entrancelogs | It may very well be the worst thing that's ever happened to you!

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It may very well be the worst thing that's ever happened to you! | OPEN MINGLE

Who: EVERYONE!
Where: EVERYWHERE!
When: Friday October 27th - Tuesday October 31st
Rating: PG-13, warn if you're gonna go higher!
Summary: A catch all for the Horrible Memory Truth Event!
The Story:

For the duration of this event, everyone's entire room will be replaced with a memory playing on loop. They will likely recognize the moment as soon as they see it – it is a moment they remember as the worst moment of their entire lives. It could be a memory from home or something that happened in Wonderland. Lengths of the memories will vary, but they will find that these are not memories they can merely watch – they can step into these memories and attempt to make changes to them, and the memories will be long enough that they have time to make changes (though no more than 24 hours). However, anyone who tries will find that it is futile. No matter what you do or how hard you try, the outcome is always exactly the same somehow. No changes you make will prevent that horrible outcome. It just happens over and over and over again no matter what you do.

On top of that, perhaps complicating any attempts to make changes, everyone will be forced to be honest for the duration of the event. No lies or half-truths are allowed, and filters will be gone for the entire five days. If something bothers someone then they will blurt it out, regardless of whether or not it hurts someone's feelings, and no one will be able to simply keep quiet when they have something to say. They must be truthful and honest with every word they say.

This is a catch-all log for all of your Worst Memory needs! Please mark your threads clearly in the subject line with your character's name and Room Number + Floor for character rooms, or just location if you're making a top level for a public place in the mansion (like the tea rooms or the kitchen) so people can see if there's already a thread available. And here's the plot post if you need it!

Have fun!

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[He didn't stay away. He thought he'd be safe, at least safer to others, by himself. And when she steps in, it's peaceful--the peacefulness of the city, at any rate. You could hear sirens in the distance, sure, but when couldn't you, in New York? But it's sunny and there's music and the smell of hot pretzels. Families having picnics and he's one of them, but not what he looks like now. He looks dazed, almost, like he can't quite believe the luck he has right now: survived his duty, and more than his duty, to his country, and this is his reward: sunny day, beautiful wife, his kids chattering around him. It doesn't seem like a bad memory at all.

Yet.]

{{ CW: blood, child injury(? Does 15 count as child enough to warrant one of these?) }}

[ The scene is set in a pastel bedroom decorated in a rainbow of colors. It's like a picturesque ikea catalog vision of a girl's room, a space where two best friends can grow up together. It's calm and lovely -- except for that gunshot just now.

Two girls are engaged with a tall, armored figure, hanging off of his massive meaty arms and doing their best to defend one another. He corners the brunette, and the blonde climbs up his back and hangs from his neck in an attempt to pull him away. He shakes her off and shoots her to keep her down. She bleeds darkly from her shoulder, snapping a hand over her wounded shoulder as if it conceals any of it.

Another man enters, equally armed, and engages with the assailant until he runs off. And then they bicker. The adult tries to rationalize what just happened, explaining mirrors and the politics therein. But the blonde will hear none of it. She accuses him of betrayal and refuses to let him tend to her wound. She accepts none of her friend's support, nor any form of logic they attempt to tend to her.

Bleeding, limping, she struggles to her feet and insists on taking care of herself.

The scene can loop all day if it wants to. Maya doesn't even bother locking the door when she sets out. It doesn't matter who sees. Nothing'll change anyway. ]

Edited 2017-10-27 17:36 (UTC)

'You've got what you were after, so pay up.'

You're crying in the rain, pally.

'Let's just get this over with.'

[Two voices speak, though the memory itself is still hazy. In front of the sources of the voices - two ill-defined figures - a man pulls himself into a kneeling position and twists his bound hands against each other. He looks dazed, and blinks rapidly as he casts his eyes about and breathes unsteadily.]

Maybe Khans kill someone without looking him in the face, but I ain't a fink, dig.

[The figures - three of them now - pull into clearer focus. The center one is a young man with dark, slicked hair, wearing a checkered suit, while the other two are less well-kept, wearing t-shirts and leather vests. Still on his knees, Dan looks from one to the other and then to the shallow grave recently dug beside him, and the expression that crosses his face makes clear enough what he expects to happen now. Yet, the man in the suit keeps talking, and as the courier regains his equilibrium a steely defiance enters his eyes.

Something that looks like a casino chip is pulled from inside that jacket, like a trophy.]

You've made your last delivery, pal. Sorry you got twisted up in this scene. [Then, a gun. Dan's expression flickers, his eyes briefly following the weapon, but still he says nothing.] From where you're kneeling, must seem like an 18-carat run of bad luck. [He aims, right for the courier's head.] Truth is, the game was rigged from the start.

[A flash from the muzzle of the gun, and the memory blacks out.

