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ximilialog2023-06-01 06:40 pm
- ! event log,
- adventure time: finn mertens,
- adventure time: jake the dog,
- fear street: ziggy berman,
- grishaverse: the darkling,
- gundam seed/destiny: yzak jule,
- lockwood & co: anthony lockwood,
- pacific rim: newton geiszler,
- red vs blue: felix,
- star trek aos: james t. kirk,
- star trek aos: leonard mccoy,
- the old guard: andromache,
- yakuza: zhao tianyou
MISSION: THE AI AND THE COMMANDER
● ● ● M I S S I O N 1 4 . 0
The hum of the teleportation platform is familiar, filling your ears as the bright light dissipates enough to safely open your eyes. You feel something solid beneath your feet, and the lack of scent from the asphalt and dirt in Nuhiri and Deumia marks a departure from anything resembling a planet, the space around you giving you no reason to think anything of it. You're on the Ximilia once again — finally. Another mission successfully accomplished, for whatever other hardships you and the rest of the team have endured. Hot food and hot showers await, and Newt will surely be scurrying off to prepare for the team’s usual post-mission movie night.
You’re back and you can’t wait for Viveca to greet you, and for Degar to take the orb away, back to the North Wing to join the other ones.
Except … the station’s walls appear to be peeling, and some of the equipment looks a little older and unpolished. There’s even a layer of space-dust on one of the control boards. And most importantly: no one is here to greet you. As you turn and look to your fellow crewmates in confusion, even now some of you might start to wonder at the change of routine. Ivy, who had just been handling the orb, will be empty-handed, but surely there’s nothing to worry about. The station is peaceful and still. Nothing feels amiss … yet. And then:
The sound of 0-L1V-14 — or 'Olivia' as many have come to call her — voice springs to life around you. She almost seems to sound confused for a moment, clearly recalibrating her systems for this strange occurrence, before the gentle tenor of her voice regains its composure and she recalls her mission directive. The lights in the teleportation platform seem to glow just a little brighter, as though the arrival of the crew has buoyed the AI's spirits.
Well? You heard the AI. Best to start looking.
1.0 The first thing you might think to do is return to the sleeping quarters, either to clean up and change into another set of clothes; or to take a much-deserved nap; or maybe you just need a moment to yourself to collect your thoughts. The doors to the sleeping quarters seem to stick for a moment, which isn’t worrying in and of itself, but as the doors slide open you realize that you’re looking into a dark and empty carved out space that resembles a place for storage more than anything else. The walls and doors that used to make up your individual rooms are absent, and the floors are stripped bare, with rows of perforated grates allowing the cavernous space to remain relatively well-ventilated. It’s clear that no one has visited this room in quite some time, and perhaps there had once been plans for it, now abandoned to hold a stock of random items in its place.
There are boxes stacked against the wall, and a shelving unit that holds miscellaneous supplies: cans and boxes, batteries and wires, old bound notebooks made of paper. Rolls of rough tarp are haphazardly leaning against the wall to one corner, and thermal blankets are scattered amongst scraps of loose-leaf, a sketch of a cluster of spherical shapes in different colours, and other foreign knick-knacks that seem to have no place on a space station. If you decide to explore this space you’ll have to provide your own source of light as none of the lighting above seem to work though the row of fixtures that you’re used to seem, at least, to have been installed. They’re just not currently online.
Investigating the room a little deeper might draw you to a simple metal box sitting in the middle shelf next to what looks like a half-broken lute, its strings missing. There is no lock on this box, as though it wants to be opened, and lifting the lid will reveal a bright rosy-coloured light. Reaching out towards the small sliver of light in the shape of an elongated teardrop will recall a memory of your childhood so vivid, you’ll think you were back in that time, in that exact moment, to relive it again. Whether it's a good memory or a tragic one is left up to random chance. Only someone entering the room to talk you through your memory will remind you that you aren’t actually a child any longer.
2.0 Perhaps you decide to forgo the sleeping quarters entirely, and want to revisit one of your favourite simulations in the simulation room. Familiar oceans, the futuristic bar, or the room filled with adorable puppies might be your first choice — but every preset you’re used to scrolling through seems to be different now. There are the standard, familiar pre-mission training simulations, and even the Lodgen Mountain Mines mission appears to be here, but everything else has either been deleted … or it was never here to begin with.
