come_sailaway | i tried ( memshare event )

Entry tags:

i tried ( memshare event )

Who: clarke griffin & your poor unfortunate soul
What: memories, all alone in the moonlight
When: all of march
Where: wherever you least expect a rift in reality to open up. also space, mount weather, earth...
Warnings: general warnings for blood, violence, murder attempted or completed, genocide, maybe even gross body farming. specific prompts will have their individual warnings listed in the body of this post and any additional ones will be noted in subject headers.

CHILDHOOD ( open )
— enjoy the little things, like watching a kid commit the stupid crime of touching books. no warnings here.

SKYBOX ( karkat, number 6, & open )
— did you know clarke was in prison for a year for treason? conspiracy to commit treason? eh, best summed up as "to keep her quiet". well now you can find out! bonus points, she thinks she's hallucinating. cw: probably some dead dad/execution talk and mention of mild eugenics themes, this is dystopia space after all.

D(ropship) DAY ( rita & open )
— when 100 kids are pretty certain they're about to be prematurely executed, one or two's likely to fight back. abby griffin cameo! cw: see above warnings.

QUARANTINE ( darcy, palamedes, & open )
— witness clarke gone absolutely feral, and her first escape attempt from ~~body harvesters she doesn't know are body harvesters yet~~ mount weather. cw: some self harm, blood, violence, potential body horror depending on how the thread goes.

LEVERS ( open but requires plotting )
— join clarke in committing a genocide! cw: genocide!! (also mentions of torture and body farming) this can also partially serve as a cinematic experience for your character, but please respond with some sort of reaction just so i know who saw it.

AIRLOCK 5 ( semi-closed to natsuno, but hmu ooc if you're interested )
— no one likes being faced with their demons. but sometimes those demons set up creepy music boxes and lure you into watching your friends being murdered. cw: violence, attempted (or successful! threads of fate can be changed) murder

THE CITY OF LIGHT ( open )
— when you show an a.i. a picture of the greater metropolitan new york, but she cleans it up and also makes it a hivemind that you have to infiltrate. cw: violence, some creepy hivemind shit, will warn further for anything else.

AFTERMATH ( open )
— your all purpose aftermath wildcards! wanted a memory i mentioned in the plotting post but it didn't make the cut? still available upon request! request starters or throw up your own

Threaded | Flat

( aboard the ark there are twelve stations. and this is alpha.

it's still a time-worn mess of spaceships mashed together in an attempt to survive the end of the world, but the expansive viewing deck you've just stepped into out of the rift is relatively well maintained. it's an open space, with large windows paneling almost the whole far wall and beyond that? the stretch of space. jet black nothingness pinpricked with a few stars, the swirl of still-distant cosmos, and the green or orange hue of planets. they're rotated away from earth currently, but the bright white of clouds on the ground still reflect of the metal various solar arrays and the prominent ring shape of the go-sci station. the lights are low but certain features are still easy to make out.

there's a podium with a bonsai tree on it. a large plaque of metal that seems displayed as if in memorial, but the writing is too small to see without going right up to it. there's a cylindrical glass case between the two, lit from beneath and casting shadows over ancient — well worn but well preserved — books. actual books.

the rest of the wing is mostly empty, like it might serve as a mingle spot for the masses. or... a certain subsection of the masses. the higher class.

but only mostly. because there are, in fact, two small figures crouched beside the book case. just children, really. they're somewhere around the age of seven, dressed in shapeless, worn fabric that looks like it's been cut and restitched from larger garments. they're knelt on the ground, a thin tablet illuminated between their knees, but they're not focused on reading the text it displays.

there's a very heated, hushed discussion happening here that you just happen to stumble upon. )

This is a bad idea.

Did you get the code from your dad or not?

We could get floated for this.

No one's going to float us. We're just kids. ( ...the little blonde girl pauses, and very visibly second guesses her previous self assurance. she brings a hand to her mouth and starts to chew on a nail. ) I mean, we're not going to get caught.

( and the little boy just sighs and shakes his head. ) We should just study for the play.

Wells — please? There could be pictures in there, I just want to know what they looked like...

