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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: ♪ ♪ ♪
no subject
At the fork in the path, again, Yujin hesitates. He's a careful man, and he has always been one to weigh his choices before making them. Or, perhaps, he's willing himself not to turn around a second time.]
Where I belong? [he murmurs, half to himself, half to the unseen voice that urges him onward. Out of this maze? To safety? Or elsewhere? He presses his lips together in a tight line, assessing his way forward. And once more, he moves away from the familiar figure, pressing left and towards the sound of bells.]
no subject
When trying to find a gap in the wall to peer through, Yujin will notice that the warm deep pink of the path has now taken on a distinctive red. At some indefinable moment, torii gates had replaced the featureless cubes. Each one was mere inches from the other, guiding him smoothly from one plane of existence to the spirit realm. Or, so the traditions said.
Directly ahead of him, a sun dappled shrine could be seen. Despite the striking red paint that appeared to be brand new, nature had clearly begun to reclaim the worship site. Vines grew lush over its walls and statues, obscuring the intricacies of its previously ornate design. The offertory box was the most overgrown, surrounded by strange red blooms. ]
You can still turn back. [ The whispered voice repeats, just behind him. ] But once you pass through the last gate, I can't help you anymore.
no subject
The man lifts his head. Yujin gazes up at those towering crimson gates, then towards the distant shrine, wreathed by red spider lilies.
Death, he thinks. The tension in his body, present since the beginning of this maze, slackens slightly: his arms hang limp at his sides, the wind whispering through the loose-fitting fabric.
For the first time in many weeks, he speaks in his mother tongue without hesitation.]
And if I accept your help, [Yujin asks, his eyes still fixed on the path ahead,] what then?
[He doesn't wait for the answer before he steps forward, proceeding to the shrine.]
no subject
[ No longer shrouded by a whisper, the character of the voice stands out with more clarity. It's a commanding thing, with a booming quality even without raising his voice. The kind of voice that might belong to a a very old friend, or a much newer enemy.
When Yujin proceeds through the last gate, the voice is clipped off with little more than the hiss of a mamushi carried away in the late summer wind. If Yujin turns back now, he'll see the gates lead down a mountain path, disappearing into a copse of trees. The way he'd come, and whoever the voice belonged to, were apparently gone.
Three items within the shrine shine with significance in Yujin's memory as a heaviness appears in his tanned palm. Upon looking down at his hand, he'll find his fingers free of the wear and tear of age, grasping a large bronze coin polished to a high shine. The reflection of his own face in it is scarcely older than eighteen, young eyes reflecting those of his father back at him. Upon further inspection, he'll find the coin is unlike any legal tender he's ever handled before. Engraved in its bronze surface is the face of a young woman, looking serenely to her left as Queen Victoria's portrait did on the shillings Yujin handled in England.
The offertory box still lay ahead of him, wreathed in spider lilies. Several yards from the shrine, a small fountain sat anachronistically in the overgrown clearing. After a moment, Yujin may recognize it as a shrunken replica of one found in Trafalgar Square. Floating on the surface of its murky water were dozens of blooming lilies.
Both places call to the coin in Yujin's palm. But then again, so too does the fold of his obi.
Where will Yujin place the coin? ]
no subject
Urged onward, and now completely unwilling to turn back, he misses the mountain path that slides away into the dense thicket of Japanese yew. His attention falls instead to his appearance. There are no wrinkles on the back of his hand as he holds the unusual coin between his suddenly-younger thumb and forefinger, turning it about, examining it from every angle. His reflection, cast in bronze, is smooth, his upper lip bare; the sight of it is surreal, sending a chill down his spine.
The fountain draws his eyes. His expression softens-- he's passed it time and time again, on foot and in galloping carriages in pursuit of a case, a clue, a culprit; how could he not recognize it? Yet again, he is tempted. But this coin is the only clue he has to his current location, and he cannot do away with it so quickly. Although his eyes follow the lilies drifting lazily across the fountain's surface, reluctantly, he tucks the coin into his obi.]
