Midnight, not a sound from the pavement

[headandhand]

WHO: All residents of Dualis + special guest stars
WHAT: Strap in, kiddos, it’s a ~memshare~
WHERE: In your head. Or, you know. Everywhere you go to escape that.
WHEN: August 15-24
WARNINGS: Don’t forget these if they’re applicable!

It’s been a few months, Dualis, how are you settling in? New arrivals, we know it’s sudden, but we hope you’re making new friends already and settling in well! You’re all gonna fit in juuuust fine around here.

Things have calmed down after the supposed terrorist attacks during the Dualis Days celebration, and there’s still no news about that strange network broadcast. But maybe that’s for the best, right? See, the Head really does have everything under control.

But speaking of heads…

Over the course of these next few days, yours might be feeling a little funny. Maybe you just aren’t quite feeling like yourself. Or there’s an ache that just won’t quite go away. Or maybe you’re perfectly fine! Which is completely optimal, honestly.

Except--that memory you suddenly have. Is that really yours? And what about those fainting spells that seem to come with premonitions...or are you perhaps remembering something you repressed long ago? You’d probably remember something like this, though, wouldn’t you?

It’s perfectly natural to be concerned. However, if you approach your friendly neighborhood MedBot or clinician, they’re going to be pretty stumped. It appears there's nothing really wrong with you, but hey, here's some mild painkillers if you want them. And if you try and consult the Head, all it’ll be able to do is give you it’s most sincere condolences. It seems that there may have been some complications with the transfer process, but these should definitely wear off soon! In the meantime, why not visit your local clinic for a sedative and some painkillers?

Good luck, denizens. Looks like you’re in for a bumpy week or two...

[[As a reminder, these memory shares can happen at any point in time during the span of the event, not just when your characters are sleeping! You're also welcome to have them experience no side effects at all, all the way up to fainting spells and headaches a la Cordelia circa season 2 of Angel. Feel free to reach out to your friendly neighborhood mods if you have any questions!]]

Comments

jaybirb.

[scathefires]

youth without youth, born without time } no cw.

[scathefires]

"This is the best day of my life!"

would i die for you? well, here's your answer in spades } cw blood, fire, teen death.

[scathefires]

The scene opens on a half-empty warehouse; the sound of something heavy being slammed with force into something soft echoes against the walls. A man with green hair and a purple suit and what looks like clown makeup but isn't stands, grinning, over a dark-haired boy, sixteen years old, hands bound behind his back, barefoot but dressed in a caped uniform of red and black with a yellow circled R over his heart. A tattered black domino mask sits over the boy's eyes, obscuring part of his face, but if you look closely and know what you're looking for, it's not hard to make out that this boy is Jason. The man holds a crowbar in his hand, and when he swings it at the boy's face, knocking the boy to the ground, you'll recognize it as the same sound from before, metal impacting against flesh and bone, and you might guess that this lunatic has been beating the boy to a bloody pulp for a while now.

"Wow," he says, entirely too jovial, "that looked like it really hurt." The boy is in obvious pain, struggling to breathe, coughing up blood, but somehow, he manages not to scream or cry out every time he takes a blow, and despite the assault, he keeps trying to climb to his feet, to fight back. The crowbar comes down on him a few more times, and he falls to the ground again, teeth clenched in pain and determination and defiance.

"Whoa, now, hang on! That looked like it hurt a lot more." The man stands menacingly over the boy, nonchalantly bouncing the crowbar in his open hand. "So, let's try to clear this up, OK, pumpkin? What hurts more? A?" He swings downward, driving the crowbar into the boy's body. "Or B?" Another swing, another hit, another quiet grunt of pain from the boy on the ground. "Forehand?" - another hit - "Or backhand?" - and another, and another, until he pauses, doubled over in a fit of deranged laughter.

