September Mini - Ghost of the Past

[pumpkinhollow]

code

GHOSTS

OF

THE

PAST

The Visitor's Center

Just where the sands of Tawny Beach begin to fade into soil, grass, and cobbled roads, there is a new building. Much like the House of Cards, it seems to have appeared from nowhere overnight. A large and round structure of tastefully stacked stone, it seems to fit perfectly in between the town and the marina, with an exterior door facing each side and at both entrances. It reads, "VISITOR'S CENTER," in bold letters.

In mailboxes throughout town, there are flyers, advertising "offworlder visitation" running from September 6th to 19th. "Make appointment today!" it advertises cheerfully.

Regardless of which side you enter, the same receptionist sits at the desk on either side--- a pretty-faced young man with braided black hair, wearing dozens of pieces of delicate golden jewelry. He is working hard on some sort of paperwork or taking some phone call when you come in, but he quickly sets it aside to welcome you. "Hello! Welcome to the visitor's center! Would you like to make an appointment?"

Your host artfully dances around questions regarding the place, its abrupt construction, its purpose, and what your appointment actually entails, assuring you it's "self-explanatory." He'll gladly inform you that "people you know" are here for a visit, but won't say who or why or for how long. But you'll sign up for your appointment anyway, for one reason or another. Perhaps you don't even really know.

At the time of your appointment, you are sat down in a tasteful meeting space of your choosing (the options are listed below) and your guest is brought in. But it is not who you expect. In fact, in all likelihood, you do not know this person at all. But don't worry, they've been briefed, and they'll pass the information along to you if asked.

You see, you are not here to meet someone from your own past, at least not at first---- you're here to meet someone close to one of your friends or neighbors. And they're here to speak about that person to you.

Take as long as you need. The Visitor's Center does not close.

How It Works

Visitors.
Each offworlder on the island can have up to 2 "ghosts of their past." This is not meant to be literal, as these so-called ghosts will generally be no more dead than any other offworlder. Your ghost can be anyone who "haunts" you in some way, which can mean whatever makes sense to you. It does not necessarily need to be someone with a negative opinion of you--- it can be someone who loves you very much! This person can be from any point in your timeline, including after the incident that brought you to Pumpkin Hollow. It can also be a past version of yourself. Regardless, your own visitor is not actually the person you are here to meet. Your visitor will be meeting with one of your friends or loved ones from the island, and you will be meeting with someone else's "ghost."

When speaking to a "ghost", you will notice a few things about them. The first is that they do have a sense of where they are and what they're doing---- they know that they're here temporarily, and that they've been asked to speak about or on behalf of someone they know. They're aware of who the person is that they've come to speak about as well, and they seem to have all of their memories intact aside from being a little fuzzy on the actual process of getting here. The second is that in most cases, they seem to have regular needs like any living person. The upper floors of the visitor's center have hostel-like sleeping areas, bathrooms, a cafe, everything a person might need. The third is that they seem to be weirdly forthcoming when asked questions. Perhaps you're not familiar enough with the individual to notice such things at first, but it becomes evident that they're pretty open about the person they're there to speak about even when they don't seem to want to be.

Want to speak to your own visitor? That can be arranged--- but your ghost must speak to someone else first. But not to worry, there's plenty of time. (Despite the IC dates, OOCly this can be backtagged as long as desired!)

Locations.
There are plenty of places to meet with visitors within the Visitor's Center. If you'd prefer a more public meeting space, some lounge areas have been set up on the beach, or the cafe or recreation area within the center are all available. The beach meeting spaces consist of clusters of folding beach chairs or picnic blankets, and while swimming season is largely over, the view from the beach continues to be stunning this month. The cafe is a quaint bistro on the rooftop of the center with a round serving station in the middle and outdoor tables around the outer walls, which feels both spacious and intimate at the same time somehow. And the recreation room is an interior space on the second floor full of spaces for communal games, some of which are too modern to be there. (Not electronics, but definitely Cards Against Humanity.)

If you'd prefer a more private space, there are a number of tasteful meeting rooms, including those with tables as if for a more formal meeting or those with couches or chairs. One of the latter sort even has a fireplace!

However, visitors are not able to go further afield than the beach. If they attempt to go into town, their feet will plant themselves firmly to the ground outside. They will not be able to be pushed or lifted to get around this, and anyone who attempts to force it will be summarily accosted by the staff and their appointment will end immediately. They may not be eligible for another.