( you are in a room.

it's stark and grim, in a way that screams sterile confinement but poorly maintained. white paint is chipped off the wall in some space. a red blanket and grey pillow are haphazardly draped across an outcropped bed that's been welded into the wall, and the small lights inlaid in the wall are off. it's only a glow from above that lights the bathes the whole room in a luminous sort of white-blue light.

there is a window in the ceiling that showcases nothing but the deep darkness of space, dotted with stars too bright to be viewed from the ground, and slowly rotating on axis until you see the cusp of a planets edge — bright white clouds, deep blue water, an occasional splattering of green if you squint. that's earth. for those who've never lived on a space station before, the hum and whir of the ships engine probably sounds like a dull roar. the hiss and pump of life support through vents is loud and cold; the air is stale and there's not enough of it to comfortably draw in a full breath.

the walls are absolutely covered in charcoal sketches. scorpions, and the pyramids. the chrysler building and leaves. a trout fish. acorns still attached to twigs. dandelions, lilies, and a large deer. ancient ruins. most look like they could almost be photocopies out of some sort of earth anthology book, but there's inconsistencies in the shading and proportions that speak to creative liberty and an artist still learning.

and there's a girl, prone on the ground but beginning to stir. she seems to have fallen asleep on the floor, indifferent to the cold, hard tile and awkward positioning. she's blonde, dressed in well worn dark pants and a blue shirt that's seen better days and plenty of previous owners. and as she picks up her face, still pressed with lines of sleep, you may recognize a slightly younger clarke griffin. the last vestiges of babyfat on her cheeks, a whole lot less worry lines across her forehead. none of those perpetual bags beneath her eyes, and she looks upon this new stranger with none of the guarded defenses her future self wears on board the serena eterna. )

...oh.

( she seems surprised, but not... scared. possibly because you look or are dressed so far out of her definition of normal that perplexing is taking the forefront of her thoughts. and your sudden appearance almost seems to make a quiet sort of sense, which she sort of goes on to explain with the quiet rumbling hoarseness of someone who hasn't spoken to another person in a long time.

it's been six months of solitary confinement, and — )

I thought I'd last longer before I started hallucinating.

( from a random hallway on the ship to a hallway.

or rather, a series of levels bordered by railings, and a several story drop below if one were to look over the edge. row after row of doors, accented with a faded red-orange paint and cabin numbers. and the whole setting is alive with an organized sort of chaos. men and women glad in black are hauling kids from the age of twelve to seventeen out of their rooms, ushering them down the walkways to an undetermined location. there's a lot of unanswered questions being shouted — where are you taking us? what is this? get off me! — distant calls for bracelets, and the occasional hum of a shock baton being brandished as a threat.

much closer is the sound of confusion. )

N — no, it's not my time. I don't turn eighteen for another month.

Hold out your right arm.

( turned resistance. )

Just check my file!

Your watch.

No, it was my fathers.

( turned outright scuffle, as the zap of a shock baton goes off and and the commotion of bodies colliding and falling emanates from the cell directly to your right. and all of a sudden, out bursts a seventeen year old clarke griffin. her hair is braided over on shoulder and she's still wearing the ratty black pants and grey-blue sweater from six months earlier. she catches herself on the railing and seems to gaze in horror out across the way for a few seconds before the other guards rally and try to flank her. ) Prisoner 319! ( one shouts, and clarke turns to hecking bolt before another voice calls out — ) Clarke, stop!

( this one belongs to a woman in a long navy coat. she has brown hair and brown eyes, appears somewhere in her early 40's and speaks with the air of command that causes the guards to freeze, and clarke to turn around almost instantaneously. )

Mom? ( the overwhelming emotion on clarke's face is fear. fear of the men dressed in black, fear of the unknown, fear of the overstimulating amount of sound around them as more juvenile delinquents are rounded up with a bit of a fight. and she stares at abby griffin like a scared child in need of a hand to hold while their entire world crumbles. )

Mom, what's going on? What is this? ( abby pushes in, holds up a hand to stave off the guards coming up behind clarke's back, and embraces her daughter. a hand on the back of her head, the other pressed tight between her shoulder blades. but she says nothing yet, and clarke figures out her own answer. whimpers it into her mothers hair as she looks briefly at you, then down the hall as teenage boy is shoved roughly from his cell. )

They're killing us all, aren't they?

