logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: THE NIGHT WE MET

EVENT LOG: THE NIGHT WE MET

characters: everyone.
location: the path from downtown beacon to the harbor; all over town.
date/time: february 16-21.
content: the forest spirits send off their friends to join the aurora. memory opals drop from the eerie green lights above.
warnings: n/a.

i had all and then most of you, some and now none of you.

For most of the day on February 16, all of the town's forest spirits can be found along the stretch of road between downtown and the harbor, clearly setting up for, uh, something. They're piling snow onto the pathway, creating a miles long sled trail that starts outside the Landmark Inn and ends at the very end of the harbor's dock. Not only that, but the forest spirits are also not super willing to explain what they're up to! They're busy, you lantern-havers.

By the time evening rolls around, the spirits have set up wooden railings alongside the snowy path, as well as a warming tent, hot chocolate booth, and announcer stand outside of the Landmark. Oh, and a starting banner for the race! It's dogsled time!

Throughout the event, Beacon's downtown and harbor areas will be completely overrun with forest spirits, all there to bear witness to this holiday celebration—this holiday is for them, though, not you weirdos with your naked faces. Point is, none of the spirits will be hostile at this time! They're more interested in interacting with each other than with Beacon's residents, though if pressed, a kind spirit might be willing to explain what's going on:

The aurora arrives in Beacon for about a week each year, and the forest spirits believe it to be "friends in the sky". The lights are old friends of theirs, it seems! And each night while the aurora shines above the town, the forest spirits send off a handful of friends to join the aurora! The spirits ready to join the aurora build sleds of their own and assemble mighty sled teams, sometimes comprised of dog spirits and sometimes... other stuff. Then, when the aurora is at its peak in the wee hours of the night, the sled teams will ride off one by one, racing down the snow-covered path all the way down to the harbor, where they'll finally rocket off the dock and out over the lake, picking up more and more speed as each team gallops wildly over the water before arcing up into the sky. Once the spirits are barely a speck, they'll hit the aurora and burst into a shower of light. Beautiful stuff!

See, since the aurora is made of light, forest spirits launched into it are killed on impact! Isn't that wonderful! The forest spirits seem to think so! What is death to a dead thing!

All of this information can be learned through handwaved/played-led interactions with the forest spirits during the event. They'll all be focused on saying goodbye to their friends and cheering them on as they stream through the sky, but they're happy to welcome lantern-havers to join in the celebrations. The hot chocolate is free and only tastes a little bit like mud, so. Enjoy!

•••
For the entire duration of the event, the aurora will dance in beautiful silence overhead, lighting up the whole town with its eerie green glow. Every so often, handfuls of opals will rain down like meteorites from the lights above, and these opals each contain the memory of someone currently in Beacon! They can be found all over town, landing on paths and atop buildings and maybe even rocketing straight through your ceiling to crash into your living room. Perhaps a forest spirit decided to hide some shiny rocks in your cereal box or under your pillow... Better hope the Postmaster General doesn't find your opals before you do, though. That spirits sure does love their rocks. Point is, who knows where the opals might turn up?

On that note, if you signed up for a random event, we'll be RNGing characters to receive these random events throughout the event! The event may happen in response to a toplevel on this event log, or we might turn up in your IC inbox... 👀 These events will be entirely random, meaning we could dole out any number of them at any time, so it'll be a fun surprise for all of us.

If you missed signups and would still like to toss your name in the ring, go right ahead! Signups will remain open throughout the event, though we can't promise everyone who signs up will get something.

And finally... Each day, we'll post a list of the forest spirits joining the aurora! What, did you want to know in advance? The forest spirits have never been a particularly organized bunch, so they're winging this—which means more surprises for you. :)

Enjoy the races and the lights and the opals, residents of Beacon, and remember: WHAT IS DEATH TO A DEAD THING!

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Each day, we'll post a new toplevel here with a list of spirits departing to join the aurora! We won't be threading out interactions, but if you'd like to have your character say goodbye/offer a gift/etc. to any of the racers, you're welcome to post it under the toplevel!

THE SPIRITS RACING ON SUNDAY ARE...

The Squealing Pumpkin
The Stompy Hood
The Face Lifter (cw faces/skin getting ripped off)
The Mushheads

Rosinante already has a habit of picking up interesting stones. They're something he's always kind of liked - little bits of the land where it touches the sea, holding the washed up pieces of other people's lives. Beachcombing is more than a way to kill time, it's meditation. It's something he doesn't take for granted the way most do in his world, for he wasn't born by the sea and had to come down a great distance to experience it and the unity it brings.

The opal isn't by the water, but it still draws his eye, and he finds it remarkable how a stone can look so much like water. He bends down to collect it, and is plunged into a memory belonging to someone else. When it has played out, he realizes he's no longer standing, but flopped backward into the snow, and the cold helps bring him back to his senses.

This is familiar, isn't it? Last had been those graves. Now he has little crystalline windows into the lives of the people here and it isn't an opportunity he's going to waste.

While he'll be just about anywhere keeping an eye out for opals and collecting them, he's also certainly going to stop and admire the aurora from the harbor, and in the pale cold lighting he'll be easy to find there.

Alternatively, he might come up to you and say "Hey. I'm sure you've seen those strange new stones by now. Did you find any of mine?" He'll be fairly direct about it, because he would sure like to have them back.

((Feel free to pick up more than one of his own memories if you like! There are many copies of the three not specially marked. If you want to write your character reacting to one but don't necessarily want a full blown thread afterward, feel free to just respond to one of the memory posts with a reaction.

Also note that Rosinante will be actively looking for and collecting opals but may not necessarily be giving them back or even saying anything to your character if he saw a memory of theirs. If this is a problem, please let me know! I'm happy to hash things out in pm, on plurk at

tinylongwing, or at my ooc plotting comment.))

1. Oh my stubborn son I know you said you need no one,

"Rosinante?"

His name drifts on the wind across the property on the east side of Marineford Island to where it reaches him, still just a boy but quickly growing. He's as spindly as the goat was when she was young, all legs and skinned knees , though without a taste for most of what she chews on. He breaks off from chasing her across the yard, for she's stolen a towel off the laundry line but every time he tries to catch up to her he ends up tripping over his own feet and tumbling face-first into the grass. It's not a bad thing to have an excuse to stop trying.

His new white shirt is already green with grass stains as he runs instead into the house, beaming. Just earlier that day, under his old man's proud gaze and that of a dozen other parents, he had sworn his oath to uphold justice and joined the Marines. Finally! Sengoku had other work to attend to afterward, of course, but now he's finally returned home and Rosinante throws himself into Sengoku's arms as he crouches and gives him a squeeze.

"Congratulations, son," Sengoku says warmly. "And happy birthday, too! I brought you something."

"Really?" Rosinante responds excitedly as he pulls back, and ends up just dumping backward right onto the floor. But he's quickly back on his feet as Sengoku hands him a long, flat rectangular box wrapped in blue paper with a white ribbon, which makes him smile. How fitting for the occasion. It's heavier than it looks, and he carries it to the table and has a seat to unwrap it while Sengoku gives him something of an exasperated smile, shaking his head a little as mud and a few bright spots of blood from a cut on Rosinante's shin ends up tracked through the room.

