ph_logs | September Mini - Ghost of the Past

September Mini - Ghost of the Past

GHOSTS

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

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A long, silent moment.

The razors retract, clashing with wet metallic sounds against one another, and the strange woman claps Radar on the shoulder. "Correct answer," she says at last. "Let's go upstairs, you can order me a damn drink for this. Probably one for yourself, I hear some psycho bitch is running around this place with knives for fingers."

Radar squeaks out a hysterical giggle, so brief it almost sounds like another yelp. He cranes one arm behind himself to try and pat the spot where the razors were, and... yup, he's gonna have to sew those holes up later, huh. After his hands stop shaking.

"Yes ma'am," he says, because honestly, is he going to say no to somebody with knives for fingers? "Uh... what's your name?"

That question freezes her in place. She's fighting to say something; her mouth keeps opening and closing, an expression of extreme rage on her face, a world-killing hate that makes the squirming shadows of her hair writhe and cascade to the floor like worms.

"Vickie," she growls, like stones falling on stones, "Vickie Reeds. Oh I fucking hate this truth compulsion, if I get the chance I'm gonna fucking gut whoever did that shit. C'mon."

She stomps off towards the cafe, muttering and swearing in a mix of English and Russian.

Jeez, for such a simple question, he didn't expect a reaction like that. Radar gulps, watching her go. Maybe he should just let her? She seems awful angry. What kind of a person like that would be friends with the Father?

Well, a whole lot of people are friends with Father Mulcahy. He's easy to be friends with. That's why he's a Father, right? And...

...and then there's that ship.

His stomach sinks. A place like that would turn anybody angry, he figures. You'd be lucky if you didn't lose to that war in the end.

So he follows Vickie -- at a little bit of a distance -- to the cafe. Once they're there, he orders a seltzer and grape juice for himself, "and whatever she wants," he finishes, pointing toward her.

'Whatever she wants' outta Vickie's mouth ends up being 'whiskey, the kind you strip paint and dissolve bones with'. She sits in all technical senses of the word, with her chair leaned back on two legs and a heavy boot planted against the edge of the table. She's produced a knife from Somewhere, a gravity knife she idly dances around her hand without seeming to pay the least bit of attention to it. Though the blade flicks in and out of the tiny little weapon, the gesture seems...

...More for her than for Radar. Indeed, she's almost visibly calming down, albeit not quickly.

"You're here to ask, I'm here to answer. The Father was good to me when that was a pretty fuckin' rare thing to find; I owe him more than just this, but this is what I can give. So. What'cha got?"

Radar eyes the knife with some misgiving, but as far as he can hear, she's not gonna plunge it into his chest anytime soon. So... that's good!

Not that it helps him relax too much, but it's still good. He takes a sip of his drink to steady himself a little more before he asks:

"Did you meet him on the ship?"

"Yeah." It's blunt, but not hostile. "One of the only miserable bastards there who didn't raise a hand to people. Never gave up, never gave in, though it kicked his ass ever-so-fucking mightily. Place was a god damn bloodbath, every fuckin' day, run by some miserable vermin with too much power. Fuckin' Serena Eterna..." She sighs.

"...He helped me out a lot. With some things. Shitty little ex-Baptist that I am and all."

"Oh, yeah, he's always been real good at that." Radar finally smiles a little. "He don't care if you're not Catholic, he'll still help you out no matter what."

The smile doesn't last, though. How can it, with the rest of what Vickie says? By now Radar knows the shape of the Serena Eterna -- the way everybody always died and came back, like here, but how it wasn't monsters or demons that killed them. It was each other.

He wraps both palms around his glass, even though the condensation gathering on the outside gets his hands all wet. "I'm glad he didn't kill anyone," he says quietly. "Even though everybody else was. He doesn't talk about it too much, but I know about some of it on account of a whole lot of other people from the ship showing up here. And I don't blame him not wanting to say anything since it was so awful." He gnaws his lip. "What'd he help you with?"

That flash of rage again. There is a long, long string of Russian, and it ain't exactly a sonnet, and - "You have got to watch those personal questions you noodle-ass mother fucker -"

And yet, and yet...