You might decide to go ahead with one of the already existing simulations anyway, or you might want to start rewriting the one you’d come here for in the first place. It will depend on your luck, and it will depend on the success of your mission-training, but a small shard of bright, silvery coloured light may suddenly reveal itself to you. It appears like a thin tear-shape that hangs suspended in the air. The faintest whisper beckons you close; it’s familiar. Will you reach out to touch it? Doing so will colour the simulation room around you with a memory so real it might as well be — suddenly you might recall a happy moment in your life, or perhaps your greatest victory or adventure. This can be shared with whoever enters the simulation room with you or after you, and will fade when you manage to locate the right door and leave the room.
3.0 The sunlight room that you may have walked through on countless occasions is missing the familiar bridge, the river that runs beneath it, and trees that surround it. Instead, the vegetation around you appears to be far more deliberate and practical, thick foliage like bushes planted in rows, their large leaves covering most of the ground and soil. Several small metal boxes with wires and buttons can be found planted across the space, each with a thin rotating disc that whirs and spins quietly. Each of these boxes appears to give off readings, each screen displaying a continuous green wavy line scrolling across it and text that displays the quality of the air with a percentile grade, the amount of it being produced, and that particular box’s designation zone: Mess Hall, Storage, Living Quarters, and Teleportation Platform among others. This isn’t just a room that simulates nature, but if you were to approach any of the small bushes and saplings here, it’s clear that the plants here are real and they’re currently working to provide the rest of the station with oxygen.
Further to the back of the sunlight room, a bright sliver of colourful green light seems to glitter and glint between the leaves. It feels familiar in the way that it whispers faintly, and if you concentrate you can make out the sound of your name in a voice like that of someone from your past: a friend, perhaps, or a family member. Maybe a loved one or an enemy. Or perhaps it’s a voice you can’t actually recognize. It might compel you to reach out for the light, but will you listen? Or will you turn away?
If you embrace the light and call out in answer to the voice, you will re-experience the action, the conversation, or the thought that you attribute as being the reason you are who you are today with that most important person being the key piece in your memory.
4.0 Looking for your usual snacks? Feeling peckish for that bowl of instant spicy space-ramen you saved for post-mission? You might head into the kitchen expecting the familiar foodstuffs that you’re used to only to find that the room has been rearranged, with far fewer cupboards and appliances, and more of what looks like typical space-fare: freeze-fried items and nutrition-focused meals sealed into silver foiled bags. What ‘fresh’ ingredients exist are even less, and there are a stack of dirty plates and cutlery in the sink that don’t look like anything you or your crewmates might have used. You may already suspect that this whole station isn’t the one you’re used to, or you might still be in denial. Either way, you may find through your rummaging the call to a little sliver of coppery-coloured light located behind the freezer door.
If you decide to touch the fragment of light here, you’ll feel a ghostly burning as though the glint of the light has cut your skin, almost cold enough to feel sharp — but it’s just your imagination, isn’t it? What you remember now as it comes back to life around you (and the team member or members who may have joined you) is the best meal you’ve ever eaten, whether it is something you made for yourself, something made by your loved one, or the meal that leaves your heart feeling empty and aching.
5.0 You may have become so accustomed to seeing the North Wing doors sealed that it’s your curiosity that draws you forward to the wide expanse beyond the now open wing, your feet testing the threshold as if you’re expecting an invisible wall to keep you out. Nothing happens when you step into the North Wing, though you might immediately notice the large tank that holds all of the team’s successfully captured orbs is very clearly missing. And not only that but the space appears to be well lived in, a small cluster of worn chairs and a table set to one side, and data pads and drawings on white-boards in plain view. They don’t seem to be much more than a couple of crude strategy diagrams (and a couple of silly stick figures in one corner) and as you move towards the crew quarters, some of you might instantly recognize the familiar room with its rows of beds and a scattering of personal effects assigned to each bunk. Photos are pinned to walls of a twenty-person crew, pillows and blankets are left in disarray by unfinished knitting projects, a diary written in a language you can’t quite translate, and a stuffed elephant-shaped plush doll lies at the head of one of the beds in the middle of the room. By the door is a neatly made bed. An analogue paperback novel sits on the nightstand, a bookmark set in the middle to note its progress. On top of it is a well-kept watch stopped a little after the sixth hour and a medal of service in the now recognizable insignia of the Ndiera Complex’s Federation.