Rules.
As far as OOC rules go, there are a few perks and limitations worth knowing. Any "ghosts" that you write are eligible for AC bonuses for the characters they are attached to. If you are writing a ghost for another player's character, you may decide where the AC bonus goes, but please make a note on your activity check indicating what you're doing. You may write your ghost from your existing journal (with or without a unique icon for that ghost, just as long as you make it clear), or create an independent journal for the character. As mentioned before, you can absolutely play a ghost for someone else. If you would like to have a non-member friend drop by to play your ghost, you may absolutely do so if you clear it with a mod, preferably by having said friend send the mod journal a PM. Be aware that if you recruit an outside player to write a ghost for you, you are responsible for their behavior, and any AC-length threads on their end will not be eligible for transfer because that will just kill Drake probably.

Characters appearing from Ghosts of the Past can also appear in the Villain's Lounge or be apped in later as permanent characters (but not both, as the two are mutually exclusive) and will have some unique lore from entering the game this way!

Ghosts are not capable of lying and will generally feel more compelled to be forthcoming when speaking to anyone OTHER than the person they're here to represent. However, they cannot be forced to meet with anyone they do not want to see or to answer questions they adamantly do not wish to answer. The compulsions are relatively subtle. They also do not have to volunteer information they weren't asked for if they don't want to. None of these compulsions are present if they speak to the person they are there to see. Their memories are generally accurate to whatever point you bring them from, meaning that they can be whatever you want.

If you're visiting with your own ghost, please be aware that threads between two characters played by the same person are never eligible for AC and this is still the case in this instance.

Staff.
Last but not least, there's a chance that you may encounter the staff of the Visitor's Center around. There are two men and two women--- Daanon, Caspian, Reyelle, and Nephera, respectively. Those here in February may recognize them from Merrymeet. They look fairly normal, generally appearing as humans (or an elf, in Nephera's case), but in reality they are the members of the Court of Betrayal. Whenever they speak about their "Manager," they are referring to Eligos. However, this is not immediately obvious, especially to those not familiar with these particular demons. If you know, you know! [ I will be keeping my demon thread load super light, so please feel free to handwave interactions with them as you see fit! If you want a demon thread, please reach out to me for plotting. -Rose ]

CODE BY MARWOOD

Comments

Vickie Reeds | Ghost of Father Mulcahy

[arrayerofrazors]

Didn't you have an appointment? Wander the Visitor's Center as you will, and Vickie Reeds doesn't quite show herself. She has a room, and the door is not locked; she isn't there. Peel through the rec room and find a distinct absence of a tall lass with squirming shadows for hair; go looking through the kitchens to hear the deafening silence where heavy boots ought to be hitting the tile floor. The beach? No joy. Private rooms, the study?

It's only when you're about to give up and leave when one of the staff members, on their way out the door - surely on some errand or another - presses a filthy mass of razors that used to be fingers against your back, even as their flesh melts away to reveal the Vickie you've been looking for.

Her voice is rough, and low: "You have forty-five seconds to convince me that you're not here to fuck the Father over."

[graveling]

"Asexual, I don't even fuck my own boyfriend over." Angel is wise enough not to move, beyond holding both hands up, empty. "Think he'd be upset to know you killed me for not knowing how to be convincing, though."

[arrayerofrazors]

"You do have me at a bit of an impasse. I've killed corpses before but not quickly. Y'all take some fucking killing before you die." There's a low sound, somewhere between a sigh and a growl. "How do you know him? Talk fast, dead man."

[graveling]

"Priest at the local temple. He has a confessional booth in the building. Local cats have taken to haunting the space. I haven't chased them out, they're good for him."

Which has meant keeping a polite distance, given how animals tend to react to him.

"Also, dead, yes. Man...nnnnyegh?"

[arrayerofrazors]

"...There's cats here." Her voice is so distant; there's a pain there, a longing, where something she has needed and long been denied belongs.

The razors retract; briefly, they clash together with a wet, metallic sound, and then the sound stops.

"My bad, genuinely, on the man thing. Y'like a good beachside shamble?"

[abhorrently]

It's later in the month, after appointments and the chaos and what's coming, and Fever's on the beach. Staring at the building, having crept over, contemplating it. The mystery intrigues, but also sinks her thoughts into the pit of her stomach. Unlike her counterpart who remains proud and alone, this Fever retains her circlet, dresses like the others, carries herself more approachably. More familiar.