The boy turns his head up to his attacker and whispers a few words, too quiet to be heard. The clown-faced man crouches close to the ground, over the boy's beaten body, and holds a hand up to his ear. "A little louder, lamb chop," he stage-whispers, "I think you may have a collapsed lung - that always impedes the oratory." He ruffles a gloved hand through the boy's hair, and the boy spits a mouthful of blood in his face, which he doesn't expect, and slams the boy's head into the concrete before standing up to produce a handkerchief from inside his suit jacket and wipe the blood away.

"Now that was rude. The first Boy Blunder had some manners." The boy on the ground turns his face up and flashes the man a snarky smile, pleased with what little resistance he's been able to offer. "I suppose I'm going to have to teach you a lesson so you can better follow in his footsteps." The man pauses, making a show of thinking over his options, then continues, grinning wickedly: "Nah. I'm just gonna keep beating you with this crowbar!" He slams his foot into the back of the boy's head, erupting into a long fit of maniacal laughter while he resumes brutally beating the boy with the crowbar.

This goes on for some time. Eventually, the boy goes still, face down on the floor, eyes closed. It's difficult to tell if he's still breathing, but his assailant seems either satisfied with the result of his handiwork or bored with the lack of continued response, and he tosses the crowbar aside, heading toward the exit, grabbing a heavy winter coat as he makes his way to the door.

"OK, kiddo, I gotta go. It's been fun, though, right?" He turns to glance over his shoulder at the motionless boy on the floor, who doesn't answer. "Well, maybe a smidge more fun for me than you - I'm just guessing, since you're being awful quiet." He pulls the coat on, tugs it into place, and continues his mocking, one-sided conversation with the boy. "Anyway, be a good boy, finish your homework, and be in bed by nine. And hey! Please tell the big man I said ... hello." He pulls the fur-trimmed hood over his head and laughs again, the same broken, gleeful sound as before, and slams the door shut behind him.

Maybe that should be the end of it, but it's not - once the door is shut and the danger gone, the boy rolls onto his back and kicks his legs up over his head, slipping his bound hands underneath his feet to bring them from behind him to the front. He pushes himself back up to his feet, breathing labored, swaying unsteadily, and takes a step toward the door, but falls straight to the ground again. Unflinching, he pulls his head up and eyes the door, then begins to pull himself along the floor, trailing blood after him as he goes. It's not a terribly long distance to go, but his injuries make every inch painful beyond words, and he doesn't rest until he reaches the door, raises his hands up to tug at the handle ...

... and it doesn't budge. Locked.

Dismayed, the boy still doesn't give up. He pulls himself up to sit with his back against the door, strategizing his next move. A soft ticking sound draws his attention to a counter on one side of the warehouse, red digital numbers ticking down from 10. In those few seconds, the expression on the boy's bruised face shifts from shock to acceptance, because he knows when that timer switches to all zeroes, he will die. There is no one to save him, and despite his best efforts, he cannot save himself.

A few short seconds later, the warehouse explodes, a storm of fire and debris. You don't need to see what remains of the boy to know he could not have survived the blast.

[doesnotsparkle]

[ One thing Michael always hated was violence towards children. Whoever that clown was he was a sick son of a bitch, and here Michael used to love clowns in his youth, but he luckily grew up far away from stories like John Wayne Gacy. Seeing the boy harmed by someone who looked worse than he did was horrible, but the point was it didn't take a few days for Michael to figure this one out. He was smart, he knew enough masks to piece it together.

When he did the first thing he realized was that Jason was stronger than he seemed, but also it explained why he seemed to sleep armed. That man was not one for pity, and Michael had so little pity, that boy clearly found his way back. Many people back home do to. All cats with nine lives.

So, the day after he realized it was Jason, he bought a pack of beer, and some snacks and left then by Jason's bed with a simple note saying.

I saw your death, I couldn't just ignore it this is the best I could think of. I do hope someone murdered that damn clown for you.

