tramitem_log | EVENT LOG: Bright Lights

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EVENT LOG: Bright Lights

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... And when my good dream came to an end, I woke up more than ready to bend ... Full Game Navigation

Before February 12: I. Event Aftermath This text is taken from the Welcome page. Thread headers utilizing this prompt may be responded to by Mr. Martin. Simply add “closed to NPC” to your thread header to receive a response. It hits you from out of nowhere. One second you are going about your day, and then for ten or thirty seconds, everything—your surroundings, your sense of self—changes. You see a moment from another life. When you come back to your senses, there is an elderly man waiting for you, and a team of workers administering to the people in your immediate vicinity. They seem to be doing something intrusive to those other people, but they are leaving you alone. How did they get there so fast? Mr. Martin introduces himself—he is the Head of the Department of Containment at the Bureau of Interdimensional Activities. His accent is hard to place. But he begins to explain the multiverse, and now your world has turned upside down. “In summary, what you’ve just experienced is the memory of a past life. You will receive more, but I cannot tell you how many, when, or what they will be... You are one of The Different now... The Bureau will be keeping an eye on you,” Mr. Martin says, and he hands you a card with the acronym ‘IBA’ on one side, and a street address and a forum website address on the other. “There are others like you, experiencing memories from a past life,” he continues. “The Bureau has set up a network so you can connect, find support… work out your confusion.” There’s something sinister about the way he says that… maybe? It’s hard to make sense of everything happening so quickly. “And one more thing—do try to stay out of trouble.”
February 12: II. Support Group There’s a generic spread of food on a table off to one side of the room: donuts and muffins, coffee and lemonade. Maybe you’re hungry enough to try it—it’s free after all. Or maybe you can’t stomach anything, given the event you’re attending. The space is a local rec center, reserved for the evening. The beige-painted cinder block walls and the fluorescent lighting are a terrible combination. The meeting was interesting—who knew there were so many people like you, receiving memories of a past life? The group was led by someone from The Bureau—the Department of Medical Services. Some people are staying in their chairs and chatting—they must know each other from previous meetings. Some of them are gravitating towards the food. How do you feel about tonight? Has it helped you come to terms with the dream of memories you’re having? Maybe it’s time to talk to others, get an understanding of their experience.
February 16-20: III. Bright Lights The first clue that something has gone wrong is the brightness of the lights around New York City. Every lamp post you see, every fluorescent tube light in the office, even the LEDs in the microwave display, glow brighter—but not consistently. The lights pulsate and flicker, buzzing furiously, and sometimes they even burn out. It’s not just that, though—even small appliances start malfunctioning, because the use of them trips the breakers. Refrigerators have to be turned down so they don't freeze the milk. When questioned, the city administration, headed by the office of the mayor, directs questions to the Bureau. That’s probably your first clue that something is really, really not right. After all, the Bureau is meant to be an unknown, isn’t it? The Bureau being put in charge of answering questions about this phenomenon almost seems to be an accusation from the mayor—and the fact that the Bureau’s PR arm does respond seems like an admission of guilt. Something else happens that night, though. The Northern Lights, in pulsating waves of green and red and purple, descend over the night sky of New York City. The people of New York pour into the streets to witness the phenomenon, raising their phones to take pictures. Normally, this would never be possible, because of how far south New York is, and how much light pollution the city experiences at night. How is this happening? And why does it subsequently happen for the next 4 nights? The rumors begin the morning of the 17th. They grow in intensity over the next few days, and the appearance of the Bureau’s spokesperson on the Network does little to assuage any fears that are being experienced by the population in the city that includes the Different. People who remember their Event are disappearing, one by one by one. Sometimes they reappear after a short time. Sometimes, it seems, they’re just gone. What does this all mean?
... What dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause ...
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Anakin falls into the chair with a lack of grace he is unapologetic about.

He brushes off Aziraphale's concern, he didn't mind that the seat had been used as a makeshift table before he'd arrived.

He dropped his backpack at his feet.

"So they drop any important information yet?"

He raises a brow at the young man sprawling into the chair beside him, and carefully shifts his own feet over to avoid the backpack tossed down there, even if it lands nowhere near his brogues.

"Drop any...?" It takes him a moment to realize what is meant and then purses his lips and shakes his head. "Oh, no. They've all been very supportive, of course--" He takes a sip of coffee and his gaze flickers briefly, critically to their hosts. "--as to be expected. I think we're supposed to share our experiences, commiserate... You know. Support one another. I believe, they feel, this has been designed to help us."

"Really?" Anakin asked. "You think their motive was to help us?"

Anakin did not think that at all. He knew what support groups were like, and sure, this seemed on the up and up... but he'd tried Googling The Bureau after his encounter with Mr. Martin and got nothing. He looked up the address and there was nothing more than a spot on Google Maps. The Bureau was shady AF as the kids said. He didn't for one minute think this was for their benefit.

He takes another guarded drink from his coffee, very aware that this affair has been orchestrated by the Bureau. It all sounds very conspiracy-theory, Big Brother-like to suspect the whole thing, and he feels a bit ridiculous yet...

"I think," he says, choosing his words cautiously, "that this has provided them a good opportunity to better understand the kind of people that they are dealing with, to... ah, appear to 'establish rapport,' and to gather information." The smile he puts on is overly-pleasant when he adds, "But then I can't possibly presume to know what their motivation may be."