But Rosinante is focused on the box and its contents and doesn't notice Sengoku briefly vanish. He pulls off the ribbon, tears through the paper, then turns in surprise when a bandage is stuck onto his leg. "You're all right, go ahead," Sengoku says, now behind and at his shoulder, and so Rosinante opens the lid to find a pistol. Immediately, he's in love. It's not as fancy as some, not as big, but it's his and he gasps as he runs a hand over warm wood and cool metal.

He doesn't get gifts every birthday. Sengoku raises him well but he's busy. He forgets sometimes. He's glad he was remembered this year, and so spectacularly. He's rendered speechless for a moment - though this time because he's so happy he doesn't know what to say. A pistol! A real one, not a toy -

"Here, careful," Sengoku says with a chuckle as he reaches out to help contain his excited wave of the gun in his hand. "It's not loaded, but you should always treat it like it is. Come on, let's go outside."

It's already dark, of course - his old man always has to work late. There won't be any shooting practice tonight, but he's given a few tips on how to handle and aim and clean it. They wind up seated in the grass with the goat sprawled across Rosinante's lap by the time they're finished. "Can we shoot it tomorrow, though?" Rosinante exclaims. "When it's light?"

"If there's time after your classes and afternoon chores," Sengoku agrees. "I'll teach you. But there's a lot more to being a Marine than shooting a gun. You'll have to pay close attention to your instructors. You have to learn how to sail, and how to be part of a team. How to stay calm in a tense situation, and how to stay safe."

For a moment he looks up at Sengoku, unsure why he's being told this. The latter two things are things he learned a long time ago. But it clicks, after a moment of searching the older man's eyes. There are ways to do that that aren't running and hiding, holing up quietly. As a Marine he has to help keep other people alive, too, not just himself. So he nods, thinking he understands.

"Yeah, I know," he says seriously, with all the wisdom a thirteen year old can muster. "I'm ready."

"Good," Sengoku replies, suddenly sounding somehow older. He must be tired. Rosinante knows that being an Admiral can't be an easy job. Sometimes he's jealous of the other kids, whose parents get whole days off to spend with them sometimes. Who have siblings and friends and whole families. But he knows why he can't have any of that, why his life can't ever be normal, so he just nods in response and stands up. "Bedtime for you, then," Sengoku says as he stands as well. "You've got a big day tomorrow."

Edited 2020-02-17 01:13 (UTC)

2. Brothers in conflict, or, I have to lose my idols to find my voice

It's a cold North Blue morning, the sort of thing that immediately takes Rosinante back to memories from childhood. How appropriate, given what he's here for.

It hadn't taken long to be found. He had been dropped off on one of the islands the Donquixote Pirates frequently stopped by to restock on their way back to Spider Miles, and word that a tall blonde who looked something like Doflamingo himself had spread quickly. Hell, there had even been some bandit who thought to try and hold him for ransom but Rosinante had driven him off with a broken nose. Better than he would have gotten if he'd stuck to that foolish plan.

Now, nearly twelve hours and as many cigarettes later, he's welcomed onto the garish pink monstrosity Doflamingo has taken as his flagship with an arm around his shoulders, a celebratory glass of wine shoved into his hands, and so many questions from people he's studied from notes but never met in person. He answers none of them and lets Doflamingo sweep him away to his personal quarters, where he's sat down into a plush velvet chair so that his brother can perch across from him in a similar seat, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Rosinante meets that studying stare through rose lenses with a blank look of his own.

"Rosi..."

He had expected an interrogation, but as he waits, he realizes none is coming. There's a crack in his brother's voice simply at having said that childhood pet name, and he can't help the slight widening of his own eyes on hearing it.

"Where have you been?"

It's a plea, not a demand. Doflamingo had worried about him. He doesn't know how to react, and after a moment where neither say anything at all, he ducks his head and stares blankly toward the ground instead. He hears the rustle of fabric, feels Doflamingo reach out, leaning closer, to settle a hand on his shoulder rather than to jerk his chin to face him. The monster is tender. Loving.

This is why he had taken this risk. For all that he's been told that Doflamingo is a living nightmare; that he relishes in violence and bloodshed and manipulation, he's still his brother. After fourteen years' absence, that hasn't changed. Nobody else would be able to pull this off, for nobody else would ever be trusted enough. The Marines need to understand his movements, learn his plans, have access to his secrets. And Doflamingo, they say, always takes care of his own, and has always been looking for his lost younger sibling. The only way to succeed is to use that against him.

Rosinante squints back tears that aren't an act at all, and proceeds with the plan as he works his jaw, trying to form words but apparently unable to give them voice. His brother's confusion is tangible, but soon a pen is produced, then paper, and both are shoved at him as the wineglass is instead carelessly knocked aside for someone else to deal with later. He and his writing are abruptly the center of Doflamingo's attention and his breath is shaky as he writes out the tale he and Sengoku crafted, of drifting through cities and seas, abduction and hard labor, of escape and freedom.

Doflamingo buys every word and promises his life will be better; that he will be given everything he never had to make up for what they lost in childhood. Promises of riches, of a place at his right hand. Hook, line, and sinker.

Maybe, he hopes, the rest of the job will be easy.

3. All that I love has turned to fuel for the fire.

There's a crash, a shattering, as medical supplies, glass dishes and metal instruments, all hit the floor at once. A second after, Rosinante hurls the entire wheeled metal table in the same direction, blocking the two doctors from leaving the examination room. One is screaming for security, the other is clutching his bleeding nose, face swelling and turning purple around the site of the injury which matches the sting in Rosinante's fist.

These two, like others, will pay.

His rage is blinding. Law has already bolted; he's seen this enough and knows how to escape. Rosinante isn't worried about him in that sense. He's worried, instead, about him hearing all of the hateful things the doctors said - here, too after so many others. Is there not a single hospital in the entire goddamed North Blue that has a shred of compassion for a dying boy? They cry about extermination and white monsters and can't see past their own fear and hate long enough to even consider helping and the last of his faith in medicine may just have finally eroded. What good is a nurse who won't examine a patient? A doctor who won't even discuss options for alleviating pain?

Footsteps down the hall mean this hospital was ready. They had heard the other reports and had armed police in town on call just in case. No time to go searching through hospital records for anything that might help, no point interrogating other doctors. Rosinante powers down the long hallway and rounds the corner, making sure no militia is going to sink lead into him today.

Nothing here is worth saving. None of these people are living up to the oaths they swore. If they want a hospital, they'll have to build a new one, and if some of them get caught in the blast or the collapse, oh well. An entire country of innocent people was wiped off the map due to fear and hatred and judgment so why not add a few of those assholes to the piles of bodies this world is responsible for?

Never mind hospitals. If this town wants doctors, they'd better get new ones of those, too.

He came prepared this time. The grenades are clipped to his belt and had been hidden under his coat. He goes silent just to make it harder for the town's little army to follow what's happening as one by one he tosses the three explosives into alternating rooms in the center of the administrative wing.

Not the patients. Never the patients. He's not that blind.

He has about ten seconds. Out a window, down an entire floor with a leap to a balcony, then down another until he's at the ground and though he can't hear the grenades go off, he doesn't miss when a piece of masonry goes hurtling through the sky.

There's a flicker of white. Rosinante spots the boy and his fuzzy hat crouched behind a fountain in the hospital yard and scoops him up into his arms as he drops the silencing effect and gives it to Law instead so he can cry without being heard. Poor kid.

"Some day we'll find a cure. I promise."