If that clown showed up here; Michael will eat a fucking clown. ]

[scathefires]

[it’s not the first time this particular memory has been publicly shown without jason’s consent, but at least last time the audience had been contained to nida, billy, and himself. now ... who knows how many people saw it this time. the entire population of the city, maybe? that would be just his luck, having his fatal failure put on display for everyone to see.

jason isn’t happy about it, but he can’t be angry at his roommate for the gesture of kindness left for him. it’s unexpected, and it makes him feel as strange as it had when billy gave him a tearful hug at the temple, back in the village. how is sympathy for what befell him so easy for strangers to part with when it was seemingly impossible for bruce?

he decides to wait until michael returns to their room before touching the gift. he’ll wait as long as he needs to.]

[doesnotsparkle]

[ Michael was always out at strange hours, he had an odd social life for someone who tended to keep to himself. He was rarely if ever asleep but often just sitting off in a chair reading, even by a book light as to not bother his roommate when he was actually trying to sleep. The longer he was vampireish the less he needed sleep. Which sucked, there was a lot of hours in the day.

He was making his way in, rather late, his shirt already untucked and unbuttoned for the most part, how he unbuttoned that shirt so fast without ripping it with those claws who knew. But, he made his way in, not expecting Jason to be awake or home really, his eyes on the open book in his hand as he made his way in, towards the bed to drop his bag on the bed only then noticing Jason, and actually jumping a bit. ]

[scathefires]

[jason remains still for another few seconds after he’s sure his roommate has seen him curled up on the opposite bed. he’s had time to consider how he wants to approach this, but it still takes him a moment to settle on the words he’s chosen.]

If you’re gonna shell out for beer, you gotta help me drink ‘em, too - them’s the rules. [wait a sec - sorta-vampire here.] Can you still drink beer?

[doesnotsparkle]

While on one hand he could have just messed with Jason at his question instead he simply sighed, and finished pulling his jacket off to toss it on the bed too before turning to the younger man.

Yes, Jason, I can still drink anything, I may eat whatever I wish as well. Shall I perhaps explain what living vampire means over the drinks?

[ He offered finally fully addressing Jason.]

i come with knives, with agony, to love you } cw mildly suicidal behavior.

[scathefires]

"Does it make it easier for you to think that my little dip in his fountain of youth turned me rabid? Or is this just the real me?"

"I'm not talking about killing Penguin, or Scarecrow, or Dent - I'm talking about him. Just him! And doing it because - because he took me away from you."

Waiting Outside of Jason's Room

[skyward_eyes]

This isn't the first time Nida's had to experience Jason's memories. And of course, of course it would have to be with Joker again. It would have to be the man who killed Jason. And honestly? What tiny bit of respect he might have had for Batman? It's gone.

Because Nida? He would have shot the fucking Joker himself. And that was how he'd felt before. Now? Now he'd probably drag it out a bit more. Which isn't what he wants to say. What he wants to do is stop this stupidity. Nida's stupidity. He doesn't... He doesn't want to be another part of Jason's family who failed him.

So he waits. Even brought take-out so he has an excuse to be there. Waiting. Trying not to pace.

[scathefires]

Nida doesn't have to wait long - Jason walks up the hallway to his door about ten minutes later. He's finished his shift at the library, reading stories to small children, and he figures maybe a nap, some food, and then he'll go run the rooftops, see if there's any trouble to be found. If not, at least some fresh air and exercise.

He's not expecting to find Nida on his doorstep, and he gives his brother a questioning look as he strolls up to the doorway. "Nida. What's up?"

[skyward_eyes]

Seifer doesn't cook every day, which means every now and then they have to fend for themselves. Not often, but sometimes.

He bites his lip before picking up the bag and holding it out.

"Rooftop dinner? I feel like I could use some height. And you're one of the people I know who can enjoy that with me. And... Well, I guess I wanted to talk some?"