Where are you taking me? [he asks in Japanese, the sound of his young voice unsettling to his ears.]
no subject
When he remains stubbornly steadfast, a new disembodied voice clears his throat. This one, Yujin has definitely never heard before. ]
Uh, look, man. I was hoping you'd find your way out on your own if I held the door open long enough. [ Y'know, like a moth that gets inside the house. ] So, I don't wanna be a jerk, but you've got some way cray beeswax going on in your head and it's kinda messing up my plan to un-murder myself.
no subject
Until someone addresses him, of course.]
Ah!
[He starts, then looks about, searching for the source of the voice. Nope... Nobody. Just him and the birds.]
I-isn't this your head? And what do you mean, "un-murder"?
no subject
It's a lot of things, okay?
no subject
[Yujin exhales a long-suffering sigh. But, all right: it is somewhat personal, he agrees. He'd rather not be exploring the memory-dream-answering machine of whoever this is, anyway; it's been an entirely bewildering experience that he's more than eager to bring to a conclusion.
His upper lip also feels weirdly cold. :(]
Would you at least tell me who you are? I don't recognize your voice. Whose memory-- or dream-- is this?
no subject
Hey, I'd say it explains plenty. Would you rather I tell you a lie just because it's easier to understand? Or, ah... maybe that's the wrong word. Easier to accept?
[ For a long moment, Yujin is once more alone with the birds and the wind and the beauty. ]
I mean, look at this place. Fancy shrines, a nice water feature over there, loads of highly symbolic flowers. It's not like you're just one thing either, right?
no subject
Without regard for the pause in conversation, Yujin falls into a pensive silence. The words feel as keenly focused on him as the rest of this odd journey has been; he rolls them around in his head, contemplating their meaning. All at once, despite his apparent youth within this dream, he feels the stifling-but-familiar weight of his forty-three years settling over him in its entirety. The joy, the hurt; the many men he has been across the space of four decades.
If he is fortunate, perhaps he'll be a better one in this new, fifth decade.
The quiet holds. Withdrawing the coin from his obi once more, he runs his thumb over its milled edges, then takes a seat on the edge of the fountain, body turned to allow him to watch the lilies floating along below.]
No. [He stares down into the young woman's face, as if willing her to speak some sort of easy answer. Of course, nothing comes.] I suppose I am not.
[Yujin looks up.]
How might I help you live again?
[He doesn't question the voice's motives. They've come to him more directly this time, and, oddly, something about them feels almost like a friend.]
no subject
That's sweet of you. Really. [ The voice if kind, if halting. As if he knows he's about to disappoint. ] But you can't change what's already happened. That's just not your job here, man.
[ Before Yujin's feet, the grass in front of him starts to turn brown and die. Below it, the cubes from before can be seen beneath it. ]
You see that? All of this is as real as it needs to be. Including me, I guess. Time is a lot less of a straight line than you singulars seem to think it is. I mean, look at you.
[ If Yujin does look at his hand now, he'll find it somehow looks both young and old at once. Past and present, layered over each other like contrasting patterns on two sheets of cellophane. ]
Maybe instead of asking how you can help me, you should ask me why you're here.
no subject
[The grass withers and loses its color; the cubes shift. Yujin raises the hand that does not hold the coin and flexes his fingers, vainly trying to make sense of this double vision of old and young.]
どうしてですか...？
Why...?
[Yujin asks, the voice in his throat speaking in two octaves and two languages at once--]
ごめんなさい。
I'm sorry.
[He shakes his head, shuts his eyes tight, and focuses. But even when he opens his eyes and tries again, he's still not entirely sure what language he's using.]
Well, I'd deduce this place is trying to tell me something about myself.
no subject
[ Yujin isn't the only one coming apart. The voice, so out of place before in the maze of nostalgia and metaphor, was suddenly starting to tug at the corners of Yujin's mind. Both were there at once somehow, clouding his ability to place it. ]
You're still not asking me, man.
.uɐɯ ,ǝɯ ᵷuᴉʞsɐ ʇou ʅʅᴉʇs ǝɹ'no⅄
no subject
Oh. I didn't think that was a literal request. Please, let me try again.
[Do they-- he?-- sound familiar? It's impossible to tell, not when holding onto his awareness here is hard enough. The coin, between his fingers, now serves as a tether to some semblance of reality.
It doesn't work. His head spins as he rises again, dizzy and out of his own body.]