Dan doesn't linger for long, here. He watches it a few times, an unreadable expression on his face for anyone who might walk in on him while he's there, but he doesn't try to change it. Changing what had happened here would alter everything that had come after, and he wouldn't have traded any of that... not even for never having had this memory at all. Benny had got his, in the end, and he hadn't been as good at surviving a bullet to the head as Dan. Bad luck? Sure was, but after that, he'd started to feel like a walking good luck charm. Maybe Benny had done him a favour after all.]

[He spends a little while sitting outside the room, not warning anyone off going in there so much as mulling it over. Now and then, he idly rubs the scar on the side of his head, scored across his temple in a thick, twisted, purple knot. After a while, he gets up and heads away quickly (to rescue Frank), but later on can be found in the bar, having a quiet drink, or outside, walking wide circuits of the mansion grounds with his faithful dog trotting at his side.

Later, still outside, he sets up a small camp using items grabbed from closets in unoccupied rooms. He has a tent and some cooking equipment, and as night begins to fall he sets up a small fire. Should you happen to pass by, he may nod, inviting you to join him.]

[She knows this has something to do with her, at least partially. Waking up feeling ready to puke is kind of a giveaway. But whatever. People can't lie? Good. People shouldn't lie. People have to be haunted by stuff in their pasts? Well that's good too.

So she'll take a trip up and down the halls, absently hoping to catch someone looking stricken as they escape some personal horror. She'll stare at them levelly for a long moment, and offer a version of a consolation:]

I bet you deserved it.

A young woman with dark, curly hair steps over the sleeping figures around a fire and moves toward a series of tents with undeniable seriousness. The air is thin - dry, and cool, with the faintest taste of heat from the day before - and the embers rolling away from the flames but the smell of death sours it, emanating from the open maw of an ancient doorway. The encampment is built around ruins: massive columns jutting up into the darkness, crumbled statuary, broken walls. The lanterns and lights, small and dim, dot the landscape and illuminate canvas, archaeological equipment of another era.

A dig site at the remains of a necropolis, a city of the dead.

But the woman is unperturbed by her surroundings, sneaking into a nearby lean-to to pry a heavy black book from a sleeping man's arms. Carefully carrying it back to the campfire she sets it on a crate, withdrawing a small box from her pocket. One of the two nearby men cracks an eye open, watching her.

"That's called stealing, you know."

"According to you and my brother, it's called borrowing."

"Uh-huh."

He joins her anyway, bringing his shotgun with him, crouched next to the crate and inquiring after the book. Quietly, Evelyn uses the small box as a key to prise it open, informing the man that she's never seen a text like this before, that it's never been mentioned in academic papers. That she may be the first to read from it in over three-thousand years. Fingertips lightly tracing the hieroglyphics Evelyn works over the words mentally, mouthing unspoken syllables before confidently beginning to read aloud.

All it takes is a sentence. A single invocation at the beginning of a dark book before a heavy wind rocks the tents around them, buffeting measuring sticks and upsetting the camels slumbering peacefully not several yards away. Evelyn slams the book shut and stands, as does the man, both of them turning to face the distant horizon as a low hum prickles the air until the atmosphere is vibrating with sound, visceral and deafening as a swarm of locusts descends upon the camp.

It isn't the last of the afflictions.

The memory then flickers through images and scenes cast in sharp light: a rotting corpse, alive, backing the same young woman against a wall, speaking to her in a foreign tongue in curious recognition as she recoils. The same creature assimilating the fluids of four men from the dig party, turning them to withered husks. The fountains of a city running red as the river becomes blood, a hail of fire that crushes into the minarets of old Cairo, flies and frogs, livestock withering and dying, boils and festering sores and lasting darkness as a noonday sun is overcome by eclipse. No stretch of time compared to Moses himself but a matter of days as a creature Evelyn did not intend to awaken grows in tremendous power, building an army of the plagued people around him.

There is screaming. The same young woman chained to an altar, a ritual dagger hanging over her breast, fear in her eyes.

And nothing.

Evelyn tries to stop it.

She paces the doorway of her room and waits for the memories to replay again, and again. Perhaps the third try in after curses at the stupid girl who couldn't leave well enough alone subside, because she hasn't changed that much at all. A Pandora of her own time, too curious not to open the chest and uncover its secrets.

After that, she doesn't linger much longer save for outside in the hall, replaying her mistake in her head.

[In a startlingly predictable turn of events, Evelyn is in the library.

Despite its oppressively tall shelves and dark corners - despite the fact that she has died here, twice - it is the only place that feels safe after being so vividly reminded of the decision she made nine years ago that killed countless people. The only place that gives her a purpose because she gave it to herself, and the only thing that makes her matter because she serves as a valuable resource.