4. Marsh mummies belong together.

A hoarse, chest-racking cough interrupts Rosinante from studying charts of the local corner of the sea. Nehalenja Island isn't far away and they might find a real town to restock at on the way to intercept the fruit -

But he'll look at the route later as instead he fixes his gaze on Law in alarm. But the boy looks all right, other than the usual signs of his affliction. He's reading, as usual. Must have caught movement out of the corner of his eye, though, because he looks up from the pages and gives Rosinante a level stare that's not quite a glare. "Don't, Cora-san."

"Don't what?" Rosinante asks, a slow grin spreading across his face. Law is so serious! And takes his studies so seriously, too. It's endearing, but sometimes he worries Law doesn't have enough joy in his life. If there isn't much of it left - which he's damned well going to try and change, but if - then he wants this month to be filled with as much happiness as he can give.

Law is having none of it. He shakes his head and returns to his book, so Rosinante stands and covers the distance between them in one single long step. With surprising graceful fluidity, he swoops down and captures the kid in his arms, and laughs at his half-hearted attempts to swat him in the face with the book. "Come on, Law, let's do something together! We can't leave until the tide goes slack anyway. Six hours still!"

"But I just got to the part about how this tapeworm got all the way-"

"Heyyy, I don't want to hear about it, kiddo," Rosinante interrupts as he takes the book from Law and sets it carefully down with the boy's things, making sure to slip a leaf between the pages for a bookmark. He hoists Law up onto his shoulders, who assists by climbing up and making himself comfortable. It's gotten harder for him to walk long distances, but he's still plenty alert otherwise, and leans his chest forward against the back of Rosinante's head while Rosinante meanwhile decides where they ought to go.

Scavenging for eggs, it turns out, because it's fun and they could boil some to bring along for the next leg of the voyage. The weight on his shoulders is now comfortable and familiar, and he wraps his wrists around the boy's ankles as they head down the slope toward the marsh he had spotted earlier when looking for a place to tie up the lifeboat. There's nobody here but them, and he crouches down so Law can hop off. "See those reeds?" he says, pointing while still staying low. "Hedge grebes nest in those. I'll chase them off if you get the eggs, okay?"

"Don't fall in," Law comments, which Rosinante takes as agreement. The birds have enormous, dagger-sharp bills which he doesn't want anywhere near Law - it would be too easy for them to take out an eye, or do even worse, but with his size he's pretty immune. Law, meanwhile, can safely get out to their floating nests without worrying about drowning. And Rosinante is an expert at scaring stupid birds.

He bends down to pick up a stick, then runs full tilt toward the reeds, shouting and hollering and whacking the tall grasses with the stick. As Law gives in and practically cackles with laughter behind him, he even does a little pirouette, spinning through the mud with arms wide. The marsh erupts into a cacopheny of croaks and screeches as sharp-billed waterbirds beat their wings against grass and water and take to the sky for fear of being eaten by the wild monster that has just crashed through their nesting grounds.

Law is much quieter, and quickly darts in to where he saw one take off from so he can gather spotted eggs in his spotted hat while Rosinante trips over a stick and winds up covered in mud. But he's laughing too, now, and as Law comes over he sits up and opens up the bag around his shoulders so they can pile up an armful of the free food.

"You look like a bog body," Law says, laughing as he sets the last few down.

"A bog what?"

"You know, people who died thousands of years ago and turned into mummies in the mud?"

Rosinante does not know, but naturally the right thing to do is scoop up a handful of mud and sling it at Law. "You're a bog body!"

He hits, and Law scrapes mud off his face with his fingers and sleeve, then sticks out his tongue. "And you're a thousand years old, idiot."

"Am not," Rosinante says, grinning, then collects some of the reeds and smashed twigs and sticks them over his ears, creating makeshift antlers for himself. "But I bet if we want fresh water tonight before we leave we can go steal some from the well in town and create some new monster myths while we're at it!"

"Ew. No, you better wash all that mud off before you get in the boat," Law replies. "I don't want to smell swamp muck for the next three days."

"But they could come up with a new cool name for us! We could be, uh... the swamp sloths! Or..."

He considers this deeply, but Law is coughing again, triggered by his laughter this time, and Rosinante's shoulders slump as his smile weakens. "No, you're right. Let's go get these boiled and I'll wash up."

"All right, swamp sloth."

"Lead the way, bog boy."

I'm going to take my hands away now, alright? The big reveal, [ peter says, half a grin pulling at the corners of his lips. it's a view he's seen countless times before and it never quite manages to stop being breathtaking. it only makes sense that he'd share it with her. there's a breath of a pause and peter glances down. it's so funny to think that he'd been scared of heights once upon a time.

he hums. it's a contemplative, teasing noise, then— ] No, I don't think you're ready.

[ I'm ready! I'm totally ready! the woman — mj says. he can feel her eyelashes fluttering against his gloves, and he shifts his pinky fingers slightly to allow a sliver of light to pass through. ]

You say you're ready, but you're not... [ the teasing tone remains. he thinks mj must have an inkling — the air is different up here: it's colder, windier, and the noise of the city below is distant enough that it's hard to believe they're in manhattan without seeing it.

(speaking of—) ] But after I went to trouble of getting us up here, [ he continues, slyly, before whipping his hands away from her face and dropping them to her shoulders to make sure she doesn't fall. ] —We're going to have to work together to get down. [ he finishes with a laugh. he thinks his words have got lost with the sharp inhale of breath mj takes as she takes in the view.

oh my god, peter! she exclaims, and he can't help but feel a little smug. it's just spider-man things, you know? he doesn't say that—

peter, this view— she says, it's— thank you for this, she finishes, cupping his face in her hand and pulling his cheek towards her lips.

(yep, there's that smug feeling again—.) the corners of his lips pull even further upwards into a grin and he tries to stay quiet, tries not to say anything, tries to just enjoy the moment, but then mj pulls away from him and leans forward. she inhales again, sharply, and there's a pause before she exhales loudly and audibly—

man!

and he laughs, again. ] There are brief and fleeting moments where my life is totally awesome, yes. [ he acknowledges, hands sliding from her shoulders down her back and resting on her hips.

she extends a hand and runs it through her hair, brushing her fringe up and away from her face and there's a fleeting thought that maybe he should have brought a hair tie.

"seriously, tiger! this is the greatest view of the city ever! it's all spread out down there, you know? so tiny and perfect, it looks like an entire world of possibility just waiting for us."

it's not the grandest moment — as far as these things go, it's quite a small moment: how many buildings and rooftops has peter taken mj to before? he's lost count, but each time it's like they find something new to love about their life together and the city.

he wishes he could take her out for expensive dinners, to fancy shows and to extravagant events, but he can't. what he can do is this, and he thinks that as long as they have these moments, their life is as perfect as he needs it to be. ]

Edited 2020-02-16 22:35 (UTC)

[ his head's spinning and he wants, no, needs to be at home in bed. the quickest way home — arguably — is by spider-maning across the city, which is what he does.

it's not as quick as he'd thought — he almost loses his balance half a dozen times, whilst wall-crawling is, it turns out, a lot easier when your head isn't pounding and you're not seeing doubles of everything. (oh, sure, petey. shoot a webline at that lamppost over there, you know, the one that's suddenly sprouted a second lamp. no, no, it's not like manhattan doesn't have enough light pollution, what are you talking about?)

normally he'd go in through the roof, but he doesn't trust himself to make it up there. instead, then, he crawls past window after window (thank god for open windows). he swings his legs and propels himself inside and sits, abruptly, on the window ledge.

his stomach drops.

the morning's newspaper is strewn across the floor. his bedside lamp pushed over, the glass of the bulb shattered into shards. a bag — gwen's, the one he got her for christmas, and sitting atop of that—

a pumpkin. the goblin's.

he feels sick and panicked all at once, and he follows his spider-sense. he doesn't stop to think that that's not normally how it works, he just wants — needs — to know that gwendy's safe.

he ends up at the george washington bridge. wryly, peter thinks that of course he ends up here: george washington was norman's favourite president and he's always been more than a little kooky. he's reluctant enough to part with dollar bills for the same reason. ]

Spider-Man! Or should I say... Mister Parker? [ norman osborn, the green goblin, yells from atop the bridge. peter doesn't respond, doesn't react other than to try and make a snap decision as to the best way of getting up there without risking gwen's life. norman — the goblin — continues: ] I have your woman up here, my friend— you should know what that means?