Anakin shrugged. “I was thinking the same. Have you talked to any of the Bureau people directly… I mean, aside from that first time when Mr. Martin showed up?”

"I haven't, not really. That first time put me off them enough, though I suppose I should just to know what we're dealing with." Gather intel of their own, so to speak, or at least as much as the Bureau will allow to slip past them. Though, oh, it sounds a little silly when he thinks of it like that. And so terribly awkward. Like playing at spies. He's fairly certain he'll be obvious and just come off as a fool. "...Have you?"

"No," Anakin shook his head. "Maybe I should just show up at that address and see what happens." What was the worst that could happen? Anakin assumed it would be being turned away.

"I was at work when the memory thing hit, none of my coworkers remember it. At all."

Okay, maybe the 'worst' was something quite ominous, if the Bureau could do something like that.

"I was having dinner. And I suspect none of the other diners remember it either." Which is disconcerting. If it wasn't for this support group, it would all feel like a fever dream or hallucination. Easy to undermine one's sense of reality when only select few corroborate your story.

"You could go see them, yes." Aziraphale is somewhat uncomfortable with that idea himself. A bit intimidating there, entering onto their domain--a bit like entering a lion's den. "They would not have provided the address without assuming first that someone might take advantage of that. I suspect, however, that if they planned to share more, they would have done so by now--to the group as a whole, without having to be questioned individually. Waste of their time, I imagine, to answer these same questions so many times over. They've had ample opportunity, especially as an organization that claims to be familiar with our ...condition."

"That is a really good point," Anakin said, impressed. And not surprised that he hadn't thought it first. After all, he was a 'rush in first, get details later' kind of person.

"So we wait, and get more information... Well..." Anakin considered his next move. "I'm Anakin."

And he held out his robotic right hand, because people shook with their right hands.

He preened a bit, despite himself, pleased to have his detail-oriented caution noted as a good thing, instead of completely disregarded. "Thank you."

He shook the offered hand politely without hesitation, etiquette overriding any confusion or uncertainty about the robotics. Curious, but he really shouldn't ask--he'll probably ask eventually. "Aziraphale. Or Mr. Fell, if that is easier. What do you do when you're not...having visions of alternate realities?"

Anakin knew his shortcomings. He knew the value of complementary contributors. He had to find them where he fell short. One of the main reasons he was talking to as many of the Different as he could was to get a better perspective.

"Designing rocket engines. You?"

"Goodness! Nothing so impressive." He found himself reevaluating the young man beside him. Rocket engines. He couldn't have been more than 30 and here he was designing rocket engines. If this was some kind of grand conspiracy, it was no wonder the Bureau would be after Anakin.

Unlike Aziraphale. "I restore art," he said with the slightly puzzled and concerned tone of someone who couldn't understand, given that, why he was one of the Different.

Anakin had been rather concerned about his job, working for the company that he did. But no one at work remembered what had happened when he tried feeling them out. Though he hadn't gone too far with his questions because he didn't want to seem like an idiot.

He was easily distracted, though. "How do you restore art?" This was, quite literally, something he'd never thought about before. Until now, he realized, he thought art was something rather immortal.

He was lucky that his vision hadn't happened around too many people he knew, though it did make inquiries a tad awkward afterward.

"Well," he began with a small wiggle in his seat. It always pleased him to talk about his work and he could probably go on for hours. "Art incurs all kinds of damage over time, intentional or not. A bad varnish might yellow and darken the colors. Environmental factors like smoke, or water, or sunlight might cause paint to bubble, peel, or fade. Sometimes art is vandalized--cut or painted over. Rembrandt's Night Watch had acid thrown at it. But mostly, it's just age. Chemicals break down, materials deteriorate. If we want to keep art around for years to come, it must be conserved. And in some cases, that involves restoration."

He brushed at some lint on his trousers and continued with a quietly proud tone. "Which is where people like myself come in. Many of the materials used in art are delicate--some aren't meant to last the test of time. A restorer analyzes the work, cleans it, fixes what can be fixed--which can include any number of tasks--and attempts to prevent further deterioration. The work is documented and, when possible, done in such a way as to be reversible. But, what it really comes down to," he continued with the kind of awe of one who was still very much in love with something, "is making sure these pieces of human creativity and inspiration continue to live on as originally intended for more generations to marvel at."

Anakin tried to follow as best he could, and for the most part he felt he understood. It was just the kind of work that was elusive for Anakin. Art was pretty, but more or less a mystery. He did better with machines.

"That is... very interesting," he tried his best to not sound disinterested, because he wasn't. It was all just over his head. "It sounds complicated and time intensive." He was a rocket scientist, not an artist.

"I wonder what the Bureau wants with us."

"It is." Aziraphale knew his job was not exactly the highlight of a conversation. At most, there was a brief bit of glamour about the thought of handling expensive or famous works, but that was short-lived and people preferred to move onto more interesting topics. Like the weather, or the American sport with the rugby ball. "And a fair blend of chemical science and art, to be honest, though if you asked me anything about chemistry, I'm afraid I'd be relatively useless."

He shook his head. "I suspect we'll have to wait until they want to tell us."

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EVENT LOG: Bright Lights

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