( again, from a hallway on board the serena eterna to another hallway.

this one is made of thick stone, covered over with the same bleached tiling of a hospital. everything is white, and it smells of high grade disinfectant. there's hand sanitizer dispensers next to each room, and small workstations with vials upon vials of blood, transfusion i.v. bags, and paper charts. stamped on the wall in worn lettering are the words MOUNT WEATHER QUARANTINE WARD. the doors are numbered with little plaques beneath the porthole windows set with reinforced glass.

and the one to your right is standing wide open. room 302-4. you can see inside just enough to tell the inside decorations are stark white, but full service. there's a bed, a couch, end table sink, toilet, privacy curtain in the corner. even a large ornate painting that screams of being an original degas. you can't see more than a hint of who's inside, but there's the distinct swish of blue ppe and the sound of a pressurize nozzle spraying. that's where the smell of cleaning solutions is emanating from, and that's probably what your eyes should be drawn to first.

but the real surprise is going to come from the door on your left, room 302-5 as suddenly the window busts out with a crash, and the flash of a long metal rod which was used to bust it. quick as it happened, the dismantled i.v. stand withdraws and an arm sticks out among the jagged bits of glass. contorts downwards to undo the lock on the outside with the very tips of fingers. then the hiss of a girl and the scrambling hand recoils. blood drips generously from the broken window, violently red against the white backdrop. briefly, you hear the occupant gasp in pain and breathe heavily, but then the handle turns and she steps out properly.

in this memory, clarke griffin is also dressed in all white. the shirt is sheer enough to see the white of a sports bra beneath it, the shorts stop just above the knee, she's barefoot, and from armpit to knee on her right side has already become a smeared mess of blood spatter. near predatory, she is absolutely fixated on the person in the blue hazmat suit in the room across from her and quickly drops to her knees to pick up a sliver of glass.

and it's only then that she notices the third party. who is standing way too close not to be deemed the more viable threat. there's a pause as feverish blue eyes scan the stranger from head to toe, a sharp intake of breath as surprise and urgency war within her. the odds of a one-on-one no longer seem like they're in her favor, but there's no stopping now. she needs to find monty, she needs to find all of them. and so —

welcome to the ground. welcome to mount weather. you are pretty immediately shoved up against the nearest wall, barely avoiding spilling dozens of specimen vials, and a sharp piece of glass finds its way to the underside of your chin, already smeared with blood. she brings their faces close, errant strands of blonde hair sticking to the sweaty edges of her cheek and catching in the spit-damp corners of her mouth. nose to nose, eye to eye, and absolutely growling: ) Where are my friends?

( the trouble with memory is that it's a fickle thing, and can be clouded by emotion and hurt. one second you're outside a door. a dark haired boy is fiddling with a tech-lock he's ripped out of the wall. a taller young man is dressed in a beige guard uniform. clarke griffin is staring down an old man while they wait for the door to open. )

Deliverance comes at a cost, ( dante wallace tells her. ) I bear it so they don't have to.

( you are neither noticed nor able to get a word in edge wise.

—

the next second, like blinking in time with your heartbeat, you're inside a room. it's dark save the light of the surveillance monitors. a particularly large screen on the side wall shows a young woman strapped to a table. there's no audio, but that isn't necessary to convey the depths of human suffering when one's being drilled down to the marrow while still alive. raven reyes' limbs shake and contort as much as they can against the leather restraints, her mouth an open wound of it's own as she screams silently. bellamy blake is at dante's back, monty green is seated at a control panel, and brings up the largest monitor with a video image of cage wallace for all to see. you're somewhere in the shadows, removed and unable to intervene. and clarke has a radio in hand.

it crackles and barks: ) This is President Wallace.

I have your father. And if you don't let my people go, I'll kill him.

( cage falters. but recovers. ) How do I know you have him?

( and with a frustrated sort of obliging, clarke holds the handheld receiver to dante's mouth. with disappointing results. ) Stay the course, Cage.

( the younger man on the screen looks like he's going to be sick, but forces himself to speak at the behest of his father. )

You won't do it.

You don't know me very well. This ends now. Release my people.

( ... ) I can't do that.

( it'd mean the end of our people, the old man starts to say. but again, memory is fickle. time jumps imperceptibly, and clarke has gone cold; a step between hyperventilating and growling into the receiver when she says: )

Listen to me very carefully. I will not stop until my people are free. If you don't let them go, I will irradiate Level 5.

( dante wallace is on the floor, a bloody swatch on his shirt just to the right of center mass. tunnel vision sets in, and the whole scene narrows right before your eyes.

—

on the screens are the beginnings of the end. one showcases a series of beige bedecked guards closing in on octavia blake in all her grounder warrior glory. ) They've got to get out of there, ( says bellamy.

on another monitor, clarke's mother is now on the drilling table. the door to the control room gongs, and they can see a man attempting to kick it down. ) He's here.