She spends much of her time here assisting visitors who need help and now is no exception, more practical and less academic, aware that her odd number of self-proclaimed “bodyguards” would skin her alive if they saw her wandering the halls with the potential for danger loitering nearby, and she doesn’t quite have it in her to fight them on it if she even encountered them.

But she swallows her pride and greets those seeking reprieve from their memories, arranging areas in the wings for people to sleep should the rooms not let up in their torment.]

And that's the difference between the sorts of work you and I do. [All of this is classified. Every syllable of it should stay locked away, not trusted to someone like Stark.]

Your lot sees the front lines. Does the battling. Moves on. My lot knows that we're still cleaning up after the chitauri's last appearance. People are still dying from diseases our species has never seen before. They don't notice us -- and they shouldn't -- because they're looking at you. You can't do everything. But you ought to keep doing something.

It’s not every day you encounter someone with duct tape slapped over their mouth, to be certain. Tim stops dead (ha, he thinks in that wry, disconnected shift that always touches his thoughts when he gets to be like this) and bites down hard on the wall of his cheek. Don’t say anything. Don’t say a fucking word. Keep quiet, and move on.

It emerges anyway. Of course it does.

“Head back,” he says roughly. “Go too far out and you’re dead.”

[ she holds her ground. nudged or not, she holds it. although there's an allure to the intel playing out behind her shoulder, peggy pins her focus onto tony instead with laser precision. she searches for his eyes -- clicks her fingers and drags his attention onto her.

she is stern and she is stubborn. but she's not without some measure of mercy. the moment tony proves himself willing to get to his feet, she withstands a dull ache in her nearly-healed leg while grabbing his hand and hauling him upward.

(i didn't know it was him)

steve's voice is like a siren's call. she's got her grip on tony's arm, but her head turns to catch sight of the hit, the fall, the betrayal. tony did say he'd thrown the first punch. all the same, she's sick to her stomach.

she shakes her head. she holds her ground. ]

You first. [ she gives him a shove. ] I'm not walking through of that door ahead of you just to have it slammed shut as soon as I'm out.

[ -- that's what she would do. ]

[Frank's had...better days, and it probably shows. But he tears himself away from guarding his room to try--at least try--to check on Evelyn. He figures he should stay away from her, not trusting himself to be around anyone.

Sure, the memory is in his room, but it's in his head, too, all the time, every day since he woke up at the hospital, as if the memory was the only thing that pulled him back from death. Being away from it doesn't make it disappear.

He doesn't trust himself to approach her, but he can watch her, from a distance, through the high stacks of the library, getting a read on how she's moving, how she's talking, hoping she's doing better than him. ]

There is no you.

[ he says, turns back from the door he intended to walk out through. the reality of the results of the memory in his room are heavy on his shoulders, ever-present. ]

I told you, Junior. the Avengers aren't a thing anymore.

[ not since the accords and then - tony's parents. ]

Besides. I thought you wanted me to do nothing. something isn't nothing.

[Dorian hurries out of his room, eyes wide in fright. He rushes off to the nearest closet, hoping, praying for something to keep the door shut.]

[While he's out, there is a small window to peer inside, to see a truly horrible sight within. Dorian's room has become a dusty attic, full of knicknacks and forgotten trinkets.]

[There, against the far wall in the room, stands a shadow of Dorian in his nice suit, showing a most grotesque painting to a horrified man who would not be recognized by anyone in Wonderland. The painting itself was of a hideous old wretch in a ruined tailcoat... Yet, the man looks vaguely familiar, especially with Dorian standing there, looking mildly distressed and cold.]

[The two men would argue about souls and redemption. As his acquaintance got on his knees to pray for his redemption, Dorian's gaze turned to the pallete knife on a nearby sidetable...]

[Would the observer dare to witness the entire memory as it loops endlessly, or shall they let Dorian lock his room and hide the key?]

[At this point, it has become quite obvious Dorian has way too many secrets to keep.]

[As the truth kept coming to the surface, he made himself more and more scarce. He found himself rushing out of rooms as they became crowded, dodging glances in the halls, and attempting to run from company. Much unlike the politely chatty socialite he normally is.]

[Perhaps someone should confront him. He's clearly trying to get away from some awful truth.]

That's only because--

[He claps a hand over his mouth, converting words into nonsense syllables. He closes his eyes, takes a breath, and pulls his hand away.]

That's an unfair discussion to want to have on a day like today.

Day 1, October 27 | Room 20, floor 5 | Closed to Kayo

[Satoru knows it isn't real. It can't be real because he's busy at home making sure it never becomes real. But his mother's corpse on the floor certainly looks real. The blood smells real and it feels real on his hand. When he'd touched her experimentally to try turning her over, she'd felt cold and that had been real.

So why is he still in his eleven-year-old body? This isn't how things happened. He should be an adult... Not that it really matters. He hadn't been able to do anything about it as an adult, anyway.