[ peter swallows. he does and he doesn't: norman's crazy, but the longer peter can keep him talking, the easier it'll be to distract him, to rescue gwen— ]

You tell me, Goblin, [ he answers, crawling a little higher up the wall. ]

It's quite simple, web-spinner, [ norman answers; peter thinks the best route up is to go across. sure, crawling or swinging across the cables leaves him open to the goblin's attacks, but if he's attacking him, then he's not doing anything to gwen. ] Your presence in the world has been a source of constant agony to me. I wish you to leave it permanently, [ the goblin continues, and peter wishes he'd just shut up. ] —Or else Gwen Stacy dies!

[ peter shoots a webline across the bridge. ] That cuts it, pumpkin boy. Up to now, I've been real friendly considering your problems and all— [ he thinks of harry, briefly, (sorry, pal.) ], but when you start threatening my girl— the kid gloves are off!

[ as norman glides down to meet him, all peter can really think is that his cold's making him feel that dizzy and off-centre that it's all he can do to stay upright, let alone land a punch on the goblin. he thinks, too, that he's not as stupid as to think that he can defeat the goblin when he's suffering like this, either.

the best thing to do would be to grab gwen and leave. get her to safety, and then he can deal with the goblin later. it's not like he's going anywhere—.

the goblin slams into him with his glider, whilst peter shoots a webline at him, pulls him backwards, prays he's got enough strength for this to count—.

the goblin falls and peter's not sure it's enough. sure, it's enough for a few minutes, maybe, but if he's going to get gwen, he needs to act now—. ]

You cursed interloper! [ the goblin yells, and peter's not sure where he came from or how he came back from that so quickly. ] You'll never take that girl anywhere, she's doomed! [ it's punctuated by the now-familiar whirring of the goblin's glider; a thwack, sickening in sound and it's like everything happens in slow motion—

gwen, falling.

gwen—.

he has to catch, he has to, before she hits the water—

he shoots a web, doesn't take the time, doesn't have the time to think about the maths behind it. he does it, he breaks gwen's fall — she hangs there, suspended whilst relief floods peter.

he did it, he did it, he saved her! ]

Spider-Powers, I love you! [ he exclaims, pulling gwen back up towards him. ] Not only am I the most dashing hero on two legs, I'm easily the most versatile. [ it doesn't quite register, not for a moment, the fact that gwen doesn't move, doesn't react. he thinks she's unconscious, she must be, but even so, something in peter's chest tightens and his stomach drops. ] Who else could save a falling girl from certain dea— [ he half-continues, jubilant tone dropping the more he speaks until the words catch in his throat. cautiously, carefully— (terrified)— ] Gwen? [ a breath. ] Hey, kid, what's wrong, I saved you. [ he saved her, he saved her, he did! he must have! after ben, after the captain, there was no way he could—

(oh god.) ] Don't you understand? I saved you, [ he repeats. he thinks he's going to throw up. she can't be—

he can't even think the word.

(romantic idiot! norman's voice calls from somewhere behind him, but peter barely hears him. she was dead before your webbing reached her!

(no. no. the goblin's going to pay and then gwen will—.) ]

Edited 2020-02-16 23:08 (UTC)

What's going on? What is this?

[ the words are out of his mouth before they've really had time to register. before where he is and who he is really has time to register.

easy, octavius, is the reply, and peter feels sick. he's not sure if he feels sick because this is horrifying, or if he feels sick because he's in the body of an octogenarian linked up to— god, whatever the hell this is.

we're doing what you asked, doc. hooking up your life support to these old arms of yours. getting you mobile.

it's the trapster, peter—otto—peter? recognises him. he'd hired him to help him escape prison, and he's — well, he has, but the thought that occurs to otto (no, not otto, peter!) is that he should be doing this, not the trapster, he's not good enough. ]

—Your calculations are off. Carry the eight. [ "ah, good catch." ] Imbecile! [ the words are out of his mouth before he's had time to think about them, and something of peter winces and cringes. that's not him, that's otto. god, he even sounds like him, what is he—?

a switch is flipped and otto screams. peter screams, he's not sure if he's ever known pain like it, which is ridiculous, of course he has, and then there's white, blinding, and—

sun. trees. houses, and that's it! he's home. it's forest hills, but he's never seen it quite like this. it's like there's a street party, and he's dressed like he's seventeen again: slacks, and a shirt, vest jacket and those glasses.

he sees tim first, tim harrison, riding his little bike down the street, the way he used to—

hey pete! wonderin' when you'd show up. you're going to love it here! it's the best, he says, and peter feels dizzy, nauseous, like he's in the middle of a very unfunny joke that everyone else except him gets.

there's a second voice then, russian, and peter doesn't even need to turn to look to know who it is: it's aleksei. the rhino, and— ]

They're dead. [ it's weird, he thinks he should feel sick. sad. horrified. something, but he doesn't. he doesn't know what he feels. ] Is this Heaven? Does that mean I'm—

[ he starts to ask, and sable says "no". he doesn't notice that his clothing's changed — he's older, no glasses, but still an ugly shirt and a questionable cardigan, and the next voice he hears does send a chill down his spine but it's—

peter doesn't hate it and he's not sure why. it's captain stacy. it's gwen. there's a flash of happiness, just for a second, and she kisses him on his cheek. you never faltered from the right path, stacy says, and gwen says that everything worked out in the end.

had it? ] Gwendy, I— I failed you. I let you both down.

[ but then someone else speaks up and peter doesn't recognise the voice, not at first. it ends with son and he turns to face them and he realises, quickly and suddenly, and with a feeling in his chest that he's not sure he'd be able to put into words, that it's his dad. it's his mom. he's dressed, now, in his uniform for horizon labs, and he barely has time to acknowledge the fact that his father just told him he's proud, because—.

he's spider-man now, and there's yet another voice. peter hopes, privately, that it's the last because he's not sure how many more ghosts of the people he's lost he can face. this one, though, this one's different. it's the voice he'd heard as a child telling him to go to bed, to stop messing around, to go outside and play with the kids down the street.

it's the voice that had told him to be kinder to others. the voice of the man that had helped peter become a man his aunt could be proud of.

peter thinks he might cry. ] —Uncle Ben! [ the man before might have been his father, but this is his dad.

oh, peter. I hate to say this, but you have to go. you can't stay here, ben tells him. peter doesn't understand. the words feel like a crushing weight on his shoulders and his head and his heart and his chest. ]

What? [ he mumbles, uncomprehending. ] I don't get to—after all I've—. [ a pause. oh, he gets it. he wants to run his hand through his hair, he wants to run away and cry.

instead he speaks again, voice quieter and softer, defeated. ] It's that mistake, isn't it? When I let you down... [ a breath of a pause, more a moment to take a breath and try not to let the tears spill down his cheeks. ] But I've tried, Uncle Ben, I've tried so hard—.