Why am I here?
no subject
When the voice suddenly does speak, it's not with words. It's with a laugh. ]
Ha! How should I know, man?
¿uɐɯ 'ʍouʞ I plnoɥs ʍoH ¡ɐH
[ There was something in the immediate teasing reversal that spikes whatever familiarity Yujin noticed before, pinging a distinct sense of deja vu. ] Maybe you should focus a little less on solving all this and a little more on just... walking, for a while. You'll find The Way.
[ The way. Not your way. A trail through the woods opens up at the base of the hill. Will Yujin take it? ]
no subject
[The sweet, fragrant air, the white-noise hush of the wind through the trees. Cradled within its reassurance, Yujin nonetheless feels stifled: a child swaddled in too many warm, soft blankets, comfortable and safe but with his hands tied. At least it seems to have brought him back to himself, banishing that odd dissociative feeling even if he's still seeing double.
He knows it before the voice speaks. He can't stay here. He has to move.]
All right. [Whether it's the familiarity, the conversation, or his instincts, Yujin trusts the voice this time. And this time, he speaks in Japanese, and Japanese alone. Tucking the coin back into his obi, he turns his eyes toward the trail as it reveals itself to him.] Thank you for speaking to me, my friend.
[Grass crunches underfoot as he walks onward.]
no subject
There was something about whatever memory that powered this place that was stronger than a single memory alone. There were two minds at work here, painting in broad strokes of rich color.
All around him, the cherry blossom trunks became more slender. Greener. Their shady bows flattened and extended outward until Yujin could see little more than bright sunshine through the canopy of... of clovers.
From the strange texture of too-large soil under his feet to the smell of now-vanished plants in his nostrils, there was no mistaking it. Yujin was back on Ciraiwei, to a place he'd seen with only one other person. ]
You getting it now? [ The friendly stranger's voice chuckled from nowhere and everywhere. ] Wɐʎqǝ ʎon sɥonlp ʇɹʎ ƃǝʇʇᴉuƃ ɐ qǝʇʇǝɹ ʌᴉǝʍ˙
no subject
The trees grow thinner. The sights, the sounds, the aromas of microscopic flora and fauna that don't exist anymore... Yujin's eyes widen as the realization sets in, and he walks faster now, at last breaking into a run as he makes for a little clearing he'd only visited once months before.
The man stops to catch his breath atop a small hill. The truth's as clear to him now as the bright blue of this dead world's sky: it's enough that he cannot help but to smile.]
Jake! This is your memory!
[calls Yujin, breathlessly. Sunshine streams through the green canopy of clover above, dappling him in warm brushstrokes of light. From his vantage point, he should be able to see the spot where they'd stopped. But where on Earth is the dog himself?]
no subject
He was here to find Prismo. Except, he already had found Prismo, he had become Prismo. The dueling perspectives of a Jake that used to be and a Jake that was left him feeling strange in his own skin. As if one wrong step might scatter his earthly body into a million particles of life and leave him scattered across thousands of worlds.
Which like, would be pretty awesome? But not what he was here to do.
But what was he here to do? It was questions like this that defined most of his time here. Tedious did not even begin to describe it.
Which makes it all the more noticeable when his ear lifts at a distant cry. ]
Uh, hello? [ There it came again. His name, shouted, full of bright relief that warming the edges of age around the familiar voice. ] Wait up, who--
[ Another noise. Jake was listening more carefully now, following the instinctual quirk of his ear towards its direction: down. going down on all fours, Jake paws at the hard cube, frustration building inside him. ]
Yujin! [ He shouts, the name coming immediately. He shouldn't know it, and yet he does. The man's face was an inky black spot in his scattered memory, but Jake knew the character of him without that. He knew that he was steadfast and stuffy and sweet and the best straight man a dog could ask for. Yujin was a new but dear friend.
And he was in the freaking floor, apparently. Jake struck at it again with his paw to no avail, hackles rising in frustration. ] Buddy, where the heck are you? How'd you get in there!?
no subject
There you-- are?
[and then, in the next, realizes its source is nowhere to be seen. At the top of that familiar hill, surrounded by that verdant hill of soft clover, he is alone and yet not alone. His shoulders slump, confusion etching itself upon his features.