It occurs to him to try looking outside, to see if it really is his apartment building he's in. It vaguely occurs to him that he should go find Kayo, but he's a little afraid to leave. Indecisive, he sits on the floor in the hallway that leads from his door into the main room of the apartment where her body is. The landlady hasn't come and started screaming yet, though he expects her at any moment.]

Day 2-3, October 28-29 | hallways of the lower floors, the library | OTA

[Running away isn't the most graceful thing he could have done, but given the situation and how much he has to lose by telling the truth, he doesn't feel too bad about it. It feels oddly like the few days he'd spent homeless, except that he's inside a mansion with everything he could ever need to survive, and he's still a child.

He isn't really trying to sneak around, but still jumps whenever he actually happens on another person, usually with a quiet shout of surprise.]

Day 4-5, October 30-31 | tea room, floor 5 | OTA

[After two days of acting like a paranoid hobo, Satoru resigns himself to his fate of truth-telling and finds a tea room in which to sulk. He sits in a chair and drinks coffee and tries not to meet anyone's eyes.]

Grumble, grumble. He knows that already! If this guy does too, he's gonna die too.

With a disgruntled huff, the boy tries to grab Tim's hand to take him back out of the woods. No need to something completely stupid.

Don't look back.

[ it'll only replay itself again. she'll only see the beginning of it, the fear that overtook him, his father's face smashed in by lashes of an arm of metal. he realizes he aches for his mother; but she doesn't ever know her. still, he's not about to let her watch someone who's been a giant dick but also her friend die again.

he turns his back to his parents, to steve rogers and barnes and he walks outside. the memory is already playing itself out ( but one which crumbles from within, that's dead, forever - ).

he closes the door once she's out. ]

seriously, usually when someone knocks and isn't answered, it means stay out it's -

[ he leans a hand on the door frame. ]

come on.

[ and then he's walking. out, if he can. to get some fresh air. to get away from a conversation he knows will bound to happen. ]

There he is!

[A dark haired man runs full-tilt down a corridor, but even as light as his armour is, it still seems to be slowing him down. In pursuit are three soldiers, likewise dressed in armour, but moving at a much faster pace. On closer inspection, the pace of the fleeing man is shown not to be due to the way he's dressed, but the heavy bag he's holding in front of him. Evidently, he didn't even have the time to throw it over his shoulder.

Nathaniel is somewhere he shouldn't be, and a good amount younger than anyone in Wonderland would have remembered seeing him. Almost ten years younger with his face filled with hurt and anger, he bursts through a heavy wooden door, out into a large, moonlit courtyard. He almost reaches the gate before he's caught, before a deftly fired arrow interrupting his bee-line path towards his escape forcing him to dodge and giving the soldiers chasing him the opportunity to close the distance. They tackle him to the ground, and he lets out a volley of curses that would put a Rivaini pirate to shame. Kicking and swearing, he's dragged back to the fort behind him.

The memory ripples, and the next moment refocuses on the inside of a jail cell. Nathaniel, now subdued but no less angry-looking, sits on the floor while a young woman speaks to the man on guard. Hatred is written across his face, almost tangible as he looks at her. As the cell door is opened, he stands.]

If it isn't the great hero, my father's murderer. [He spits out.] Aren't you supposed to be ten feet tall? With lightning bolts shooting out of your eyes?

[A conversation begins, and the memory begins to fade to nothing, before restarting from the beginning again. No matter what, the young man is always caught, and he always ends up in the cell.]

[Nathaniel doesn't try to change what happens in the memory now occupying his room, and he doesn't even stay to watch the end of the first cycle. The door is left unlocked, though, while he makes his way to the kitchen and doesn't move there for some time. He plays a card game that looks remarkably like solitare while he sits there, mostly ignoring the people who come and go as the hours pass. What had been shown as the worst time in his life so far... had not been what he had expected. Eventually, whatever is playing on his mind gets the better of him, and he slams his hand down forcefully on top of the cards, sending several fluttering down to the floor. He stills, then leans back in the chair and sighs slowly, rubbing his temple.

Sometimes, he goes back to the room, but doesn't go inside. Otherwise, he helps people to settle outside of their rooms where he can and restlessly wanders the corridors, looking distracted.]

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Page 5 of 201

It may very well be the worst thing that's ever happened to you! | OPEN MINGLE

no subject

Maya Hart

sixth floor, 036

Dan Palmer

FLOOR 02; ROOM 10

OUT AND ABOUT

Evelyn O'Connell | OTA

antagonizing strangers outside their trauma rooms

Floor 2, Room 10

Floor 1, Library

no subject

no subject

Dorian Gray | OTA

no subject

Re: Floor 1, Library

no subject

003; Third Floor (CW: Violence)

Elsewhere

no subject

Satoru Fujinuma

Nathaniel Howe

no subject

no subject

FLOOR 04; ROOM 40

OUT AND ABOUT