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
But it's over soon enough. The boy gasps and she knows he's lucid again by his eyes and the way he struggles with his breath.
In response to his panic, Lucinda responds with a neutral and placid friendliness. She doesn't move from her spot.]
You're in the apartment complex.
[A pause.]
And you were either sleepwalking or having some kind of episode. I do believe you are not entirely well.
cw: brief mention of attempted child murder with fire / Hereditary is a fun time
He tenses back, all six feet of his frame shrinking inwards, as though trying to make himself as small as he can.
The apartment complex.... Recognition comes slowly in Peter, his mind sluggish to sort itself out after what it was just wrapped up into. Apartment complex... that's right. He's in this strange empty city, the one that feels like a dream.
But his horror tonight is by no means through. No, the woman's next words are like ice, like cold hands slipping right through his skin, nails raking against his spirit. Sleepwalking or having some kind of episode.
Like his mother. How she moved down the hall like a phantom, visiting each silent room in the night, and back before he learned to lock his door, she'd come in (and then one night when she came in, it was with paint thinner and a match, and he'd woken up wet and screaming—)
Peter gives another sharp gasp and takes a step back, then another, and then he feels himself bump against the opposite wall, which he shrinks towards, presses himself against. Away from the dark-eyed woman who stands there like a watching ghost. He looks horrified, features twisted in upset as the words spill out of him. ]
It's not real.... It's not real! This isn't— .... it's just a dream. [ And he whimpers, desperate to will himself out of it. ]
I want to wake up now. I just want to wake up.
no subject
Lucinda carefully considers the next few steps. She doesn't want to cause any more distress to the young man but she can't just do nothing. So she opts to calmly ask:]
You are awake. And I want to know what your name is and if you're thirsty.
[A pause. She opens the door behind her and turns on the light so that it illuminates her and brings some brightness to the hallway.]
So? Are you?
no subject
But the woman's words catch him, even if he flinches at them, frightened. 'You are awake.'
He's awake? Not dreaming? The boy's fretful, standing there so tense, but the woman gives him more words, more things to... ground him, a bit. Things to focus on. What's his name? Is he thirsty? And it helps Peter not spiral completely into his panic, at least for the moment. His eyes widen as the woman turns on her light, and he can see more of her — chest painted in colour, tattoos. Maybe she isn't a spectre, some haunting thing. Or maybe she's not real at all. But Peter stares, mouth tipped open for a moment, before he finally finds words. ]
I... I think so. Water might help. [ He swallows hard, shaking hands reaching up to move back through his hair for a moment, threading through thick curls. ]
...I'm Peter. [ His name. He... knows his name. Sometimes he doesn't. He clings onto it like a lifeline, repeating it softly. ] Peter.
no subject
[She offers him a smile and then her name in exchange.]
I'm Lucinda. But you can call me Lucy for short.
[The shorthand is comforting in its casualness and lackadaisical quality. The offer to use it is intentional. He can cling to that instead.]
Let me get you that drink and I'll join you out here.
[She goes back into her room, keeping the door open and turning up the brightness within so that it spills out into the hallway. There's a humming from her all the while so that silence doesn't drown either of them though it's more for his sake than hers.
She's survived drowning and now she needs to make sure Peter does as well.]
no subject
Lucinda. Lucy. And he's Peter— and she's going to bring him some water.
He nods, still wide-eyed, but obedient. He'll stand there waiting outside of her door, muscles taut and tense, occasionally finding his eyes snapping this way and that down the hallway, as though waiting for something to come creeping closer to him, crawling its way forward. Slowly, he nudges a bit closer to the brightness coming from the woman's open doorframe, only backing up a bit again whenever she'll make her return. ]
no subject
Before she comes out with two cups (one cup of iced water and the other a mug of tea), Lucinda decides to change into something more... Cheerful?
Sure, why not?
The bright yellow shirt smiles (or frowns) at Peter as she comes out holding each drink in her hand.]
Here you go. I know I said water, but on the off chance you like chamomile tea, I prepared some as well. It's supposed to relax you, you see.