[ he thinks he must sound like a child, like a lost little boy pleading with his parents, but really, isn't that what he is? he'd tried so hard to make up for his mistakes but it had never been enough. he'd always known it would never be enough—.

that's not it at all, my boy, ben says, and peter looks up at him, vision blurry from a mix of unshed tears and his hair curling and falling down into his eyes. you've more than earned your rest and any other time, I'd give you my blessing.

ben lifts peter's head, and peter feels like it was only yesterday that ben had died. he doesn't need to study ben's face to know where the laughter lines begin and end, doesn't need to look at his left hand to know that the cold metal pressing against his cheek is ben's wedding band.

that first year, the first time that peter had gone to visit ben's grave, he'd been late. he'd been late and he'd been afraid he wouldn't know what to say, but that had been ridiculous.

ben continues and peter stays silent.

but you can't leave a man like otto octavius running around as spider-man. or peter parker.

you've built an amazing life, don't you dare let him destroy it.

ben's right, because of course he is.

peter hears a noise, and he's not sure if it's his own thoughts or if it's something or someone else entirely. get up! you need to get up and fight one more time! is what it says. c'mon, peter, get up!

as he comes to, he feels dizzy and nauseous and he thinks there's probably a joke or two here, but for the life of him (oh, there it is, that was almost funny), he can't quite form the words. instead— ]

There's not a moment to waste! [ it's his words but otto's voice again, not his. not peter's. ] We have work to do. [ everything hurts and peter can barely think straight. he doesn't know if that's because he's in otto's rapidly failing body or because he's in otto's body and the horror, the sheer horror of otto being in his is that awful that he's having a physical reaction to the thought, but—.

oh, who's he kidding, it's all of it.

he needs to fix this. he needs his body back before this one dies.

(he's going to die. it didn't work.)

peter remembers his life and he knows otto's seeing it too: wheatcakes for breakfasts, annual trips to watch the mets. getting bitten and being told that his uncle had been murdered.

STOP! otto yells, but the voice is peter's. I don't want this!) peter would laugh if he could, but it's taking every last bit of his-strength-in-otto's-body to talk.

(is this how he really looks from this angle? god, no wonder new york thought spider-man was a public menace, the mask is terrifying.) ]

You wanted to be Spider-Man. Well, guess what, it's more than the powers. [ "I'll kill you!" otto says, and peter knows he won't because he's wearing the mask now. he's spider-man. he has peter's memories. peter wouldn't kill and he knows, now, that otto won't either.

otto asks if peter would do it all again: the pain and the loss. he asks if peter would still save otto, knowing everything. and peter says yes, it's who I— ] —who we are.

[ ("yes.") ]

Edited 2020-02-16 23:08 (UTC)

[ peter feels sick.

he feels sick even before he approaches the podium. normally, the spandex — red and blue, hand-sewed — is enough to make him feel confident, more confident than peter parker has any right to feel. ordinarily, the mask is enough to give him a sense of bravado disproportionate to peter parker, the man. peter parker, the high school chemistry teacher.

tony had made it sound like a good idea. the only good idea. rational and one that makes sense in a way that peter feels foolish for not recognising before. he thinks of all the times that people had been hurt because of him, thinks of ben and then thinks of gwen. thinks that maybe gwen would be stood off to one side instead of mary jane if he'd shared with her who he was rather than hide it.

he thinks, too, that maybe she wouldn't, but maybe she'd be sat at home, watching this on tv with mixed emotions. mixed because they'd planned on getting married — they were going to graduate college and buy a home. they'd spoken about the white picket fence and the children in the loose, vague way that only young adults could.

they'd imagined they'd have the rest of their lives ahead of them.

peter had thought that it'd mean they'd have years. decades. he hadn't imagined that gwen would have him for the rest of her life, whilst peter would have her for only a moment. he'd known, loosely speaking, that being spider-man was a risk. that it endangered the people he cared about. ben first, then george, then gwen. he'll carry ben's death with him for the rest of his life in a way that he doesn't think he'll ever be able to put into words, but gwen's death is something else entirely.

he was supposed to be better than that. he was supposed to know better and do better. spider-man was anonymous, a masked man to stop that from happening. gwen should never have died, he should have been able to stop it. norman should never have—.

so, he thinks, maybe he was wrong. tony was right: the only way to really protect the people he cares about — the only way to protect may and to protect mj; the only way to protect queens and manhattan and new york and the world is to admit the truth. ]

My name is Peter Parker, [ he says, pulling the cloth mask from his face. his hair, mussed from where the mask has been pressing down on it, curls messily about his forehead and his eyebrows. he's approaching his late-twenties, if his appearance is anything to go by.

there's a breath of a pause as a series of flashes capture him in film. capture him digitally. capture him on video. his gut twists, and he thinks he's going to throw up. his mouth is dry and his head's spinning ], and I've been Spider-Man since I was 15.

[ he doesn't know how long he's in the bathroom.

tony tells him it's been twenty minutes.

peter thinks it's been longer. he thinks he's made a mistake. he thinks he's spent twenty minutes vomiting food he ate five years ago. he thinks, too, that it's been longer than twenty minutes, and he hopes it's been long enough that the reporters have dispersed. that everyone who's interested has had their fill in looking up who peter benjamin parker is on the internet.

the results are unexciting, he imagines: orphaned as a very small child; uncle killed at 15; freelance photographer for the daily bugle; permanent member of staff for the daily bugle; principle photographer of spider-man—

which, given the reveal, makes sense.

peter feels sick and he feels, simultaneously, like there's nothing left in his stomach to vomit.

he sits in front of a hospital bed and he feels, more than anything, guilt.

he'd felt guilty for ben. for gwen. for everything that he might have made a difference for but none of it compares to this. he'd thought may being diagnosed with poisoning from his blood had been one of the worst moments of his life, but it's nothing compared to this. his head swims and he's not sure that he can focus on anything other than the knowledge that this is his fault.

it was his choice to side with tony. he'd known, all along, that revealing his identity would open up everyone he cared for to being hurt. he'd asked, but he thinks that almost makes it worse. he'd asked, despite knowing what he could lose. despite knowing what mj could lose. what may could lose.

he'd been selfish when he should have known better.

may is in a coma and peter doesn't know what he'll do if she doesn't make it. if mj is his world, may is his universe. he wouldn't be who he is without her: she's strong and kind and incredible in all the ways that peter aspires to be, and peter imagines that if he loses her, he'll fall apart.

peter feels sick, and he thinks again of how he'd approached the podium before telling the world that peter parker was spider-man. he replays it in his mind, twisting the white cloth of the hospital bedsheets between his fingers. he thinks of what he could have done different, and all he can think is that may and mj deserve more. they deserve better. ]

Edited 2020-02-16 22:34 (UTC)

[ there's knocking and it takes a moment for it to register as at his front door rather than an upstairs neighbour or his next door neighbour, the one that seems to think it's fun to bang on the wall between their bedrooms at 2am. he thinks — is he expecting anyone? he's not, and michele's away, so—.

it's mj.

red hair, green eyes, freckles. dimples when she smiles, which she's doing now and peter feels his heart twist or stop or skip a beat or— something, and for a second or two, he's speechless.

it's mj. at his door, with a — bottle of wine? okay, that's weird.

