THE THINGS I GAVE YOU.
» THE BANK — INTRODUCTORY NOTES
District 2 is open, bringing with it access to new and interesting locations—including the city's main bank branch. The bank is a large building with a stone exterior, wrought iron grating on the windows, and large, heavy metal doors that take surprisingly little effort to open, their hinges silent and well-oiled.
Early in the day on July 19, characters in the vicinity of the bank will hear first a low, metallic creaking sound from inside the building, like metal straining against metal. This is followed by the sharper noise of locks disengaging, and then the large, heavy doors on the front of the building swing open slightly, enough to let a person through.
Directly inside the doors is the bank lobby, and beyond that is the main banking floor, with elegant marble flooring and dimly lit chandeliers. It would appear that this was once the main commercial bank of the city, although it is now completely empty, with no tellers behind the counters and no cash in any of the drawers.
You may rifle through the tills and filing cabinets to your heart's content, but similar to the files in City Hall, there is no useful information to be found—all the papers are blank, or are empty forms without any personally identifying information. There are no monetary devices to be found either; this is, after all, not a city that operates on a cash system, so there are no coins or paper bills in any of the tills or, indeed, anywhere within the bank.
What you might be able to find, though, is a rack of delicate, burnished brass keys on a wall toward the back of the main banking hall. Each of these keys is attached to a stamped metal keychain bearing a name on one side and a number on the other. Some of these may be names you recognize, and some of them may not, but they are all names belonging to current residents of the city, and each key corresponds to a safety deposit box within the vault at the back of the building. Can you remember what you stored in that box for safekeeping? Maybe you had better go find out.
At the back of the main banking hall is a vault secured with a large circular metal door. The door is currently unlocked and propped open; it can be closed, but cannot be locked (intentionally, anyway) from either the inside or the outside. The vault contains row upon row of safety deposit boxes, each locked. Participating characters who are in possession of a key can open their own safety deposit box, but it is not currently possible to force open any safety deposit box that does not belong to them. After August 1, players will be able to use their safety deposit boxes to store their own belongings, and break-ins will become possible with prior player permission and appropriate consequences.
Below sections detail the safety deposit boxes for both choose-your-own-adventure players and randomized players! Please see the randomized matches for this event HERE.
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IT'S TRUE, PEOPLE TAKE THINGS BUT RARELY.
» SAFETY DEPOSIT BOXES — A SELF-GUIDED TOUR
For some of you, getting into your safety deposit box is quite straightforward.
You take your key from the rack behind the teller's counter and make your way back through the building and into the vault. It's cool inside, the temperature well-regulated and the air dry. On the walls are rows upon rows of safety deposit boxes, and it may take you a moment to find the one that corresponds to the number stamped on your key. Does that number mean anything to you? It may, or it may not.
When you find your box, it takes very little effort to open it. A slide of your key, a quick turn, and the safety deposit box's door springs open to reveal the metal container within. You remove the metal box from the wall and bring it over to the table in the center of the room, clearly placed there for this express purpose. Maybe there are others around, or maybe you're alone. Do you remember yet, what it was you put in here? Well, there's no time like the present to check.
You open the safety deposit box to find—something that shouldn't be there. It's yours, that much you're sure of, but you didn't bring it with you to the city. You reach into the box to pick it up, and the surge of memory is immediate, sending your mind back to your strongest memory associated with the item in your hand.
Then the vault door swings shut, trapping you inside with whoever else has the misfortune of sharing the vault with you right now. No matter what force you try, the door won't open again. There doesn't appear to even be a mechanism that unlocks the door from the inside, and from within several feet of metal and stone, no one on the outside will be able to hear you shout. It seems hopeless—how long can anyone last, trapped in a place like this?
Should you turn back to the open safety deposit box, you might notice a slip of paper resting on the bottom. The paper looks aged, like it's been in the box for quite some time, and in printed text it reads: "Nothing is yours. It is to use. It is to share. If you will not share it, you cannot use it."
Maybe it means you should let another hold the item you've retrieved from the box… or maybe it means you should share the weight of memory. Try to interpret the meaning in whatever way you can. But should you decide to unburden yourself, and share with someone else the weight of the item you're holding in your hands, you may find that there's a means of escape after all.
