[ 4. You open the door and find yourself in an old-fashioned looking arcade, with a faded carpet that was once probably very colorful. There are several cabinets with video games such as Mortal Wombat, Road Brawler, and Sirtet, among others. Among the game cabinets are also pinball machines, janky-ass DDR machines that only work half the time, and one of those FPS games with a real attached gun, except one of the guns is missing. Your attention is drawn to one of the fighting games, and you suddenly feel compelled to play it. The character you pick looks strangely like you. Every blow that is landed on your character, you feel on yourself. Once the round is over, you find yourself back in the hallway, disoriented. You sport no bruises, but you are sore in the areas where your character was hit.
Wiwaldi had made things, but retro arcade games was not one of them! And so Claude looks mostly lost as he steps into this room, looking around. ]
Close! They call it an arcade. [She squints at it, frowning.] It's cool, though. I wonder what horrible thing is going to happen next to totally ruin it.
You say monster, but I also propose the DDR machine makes us its prisoners and forces us to dance forever. You know, like that one fucked up bedtime story for kids.
[ Claude and Sheila can admire flowers for a bit before a memory suddenly hits them.
The scrapes burn across your legs and your sides as you lie on the grass, eyes turned toward the sky. The grass tickles your bare feet, the evening wind cool enough to soothe your aches where the dirt road had dragged against your legs, and where the rope around your wrists had rubbed the skin raw. You're used to your father's efforts to mold your behaviour into something greater than you are, and while it hasn't helped your manners any, you've gotten remarkably good at emerging relatively unscathed.
The bruises that mottle your abdomen and face are from something else entirely, already starting to fade. It's something that might've left you spitting mad when you were younger, but now, almost fifteen, you've learned how to keep your calm.
Along the borders of Almyra, the war makes heroes at the expense of families and children. You don't know about the orphans and casualties yet, about the tragedy and strife that haunts them, you only know of the brave that venture out to the Throat, earning glory with the blood of women and men.
Your brother is one such star. He'd left for the border at the age of sixteen, spending five years making a name for himself before returning to the capital to receive thanks from the king. He's young and handsome, enchanting the women and children of the palace, and he hates you down to his core.
So he requests to spar with you in the evening, with an axe to the back. And he offers up a demonstration of his leadership skills, by arranging that his companions do the same. This, too, once burned rage in your chest, potent and furious, and you once screamed and shouted until you realized that it never made a difference. But now, like your father's discipline, you've learned the best way to survive these situations is to keep hold of your temper.
Normally it's a point of pride for you, that you're clever and slippery enough to rob others of the satisfaction they want out of your blood, but this time, after a match with your brother's cronies, when you catch his eye, you don't see the anger or hate. You see disappointment that cools into disgust, as though you were being tested, and you failed.
"Nothing ever changes with you, does it."
That, for some reason, infuriates you.
Which is why you slip poison into his wine at dinner, knowing full well that there could only be no other culprits when he kneels over onto his plate. You couldn't even feign remorse when your father had turned his gaze toward you.
You don't feel it even now, as you push yourself up onto your feet, thinking about the quiet darkness around you, and the golden lights of the palace in the distance. You realize you feel nothing toward the sight of it, toward your home or your family. So your gaze returns to the stars and you follow them west. And suddenly, you wonder to yourself if perhaps your brother was right. Maybe you do need to change.
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week 0, tuesday, ? room 4
Wiwaldi had made things, but retro arcade games was not one of them! And so Claude looks mostly lost as he steps into this room, looking around. ]
Looks like... a game room?
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[ wanna bet? ]
week one, tuesday.
They're at the beach. Sheila is just over here, trying to climb the lifeguard tower as one does. Just beach things!]
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What are you doing?
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[Like that wasn't apparent.]
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How many kids do you have?
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Why would I be afraid of water?
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Just one. Maybe when this is over, I'll introduce her to everyone.
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That's true. How did she take it?
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week 3, tuesday, wiwaldi / orchard
The bruises that mottle your abdomen and face are from something else entirely, already starting to fade. It's something that might've left you spitting mad when you were younger, but now, almost fifteen, you've learned how to keep your calm.
Along the borders of Almyra, the war makes heroes at the expense of families and children. You don't know about the orphans and casualties yet, about the tragedy and strife that haunts them, you only know of the brave that venture out to the Throat, earning glory with the blood of women and men.
Your brother is one such star. He'd left for the border at the age of sixteen, spending five years making a name for himself before returning to the capital to receive thanks from the king. He's young and handsome, enchanting the women and children of the palace, and he hates you down to his core.
So he requests to spar with you in the evening, with an axe to the back. And he offers up a demonstration of his leadership skills, by arranging that his companions do the same. This, too, once burned rage in your chest, potent and furious, and you once screamed and shouted until you realized that it never made a difference. But now, like your father's discipline, you've learned the best way to survive these situations is to keep hold of your temper.
Normally it's a point of pride for you, that you're clever and slippery enough to rob others of the satisfaction they want out of your blood, but this time, after a match with your brother's cronies, when you catch his eye, you don't see the anger or hate. You see disappointment that cools into disgust, as though you were being tested, and you failed.
"Nothing ever changes with you, does it."
That, for some reason, infuriates you.
Which is why you slip poison into his wine at dinner, knowing full well that there could only be no other culprits when he kneels over onto his plate. You couldn't even feign remorse when your father had turned his gaze toward you.
You don't feel it even now, as you push yourself up onto your feet, thinking about the quiet darkness around you, and the golden lights of the palace in the distance. You realize you feel nothing toward the sight of it, toward your home or your family. So your gaze returns to the stars and you follow them west. And suddenly, you wonder to yourself if perhaps your brother was right. Maybe you do need to change.
Claude just sighs. Love it. ]
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And I think we're both losing track of the point?
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anyway, that is a lot? that was a lot.
softly, with feeling:]
Oh, my god.
week four, tuesday.
Sheila stares at the cake
and then closes her fucking eyes.]
Oh, hell no.
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Claude just watches her. ]
Don't panic.
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Well, it could be worse.
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[CLAUDE, YOUR FAMILY...]
Your brother was a little bitch so I can't say he didn't have it coming. But more importantly, are you okay?
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[ cuts himself a slice ]
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[ years of repression ]
It happened long ago enough that it doesn't bother me anymore.
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And then there was the cake incident at the station...
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Cake incident?
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[ slides the cake toward her ]
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I will literally throw up on you.
week 7, tuesday
You weren't a ghost when you returned...
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[Sympathetically........... while also simultaneously reaching over to stick a hand through his shoulder. Hm.]
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[ he's! incorporeal! ]
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Do you mean that literally, or...? Because I guessed it was some kind of item, but couldn't figure out what.