"I know, I know, this is freaking you out, isn't it?" she asks and peter's not really sure if that's the term for it. he thinks, more than anything, he's confused. completely lacking in comprehension. they've barely spoken, barely seen each other, and peter's imagined this a thousand times, him and mj stood together in his apartment, and—.

no, that's not quite right. he's imagined them stood together in their apartment, the one they used to have together. the one they'd described as not perfect but it was home, their home until it wasn't. ]

MJ, what are you doing— [ he starts to ask, and his tongue feels thick and heavy, and it's as if he's talking on autopilot. is that a thing? it feels like it should be a thing.

she doesn't wait for him to finish. she apologises for coming over uninvited, but she holds up the wine and says she brought him this. he starts to say, reflexively, that he doesn't drink and she laughs. she knows what he's about to say and waves it off with an "except at weddings, I've heard", punctuated by a "but you never know when you're going to have guests."

she asks, then, where his roommate is and for a moment, he'd managed to forget he had a roommate. michele's in philly, he answers. a "crazy lawyer thing" which he's certain she went to just because of the crazy thing.

he doesn't pause though, not before he barrels into a question of his own: ] Seriously, MJ, what's this about? I mean, since you've been back, you've been...

[ she sits down on the couch, bottle of wine placed on the coffee table in front of her. there's a breath of a pause and then she answers: cold, aloof, distant, take your pick. but you've been going through a pretty rough time lately. so I thought it was time we did this.

"this."

peter knows what she means and he wishes she didn't. peter knows what she means and he asks anyway, hoping that maybe she means another this. this like "hey, we've both been idiots, mostly me, peter parker, because being an idiot's my brand, and I'm sorry for the way that things ended, for the way that things were, but I miss you and I love you, can we try and make this work? again?".

"this?" he asks, and she says talk.

he hates talking.

no, that's a lie: he loves talking. it fills in the gaps and uncomfortable silences.

but he hates talking about this. he hates being reminded of what he had and what he'd lost because he couldn't be the person mary jane deserved. needed. because he'd missed their wedding because—

because he couldn't not be spider-man for a day. because he'd get home from work and she'd get home from work and they'd both be tired and stressed and instead of taking the time to make sure mj was okay, he'd crawl out of a window to make sure that new york was okay.

they'd had romantic dinners out and breakfasts in bed and peter had taken her out across the city to rooftops and skyscrapers and they'd curled up in front of the tv with bad movies and microwave popcorn but it didn't make things okay. ]

MJ, can I ask you something? [ "sure." ] Do you have any regrets? [ "of course I do, I have lots of them. I could have—." ] About never getting married?

[ "...oh, that. I don't know if I'd say regrets, but sometimes I wonder what it'd have been like, how it'd have been—" ]

Different. Yeah, me too.

[ they talk about the night before — he mentions how scared he'd been, how all he could think of was gwen stacy (no, wait, that came out wrong—). how all he could think of was how gwen stacy had died because of him and he'd been so scared the same would happen to mj. he tells her about the bachelor party flash and harry had thrown for him. he tells her about the speech flash had given him and how surprised he'd been by how passionate flash was about love.

mj tells him about the party her friends had thrown for her, about how it'd ended with a conversation: "from now on, no more extravagant parties, flirting with ridiculously hot men, or girls' nights out in exotic locations. but hey, at least you won't ever have to worry about any lonely nights. you'll always have someone waiting for you at home."

it makes him feel a little bit sick.

he says that and asks her how she put up with it for as long as she did. she doesn't answer, and he looks up and across to the kitchen. two cups of tea, one in each hand and a look on her face. it's not the look she'd worn then: it's knowing, acknowledging, and she says— one lump or two? and peter doesn't know if he wants to laugh or cry.

or both.

because then they talk about the wedding day and peter wishes, again, that the ground would open up and swallow him whole. he slides off the couch and picks up the two now-empty cups of tea, and holds them up. ]

We're going to need more tea, [ he says, because it's a distraction and he doesn't want to have this conversation any more. he asks her if they can just go back to being cold and distant and aloof — and he means her with him, because he doesn't think he could ever be cold or distant to her.

he'd wanted to talk to her before — may's wedding had seemed like the opportunity but he'd been too chicken, just like he'd been too chicken to kiss her for the first time under mistletoe that first christmas. too chicken seemed about right, and then he'd had one, or two, or five glasses too many of champagne and maybe this conversation would be different if they'd spoken properly then.

she says no, they need to have this conversation so he goes back to talking about their wedding. the wedding that never was and never would be. he tells her about trying to find her, after he'd come to. he tells her how he could barely see straight and his head had been pounding and all he'd wanted was to find her and hold her and apologise and he hadn't been able to find her.

so he'd gone home, finally. and she'd told him that she couldn't do this, that she couldn't be spider-man's wife. she wanted to be peter's and if he was going to be spider-man, they couldn't marry. she wanted kids, she said, and she couldn't bring kids into a life like theirs.

they talk, then, about may getting shot. about how peter had thought, honestly, that his entire world was ending. he'd made a stupid decision and it had resulted in the one thing that he'd worked so hard to avoid. resulted in his greatest fear. ]

I sat there, [ he admits, ], on Bleecker Street. Thinking, waiting. For something - anything - to come to me, to happen, and it didn't. I walked and walked, trying to resolve myself that this was it, there was no going back. It was May's time and there was nothing I could do about it. You were right, MJ, [ he admits, voice low, gaze focussed on the half-drunk cup of tea that by now must be long cold. ] —Loving me is a death sentence.

[ it's the four of them — peter and gwen; mj and harry. they're adults in college, with all the burgeoning confidence and knowledge that being young entails. harry — a thin man, with a distinctive widow's peak that ages him — holds the door open for the other three: first gwen, then peter, then finally mj.

it's a coffee shop, officially speaking, with mahogany walls and brown, worn flooring, and a sign that says in large, stylised letters that it's called the coffee bean. it's cold outside, snowing, and gwen's breath emerges in hot, puffy clouds as she exclaims—

"oh my god, you guys, this is totally a beatnik bar." peter laughs as he helps her out of her coat, whilst mj — the redhead being helped from her coat mutters a question that sounds like "what's a beatnik?"

the four slide into a booth: peter next to gwen, harry next to mj; and peter remarks— ] I dunno, Gwen-do-leen, [ he enunciates each syllable carefully and pointedly, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. ] I kinda like it.

[ he does like it: it's one of his favourite spots, found by harry. it's quaint and it's cozy, and peter's always happy to watch the world go by. the waitresses know him by name and he them, and it manages to feel something like home in the corner of the city. something a little less busy.

you would, you goon, gwen replies, fondly, her attention sliding away from peter and to the frosted up window.

all the while, mary jane makes a noise, disgusted and insulted all at the same time, a tiny, steaming mug held partway to her mouth.

they put dirt in my coffee, she complains, whilst harry interrupts her caffeine-related disappointment to inform her—

espresso, mj, espresso. 30 millilitres of 90-degrees-centigrade water forced through 10 grams of finely ground coffee at 130 psi to produce this: god's own beverage of hyper-caffeinated goodness.

gwen spoons one of the largest spoonfuls of sugar peter thinks he's ever seen into her cup and announces that they — peter and harry — are the dorkiest dorks that ever dorked.

peter's fingers wrap around his mug and he glances at her out of the corners of his eyes and points out: ] And yet you two continue to date us.