Once you free yourself from the vault, for the next several days you find yourself feeling rather honest, like you may not be able to stop yourself from confessing the truth about the item you now carry…
Characters who wish to participate in the event, but who do not wish to randomize the contents of their safety deposit boxes, can open their safety deposit boxes to find an emotionally significant item belonging to the character—player's choice as to what the item is. The only guidelines are that it should be small enough to fit reasonably in a pocket and may not have any magical or weapon properties. Similarly, players are able to choose the memories associated with the items in the safety deposit boxes. The vault door will remain closed until the characters in the vault explain to each other the significance of their items and the memory associated with them, at which point it the vault mechanisms will disengage and the door will swing open as if it had never closed to begin with. However, for the four days following the event, characters who carry their safety deposit box item on their person will feel oddly compelled to tell other characters about its significance and meaning.
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A CRASH-SITE IS SACRED, WE'RE FAITHFUL.
» SAFETY DEPOSIT BOXES — A JOINT VENTURE
For others of you, the contents of the safety deposit box may be considerably more disconcerting.
You also take your safety deposit box key from the rack behind the bank teller's counter and make your way back through the building and into the vault. It's cool inside, the temperature well-regulated and the air dry. On the walls are rows upon rows of safety deposit boxes, and it may take you a moment to find the one that corresponds to the number stamped on your key. Does that number mean anything to you? It may, or it may not.
When you find your box, it takes very little effort to open it. A slide of your key, a quick turn, and the safety deposit box's door springs open to reveal the metal container within. You remove the metal box from the wall and bring it over to the table in the center of the room, clearly placed there for this express purpose. Maybe there are others around, or maybe you're alone. Do you remember yet, what it was you put in here? Well, there's no time like the present to check.
You open the safety deposit box to find—wait, what is that? It certainly doesn't belong to you. Tucked inside the safety deposit box alongside the item is a slip of paper with another name on it, as well as a cryptic message: "Nothing is yours. It is to use. It is to share. If you will not share it, you cannot use it." The item isn't yours, but it does appear to belong to another resident of the city. Maybe your safety deposit boxes somehow got mixed up? It seems like it would be a good idea to find this person and return their property to them.
Whether you encounter the owner of the item in the vault or elsewhere in the city, when it comes time to hand the item over, two things happen. One—the doors are locked tight, refusing to allow either you or the item's owner out until you both understand what the item is and what it means to the other. To unburden your heart is the only way to free yourself.
And two—as the owner of the item explains its significance, you find yourself oddly captivated, resonating strongly with whatever emotion the item's owner most closely associates with it. You may not be able to see the memory that the other person describes, but you can certainly feel the emotions they felt—after all, the easiest way to unburden oneself is to share the load with another. Isn't that right?
Once you free yourself from your enthralled state, and once you have your own belongings returned to you, for the next several days you find yourself feeling rather honest, like you may not be able to stop yourself from confessing the truth about the item you now carry…
Characters who opted to randomize the contents of their safety deposit box during the plotting post, or who plotted a joint experience with another character, will open their safety deposit boxes to find a small, non-magical but emotionally significant item belonging to another player character in the city. They will need to find the owner of that item and return it to them—this can either be inside the bank vault or in another location within the city. Regardless of where the meeting takes place, the character holding the item will find themselves unable to leave until the character who owns the item explains its significance; as they do, the holder of the item will find themselves swept up in the emotional highs and lows of the memories associated with that item, allowing them to share all of the feelings, regrets, joys, griefs, and rages that the owner experiences in the telling. Additionally, for the four days following the event, characters who carry their safety deposit box item on their person will feel oddly compelled to tell other characters about its significance and meaning.
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WILDCARD.
The city is by no means small, and there are plenty of things for you to see. There's no rush in exploring, so feel free to take your time looking around and peering into various nooks and crannies and alleyways—and don't worry, you're not very likely to find anything peering back.
If none of the above prompts appeal, feel free to check out the Locations and Maps pages and write your own freestyle prompt using one or many of the available locations.
This month's event headers come from "The Things" and "The Gatherer," two poems by Brendan Constantine. The text of the paper slip comes from Ursula K. LeGuin's The Dispossessed.
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citylogs2023-07-19 08:45 pm
no subject
Unlike the far more straightforward sentimentality that belongs to a photo, for instance. One that he found within his lockbox instead, with a name attached, showcasing what he can only suspect is… well, a family. His eyes lingered on it, swept over it. That boy, was he a familiar face? It’s difficult for him to tell.
No need. The items will do the telling for them, so to speak, and as Weir skulks through the city proper, he eventually spies that same young man slip into the nearby laundromat. He is, of course, compelled to follow — if not to get this blasted thing off his hands, then at least verify that it isn’t the same young man he saw panicked in the kitchen, harrowed by his own mind.
And so, he enters.
