor, [whatever the fuck that is] but even on their best behavior, Oberon and his ilk are troublemakers and maliciously mischievous.
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He shouldn't be laughing about it, probably. Cas is being all sincere and urgent, and it's not like 99% of that job is a fond memory by any stretch. But also what the fuck kind of life is this, dude, seriously.
He got abducted by faeliens and it wasn't even the most messed-up thing that happened to him that month. ]
Yeah. Little bit late to the game, buddy. Been there, done that, fought my way out of the close encounter, bought the t-shirt. [ Okay and yeah there was Charlie's whole... situation at the LARP. Thing. Fae-adjacent. But like romantic.
That was a different kettle of fish than what he and Terminator Sam dealt with. ] Not a literal t-shirt. I actually killed a fairy in the microwave the next day and she was, uh...
[ A hand-flippy gesture meant to encompass,,,, the concept of the whole body. ]
I mean, she was goin' full-frontal. Think that's just how they roll over there.
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The aghast look on Castiel's face as Dean recounts his adventures probably isn't reassuring, but at least it looks more angry and...maybe...a touch possessive? More than it looks stricken, at any rate.]
As soon as I have my powers back, I'm examining your soul. [WHAT IF THEY TRIED TO LAID CLAIM ON YOU! Are you kidding him? What in the hell, the nerve of those little bugs, trying to fucking. Abduct what is clearly
hisHeaven's human. Unbelievable. The audacity. They're not even ten thousand years old, some of them.]no subject
It's kind of adorable how offended Cas is about that dumbass hunt, honestly. Touching, even. Dean's putting that expression in his metaphorical pocket to examine later like a pathetic middle schooler.
His exasperated little guy... ]
Take it easy, Cas, my soul's fine. [ As fine as his soul ever is, he guesses. Thing's gotta be the equivalent of a sturdy, chipped mug with a permanent coffee ring stain on the inside by now. ] Still usin' it every day or whatever without a hitch.
[ Dean will be forgetting about this examination thing well before Cas gets his powers back and he assumes Cas will do the same. It's literally whatever. You should see the other guy, only you can't because he microwaved her. ]
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[ GIRL, BE REAL. Nonsense. He is offended by even the implication!!! That's HIS soul okay. Dean only trades on himself when HE wants to and when HE knows it's happening! Stake claim! On him!!!
Fat fuckin' chance, dude, get in line. ]
Just because Oberon's got a friggin'-- friggin' zest for first-born sons doesn't mean he had his little fake alien posse try to stamp "Fae Property" on my ass, Cas! Pretty sure we would've picked up on that by now.
[ Those assholes would've come to collect at the worst possible moment already. OBVIOUSLY? ]
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