Feb. 1st, 2017

determinedest: (* Please forget about me.)
[personal profile] determinedest
[The last time they woke like this it was on a bed of golden flowers, silk-soft and the petals still crisp with a long-dead magic. They strain for a whiff of memory, the bittersweet cinnamon-sawdust-y scent of an old spell woven deep into the fabric of the atoms in the soil and worms and rocks.

...what? You didn't do that?


Once upon a time, a quiet voice murmured seven words to the squarish, boxy thing in their hands, fighting to keep the tremor from their tone as they intoned, evenly - I fell. I need a way back.

Once upon a time, two children scrapped in a hallway, a goose egg raised on their foreheads with forceful the collision of skulls. A Locket traded over, a contract burned and a new one writ into existence in the same instant. Once upon a time, there was a mansion that rose in stately silhouette, and memories fell from the sky in delicate filigrees of gold. A place where two children would scramble to claw into place a pair of lives that have long since fallen into disarray and dissolution, a Room 12 that swung between doubly occupied and wholly abandoned, just like the SOULs that resided within it. There are stories one can tell of stolen switchblades and careful bandages and words dipped in red, and the second chances promised to a pair of children who met with clasped hands at the edge of something broken and wished to repair it. There are stories of a pair of SOULs that hummed in tandem, of a scarlet tint and a gleam in their hearts, and the lion-hearted desire that no one else live the way they lived. They gained love and they gained LOVE, and at the end of it all, despite everything -

* It's still us.

A camera wobbles as it's steadied, positioned carefully on a table, facing the window of a room. There's a potted plant on the sill - forget-me-nots - and the curtains are half-drawn, leaving only a thin slice of opaque winter sky visible.

Immediately after, a small child scrambles into frame. They're wearing a hand-knitted sweater, and they've their instrument in hand, as always. Inevitably, they begin to play. There are no words to this melody, and thus the notes are much crisper, and it comes together with a clarity that the pieces they've played before have lacked thus far, a sense of polish and familiarity. It is, after all, a very familiar tune.

It sounds like Home.

Once they finish, they take a moment to run bandaged fingertips up the bridge of the instrument. Then they shoot a look at the camera, one reddish eye slitted open so they can smile.]


It's been a year.

[Their hair is longer, more unkempt. They've got bandages on their hands now, perpetually. They've got fresh scars along the lengths of their arms, some on their thighs. They've died twice over, once because of sickness and once because of a misplaced weapon and misplaced guilt, and they've watched friends filter into the world and then disperse once more like scattered motes of dust.

But they've got a sweater, and they have someone to teach them to play and care for their ukulele, and they have a sack full of candy. They have people who left them gifts when they were alone, who cared for their SOUL though it was dry and weary, and people who helped paint their room. They have people who offer hugs and moments of understanding and advice about the nature of the game they play and slices of butterscotch pie.

Above all else, they have - determination.]


Thank you.

[Thank you, Wonderland.

They thought they would be saying goodbye now. But it's not the end of the world.

So they won't blame themself.]
nextfate: (★ 28)
[personal profile] nextfate
t e x t
[ Jane doesn't want to potentially upset anyone, not when she knows there are so many people in Wonderland who are eager to go home, or don't want to be stuck here while slowly losing their memories. She's one of them. That's why she's anonymous. But she still wonders something, and it's been coming up a lot more. The only way to know if other people wonder the same things is to ask, right? ]

I've been wondering: people get upset about being here for a long time and losing all of their memories of home, eventually. Does anyone know exactly how long that takes?

Also, is there a specific reason why it matters?

(Other than the big thing, losing yourself, which I get is a huge deal.) But, in theory, even if you forget everything while you're here, as soon as you're home, you remember again. Who you are, where you're from. It all comes back and then it's Wonderland and all the people here you've connected with that you forget.

Right?

I guess I was just wondering if people are as passionate about the ones who would be stuck here in their wake, as they are about the people they miss at home that don't even know they're gone. I can tell you I don't know where I fall half the time.


[ No one's particularly missing her at home, so. ]

a c t i o n

[ It never feels like there's a specific place Jane wants to go in Wonderland when she's restless. Most of the time she finds herself wandering if she has no tattoo appointments, or tucked away somewhere sketching. For today, there's a little bit of browsing in the library (she picks up classic novels this time around plus two cookbooks) before she tucks herself in the main entrance of the mansion with her sketchbook after finding a comfortable, oversized chair. She'd thought to sketch the grand doors and the view from the windows, but instead, her mind has something else in store. The memory she has is fuzzy, but she's sure the person she's sketching is her brother. He has a scar, the same as the boy she remembered months and months ago, and the same as the man in the photo she received in her stocking. It gives her hope that she has a family out there somewhere, even if she doesn't know his name.