Jasper. They caught him. ( monty sounds breathless, even as he types furiously on the keyboard. but in moments his fingers still and clarke snaps: ) Why are you stopping?

Because I did it. All we have to do... is pull this. ( he points just in front of him, at a lever set into the desk. ) Hatches and vents will open, and the scrubbers reverse pulling in outside air.

He's going to blow the door. ( bellamy again, as emerson kneels outside the door with a rucksack of explosives. he pulls a gun, and monty stands up to look at her fully. )

Clarke, we're out of time.

( and for as much as she hadn't wanted this, she leans over and puts her hand on the lever. )

( this memory wormhole probably looked just like any other, but on the other side is a raging sort of chaos. )

Beg me to stop it. I told you to beg.

I'm begging you —

LOUDER!

Please!

( there is a door to an airlock pretty plainly featured, glowing an ominous sort of red as eight young adults thrash against bondage and asphyxiation within. a low warning alarm blares in the background. two figures stand outside of airlock 5: an adult man, hunched around the shoulders of a young blonde woman, with his arm tight around her neck and a gun digging into the side of her jaw. all you can see are their backs, but might still be able to recognize a voice.

maybe you can strain to hear the younger female choke out — )

Aaron wouldn't want you to do this.

( but no straining necessary to hear the man scream with a guttural sort of rage: ) YOU DON'T SAY HIS NAME!

( then the chaos doubles, and a lot seems to happen at once. the teenagers behind the reinforced glass are growing quiet. the ones standing are sinking down to their knees and just hanging from their restraints; the ones seated are lolling their heads as if fighting off sleep. and clarke griffin is taking advantage of carl emerson's fit of emotion to rear back and hit him hard in the face. he stumbles backwards, drops his gun, and she makes a break for the nearby hanging control box. but he's on her again almost instantly.

gets an arm around her stomach, tosses her to the ground like little more than a rag doll, then falls on his knees to haul her off her stomach and slam her on her back. there's a thump of impact, and a crack of her skull meeting the steel plated floor. the whimper clarke lets out sounds like it hurts as her lungs forcibly let out air. but she gets no chance to scream past that, as emerson straddles her torso, pins her elbows with his knees, and wraps both hands around her neck. looms over her. squeezes. starts roaring loud, unintelligible groans like an animal in pain.

the alarms continue to drone in the background. )

( and this time, a full city. dark and sleek and grey; a proper metropolitan area right out of 2030, but for the moment it's relatively quiet. a soft spitting of rain hits like a cold mist; the steam bubbling up from beneath manhole covers. you come to consciousness in the middle of a two lane roadway, just outside the dark transit tunnel. no cars are coming, and for a second the whole place will seem eerily empty.

but there's is life. you can hear the hustle and bustle of people walking and chatting, even a distant honk of a horn or screech of bus tires on wet asphalt. walk a block or two over from where you started, and you'll eventually round a corner into a slowly gathering crowd.

all of whom look just your normal run of the mill civilians. starkly at odds with any other memories, but the people here are dressed in typical fashion; beige trench coats, green rain jackets, red scarves. beanie hats and baseball caps. shoes ranging from sneakers to boots to high heels, and none look like they could have been salvaged from 100 year old hand-me-downs. even the occasional leather jacket screams of a stylized look, instead of a war garment. there's an inconsistency here or there in this pretty portraiture of society; men and women with warrior tattoos, but not a genetic mutation or battle scar in sight. but it's still just a city. no one is fighting, people are waving at each other pleasantly and drinking coffee or eating ice cream without a care in the world.

— and then there's clarke. she's standing in the midst of the crowd, but ignored even as she approaches a boy sitting on a red bench. )

...they can't see me, ( you might hear her say if you get close enough, suddenly at ease with the idea of being alone in a crowded street.

a little wind picks up. clarke looks up as if responding to her name and — yeah, you almost think you can hear it whispered on the breeze as well.

directly ahead of both of you, a pedestrian light is doing something a little strange... )

( the wildcard aftermath header. clarke will be perpetually Around and also Going Through It while grappling with any altered memories. big sad vibes, the opposite of talkative but willing to try. this also serves as a march catch-all; request starters or throw your own at will!

inb4circlejerk or discord server for plottings! )

Threaded | Flat