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WHO: Ghost (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
badfeyth), Reno (astraphilia) , Johanna (keepgodwaiting) , Lestat (perfectdevil) , Alhaitham (justscribing) , and Kaveh (fussiest) .
WHAT: The "Monologue With The Moon" player plot!
WHERE: [emphatic shrug]
WHEN: 1/6/24
WARNINGS: Possible references to murder, violence, related dark themes, medical equipment, Omelas Kidâ„¢ Scenarios, shady institutions and their operations, etc.
You are standing in a nondescript, space-age sort of room; the walls are a silver metal so polished that you can almost see shadows of a reflection in it, and the floor is likewise sturdy and reinforced. There are two Star Trek-style sliding doors leading out of the room, one on the left wall and one on the right. Both are currently in open position, enabling you to see out into the corridor beyond; it looks pretty much the same out there as your surroundings in here. Maybe there are doors; you'd have to look closer to check.
Currently in the room with you is a pretty normal-looking wooden podium that's clearly seen some use (though in what ways, you'd have to look more closely at it to determine), and a very abnormal-looking escape portal that's just kind of floating in midair, definitely big enough for even a very tall human to walk through, but for the fact that it's behind an impenetrable forcefield. You're welcome to hurl yourself at this, hit it, whatever, all that you want, but unfortunately it ain't budging under any method currently available to you or your party.
Really, your circumstances look something like this:
The other thing you might notice is that your clothes have received a slight glam-up, in the sense that clipped to a pocket, lapel, belt loop, or other convenient area of your attire is some sort of ID card. That might be worth having a look at.
Speaking of having a look at things, maybe you ought to look around?
badfeyth), Reno (astraphilia) , Johanna (keepgodwaiting) , Lestat (perfectdevil) , Alhaitham (justscribing) , and Kaveh (fussiest) .WHAT: The "Monologue With The Moon" player plot!
WHERE: [emphatic shrug]
WHEN: 1/6/24
WARNINGS: Possible references to murder, violence, related dark themes, medical equipment, Omelas Kidâ„¢ Scenarios, shady institutions and their operations, etc.
You are standing in a nondescript, space-age sort of room; the walls are a silver metal so polished that you can almost see shadows of a reflection in it, and the floor is likewise sturdy and reinforced. There are two Star Trek-style sliding doors leading out of the room, one on the left wall and one on the right. Both are currently in open position, enabling you to see out into the corridor beyond; it looks pretty much the same out there as your surroundings in here. Maybe there are doors; you'd have to look closer to check.
Currently in the room with you is a pretty normal-looking wooden podium that's clearly seen some use (though in what ways, you'd have to look more closely at it to determine), and a very abnormal-looking escape portal that's just kind of floating in midair, definitely big enough for even a very tall human to walk through, but for the fact that it's behind an impenetrable forcefield. You're welcome to hurl yourself at this, hit it, whatever, all that you want, but unfortunately it ain't budging under any method currently available to you or your party.
Really, your circumstances look something like this:
The other thing you might notice is that your clothes have received a slight glam-up, in the sense that clipped to a pocket, lapel, belt loop, or other convenient area of your attire is some sort of ID card. That might be worth having a look at.
Speaking of having a look at things, maybe you ought to look around?
no subject
In a profound sense, Johanna knows, standing at the door of the library and looking around, this is like reading someone's diary. A deliberate act of invasion of privacy.
Still.
She goes over to sit in a beanbag, lets her eyes go unfocused, and just checks out the vibes. Lets the room tell her what it is. ]
no subject
It's such an interesting thing to think about, all those different worlds. Every one of them teeming full of people, real people. People with hopes and lives and dreams and stories, so many of them, all of them unique and different and special.
Once upon a time there lived twelve princesses whose father wouldn't let them do anything fun, but their shoes turned up danced full of holes every morning anyway, and it was because they had found themselves an escape, a magical door to a distant land where twelve princes waited for them every night and they danced and they danced until morning.
The commander is more watchful than an old father and anyway no one could ever sneak out without Arche knowing. Even the chance to go to a different world isn't worth getting Arche in trouble.
They have shooting stars in other worlds probably.
They have snow and grass and rain.
They have people and every person is a real person because every world is a real world and maybe, maybe, somewhere in one of those worlds is someone who dreams of meeting someone like her, like the princes waiting in the palace under the ground and across the sea every night for the princesses to turn up and dance.
Maybe someone is waiting for her. Maybe they're nice. Maybe they would like her whether she was useful or not. Maybe they couldn't even read or write and she'd be special for something else entirely. Maybe they would say, "It's you, you're the one I've been waiting for all this time, and I never knew."
That's such a terrible thing to think. She shouldn't think such terrible things. She shouldn't think such awful, bad, irresponsible things. Those aren't her worlds. Those aren't her people. She doesn't belong there. She can't go.
It's okay, though. It's okay. She is special and doing what she was born to do. Meta will never leave her. Arche will always be her friend.
Why would she ever need anything other than that?
And gradually, The Vibeâ„¢ fades away.]
no subject
Remember being oh, six years old, and watching the other kids scream and run on the schoolyard, and being too little to play footie and too mean to play tag and too poor to play dolls? And feeling there must be something deeply wrong, some language you spoke that they didn't, that kept you apart. Wishing you could make yourself understood, be part of the crowd. Resenting that none of them would make the effort to understand you, instead. Remember what it was like to be on the outside looking in?
What would it be like if you were denied anything to look into? What would you dream of?
This is a room where Ghost spent so much time dreaming and thinking and wishing that it's soaked into the carpet as surely as blood has soaked into Nym's office. Or, as Arche might say, it's a reasonable facsimile of a room that Ghost spent that time in, and so it's made of those dreams and wishes. Longing rises in Johanna's throat; she swallows thickly, feeling guilty.
This isn't helping them get out of here.
What is this doing?
After a few minutes, she rubs her eyes, hauls herself out of the beanbag chair, and goes to join the others again. ]