Gods, she needs to make up her damned mind about this, and so she turns to go. Maybe not today.

[arrayerofrazors]

One of the staff members, on their way to deliver a cocktail in the direction of a visitor currently relaxing on the beach, instead rather suddenly - and yet gently, so gently - presses the drink into Fever's hands, holding them while looking her deep in the eyes.

Her features melt away, and in their place is someone far more familiar.

"I'm moving down in the world," 'Nyx' murmurs. "Imprisoned in a fucking hotel instead of my own church."

[abhorrently]

"Nyx."

The word is murmured out, but there's a clear and immediate relief in Fever's eyes to gaze upon her. Should she call her Vickie, now that she knows? It all depends on her.

"I thought I'd never see you again. Forget the how or why - you're here."

[incomingchoppers]

Radar yelps like a frightened chihuahua and freezes in place as soon as he feels something jab at his back. For one of the rare times in his life, he actually tries to make himself smaller: shoulders hunched, head ducked, his whole face squinched up as he trembles a little.

And that's even before the woman speaks.

"...Father Mulcahy?" He'd sound way more indignant if he weren't scared out of his mind. "I'm not! I'd never! He's my friend, we're in the same unit, the-the-the 4077th, I'm Corporal Radar O'Reilly ma'am please don't kill me -- "

[arrayerofrazors]

It doesn't seem like bullshit, and Vickie's usually pretty good at detecting bullshit. Still, those claws scrape together, tearing small holes in Radar's shirt. "Radar. I've heard the name, but you'll excuse me a moment while I ask a key question: who wears the best dresses around the 4077th? Who's really killing it in those dresses, boy?"

[incomingchoppers]

There's no hesitation: "Klinger!" he blurts. "Um, uh, Corporal Maxwell Klinger, he's trying to get out on a Section 8 so that's all he ever wears!"

CW: mild PTSD flashback, referenced child abuse

[theydrewfirstblood]

John goes stone still when he feels the press of a blade, heart jumping into his throat.

--blade sliding against his chest, throat raw from screaming--the slice of glass against his shoulderblade as he gets thrown against the china cabinet--

John clears his throat out of the remembered compulsion, keeping his breath shallow so he doesn't risk another cut, another scar.

"No one in their right mind would ever wanna hurt that man. I died once, hoping to give him a chance to avoid the same fate." John replies honestly. "And I'd rather die than hurt him, so..."

He raises his hands, showing them empty.

"...if you're gonna kill me, I'd rather get it in the face, so may I turn around?"

[arrayerofrazors]

"Yeah that sounds like a great way for me to get knocked the fuck out, hot stuff. You just don't make any sudden moves and everything will be just fine." There is a faint sound of tearing cloth when those razor fingers move subtly. "Who's the Father to you?"

CW: PTSD flashback, depictions of torture

[theydrewfirstblood]

John's eyes shut at the sound of tearing cloth, but he doesn't move. He barely breathes...

...he can't breathe.

--sharp Vietnamese, he can normally understand it but it's disappearing in the haze of hot blood and the sting of knives--

He can't move. His throat is closed tight--

--the garotte of rope making air hard won, open cuts burning--

--he can't get a word out past the knot--

the crack of whips, the sound of his own heartbeat running into the words to blur them into meaningless noise--

--she wants answers, they want answers, and he can't talk, won't talk, won't tell them anything--

She's a visitor. He can ask her about the Father. She wants to know how he knows Mulcahy--fuck, he can't talk, why can't he talk?...

Her only response is the increasingly ragged, strained breathing of the man in distress, and a body that's gone still as death save for the fact that his raised hands are trembling.

[fuelmayor]

She has every right to be suspicious. The Fuelweaver's return from the absolute annihilation of the Village a full season after the scant handful of survivors were sent back to that wretched ship would have sounded too good to be true to him, too, and she knows more than anyone else about its methods of impersonating residents to sow distrust in one's neighbors and one's senses alike. He stands still as the sharp edges of her finger-blades slide through the swirling outer layers of his aura and find the semisolid surface between his fossilized ribs. She has to know that he's letting her do it, since his response to sneak attacks on the Serena Eterna was to deflect the first blow with a sudden hardening of that aura and bash the assailant with his skull.

"He is a friend for whom I care deeply, as you should already know." His voice certainly sounds like it always did, deep with something uncanny lurking in it. "I understand why you would fear an impostor, or that the will that brought me here was not my own. I will do whatever is within my power to prove otherwise."