And the doors slam shut immediately behind him, locking with a clack that resonates throughout the entire area. Weir doesn’t even know where Peter’s settled yet, he’s too busy being startled and whirring on his heel to eye the doors with deep suspicion, as though something might come crashing through to murder him in the next few seconds.]
Fuck.
no subject
But he stays quiet enough not to make any sound, nothing to draw attention to himself from the person he catches sight of — they quickly turn to face the door (which is shut now, which Peter doesn't like), giving the boy only a view of their back, not yet able to recognise the figure as the sharp-tongued man who'd sorted him through his upset not long ago.... No, for the moment he only sees "complete stranger", and Peter's panic is quickly rising. (.......Again. Sorry, Weir.)
The young man shakily gets to his feet, slowly moving towards the nearest wall so that he can press himself against it and stare wide-eyed over at the back of the person across the laundromat. There's literally no escape here, there's only one door and no places to hide, except—
—....Peter starts heading to the closest open round door, wincing hard as he tries to do this very quickly and very quietly. Which is to say, he is absolutely attempting to crawl into a washing machine.
He doesn't get very far, however, just one arm and some of his head shoved in, before his shoe pushes back against the floor and gives a loud squeak. ]
someone please help this boy
Too bad it doesn’t apply in this case.
Because the loud squeak of a shoe’s sole resonates just as loudly, if at a different timbre, than the clack of the doors locking, and it has Weir turning to see—
Well. Peter with a head and arm shoved into the washing machine like a rabbit trying to burrow away from its prey.]
Gods be, what are you doing.
[This is not helpful in aiding against Peter’s panic, probably, but he strides forward and closer, rounding near the young man. Assuming Peter hasn’t stuffed himself properly into the washing machine completely, the poor boy, Weir will grasp an ankle and tug at him to encourage him out of the bloody thing.]
I’m not going to hurt you, so get out of there.
[He can’t see his face yet, presumably, but he just assumes that yes. This is probably the same young man as before.]
I'm so sorry Weir is stuck in this room with this...... situation..............
Panic takes over, and the teenager's scrambling as much as he can, but everything's a rush of static and his body feels too heavy. Hard to move, fingers scratching against the inside of the washing machine but finding no purchase, nothing to grab ahold of, and then a hand's grabbing ahold of him instead.
Peter, inevitably, starts screaming. (And unfortunately for Weir, he also begins thrashing.) Long-limbed and aimless, his legs spasm: one knee bending, foot shooting backwards — the movement is awkward and fumbling, so it may be easy to dodge if the other happens to be quick enough... or else he might get the heel of a dingy Converse sneaker to the chest.
But since there's nothing to really hold onto inside the thing, Peter's pretty easily coaxed back out, at least. Even while thrashing around, he's sliding backwards, if not shouting the whole time. The reassurances fall on deaf ears, at least for the moment; every fibre of his being feels like he's about to be eaten alive. ]
don't be sorry i love peter; and i'm sorry for the wait on this, too!
Stop panicking again, boy.
[He says, likely not helping his cause when he’s doing his level best to yank him out of is hidey-hole. H should know better. How many times has he equated this young man to frightened prey? Of course he’d not react well to the equivalent of what his brain must interpret as a predator.
Too late now. He’s dragging the boy out until he’s out of the dryer, but after that, he lets gravity do the work, letting him go. He closes the door to the machine and looks down at him.]
You hiding places could use a bit of work. […he says, over the screaming. Good gods.]
No worries at all, I've been running slow myself!! I'm cool if you want to keep going or drop, too!
....Not the first time he's ended up cowering on the floor in the face of this guy; this is becoming a pattern by now.
The teen's arms come up, defensively shielding himself as he continues to shout, but then... finally, there's a dose of recognition through the fright, and it freezes him. Wide-eyed, Peter's gaping up at the guy, heart still hammering away, but....
.....he knows him. What the fuck, this is— this is that scary man, from the restaurant. The one who'd talked him through rising panic. Peter ogles him, mouth held wide open, looking up at Weir with shock. ]
It's.... it's you...... You're that guy....!
[ Ah yes, "That Guy"... ]
What're you doing here??
i'm here for backtags if you are! but tbh whatever is easiest for you too!
Aye, I'm "that guy."
[He twists his word sarcastically, but at least his words has lost a few of their sharper edges.]
I have something of yours. And I saw you slip in here, so I thought to hand it over. The doors shut behind me as soon as I did... Blame this blasted city and all its tricks again.