By the far wall of these sleeping quarters is a bright golden starlight that seems to illuminate that side of the room as though someone had turned on a torchlight to the highest setting; it’s almost blinding. Moving closer to it, you’ll find that it’s like all the other slivers of light scattered across the station — a broken shard, like a piece of a large puzzle. Touching it may pull you — and whoever might be in the room with you — into a memory from your time with the Ximilia crew, whether it happened over a year ago, or it happened only on the last mission. It might be a happy memory, or it might be something you regret, which is poignant considering your initial raison d’etre for being here at all. It’s a vision that appears from your perspective and while you relive it, you feel outside of yourself.
6.0 The rest of the station still appears to be intact, with the infirmary, the training room, and the armoury in the same locations that you remember. Those of you who have been here for quite some time, you’ll find your way around by muscle memory alone; but even if you’re a newer member of the crew you’ll have wandered the halls enough to know what feels familiar to you … and what doesn’t.
The infirmary looks to be a little out of date, though it looks as if it’s seen its fair share of use. And it’s smaller too, the more recent addition and surgical area missing from the cozy space. The training room and the armoury share similar qualities of seeming a little older, a little more lived in, and with well-used equipment and weapons to boot. The training room is still padded with firm padded flooring and benches for sitting. Some of the racks and hooks (all empty) that had been against the wall have fallen now, and similar to the teleportation room, you’ll find that some of the paneling in this room has since peeled away, revealing some of the bare structure behind them. In the armoury, you won’t find your favourite knife or preferred staff but there are still a few choices in weaponry to arm yourself with.
Wherever you decide to explore, you might once more happen upon a bright bluish light that seems to whisper and call to you in soft, hushed tones. No specific words can be picked out through the murmurs but the feeling is all the same — it draws you forward like a moth to flame, but whether you decide to reach a hand out to touch the sliver of light that hangs suspended in the air is entirely your choice. If you do, you might succumb to a vivid memory of a significant injury you or someone important to you had suffered once, reliving that moment with too sharp clarity. Those feelings of fear or threat or maybe even satisfaction seem to come to you again as though you were there again — only this time you may not be alone as you witness this memory, and someone else has entered the room with you.
● ● ●
Present Day.
The teleportation platform hums quietly in a clean, well-maintained room. No walls or floors appear to be even the least bit dented, and now the Commander of the Ximilia stands behind the control board, staring at the screen as though doing so will bring their crew back by some wild form of magic. Degar knows magic — he’d come from a world so full of it. This, however, is something different.
Beside him, Viveca scans through the data that had sent the crew into the Ndiera Complex, as it should have brought them back the same way, with the orb in tow.
The Commander and the AI both turn their gaze towards the still empty teleportation platform before exchanging worried glances with each other. Degar finally heaves an exhale but the frown in his features deepens.
Viveca nods, her voice sounding complicated when she responds next.
F Y I
• For this mission, we have decided to run the search request mechanic a little differently. Depending on whether your character decides to touch or grasp one or any of the slivers of coloured light that can be found throughout the station, you will have the opportunity to participate in a search request. More on this is explained HERE.
• If you have questions about any of the prompts or the mission in general, please direct them HERE.
• Any in-character questions to 0-L1V-14 can be asked HERE.
• And finally, your soundtrack for this log: ♪ ♪ ♪
closed to yujin mikotoba | green/sunlight room
"Forgive me for saying so, Your Excellency, but I find this to be in very poor taste," Kazuma says slowly.
Jigoku is not smiling. "I assure you this is no joke, my boy."
Kazuma reels back, appalled. "The study exchange is meant to be a learning opportunity! Using it as a front for--for murder is surely some kind of joke!"
"It is not your place to decide what is in the best interests of national security," Jigoku barks.
Kazuma's jaw tightens in outrage. To think that a judge would ask this of anyone, let alone Jigoku of him. "Then I refuse, obviously. Go find some other desperate bootlicker to do the government's dirty work. I don't need anyone's help to get to London."