[scathefires]

Jason's well accustomed to surviving on cheap takeout, so he doesn't bat an eye at the proffered bag. Things still feel a little strained between him and Nida, but Jason can recognize an olive branch when he sees one. He just hopes this talking isn't more of the same awkward and uncomfortable sort that's passed between them since the police station. Mouth pursed tightly, he nods.

"Sure." He points to the doorway that grants rooftop access via a flight of stairs. "What did you wanna talk about?"

[skyward_eyes]

Nida isn't used to using the STAIRS up. It's a bit of a novel idea. He grins and nods and heads toward the doorway, shifting the bags to a comfortable position in his hands.

"First, I wanna apologize. I got reminded for how stupid I was to do what I did. You've been through too much shit. And I'm a miserable brother. But I'm going to be better. And that starts with promising that I'm here in your corner. If... that's okay?"

[cadiastands]

It had taken Mira a while to find a gym that isn't trying to sell her dance classes or saddle her with small pink hand weights that "won't bulk her up." Why multiple gyms are teaching dance and a bizarre toddler's version of weight training instead of something useful, she has no idea and has chosen to chalk up as another mystery of life in a city outside the Emperor's protection.

The need to stay sharp had kept her searching despite her disgust, and she'd wandered into seedier parts of town where the inhabitants seem to place less emphasis on appearance, eventually finding a place with a sparring ring and more than one heavy bag. This lot still wouldn't know a fistfight if they woke up face-down and bleeding on the pavement--apparently refusing to use those ridiculous over-padded gloves makes her "hardcore"--but at least they're not afraid of a few bruises.

After so many nights of sleeping terribly in the grip of some new Warpcraft, Mira feels off her game in a way she hasn't in years, not even on Graia. Graia had been a disaster, but a knowable one, the sort of disaster she'd been capable of understanding, of reacting to in a fashion befitting an Imperial Guard officer. Nothing in Dualis makes sense. Xenos and psykers and people who don't even know enough of the Imperial Creed to count as heretics, and an AI sitting atop the entire wretched heap. At least exercise is something familiar and comforting.

"Damn, Nero, what'd the bag ever do to you?" another gym members asks, snapping her out of her reverie. "Might want to lay off until someone can tighten that down." He nods at the beam above the training bag, where one of the bolts securing it has started to come loose, and Mira realizes she may have been working out her frustrations a little too literally.

"Right." She smooths back the hair that escaped her ponytail. "I've got a lot on my mind."

"Remind me not to piss you off." He laughs. "I'll put up a note. You should get a drink and chill. You know how to chill, right?"

Not really, but Mira takes the teasing in stride. "I'm sure I can find instructions somewhere." She retrieves her water bottle and swigs from it, the room temperature liquid tasting faintly of plastic, which is still better than the iodine tablets they'd been using on Graia. Her knuckles smart despite the wraps, and she can feel the exertion in her arms and her core. A break might not be the worst idea, and she drifts towards the sparring ring, where a man about her age who strikes her as familiar is winning a bout.

He's actually fought before, the real thing, not sport combat with those idiotic gloves. She sees it less in the blows he lands than in the ones he skips, ignored openings where boxing rules would raise his score but place him in a vulnerable position if his opponent weren't to follow those rules.

The sense of familiarity nags at her. Certainly she might just be recognizing him from around the gym or perhaps the dorms if he's one of her unfortunate peers, but she doesn't think that's it.

When it hits her, it's almost literal. She knows his fighting style. She knows it because she remembers it, not from ever squaring off against him. From being him, at least for a few minutes, courtesy of whatever damned sorcery has them all in its grip.

"Oh, damn. It's you," Mira says, not noticing she's spoken until the words are out of her mouth.

there's no hero, there's no villain } memories from wonderland.

[scathefires]

cissie } the official welcome wagon; kumquat rain.

tim } a young whippersnapper; a punching bag that fights back.

(arkham knight) jason } cw discussion of death, torture, domestic violence } share with the class; comparing notes.

just give me a pain that i'm used to } memories from the village.