When she's done, she goes to the dining room and pulls out one of the cookbooks, flipping to random pages with food that seems worth trying. As she notes what looks good, the dishes appear in front of her until she has a full meal with ample portion sizes. Which prompts a (non-anon this time) text once again, hours apart from her original message with an image attached: ]


Anyone wanna come help me eat this food? Dining room. BYO fork.
beatupgrass: (✘ that's just bloodloss.)
[personal profile] beatupgrass
[what we have here is a view from Rocket's work bench- the communicator propped up against something, giving everyone a view of the various bits and bobs and the raccoonoid, himself, whose currently taking things apart and putting them back together as he talks.]

So I've been gettin' kinda bored lately, which, incidentally, is bad for everyone's health, if you get what I'm sayin'. [that might sound like a threat, but everyone who knows him well enough knows that he's... just talking about the dangers of his nasty habit of making bombs of varying danger levels and then setting them in the hedge maze to see how fast he can find and disarm them.

that poor hedge maze doesn't deserve that.]


So I figure... what the hell? The crap you get from the closets is just what it is- crap. Ain't got no finesse to it. If you want a real weapon, you gotta get it from an expert. Ergo a guy like me.

[he pauses to snip a few excess wires on the thing he's building.] Normally, I'd charge for this, but this stupid shithole don't got nothin' that resembles an economy, but I figure we can work somethin' out. Events get pretty hairy sometimes. I help you out, maybe you can help me out someday, and we'll call it square and we don't have to get all mushy about it.
nascensibility: I'm just gifted like that (liable to walk into anything and anyone)
[personal profile] nascensibility
NOTICE:

I would like to submit a formal, if belated, apology to all those who were inconvenienced by our last event1. It was from my world and no doubt had a discombobulating effect. If there are lingering queries, please direct them to me in the archival room located in the west wing of the library, first floor.

In news that is more favourable but tangentially-related: I am interested in the temporal demographics of those in residence here, as it has been some time since I last conducted a survey of this nature. I am myself from the year 1935, but as I understand it this fits into a very specific timeline from a very specific world, and there are other worlds with differing dating systems and dimension-specific technological innovations. This is not a formal study, but a personal inquiry to satisfy curiosity.

As always, I can be found in the stacks unless the day is particularly fine.

-E. O’Connell













1Said event consisted of (likely foreign and uncomfortable) early-20th century clothing in unforgiving Sudanese desert climes, a hazardous oasis with irritable locals, and frequent aural and visual disorientation.
shorthair: lonely bones come a calling (lonely shadows following me)
[personal profile] shorthair
[ Clementine debated a lot on whether or not she should use video or text. People see a kid, and they already feel a certain way about that. It might have them keeping some truths to themselves, and it's important that she get all the information she can for this article. It's a matter of life or death. These zombies end up in Wonderland? People will be dropping like flies unless they already know how to deal with it.

However, Georgia talks about truth a lot and how important it is, and the truth is Clementine's a kid who has lived through 2 years of zombies and an apocalypse. It's the truth, and she's been through plenty of shit because of it. She finally decides to do video. She's clearly seated in the library with a notebook at her side and a bunch of recording devices she's only just learned how to use.]


Hi, I'm Clementine. I'm an intern with After the End Times with Georgia and Shaun.

I'm writing a paper about people's zombies or walkers or whatever you call them in your world. If you have the dead coming back to life and trying to eat people, I want to know about it. I want to interview you about it.

I get I'm a kid, but I've already lived through some shit. [She winces. Cursing is probably not professional.] My world's had walkers for over two years.

Don't hold back with me. People will die if this shit's- [GAH] stuff's not right. This is how we can keep people safe when Wonderland gives us an event from one of our worlds. We gather the information. We share it. We teach people how to survive. Even if you come from my world, you might have some tips on survival that I don't know yet so I want to talk to you too.

We can talk here or you can meet me at the library. Georgia said she'd be checking in too so don't be surprised if she pops in on the interview since I'm still learning how to do this part.

action option )
smilethatbites: (heeeere kitty kitty)
[personal profile] smilethatbites
[The Cheshire Cat appears to be...underwater. Its fur is fluffed up and bubbles explode from its mouth as it fights its way up to the surface. Once it's there, it gives a rather undignified, irate yowl before paddling to the edge of the pool.

It heaves itself up onto the edge and takes a few steps, shaking each paw before putting it down. It looks quite disheveled as it sits down and begins to groom itself. Between licks, it speaks.]


I never was one for water, no. I just [Lick lick] can't get a taste for it.

[The Cat shoots a dirty look over its shoulder at the water and begins to evaporate, tail first. Then it looks at the camera of whatever device just...followed him out of the water and onto the edge of the pool.]

I doubt you could do any better.

[It twitches its whiskers just before it finishes disappearing. Its voice lingers after the rest of it is gone.]

Well, there's always the chance to try again. Just breathe.

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