[She holds them out to Peter, encouraging him to choose.]
no subject
Then the woman's making a return, and Peter's eyes widen at the change in attire — staring to the bright yellow of shirt. It does make her seem a lot less like some haunting spectre, and he staring widely for a moment before he blinks back up at the drinks she's offering out to him. After a pause, he slowly reaches out for the tea, to carefully wrap its warmth in his palms. Something calming sounds... nice. Really nice. ]
Thank you. I've um, never had tea like this, I think.
[ Holding the cup close to his chest, the teen gazes down into it for a few moments, brushing his thumbs gently over the rim of it before he's giving a frown, brows furrowed. ]
I'm sorry about this. Did I wake you up....?
no subject
[With the tea transferred to him, Lucy proceeds to stand across from Peter, holding her cup of cold water while leaning against the door frame.]
And to answer your question, I'm usually a deep sleeper but I happened to be awake at this hour.
[She smiles over the rim of her cup as she partakes in a sip.]
Chamomile's good for you. Drink it while it's warm.
no subject
It's good. Thank you.
[ Warm against his throat, in his stomach. There's something cosy about it, comfortable. Peter stands there for a few moments, taking sips, not wanting to address the worst things. But eventually, with a soft wince, dreading the answer— ]
What exactly..... was I doing?
no subject
[Lucinda considers his question as she turns her glass around in her hands.]
Well, forgive me for being frank but you were either sleepwalking, having an episode, or a combination of the two. Ah, but there's also the third possibility.
[She smiles at him genially.]
You were possessed by something. Or rather, are currently possessed. Not a very fun state to be in most of the time and I can say that due to experience.
[The woman speaks of the matter so casually and airily, as if the topic of possession is equivalent to a persistent cough.]
Is this the first time this has happened to you? Feel free not to answer, however.
[Her gaze turns to the ceiling.]
I know it's hard.
no subject
But what she says next...... The boy blinks, visibly taken aback. Possessed?
He doesn't currently know just how very relevant such a concept is, for him. Even if it's been around him for his whole entire life, a certain presence manipulated by the hands shaping things: the occult, those cultists... Peter doesn't know. They'd made sure he wouldn't know. Not until it was too late. And even though he saw some of it on that final night (candles in the attic, arranged in a circle, like they were coaxing him there... a photo of himself with the eyes burned out.... strangers smiling hungrily at him from the shadows...) he still doesn't know if it really happened or not.
Peter stares at the woman with uncertainty; things like that... don't happen, as far as he knows. That's just in... movies. It's made up. But she says she knows how it is from experience...? He eyes her, nervously. ]
Um.... I guess it's happened before. Waking up somewhere I don't remember going to, I mean. And having... episodes. [ That's the word for it, right. When you have some kind of epileptic fit or something in the middle of class, slam your own face down into your desk, break your nose. ]
....My family's just crazy. [ He voices a beat later, soft and humourless. ] I'm losing my fucking mind like the rest of them. I just don't want to hurt anybody while it's happening.
no subject
It has happened more than once though, based on what he's saying. The mention of his family being "crazy" as he put it... Well, she would know about questionable families.]
Are you here by yourself? None of them are around?
no subject
I think they're all dead.
[ Think, not know, because he doesn't. Not fully. He knows what he... saw, but how much of it was real? ]
....Sorry. I know that's— [ ..A lot to dump on a stranger. Peter winces, expression pained as he looks back up. He doesn't want to linger on it too long, can't. ]
How long've you been here? Are you here alone, too?
[ Without her family, he means. ]
no subject
[But she doesn't go down that line of questioning any further. Sensitive matters like family can remain undisturbed for the time being.
Lucy shakes her head when he apologizes.]
It's no trouble. If it was, I wouldn't have made you tea.
[Her glass of water is halfway finished and his question makes her glance to the side.]
It hasn't been that long now. I've only arrived here a few weeks ago. But there's no one I know here.
[Her calmness in her answer masks whether she's sad or forlorn about the fact. She glances back at Peter.]