[scathefires]

steph } cw talk of death } the founding of the dead robins club, part one, part two.

cissie } reunion and new year's eve.

tim } guess who's back, back again.

i've never known your love } cw referenced drug use, depression, domestic violence, death.

[scathefires]

It’s late when you get home, but it usually is - not that your mother complains, because most of the time, she’s so far out of it, she doesn’t know what day it is, much less the hour. You’re used to being greeted by indifferent silence, not the typical pleasantries like Hi Jason, how was your day?, so that doesn’t strike you as odd when you return from a long day of hustling, taking tires off unattended cars and selling them for the funds that keep the two of you afloat - you and your mother. Catherine. You’re twelve years old and the man of the house ever since your father got locked up for good, so it falls to you to take care of her.

You can do a better job than Willis did; you know you can be better than your father. You’d never scream awful things at her like your father did when he was around. You’d never hit her, either - never. You know you can make her happy. You can make her love you, if you’re good enough, if you do all the right things. Maybe then she won’t check out for days at a time, doped up and dead to the world.

So you work, however you can - stealing, mostly, thank Willis for that - and you keep your mother’s dealers from coming around, armed with nothing more elegant than a baseball bat and the rage that burns deep in your heart, a fire that never quite goes out. You want to protect her from harm. Surely you can do that much. She’s your mother, and you love her. You imagine she loves you, too, in her own sad way, but you don’t ever ask her, because you couldn’t stand to be proved wrong.

You come home tonight and she’s not where she usually can be found - not in her room, not passed out on the couch or the bathroom floor. An icy panic seizes your heart - what if she left? What if you were such a disappointment of a son that she left you behind without a single word? Mom? you yell, and your voice echoes against the walls, but she doesn’t answer.

You race outside, toward the back alley, thinking that maybe you just missed her, maybe if she left, you can catch up and beg her to stay. You’ll do better to make her happy. You’ll do better to make her love you. You’ll be better, you promise, but your silent vows are useless, and you know it the second you see the shape of a woman slumped on the ground, back to the wall, red hair a curtain obscuring her face. Mom? you ask as you approach and kneel on the ground next to her, but she doesn’t answer. She doesn’t move. Mom! you say again, a little louder, a little more urgently - maybe she’s just passed out again and she’ll come around if she hears your voice.

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t breathe, and when you reach out to take her hand, rouse her from that all-too-familiar stupor, her skin is cold, her fingers stiff, and you know, you know that one of your worst nightmares has finally come true.

Your mother is dead, because you failed to save her from herself.

Your mother is dead, and as tears spill down your cheeks, you know that you are truly and completely alone.

[sociallychallenged]

It takes a bit of math to figure out who the memory belonged to, but not too much. Hank is sympathetic, though. He'd struggled to get rid of drugs on Detroit's streets; a battle that he at least made headway in. It wasn't a hub of criminal activity, and far less women were dying in back alleys from overdoses.

A lot less women like Jason's mom.

Drugs had done their damage. The man that nearly beat his android to death for fun was a dealer and user. The doctor responsible for his son's death was too high to perform the necessary surgery. And it seems like drugs had cost this young man his mother.

Hank's not certain of how to show his empathy or compassion about the situation, though. He just knows that he has to. So what does he do? Pizza. Remembering what Jason liked, he orders him a pizza. He doesn't know what room the guy is in, but he remembers his username. That's enough.

un: dpdhank

You hungry? Got you food if you're interested. Fifth floor kitchen.

[mrsarcastic003]

Tim would love to pretend that he didn't just get a whole headful of Jason's memories, but he generally feels like he and Jason have done enough trying to avoid the spaces the other occupies (not that they're necessarily trying to avoid each other, but they're not really seeking each other out either).

So, once the headache and double vision clear, he goes to find him. It helps that they live in the same building. It helps even more that Jason literally lives in the room above them. He waits until he's reasonably sure he'll be in, and then goes up. Window to window.