[ harry laughs and raises his mug to clink against peter's (well-played, mr. parker, he says.) mary jane rolls her eyes and gwen tilts her head to stare up at the ceiling, the action punctuated by a deep sigh and a question of why they're even here. there are better, more fashionable, more modern coffee shops to spend time at, she says.

peter snakes an arm around her shoulders and pulls her towards him. he doesn't need to look over to the bar to know the sorts of people that will be there: old and young, fat and thin, poor and a little less poor. a mix of some of the most interesting people to speak to in all of new york. ]

There's character here. In the tables, in the walls. Maybe Kerouac hung out here, or O. Henry, [ he tells her, a broad grin lighting up his face and he points up at the ceiling. ] Tin. It's got history. This place is the old New York, the type of thing they get rid of these days.

[ he thinks it's the sort of place the four of them could stay forever. ]

Edited 2020-02-17 21:21 (UTC)

( tba. )

[ peter feels sick. tired. exhausted. he feels like he's losing his mind and that there's something out there waiting for him. logically, he knows he's anxious. grieving. that his nerves are frayed and the same few thoughts keep repeating in his mind:

yesterday, ned leeds.
today, joe face.
tomorrow—
aunt may?
mary jane?

(he's out of his mind.)

it's joe face.
(joe face is dead—)
but it's joe—
—no, it's kraven.

peter (no, the spider, not peter) is shot at with one dart, then a second, and the drugs take their time to work. he thinks he should have been able to dodge the second one, but his spider-sense hadn't—

oh.

he'd been scared. he's always scared, in a sense: scared of who's going to get hurt this time and how he can stop it. he was sloppy and so he'd got shot, and his head's pounding and he can't quite work out if it's this cold he's coming down with or if it's kraven's jungle drums.

(poison.)

his muscles feel stiff and he can barely crawl, let alone anything else. kraven's trapped him in a web and peter thinks he should appreciate the irony, but his head throbs with every movement and every breath. it's going to take him all night to break free, but he knows what kraven will do.

he'll take him to some lair and he'll try to prove himself the hunter. superior, or however kraven imagined himself.

he approaches: he wears his trophies — skins and furs, incongruously there's a — what is that, a rifle? why does kraven have a rifle?

honor — will be restored! kraven proclaims and peter feels something akin to panic in the pit of his stomach. ]

C'mon, Kravey! Rifles aren't your style! [ peter looks into kraven's face, into his eyes, and he thinks there's something there— ] You've always wanted to pound me into a hamburger — with your bare hands! You're a macho man!

[ peter thinks again of ned leeds. he thinks of joe face. he thinks of aunt may and he thinks of mj.

it's warm and it's white and it's peaceful.
it's quiet and he likes it.
he thinks that he wants to be left alone in the warm and white, in the peace and the quiet.

but then he thinks of mary jane.

she's not here. not her face, not her eyes, not her hair, not her smile.

I am the spider, he thinks.
ned's dead.
ben's dead.
gwen's dead.
I'm dead, he thinks.

no!

I'm the spider! he thinks.
pauses.
mary jane—?

(I'm weak, he thinks. a coward.
I can die.
I am peter parker.)

he takes a breath and he feels trapped. there is no more white and no more warmth and no more quiet.
there's wood and there's dirt and he realises he's in a coffin.

he digs and he crawls and he thinks that he, the man, is not dead.

he thinks of mary jane.
(he thinks that he, the man, must get back to her.
so he digs and he crawls.)
he thinks of how he, the man and not the spider, loves mary jane.

he thinks he's reached the end and he panics. hot tears spill down his face and he thinks he's choking. he's not dead but he might die here, amongst the dirt and the maggots and he thinks of mary jane and he screams.

he's trapped here, under the earth and he's terrified, not that he might die, but that he might lose her. he loves her and he thinks that there is no spider, there's only peter parker, and he loves mary jane, and his fingers, his nails, his hands push through the dirt and the grass and though he can't feel it on his skin yet, he thinks, finally, that he can breathe.

(I love you, mary jane—.) ]

Edited 2020-02-16 23:07 (UTC)

[The scene: a house. A home, really, decorated in deep reds and golden hues, the walls blockaded by wooden bookshelves packed tightly. It's the dead of summer, and in acquiesce to the heat, the windows are open, the curtains drawn to maximize any stray breeze that might wander in. It's not so bad. Hot, but not unbearable.

Somewhere, a radio is playing scratchily.

Rosalind sits on the couch, her hair down and her bare feet curled under her. She looks a little more archaic than she does nowadays in Beacon: her corset tight and her skirt long, but still: between her thin skirt and the drink dripping condensation onto her end table, she seems cool enough. Head bent over her book, though after a moment she sighs sharply and glances up.

As if on cue, a man comes in. He's tall and slender, his clothing undone in the same way Rosalind's is: his collar open, his sleeves rolled up. But what's most noticeable about him-- what's truly remarkable, in fact-- is that he's Rosalind's double.

From their hair color to their freckles to the way they both move, they're identical. But it seems the man has a bit more good cheer, because it's him who smiles as the song changes, and it's him who reaches for Rosalind, fingers sweeping through her hair to smooth it back.

Dance with me, he tells her, and glory be, but she smiles.

To this drivel? she retorts, but she's already getting to her feet, watching as he closes the windows, cinches the curtains tight, making sure no prying eyes peer in.

Drivel you enjoy, as their hands meet, as she lines herself up with him, her posture horrendous and her limbs loose. Criticize Albert all you like, Rosie, but you have to admit: it's better than more American patriotism.

I suppose, she retorts, but it's a reply without heat. Already they're moving, stepping as though guided by an invisible spectator, their movements eerily graceful and in time with one another. Rosalind hums softly, already familiar with the song, her eyes locked up on the man before her. She's still smiling, soft and sweet, something like adoration in her eyes. It's mirrored in the man's expression, the two of them caught in utter rapture.]

[Rosalind stands in her home, filled to the brim with books and paintings, worn couches and wooden floors. There's a man at her side, so neatly dressed, his red hair perfectly set in place, his blue eyes amused as he listens to her argue. She's picking a fight with him over something stupid, one of those yes-I-did no-you-didn't things that don't matter, that she loves solely because no one ever keeps up with her the way she does.

They reach a machine in back. It's an enormous thing, so big it goes from one floor into another, crashing through the ceiling in a contained sort of haphazardness. She taps at buttons and pulls levers, still arguing all the while.

The machine roars to life, and it's an awful noise, bad enough both Rosalind and Robert flinch. It sounds labored, gears grinding awfully and wires surging with voltage they were never meant to handle-- there's lightning sparking everywhere, bathing them both in blue light, glass beakers shattering all around them, teeth buzzing and the hair on her arms standing as it surges in power, and--

They can't run. There's no point. It won't be another minute before it explodes.

Instead: she takes his hand, gripping it tightly. Her expression is a contortion of rage and grief and terror, but at least he's here with her.