"...Maybe you've noticed I'm a miserable piece of shit that hates everyone, yeah? Best he could, the Father kept me from becoming something worse. Answered some questions about my personal romantic affairs, best he could. But, y'know, it's the fucking Serena Eterna, it's not exactly a wellness retreat. Honestly if I didn't have him in the Village -"

You could drop a pin in her sudden silence. She slips the motion of the knife, and cuts her hand; it oozes blood, quite a lot of it if we're being honest, and she doesn't even seem to notice. A red stain spreads down her arm.

"Hey!" squawks Radar at the insult. He shut up pretty fast once she keeps talking, but his scowl lingers a bit longer.

Right up until she says the word Village, in fact.

There's a burst of static in his ears. Not the same rage as before, though that's part of it, one miniscule sliver in an enormous tangle that mostly just registers as too much. Radar's head twitches, like he's trying to shake it off, and then --

"Oh jeez -- "

His MASH training snaps into place so fast that he's out of his seat before he even realizes. Dashing over to the bar, he demands a towel from the closest staff person -- and considering what a squirrely kid he's been through their whole conversation, it's kind of startling how much authority he packs into his voice right then. He gets a bar towel within seconds and sprints back to Vickie with the cloth flapping in his fist like a tiny dark flag.

"Here." Just as automatically, he starts to move for her injured hand, ready to wrap it in the towel and apply pressure.

She hisses at first, like a cat, a reflexive snap at the threat of being touched, but Vickie's eyes go to the bloody knife splayed on the table, and a new emotion enters the mix: guilt. This is a doctor. A healer. And she's...

...

Meekly, she offers her hand out to Radar, not making eye contact. Like if she doesn't have to see what happens, it'll be okay.

"It's okay," he says, as soft and soothing as if he were talking to one of his animals. As he wraps her hand: "Um, I'm not actually a doctor, I'm the company clerk. But we all got training for the easy stuff, so it's no problem. Maybe you oughta see one of the doctors if it doesn't stop bleeding soon though. Just kinda keep your other hand pressed on it like..."

He takes her other hand, lays it atop the bundle where Vickie needs to press down. The silence rises around them again.

...

Meeker, "Are you gonna get mad at me again if I ask what the Village is?"

"I'll be fine. This is temporary. It could get infected, it could get cut off, it doesn't matter. Some asshole will call me back, again, and I'll be whole. Like always."

There's a bitterness there, and it runs deep and wide. She's tired, Radar. She's so tired. Her body is young, her mind too, and yet...

...

Vickie slowly removes the towel, and her hand shifts, becoming an metallic, skeletal mass; the skin and muscle melts away, and beneath is something filthy and sharp, with razor-blade fingers that drip in the rainbow sheen of infection and pestilence. This she digs into the table, jamming the blades so that they are not easily removed. It is not a fast motion, or a harsh one, just a steady grind of wedging metal into wood until it is stuck.

"There. No blood. For now." She's still not looking directly at Radar. Her good hand drums against the table. Picks up her whiskey. Puts the whiskey back down.

"...There's something you need to understand before you ask about the village, noodle. I'm real good at lying by telling the truth. The Father didn't raise his hands to people. He did raise his hands to one person, ever. Guy by the name of Powell. Killed him, even, not that it stuck." She touches her whiskey.

Pulls her hand away.

"...It never stuck."

Oh, jeez, that's what was about to shred his back apart?! Radar makes a tiny hiccuping noise and touches the rips in his shirt again. If he wakes up tomorrow and needs to dig up some penicillin from the tiny stash the doctors've got, boy.

Then she starts talking.

...

It's funny, thinks Radar dimly, how much he cared about those razors a couple seconds ago. One moment he's standing, and then he's sitting in his chair without much of an idea how he got there. Staring, uncomprehending, at Vickie's face, searching it like he didn't hear her right.

The problem is: Radar always hears everything right.

So small it's barely audible, he says, "Father Mulcahy killed someone?"

"Exactly one person, exactly one time," Vickie confirms, not looking at Radar, staring off towards the beach. "You ask me, Powell had it coming in that situation. Hell, he had it coming in general. He was...this serial killer, this piece of shit who hated women and wrapped it up in Scripture, like Jesus wanted him to punish anything with tits on it. The Father was so fucking patient with him. Tried so hard to get him to rethink his life, his morals. Didn't stick. Powell was never interested in changing."

...

