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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
it's too late to rearrange it into neutrality. she gnaws at the corner of her mouth, half-unconvinced. ]
You don't know all of me yet.
[ not well enough to make such grand claims. it's only a matter of time before he stumbles across a skeleton in her closet, among all the baggage she's packed away inside, that's too terrible to accept. still, it's a feeble argument, pockmarked by meekness, as though fearing that drawing his attention to that fact will convince him to revoke the sentiment already. that's her curse, perhaps; skeptical as she is, she desperately wants for his words to remain true. ]
no subject
[There's acceptance in that, too, really. A respect for her need for privacy, wherever that need happens to come from. He knows there are things she hasn't wanted to talk about, pieces of her life she feels safer keeping tucked away. He doesn't begrudge her that, even if he does have a cat's insatiable curiosity.]
You can show me when you're ready, if you want to.
no subject
that lonely child, with her penchant for drowning in fantastical stories and imagined daydreams, wishes for it all the same, with the same naive hope one instills in shooting stars and passing comets in the night. she peels back to look at him, by only inches, eyes darting between his own as if seeking. questioning. ]
Does it not bother you?
[ how she seals her secrets in a vault. what might be lingering behind that door. it would bother her — because she knows what lurks in the depths of what's unspoken and unseen. if kirigan had looked her in the eye and spun silken lie after lie —
how can chishiya possibly trust she isn't hiding some grievous, awful sin? he hardly looks anything short of calm, patient with understanding. alina expects it to flicker and dissipate as all mirages do, the longer she tries to parse it. ]
no subject
[He'd be lying if he said he wasn't, and she knows him well enough now to know he's prone to curiosity.]
But that doesn't entitle me to anything.
[Maybe it's Borderland he has to thank for how easy it is to accept that he can't always have every answer he wants. Some things aren't meant to be known. Or at least, aren't meant to be known by him. And maybe it's not necessary to know every secret a person holds to appreciate them. ]
Some things are difficult to talk about. It's all right.
[He has trouble believing any secret she's keeping is being kept maliciously or that she's done anything worse than he's done himself.]
no subject
perhaps it should be an insult that he perceives her as so non-threatening to him. but mostly — it's a relief not to be handled by entitled hands. the same ravkan hands that know she belongs more to the soil of her nation than to herself. the same sticky, greedy hands that had leafed through the private sanctity of her thoughts, ruined the sanctuary her journals had become, until that safe haven had felt too invaded.
she loosens a breath, silently pouring out of her. ]
I could be some sinister criminal mastermind for all you know.
[ the joke falls flat on its face, its spirit half-deflated. because it's too close to the truth to make light of it; because beneath it all lies a warning, if not her subconscious, insistent need to test how easily he might be driven off. the waters of alina starkov are murkier than he might think, and he's only just begun to wade through. ]
no subject
What he doubts is the "sinister" angle. He’d met his share of sinister types in Borderland. She didn’t act like any of them.]
A sinister criminal mastermind wouldn’t care about a stranger dying in a sudden down pour. Especially one who had insulted her. If you’re a criminal I’d guess you were more of a Robin Hood type. You have your reasons.
no subject
They do if they're clever about it. Maybe I wanted you to see me as your savior.
[ none of his criminals have had the patience to enact a long con the way kirigan had, apparently. she expels a sigh, heavy and resigned between her ribs, as she draws back by mere centimeters. it's stupid, really, that they're debating it just to debate — but his obstinance will supply her with fresh grays in her hair, for how utterly vexing he's choosing to be.
she twists onto her back, a flopping shift of weight. her tongue is looser, she finds, when she doesn't have to examine how her words are received. out of nervous habit, her hands clasp loosely across her stomach, toying with one another. ]
What if I told you that you weren't entirely wrong about me, the first time we met? That some of what you guessed was true.
no subject
Not that it had been worth it in the end.
But instead of arguing the point, he focuses on what she says after, about being right about her at first. He raises an eyebrow.]
Which part?
[Because really, she never convinced him she wasn't bossy.]
no subject
When you accused me of having someone toy with my head.
[ there's a brittle quality to that confirmation that pulls her vocal cords tight, tense, stiff with unease beside him. a clear indication of the cost it requires of her to acknowledge it, let alone speak of it, as though it might invite the memory into the room with them.
he'd aimed too well, locked onto that target, and fired at an open wound. the only inaccuracy had been the assumption it had been in the past, and not kirigan's determination to crawl inside of her like an irremovable parasite once more, desperate to find an entry point.
her stare doesn't shift from drilling into the ceiling. it's not an excuse, now — merely an explanation presented for her own failure to part with her secrets so eagerly. ]
I don't know how you knew, but you did.
no subject
I didn't know anything for certain.