[arrayerofrazors]

"It does put us on a bit of a fuckin' spot, big guy. The best proof would get you thrown out of here and that does rather defeat the god damn point." She sighs. Clicks her tongue.

"...My number. What is it?"

Is. It's a fun tense to put on that sentence. She's still thinking of herself as Number Forty-Four.

[fuelmayor]

His shoulder blades tense, inching up toward that loosely attached skull of his. He doesn't want to answer the question the way she's posed it, because he doesn't want to affirm that anything the Village imposed matters here. Four months later and it still feels like an act of rebellion to address unfamiliar townspeople by their names, not the number on their badge. A fulfillment of the promise he made to himself that he wouldn't have to do that again. However, if he refuses to say it at all, he's breaking the promise he made just now, and the only other person on this island besides Father Mulcahy himself who knows what it was like to spend years in the Village won't believe his presence is legitimate.

"You were assigned the number 44." She can't make him go along with that present tense.

He turns his head, enough that the rosy light in one eyesocket can make eye contact with her. "If you address me as Number 119 I certainly will do something to get myself thrown out of here."

[upshore]

When he feels the razors against his back, even through his jacket, Miles freezes. For a second, he's back in Mount Massive, Trager preparing to torture and vivisect him. But no. The Variants wouldn't ask questions like this. They wouldn't ask questions at all. Even Rick Trager, may he rest in eternal piss, would be babbling something about market trends or economics or something at him instead of trying to interrogate him.

The Father. That may have his back up even more than the knives ready to tear through his body. He can smell the stink of burning flesh and hair, Father Martin's piercing screams echoing in his ears--

"The only Father I'm interested in fucking over crucified himself and went up in flames, so it's a little late for me to do that," Miles says, unable to keep the sarcasm from coming out. "I tend to leave people alone if they haven't fucked with me first, and no other priest is matching that description. Certainly not any priest I've met here."

Sheesh, he's glad he hadn't brought Terry. Things could have gotten very bad very quickly if the Ralts had been here.

His skin's prickling, and he can taste something bitter in the back of his mouth. The Walrider in him is aching to be let free, to attack, to destroy the fool who thought they could corner him...! He's anthropomorphizing, he knows. The nanites are about as sapient as a paramecium. But it's easier, somehow, to think of it as a separate entity, because letting it sink in that they are one and the same is still too much for him to bear.

[arrayerofrazors]

"Don't get froggy," that low, bitter voice warns. "Getting froggy really ain't gonna help. I've got diseases on these fingers there's no names for and they're all worse than dying, so you stay nice and still and don't do anything that might cause you to wish you'd died instead."

...

"You made the appointment, right? That's how this is supposed to work. Father Mulcahy. Older guy. Glasses. Surprisingly scathing diss tracks? Let me know when this starts ringing a fuckin' bell."

[upshore]

"Yeah, I know him, a little. Helped me fight off some kind of space monster once. Throws a mean right hook. Never heard him lay down a diss track, but I never head up round the temple. He could be spitting like Wu-Tang out there and I wouldn't know. Actually, I'd respect him for that. Doesn't seem like the type."

Miles snorts. "You done? Have I passed the interrogation or am I about to get Super Tetanus?"

[batteryacid]

And that'll be an elbow thrown backward, aimed at your face. Eddie only started learning fighting techniques here on the island, but.... lucky you, Vickie! You've stumbled on exactly the way to throw Eddie into a PTSD flashback.

Whatever he seemed like before as he was wandering the Visitor's Center in his search, now he's just terrified prey trying to get out of a predator's grasp. Can't really do much convincing, regardless of time limit, when your brain isn't in a talking mode.

[[ OOC: I just couldn't resist, as some of the descriptions hit similarly to stuff the fuckin' clown did in Derry. :) But it doesn't have to last very long -- I can have Eddie snap out of it if that's better for the thread's direction. (Poor Eddie over here like, 'I just wanted to find out about the guy, he seemed nice!') ]]

letter.

[abhorrently]

A letter comes to the Visitor's Center. It's surprisingly thick, and opening it reveals handwritten pages, a somewhat neat scrawl. At parts, words are scratched out, but mostly for spelling errors that are then corrected.

Nyx,

Before you throw this letter out - consign it to fire, rip it to shreds with your many razors, or however you decide to treat it - I ask that you read it in full. I can't threaten you and say I'll know, so I'll have to trust your heart in this.