Her eyes, just her eyes, flick to Radar's face. "Powell attacked the Father, yeah? Hauled him through the corridors, shouting, screaming about how he's a false priest and a Sodomite, all this bullshit. Even laid hands on the Father, tried to choke him out. I didn't get there in time. Nobody quite got there in time. The Father killed Powell, and Powell never made that mistake a second time. But the thing is, that ain't how our friend sees it. He figures himself for a fucking murderer, and I never did manage to get him to let it go."

He already knew if the Father was ever gonna haul off and hit someone, they'd really, really have to deserve it. And this Powell guy, well, he sounds like about the worst kind of guy you can know. Plus if he's the one who attacked the Father first, that's -- that's self-defense, right? That's just you trying to keep somebody from killing you, isn't it? He had a good reason. He had to.

...is there ever a good reason?

Isn't that how wars get started in the first place, everybody saying, well, you had a good reason to kill that person so it doesn't really count?

(Father Mulcahy's the nicest, gentlest, kindest person Radar ever met. The Father killed someone.)

Radar can't say anything. He's clamped a hand over his mouth, eyes too bright under the lights of the cafe as he keeps staring at Vickie.

"...Tch. You don't understand either, do you?" Vickie looks away again, almost dismissively. "He's still the gentle man you knew, noodle. And he needs someone who isn't me to tell him that, because me? I'm scum. I know it. I'm really fuckin' aware. I don't have the standing to tell anyone they're a good person. But you oughta know better."

I don't know if he is, though, he wants to cry.

Father Mulcahy's already like a lot of other people on the island: he doesn't care if he dies anymore. When he caught the Blight, he acted like he was just going up to the orphanage for the day and he'd be back tomorrow no problem. Does that mean he doesn't care if other people die, too? Radar's seen what happens when people lose against the war, and maybe the Father's lost so badly that --

He can't fathom it. He doesn't want to.

But the same part of him that snapped to attention when Vickie cut herself hears everything else she says, too. The job he needs to do; the disdain because she believes he can't do it. This would just be like telling a couple little white lies to get some paperwork moving, right? It'd be easy to put all his fears and doubts aside, like he does most days at the 4077th, and do what needs doing so the Father can do his own work better.

If only he hadn't promised Father Mulcahy he'd never lie to him again.

He never made that kind of promise to Vickie, though. So he curls his hand, moves it from his mouth to press his knuckles against his sternum, steadying. "Okay," he says -- and if it's still shaky and too quiet for his own good, well, it's better than nothing. He nods. "Okay."

His throat bobs, and he asks again, knowing she'll have to answer. "What happened in the Village?"

"...What didn't." Her face is pained, a tangle of guilt, rage, sorrow, even fear; her razor fingers, buried in the wood, flex. The sound is almost like the table screaming. Almost. "One of the pricks on our voyage sold us out. Called himself Number Two, this limey fuck from like the fucking sixties who took up a career as a supervillain instead of confronting his homosexuality, which, I wanna be clear here, that second bit? Not the insulting part. His cripplingly unrequited love for a guy that hates him? Very insulting."

Her free hand cards through her hair, or, well, 'cards'. The squirming shadows swallow her entire hand, and it comes out the other side dripping something almost like maggots.

Almost.

"He sells us out to get the Village, his own little pocket realm where he gets to be in charge, to try and build his 'utopia'. No one in the Village has names, only numbers. No one in the Village has money. You're watched, all the time. Spied on. Gaslit. Betrayed. Denied home, peace, family, love, honor, individuality, and if you want any of those you get put through every shade of hell he can conjure up. Drugs. Torture. Drugs with torture. Illusions of escape. Attacks on your home. Beatings, sometimes."

"I broke. The Father...cracked. Do you get the difference?"

Radar hugs his elbows and makes himself listen. Really listen, to every horror whispering under those already awful words. There is nothing to compare it to, like he does so often when he's trying to wrap his head around something. No story muttered by the patients in post-op, no injury among the wounded arriving at the 4077th. For all that he's a soldier, Radar's lived a pretty simple life, and none of his losses or despairs could ever come close to what Vickie describes. So why try at all?

Just listen. Breathe. (Try not to be sick.)

"Yeah." Barely audible. "I think so."

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September Mini - Ghost of the Past

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