[He suspected, but it hadn't been his place to poke at that potential wound. He's not sure if she wants an explanation or not, though he could try to explain the concept of Heart themed games in Borderland, the way they tore people up emotionally with games of trust and betrayal. That he's seen how that effects people. But he thinks that might be beside the point. This isn't about him or his experiences. It's about her.]
So, when you talk about someone acting the part of a savior...you're saying you experienced something like that yourself?
[She was conned, in other words. Though, he has to admit, while he can see how this is relevant to what she was saying about clever criminals, he's not sure why she thinks it might change his opinion of her. She's not the criminal in the situation.]
no subject
It's more complicated than that.
[ relating kirigan to a savior fills her throat with fresh bile, a nauseated churn she can scarcely swallow down. he'd prefer to think so. would paint himself the saint, if ravka allowed him to don that mantle, to parade his martyrdom as a legend.
the only myth he's left behind is one of fear. of loathing. but for a time, she had been fooled into believing in the narrative he'd been so desperate to spin. frown lines deepen the corners of her mouth, something shamed and ripe with loathing in the dip of her eyes. they rest upon her fingers, unwilling to meet his eyes.
a naive girl can be excused for falling into a trap. a woman who had known what he was, and allowed herself to be snared over and over again before breaking free, deserves far less pity. ]
He's the reason I'm —
[ no. she severs the sentence before it finds a conclusion, teeth digging into the tip of her tongue. he deserves no credit for who she's become, now. ]
He taught me the value of keeping my secrets close. It's taken time to unlearn that not everyone has an agenda or use in mind for me.
[ she pauses only haltingly, plucking at the sleeves of his hoodie. ]
I'm not haughty, [ she finally continues, a little more harshly than she'd intended. ] I'm just ... careful. I don't ever want to be that blind, pathetic girl again.
no subject
It makes sense.
[That enduring a betrayal and emotional abuse would leave her cautious and defensive. He never actually blamed her for any of the attitude she had shown him when they met. His assessment had never been meant to be a criticism, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to apologize at the time. It was easier for him to accept her dislike and get ahead of it by proving just how insufferable could be, because that's how he always dealt with things like that.]
You're entitled to your secrets. I don't blame you for being careful.
[He's literally the last person who can criticize someone for their caution. He's cautious himself. Or has been in the past, before his apathy wore that down too.
He studies her quietly, the lines of stress between her brows and at the corners of her mouth. He follows her gaze to her fingers, and brushes her hand with his own.]
You're not blind or pathetic, though.
[And none of this has changed his opinion of her. As he suspected, she has reasons for being cagey. He can't blame her for that.]
no subject
[ in that, she won't relent. not even as her fingers relinquish their grip on fabric to loosely tie themselves around his, instead.
there's nothing in chishiya's actions to implicate him. nothing in his words that would suggest anything but authenticity. but there had been no prominent sign in kirigan's, either — no glaringly bright warning, like blood in snow, to inform her of a monster in her company.
she rolls over, fussily, back onto her side to truly look at him for a long, scrutinizing moment. he's no monster. but when all that he's offering her — acceptance, want, understanding — has been laced with poison once before, it makes her hesitant to take another bite. maybe she'll learn to brave the fear, in time — but that time isn't today.
a heavy breath billows out of her. unloading it hasn't made her feel any lighter, but she supposes she's grateful that it's been aired, despite the exhausting toll it has taken. wrenching a piece of herself free for someone else to inspect is not without its costs.
quietly, she perches her cheek onto his arm, her voice little more than a melancholic mumble. ] Can we rest now?
no subject
As someone who has played people before, as someone who has lied and manipulated, he knows exactly where the blame belongs and it's not on her.
He doesn't argue the point, though. He hadn't meant for this to be an argument or even a discussion. He'd only wanted to offer some reassurance, which it seems, she's not ready to accept. Having learned from past mistakes, he knows he needs to let it go rather than try to prove his point, and he finds that he's okay with that.
He leans in to press a kiss to her forehead.]
We can.
no subject
Thank you.
[ it's a quiet mumble, murmured into his neck as she curls there. for not forcing it further, for not prying open a door she isn't yet prepared to open. for the patience that listening requires, and the understanding that's necessary for waiting for her.
it means something monumental. perhaps more than a single sentiment could ever offer her. ]