I want to tell you a story, of people facing unbelievable odds and being never quite safe, and still they press onwards. I want to tell you the story I took part in, the story I'm giving up if this place doesn't shove me back to my own world. Not my home. I don't have one of those. Supposedly there's the option to build one, but really, that requires thinking about the future for long enough that I start needing to do something else instead.

We never know how much time we have. So I'm making good on the time we do possess, and telling you what I would have told you, if there was far more of it. Maybe it's selfish, yet it might help you pass the time a little.

What follows is an account of her adventuring, with far more personal notes attached. Breaking out of the pod, all bleeding and full of pain, nothing in her head but a name and a drive to kill - Lae'zel and the mind flayer parasites, and a crude sketch in the margins of what one looks like. Shadowheart on the beach, Astarion with a knife to her neck - he's remarked upon as an asshole, but Fever's dear friend all the same. Wyll, Karlach, rescuing Halsin. The strange fugue that took over and had her cut a man's hand off for no reason than it was there. The fugue she began to poison her mind for, to invite so much chaos in that it would struggle to breathe properly.

It doesn't work like that, her notes say. That didn't stop me from trying every godsdamned thing under the sun to see if it wouldn't make it go away.

Trying to save others, even though they were running out of time. The grove, the destruction of the opposing forces. Pushing onward, onward. The Underdark, the creche, the shadow curse. Dame Aylin, and her regal voice - the Nightsong is no more - and how much they could not stop. Ketheric Thorm, and the sheer scope of what they faced. And his fall, and how little that stopped anything at all. To the city, they had to go. Poised on the precipice of what would come next, knowing they needed to end this.

...And that's when the ship comes into the picture. I've had flashes, glimpses of the future, some scattered understandings of what is to come. They're on the right path. But like I said, I'm not good with the future to start with, and I'm not terribly inclined to go back just because I don't know what else to do with myself. What distant shore does that put me on? We'll have to see when the barrier shatters.

Maybe there's something for people like us, who know knives better than a soft touch. Maybe that's just cowardice of a different color, not choosing. Someone told me they've never met anyone else so avoidant of the long term.

I'm beginning to see the sunrise again, so I know I've written through the night. I barely sleep as it is, so I'll probably go up on the roof and watch it. It's nice having the weather change on us, the sunrise different every single time.

If I never see you again, I want you to know I trust you with this. I would have trusted you to kill me, should I when I inevitably need to be killed. Wherever you go, if prayer has any sway, I pray it's somewhere kinder. Somewhere you can rest. Somewhere that others caring for you doesn't feel like a problem. Somewhere that you can come to grips with the fact that you will be remembered, and remembered well.

Be well, my friend, as much as you can be. If you change your mind about things, I'll even track down Christopher again.

-Fever

[lovethyneighb_or]

A familiar shape of black and white has come to the Visitor's Center.

In truth, he doesn't look that different from when she last saw him in the Village. Still pale, still gaunt. The long nightmare can't be banished that easily. He's still a ghost, the sad and unrecognizable remains of a man who used to exist, haunting the people who knew him, haunting himself with the memory.

But he moves differently. It's not a lightness that colors him. It's not even a freedom. It is, however, alive. It's the feeling of both feet on the ground.

He wanders the Visitor's Center with an orange cat in one arm, a wicker basket with a blanket covering its contents in the other, and Peter jangling alongside, asking around for Vickie: "Pardon me!" "Excuse me!" "Have you seen a grumpy woman here with shadowy hair?" "Perhaps one who's been threatening people with razors?" "No, she wouldn't have given you a name..."

[arrayerofrazors]

Vickie slips out of a meeting room while the Father is wandering, appearing before him at the end of a hall with her hands in her pockets with a deep sigh. She is, as ever always, tired. In her body. In her heart. In her bones. Tired, and worn, and done, and...

"You're amongst monsters, Father," she murmurs. "This is not a safe place for you - dear God, is that the same cat?"

[lovethyneighb_or]

"You!" he calls as soon as he sees her, hurrying over.

"Have you met Christopher already?" He looks down at Christopher Mango, who is staring at Vickie with a pair of very, very round eyes. "What have you been up to?"

The cat responds by wriggling until Mulcahy drops him and then meowing very insistently at Vickie.

Mucahy chuckles, then looks back up at her. "Arrayer, if you mean to warn me away from danger, I'm afraid you're a decade too late. How..." A beat of silence. More thickly: "How did you get here? I... how?"