Do you have any regrets? he asks, and there's something terrible about the forced cheer in his tone. His mouth is turned upright in a parody of a smile, even as he looks down at her with adoration.

Don't be silly, she retorts, and turns in towards him, even as the machine roars in overlabored agony. Of course I do.]

[There's an alley, dark and riddled with filth, the trash cans overflowing and the rain having left silver puddles everywhere. Rosalind stands in a hole in a wall-- not a natural hole, but rather something vibrating, pulsating, glowing, very nearly magical in nature, as the roar of machinery pushed to its limit fills her ears.

She stands on one side. On the other: a young man. He's her twin down to the last freckle, but whereas Rosalind's expression is one of desperation, his is of fear. There's another man clutching a baby to his chest, and a third, charging down an alleyway, roaring-- give her back, you son of a bitch!

But Rosalind doesn't care about that. She cares only about her twin, urging him frantically to come through. The memory ends just as he does: when the two men play tug-of-war with the infant, but Rosalind has her Robert, gripping him tightly with one hand, already turning to him to see how he's reacting.]

[Not all memories have to be that deep. This one certainly isn't. It's in a girl's bedroom-- a wealthy girl's bedroom, clearly, as it's enormous. Untouched dolls line the shelves, their glass eyes long covered in dust; silken sheets and an enormous closet filled to the brim with pretty clothing suggest further attempts to interest the occupant in their contents.

And in the middle of it all, a skinny brat with red hair and too many freckles sits, scowling down at the metal assembled before her. It's meant to be some kind of device, clearly, but if the growing grease stain on the wooden floors is anything to go by, it's not going well.

Hell, she mutters-- and then hisses again, more frantically, as footsteps come up the stairs. They're slow and measured, but the click suggests a woman in heels. Frantically Rosalind gathers her things, shoving them under her bed, more than a little desperate to hide the evidence-- but there's that grease stain, and the knob is turning, and oh, dear, it's going to be a whole Thing now.

Mother, Rosalind says, and the woman-- tall, with black hair and Rosalind's cold blue eyes-- looks down at her child, and the grease, and the tools. She takes in a deep breath.

And perhaps mercifully, the memory ends there.]

I. Opal Hunting
[It was difficult to miss the light show, but Jason couldn't help but be drawn out to get a better view. The aurora was breathtaking, something he had never seen in person back home but had always thought about. He misses the first one that falls from the sky, but it's hard not to notice as more continue to drop out of the upper atmosphere.

He tries not to think about them being parts of spirits -- he'd seen them throwing themselves into the sky earlier -- but they seemed to have ceased races for the day. Jason notices a few shiny rocks poking out of the snow and leaps off of the roof of the Invincible.

The light glints off of the rocks and Jason bends over to pluck one out -- only to black out for a second as he's delivered a strange memory. He blinks it away, rocking on his feet.]

Woah! What was that!

[He looks around and then down at the rock. He thought he recognized the name in the memory. He slips it into his pocket, taking off to find them, but stops occasionally as he spies others.]

II. Points of Memory: Wild Card -- open to anyone who didn't ask for a memory already
[Jason's memory opals are scattered around Becaon, just like everyone else's. Should you pluck one up, you will find anything from good times with friends to heated battles against monsters and giants. You may even get to fly. Does his opal catch your eye? Pick it up and find out.]

III. Points of Memory: Plot Generated
((ooc: Find below the top level for the memory we discussed in the plotting post. You can either post a reaction or we can thread something out if you prefer))

You’re standing at the prow of a ship. The wind blows through your hair and tugs at the toga and purple cloak you’ve donned over your orange camp shirt and blue jeans. Your fingers are gripped tightly around the hilt of a sword -- partly out of fear for a fight, but also for something solid and familiar to hold on to. The scene itself would almost be a familiar one if the boat was cutting through the waves, but instead what stretches before your eyes are gold-and-green rolling hills. This place was home...is home? You can’t be sure any more. Of the people on board this ship you’re the only one familiar with what you are sailing towards, so you know you need to put on a brave face.

You notice familiar landmarks now: the hippodrome, the coliseum, various temples and parks. It’s beautiful, but there are signs that there was a recent battle: cracks in some buildings and craters along the roads. It makes you frown. It was your job to lead the legion and because of the gods you hadn’t been here when you were needed. There’s no time to dwell, however, as among the buildings and on the streets you begin to notice figures moving: dozens of kids in togas like your own rushing out to see the ship you’re flying in on. You hear horns now, blowing and turn your gaze on the small army beginning to gather along the gates.

You brace yourself and sure enough there’s a loud BOOM. You turn in time to see a blonde girl, Annabeth, being accosted by a living statue. The statue was human from the waist up, though the rest of him rested on a pedestal. He had appeared out of nowhere on the ship and was clearly outraged.

“I will NOT have weapons inside the Pomerian Line! I certainly will not have Greeks!”

You move forward, holding a hand up to Annabeth, “Terminus. It’s me. Jason Grace.”

The statute looks less than pleased, “Oh, I remember you, Jason! I thought you had better sense than to consort with the enemies of Rome!”

“But they’re not enemies --.” A young woman with choppy brown hair wearing pink and white strides forward. She’s opening her mouth to agree and you can’t help but smile a bit in admiration. Leave it to Piper to take charge of this situation. The memory fades.

The redwood forest is dark and nothing but shadows and fog. You’ve wedged yourself into the corner of moss covered stones to try and get away from the things that seem to be lurking just out of sight. You want to wipe the tears and snot away, but you don’t want to take your eyes away either.

You decide to try again: “Dalhia? M-mama?”

It’s no good. You just can’t make your small voice any louder. You hear a sound and look to your left, noticing a pair of silver eyes cutting through the darkness. You freeze, clutching tightly at your knees and trying to make yourself even smaller. That’s the biggest dog you’ve ever seen!

No, not a dog, a wolf. Her eyes are silver and her coat is a warm, chocolatey red and she really is the biggest animal you’ve ever seen, easily 7 or 8 feet tall, a giant of a wolf.

You know you should be afraid, but as soon as your eyes lock, your muscles relax. The large wolf pads over to you and behind her you can see the rest of her pack, all tiny in comparison to her giant form. Neither of you blink, but you can’t help yourself and whimper: “Mama?”

The wolf’s ears twitch and she bows her head. You can feel her hot breath on your face, but show no fear, and the next moment you feel a warm tongue gently lick at the tears on your face. You can’t explain how you know, but the words manage to come across all the same:

“I am Lupa. I will raise you, son of Rome, if you can prove yourself to my pack.”

She pulls away, patiently watching you. This is not your mama, but maybe she’ll be close enough. She said you were a son after all. You get to your feet and wobble over to her, sinking your fingers into her surprisingly soft fur.

“Okay.”

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EVENT LOG: THE NIGHT WE MET

FOREST SPIRIT SEND-OFFS

SUNDAY

no subject

1. Sengoku

2. Doflamingo

3. Hospitals (closed to Cao Pi)

4. Law

peter parker

—quentin

—eliot, cw: ...death

—kol, cw: death, body swapping

—eleven

—bruce

—duster

—maes

—jason todd, cw: burial/burying alive, claustrophobia

rosalind lutece | ota

one; cw: luteces being super into self-cest

two; cw: death

three;

four;

eddie kaspbrak | ota

Jason Grace | OTA

III. Closed to Rosi

III. Closed to Javert