Seishiro Jigoku is a large man; the difference in their heights has somehow never felt so steep as it does now, when Jigoku unfolds himself from his desk to loom over Kazuma with all the nearly two hundred centimeters in his arsenal. Kazuma forces himself not to take a step back.
"You don't seem to fully understand the situation, Asogi-kun," Jigoku says like a rumble of thunder. "This... operation is the only purpose of the study exchange. Without it, there is unlikely to ever be another. However much effort you put into your academic performance doesn't matter. You will go to London this way, or not at all."
The blood drains from Kazuma's face as he struggles to process the implications of this. Suddenly the moment feels almost unreal, even nightmarish, as words fail to emerge from his mouth. Strangely, something in Jigoku's face seems to soften.
"In truth, I mean this as a favor," he says, not ungently. "I wanted to give you this chance; think of it as an opportunity. I know how badly you want to know what happened to your father, Kazuma-kun."
Kazuma's eyes snap to Jigoku's as his breath catches. They've never spoken of the letter since the day Kazuma had barreled into his office at fourteen, precarious and taut as a fraying bowstring. More than that, Jigoku had never acknowledged before that there was any truth to it; now he's as much as saying that Kazuma has been right the entire time.
He turns the idea over and over in his head. Saying yes to this isn't the same as actually killing someone. What matters is he gets to London; whatever repercussions result from backing out of the deal after that, he's willing to weather. He'd always known, deep down, that there is nothing left for him past his mission anyway. And if this is truly his only shot--
"I accept," says his mouth. The rest of his body feels numb with shock.
Immediately Jigoku breaks into a grin, as if the weight of their conversation had never been borne at all. "Excellent!" he booms and claps Kazuma on the shoulder, heedless to the way Kazuma stiffens at the contact. "You've made the right decision, my boy. Congratulations." Kazuma doesn't move as Jigoku returns to his desk; his eyes stay trained on where Jigoku had just stood. His limbs don't feel like his own.
Jigoku is still talking: "I'll inform you of further details as they arise. Until then, you're dismissed." Mechanically, Kazuma bows stiffly and turns on his heel, still feeling very far away from his own body. As he opens the door to Jigoku's office, the man speaks up one last time.
"I'm sure I don't have to remind you that matters of national security require the utmost secrecy." His tone is mild.
Kazuma's throat is dry. "Of course not, Your Excellency."
This time, Jigoku is smiling.
no subject
As he stares into Seishiro Jigoku's face again, a second realization strikes him at last.
"Nine months," he murmurs quietly to himself. Nine months since that final trial and Seishiro's arrest. Has he spared a thought for his former friend, in all that time? For how thoroughly he had betrayed him-- betrayed all of them? Yujin takes a step forward as Seishiro rises and Kazuma, glaring up at the judge with defiant eyes, holds his ground. And, glancing back at Kazuma, he sees-- as he so often does-- Genshin Asogi mirrored in his son, resolute and doggedly following his chosen path to the last.
"I know how badly you want to know what happened to your father, Kazuma-kun," says Seishiro. Yujin stops dead where he stands. He swallows hard. He feels his blood running cold, a shiver running down his spine.
"Kazuma-kun." Yujin wills himself to move: with feet like lead, he nevertheless draws nearer to his ward and the man he'd so unwisely trusted with him. "Can you hear me? You're dreaming."
"I accept," says Kazuma's mouth, and Yujin shakes his head. "No... I never meant for this to happen. I never meant for you to be hurt." His mouth feels parched dry as he speaks. "Kazuma-kun, you must wake up. I can't bear this anymore, I--"
Then, Seishiro touches Kazuma. Revulsion rises in him; fear, despite knowing how this will all end; hatred, twisting itself like a knife plunged deep into his broken heart. Everything-- many belated months of emotion-- rushes to meet him, all at once. Much as Yujin knows this isn't real, it all feels too raw in the moment. He clenches both of his fists hard enough that they shake, and, against all of his better sense, he turns away from Kazuma and stalks up to the desk.
"I trusted you, Seishiro!" Yujin barks; he brings his fist down hard on the desk, enough that his eyes begin to water-- or had they been that way before? "I trusted you with my children!"