There are a lot of people here at least, relatively speaking. And so far, it seems like most of them are helpful, even kind. I hope no one's been giving you any trouble?
no subject
But her response has the boy looking back up after a moment or two. Maybe some part of him expects to be chastised, or treated like a burden, or something bad and scary, so when someone doesn't... someone he doesn't even know... it certainly means something. Even if the very nature of this conversation is strange and frightening. Seems like that's his fucking life now. ]
No, no one's given me any trouble. I um. I just kinda try to stay to myself. [ He glances back down the hall for a moment, towards his apartment door, which he now realises is wide open... fucking creepy. He has absolutely no memory of leaving it. ]
But I have some neighbours, um. They seem like good guys. They help me out.
[ But he pauses, looking back to the woman. ]
....What do you think? About this place? Do you think it's dangerous?
no subject
[She muses over his question.]
In plain terms, yes I do think this city is dangerous. Mentally, anyway.
[All the assaults have been that of the mind though the physical obstacles weren't counted out; mental and physical go hand in hand after all.]
I've been in a dangerous situation or two. [What an understatement.] So outwardly, I'm a lot calmer than is warranted.
no subject
The woman herself... is difficult to read, really. It's an odd mixture of feeling a bit comforted by her presence and helpfulness but also.... well, there's still that odd sensation about her. A little scary, intimidating. (And the word "possession" being brought up is still.... a discomfort that Peter will likely be mulling over again a little later on.) ]
I uh. I wish I could be like that. [ He manages, with another awkward, self-deprecating little smile. He's been through a few dangerous, terrifying situations of his own, but his own reactions to them now are a lot less graceful in comparison. Really, it's fortunate he didn't end up having a panic attack right here in this hallway tonight... ] I just kind of.... panic when bad shit happens.
no subject
A paradox of a human.
She's done with her water and just hangs onto the glass by the rim with her fingers.
Peter's remark about her serenity gets an odd answer in return.]
Mm. I don't think you'd want to be like me.
[Because she's only like this due to the trials of her own life, a different nightmare, a different hell.
... But she won't leave it at that. No matter how negatively she thinks of herself, it doesn't change the fact that she came out of the other side and survived. Lucy smiles at Peter reassuringly.]
The best outcome, I think is to still be you, but better. And that happens by managing to wake up every day and know that you were just a little different from yesterday.
no subject
But he's continuing to listen, looking down at his own cup for a moment before taking another slow, careful sip. ]
What if instead of getting a little bit better every day, you get a little bit worse?
[ He manages a soft laugh, trying to not make that sound so.... depressing, but he can only feign it to an extent. He... doesn't have much hope for himself. He doesn't think he'll change, get better — really, he wouldn't deserve to anyway. He's a monster. ]
no subject
[She doesn't want to give a hopeless answer but neither is she a big believer in being needlessly hopeful either. Lucinda stands up straight to prepare to go back inside her apartment.]
They do say that it gets worse before it gets better.
[Casual, airy, distant. Neither cynical nor optimistic.]
The only way for this to get worse I should think... Is if you're entirely alone.
[(she feels so alone without flora, feather, and fang)
She offers one last smile to Peter.]
You're not alone here. That's a bright spot. [She waves to him and turns to step inside her room.]
Good night, Peter.
no subject
....But Lucinda's reply isn't completely hopeless, either. It's an odd mix of things, and Peter's just staring, eyes a little wide, listening.
'You're not alone here.'
And as easy as it is for him to feel like he is, he.. isn't, is he? He has the guys next door, who check on him and help him out. He's met a few people he can turn to. And now he's met someone else in the apartment building, someone whose door he can maybe knock on in the future if he ever gets lost again. Gets afraid.
It matters, having a door that opens to you when you need it.
The boy stands there staring, affected by the words, giving a soft swallow as he dips his head for a moment. Then— ]
Thank you. For everything. [ For helping him. Giving him something warm to drink. Talking him down through his upset.
'That's a bright spot.' ]
Good night.