It will be really awkward if it's Jason's roommate that meets him instead, but that's not who he sees. He knocks at the window. Politely.

[scathefires]

Tim happens to be in luck - Jason's in at the moment and alone in the room, lounging on his bed and reading a tattered paperback checked out from the library where he works. The knock at the window is a little surprising, but he's known enough vigilantes and rooftop-runners to not find it too weird - especially since he's one of them. More surprising is the fact that it's Tim knocking at his window, but there must be a reason for it, right? With an expression of mild puzzlement, he pushes the window all the way up and waves Tim inside.

"You makin' house calls now?" he asks, equal parts amused and curious.

[mrsarcastic003]

"I thought I'd stop by, and the stairs seemed too boring, so..." He climbs in through the window, and pushes it mostly closed behind him. He and Jason have been in a decent enough place lately that he's reasonably sure that he won't get thrown through it, even if they do end up discussing sensitive subjects.

Progress is a wonderful thing, and we are not air conditioning the neighborhood.

"It's been an interesting few days around here, hasn't it? With the memory thing." He takes a breath before continuing. "I think I saw a few of yours."

[scathefires]

Damn, Tim, aren’t you supposed to be repressing all those feelings about seeing other people’s memories? Do you even Batboy? Anyway, that’s what Jason’s been doing, but he’s seen a lot, commented on little. He knows his own memories are making the rounds and it’s not terribly surprising that Tim’s seen some. Not surprising, but not exactly pleasant, either. His jaw goes tight, but he doesn’t move to attack Tim. Instead, Jason returns to the bed and sits at one end, legs folded up on the mattress.

“Yeah? Guess that’s fair - I think I saw a couple of yours, too.” He glances up at Tim with a thin, forced smile. “Lemme guess - you came for an apology?”

His tone’s teasing, because he’s trying to pass off everything about this weird experience as a joke. If it’s all a joke, then nothing can hurt him, right? Right. Jason looks away, rubs a hand over his mouth.

“You can sit down, if you want.” There’s plenty of spaces for it in the room, after all.

[mrsarcastic003]

Tim's been keeping most of his commentary to himself, too. It's one thing, knowing people are seeing what you thought was private, but it's another having to talk to strangers about it. He doesn't like knowing that other people have seen his memories, and he can't imagine it's any more comfortable for anyone else. Apparently it's too much to ask to have privacy in your own mind.

He grimaces a little at Jason's mention of seeing his memories--he can only imagine what he'd seen. People haven't been very forthcoming with him over what of his memories are out there, and while there's a part of him that finds that absolutely maddening (he prefers to have complete control over all of the information he presents to the world), there's a part of him that's almost glad. If he doesn't know what it is, and no one approaches him, maybe it doesn't exist. Maybe it's just that one memory of Bruce that Nida had seen. Damning, as far as secret identities go, but not as private as some of the other things he could think of.

He takes a seat in a chair at Jason's suggestion. They're getting better, but Jason's not Kon, or even Dick. They're nowhere near close enough to want to share physical space when also having what might be an emotional conversation.

"An apology?" He frowns. "Maybe. I'm sorry to have been part of invading your privacy." He knows it's not his fault that memories were forced into his head, but he still doesn't like it. "I also just wanted to talk about some of it. I saw a few memories from that Wonderland place that you and Cissie were talking about. I believed you, but seeing it for myself was something else."

[scathefires]

"No, I meant - you're here for an apology from me. Can't imagine anything you saw of mine was particularly pleasant." He shakes his head. "It was a joke, Tim. I know you don't have any control over any of this bullshit that's been going on. Neither do I."

Jason sighs quietly, picks up the book he'd been reading and tosses it farther down the bed. He'd rather not talk about his memories, of course, but he feels like maybe he owes Tim an explanation or two - especially if he has questions about anything he might've seen involving Jason and the Tim Drake from Wonderland. Jason nods.

"All right. What part did you wanna talk about first?"