I'm definitely down to keep going, thank you! ♥
He knows this person. Not— well, of course, not at all. But he recognises his face and voice and that's.... something. It means he's not a complete stranger. Not a whole unknown. And so Peter's just continuing to stare up at him, wide-eyed and open mouthed, as he listens.
Something... of his...? The doors slammed shut? The boy's head jerks that way and his chest is rising and falling with quick, sharp breaths of anxiety, before he slowly begins to lift himself up off of the floor, using the washing machine to hang onto. He's tensing away from Weir as he does, but he's not... screaming or trying to run away anymore, at least. ]
The doors.... Wait, did someone— [ The implications of that are creeping in and terrifying; Peter's moving that way, hands reaching for the handles, giving a pull and then a shove, but they don't budge in or out. ]
We're fucking locked in! What do we do?
ofc! and wow sorry for a messy tag, i must have been half asleep when i wrote that
Weir turns around, eying the closed exit. He would bet his life on it being locked, but he might as well stalk over to pull at one of the handles and test it. He does just that, hopefully granting Peter even more breathing room -- for what good it might do.
He yanks hard on the handles, and they jutter against their locks, not budging.]
Fuck. We use our heads and find a way out. [A moment of hesitation, looking out the glass of the doors.] Ask ourselves what this city might be thinking, to trap us in here at all. This is the first this has ever happened to me.
omg no worries at all, I've been tagging while feverish and have Not Been Proofreading,,,,,,
Part of him still insists that none of this is real, it can't be real. It's just some bad dream he still hasn't woken up from. But whether it is or not, it's clear that he won't be waking up any time soon.... and it's also clear there's nothing that can really be used to break open the door with. The plastic chairs are all bolted down; there's nothing else loose. Nothing to help.
The boy lifts both hands, moving them back through his hair, grasping onto thick tangles of curls as his mind reels, spins. After a moment of standing there, he lowers them again and ogles Weir. There's a thought underlying everything, something the man said before, but in his upset Peter hadn't been able to focus on it. Now.... ]
You said you... found something? Of mine?
i shake ur hand, my friend
He's suddenly quite aware of the photo he now keeps tucked away, turning to consider the young man again.]
That's right. An image of sorts.
[Out in the capital city, likely beyond Weir's realization, photos are being produced in a primitive way, with the use of plates and silver salts. But to the huntsman, he has no point of reference other than this little square is housing a stilled moment in time by some manner of technology or magic -- it matters not to him.
All that matters is that he stalks forward again and produces it from a pocket, holding it out to Peter.]
You, I assume. And others.
[Family?]
no subject
His heart freezes. Everything does — every organ. Heart, lungs; he's not breathing. Then he's giving a sharp, wounded exhale, and a sort of oh, hushed. Sounds that he can't control, his body reacting of its own will, like an animal.
It's his family. All of them, standing there the way he remembers from not so long ago. Peter stares down at the image in his own quiet horror, eyes wide. ]
.....My mom. [ She stands out first. He wishes she didn't. ] ...And my dad. My sister.
[ His eyes pass to the little girl there and then quickly away; he can't look at Charlie for long, breath trembling. ]
I don't understand why this is... here. Why they're here.
no subject
Or perhaps he simply misses them? In this wretched city, surrounded by emptiness and a hundred reasons to be wary, who would not miss home if it were even five percent more pleasant?]
I don't know. [He admits to that easily but continues in the vein of trying to understand why, questioning:] But it does not make you feel completely at ease, does it?
no subject
[ Be here. He certainly hadn't had it on person before this place. Hadn't touched the fucking thing, after his mom made them take it. ]
....It was after my grandma died. None of us even wanted to take the stupid thing.
[ Through his horror, some bitterness leaks out, fueled by whatever forces are gently compelling him to share some of this, where usually he'd clam up. But it was true, wasn't it? None of them wanted to. Charlie hadn't cared one way or another. His dad.... might've tried to pretend like he cared. And Mom? Maybe she wished she could care. Once again, Peter had just gone along with it so as not to cause some kind of confrontation, but as he stares down at his own body language in the photograph — hoodie up, visibly apart from the others — he remembers just how draining even that simple experience was. The pretending. Taking some photo like they were some normal family who could stand each other. ]
.....My sister died not long after.... after this. She was thirteen.
[ And there it comes. Spoken out loud for the first time in his life, and it's so anti-climactic, like simple facts listed. ]
...Fuck this place. [ He says suddenly, throwing the thing down. Of course, given its weight, it doesn't get very far — fluttering awkwardly in the air on its way down, before it lands near his feet. ]