Then Jake speaks again. This time, Yujin's listening carefully; somehow, Jake's voice is coming from beneath his feet.]
What...
[He drops down to his knees, too, searching around, brushing away dirt and grasses with his hands. It feels very silly, but hasn't this entire experience followed its own logic? Maybe there'll be a trap door, or Jake will be buried under here-- the dog himself, where a dog might have buried a bone. But try as he might, the dirt on his knees, under his nails, there's no sign of his own steadfast friend anywhere.]
I should be asking you the same question!
no subject
[ The more Yujin runs his hand over the earth, the stranger it will start to feel. The too-large clumps of soil, trademark of the Ciraiwei landscape, seemed to break apart too easily. It is as if the earth in this particular spot was loosened from recent effort; a freshly tilled plot that showed no sign of it from the greenery that grew deep above it. ]
no subject
[Movable as the soil is, however, he's still digging with his bare hands. He only manages a few inches down before he pauses to brush the dirt off on his pants. He has to rethink his strategy or he'll never get all the way down to Jake.
...Hold on. His pants?
Yujin's brows raise as he glances down at his outfit. A dress shirt; his tie, pulled slightly loose; his blazer off but folded neatly beside him as if he'd done it himself. Just as he'd been dressed on Ciraiwei, and he hadn't even felt the shift.
Compelled, suddenly, he snatches up his blazer, searching through its pockets. There was something else with him. If everything else is intact, it must still be in his possession... Right? Was he supposed to hold onto that for a reason?
Sure enough, his fingers brush something flat and round in his blazer's breast pocket: the coin he'd tucked safely into his obi is still here. He reaches his hand in for it with no further hesitation.]
no subject
Then again, expectations were cheap here.
What Yujin pulls from the pocket defies the laws of physics, bearing an incongruous heft the instant he pulls it out into the sun dappled field. shining metal was replaced with rich burgundy wood, hitting Yujin with yet another memory that made him feel both young and old at once.
A violin. Herlock's violin. ]
no subject
There's no mistaking it. This is Herlock Sholmes' Stradivarius.
The sight stops him short. He's speechless, adjusting his grasp to cradle the violin almost reverently. In his hands, the violin's strings hum faintly, just barely disturbed by the breeze and the motion of the whole instrument being lifted.
It's been about half a year now since Mikotoba arrived on the Ximilia: longer, if one counts the three extra months on Ndeira. Half a year and a day or two, since he and Sholmes parted again by the docks, stealing a last few minutes of conversation before sailing back to Japan. Maybe, they'd said, in a year or two, Sholmes and Iris could visit-- and in the meantime, that regular correspondence between them would, as it had this last decade and change, continue, the connection between the two partners unbroken over miles and oceans and country lines.
Half a year. Nearly a full one. Meanwhile, Sholmes waits in London, frozen in time. But to Mikotoba, his greatest friend is always a little frozen in time, no matter how many years pass or how the two of them both grow into lives together-but-apart. Forever in 1885, forever young with him, chasing adventure after adventure and coming home, as always, to the hearth of 221B Baker Street.
He's a patient man. He's one of love, and of loyalty. Subsisting for a decade on letters and sparse telegrams, never hearing the man's voice, was doable, so long as he could read his words and hear them in his head clearly as if they'd been spoken. This half a year-- nearly a full one-- is the longest Mikotoba has gone without them. Across the better part of twenty years, he and Herlock Sholmes have shared their lives. They are partners. They will never not be, so long as they both walk the earth, and well after one or both are gone.
Grief twists like a knife in his chest. His words still fail him, but he knows, the pain blooming vividly in his heart, that he misses him. Mikotoba-- 27 and 33 and 43 in a single instant-- squeezes his eyes shut and clutches the violin to his body, grateful to have seen it for a moment. Grateful, even, for the pain, because it reminds him so keenly of the love on the other side of the coin.]
This is a dream. [he whispers, taking a shaky breath.] This isn't really here.
[Yujin opens his eyes, bringing his voice back up to its normal volume.]
But you are, Jake. [His fingers grip the violin harder. There is a solution here, and it isn't one he likes.] Do I...
[Hoarsely:] Do I need to break you out?
every icon i pick from here on out is what jake is doing in the hole
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i cant believe i actually get to use this icon. 1/2
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