But Seishiro Jigoku can't hear or see him. He can only smile after Kazuma as he moves towards the door. Yujin's fists unclench, and his hands splay over the top of the desk; his head bows and his shoulders sag, as if weighed down by his outburst.
no subject
"P-Professor?" His eyes dart between Yujin and the silent Jigoku in dawning horror. How long has Yujin been there? How much did he hear?
Does he know what Kazuma just agreed to do?
Kazuma's mouth hangs open as he searches for an explanation, but nothing comes. There is no good explanation for this, for the horrible bargain he's just made. What must Mikotoba think, after all he's done for Kazuma? For him to throw away all his integrity, everything he's worked so hard for, on a whim?
His eyes drop to the floor, guilt and shame flooding him. Whatever Yujin has to say to him next, he can only weather it as he deserves.
no subject
(Is this really their first time addressing all of this, after nearly a year? How must he have felt, holding all of it in, all this time?)
"Kazuma-kun," he says gently. Step by step, he draws closer; Yujin rests a hand, still smarting from where it'd struck the desk, on Kazuma's shoulder. "You were led to this choice by lies." He pauses. His voice falters, but only just.
"...Including my own."
The admission hurts. It's an acknowledgment of failure-- of all his failures: to protect Kazuma, to be anything like the father he had deserved, to judge the character of the man who had fooled them all. Sadness sinks itself, deep in his chest. "How," he continues, hoarse, "could I blame you, when I was taken in, myself?"
no subject
"I know you were only trying to protect me, sir." As far as Kazuma is concerned, Yujin Mikotoba owed him very little, and had provided far beyond that. The only response he deserves in return is gratitude. He certainly has nothing to apologize for. "I made this choice on my own."
And if this was a conversation that was taking place in reality, Kazuma might have stopped there. But the impossibility of the moment, of this conversation that never could have taken place at the time, the nearly dreamlike circumstances--perhaps pushes him into more honesty than he might have shown in truth. His face crumples, and once again he's unable to meet Yujin's eyes.
"How can you ever look at me the same...?"
no subject
Regardless of whether he would have made the same choice in the end, if he'd known differently. He's hard-headed: an Asogi, through and through. For the sake of justice, he very well might have.
"I see you now," says Yujin, choosing his words more deliberately now, "as I have always seen you." Dream or not, Kazuma needs to hear them in all their certainty.
Kazuma has grown into himself these last few years: a fine student, a promising lawyer, a man any father could be proud of. But he has always been fiercely independent, too. It's never been like him to ask for reassurance, so it has always been on Yujin to intuit when he needs it. Just as he might for Susato.
"Whatever choices you may make..."
It's selfish to call him a son. After all this time, Kazuma has never asked for that. But one thing is still true. At last, Yujin pulls him into a warm embrace.
"You are the boy I raised."
no subject
A rattling breath rips through him, and before he knows what he's doing he's clinging to Yujin with the desperation of a man clawing at a cliffside to escape the undertow, his face buried in the kimono fabric at the crook of Yujin's neck. A soft, wounded keen escapes his throat against his will, flooding him with humiliation, and while he doesn't pull away from Yujin yet--he isn't ready to look him in the eyes--Kazuma draws himself taut with the effort of not letting himself come undone any further.
He stays perfectly still, and breathes, and breathes, and shakes, that pressure spreading from his chest to his temples and locking his throat tight. He feels as if he moves, without Yujin's arms to hold him together, he'll shatter. Around them, Jigoku's office remains unnaturally silent, the man's gaze falling heavy on them both even as he remains eternally frozen behind his desk.
no subject
As Kazuma clings to him, all at once, the grief surfaces in his memory all over again. The letter in the mail with its grim news; Kazuma's empty grave. The cold look in the boy's eyes from far away, the gap between the gallery and the prosecutor's bench almost insurmountable. For months, he thought that Kazuma would never again come home. Now, his boy in his arms again, what else is he to do but to hold him back just as tightly?
Yujin squeezes his eyes shut, willing the crack in his own voice away as much as he can. For better or for worse, that isn't much at all.
"You're safe, Kazuma-kun," he murmurs, rubbing his back reassuringly. "It's all over, now. You're still here."
Slowly melting away like a mirage, the office begins to fade, revealing the old Ximilia around them once more. The last shred to dissipate is the stern expression of Seishiro Jigoku-- watching them, wordlessly, to the last.
"That's all I could ever ask for."