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pixieledmemes2025-03-15 08:32 am
Test Drive Meme #2
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You wake up at a party.
You're not sure how, exactly, you got here. You may have just been walking in the woods or at a meeting for work or doing any other normal activity for you. But you know you weren't supposed to be at this party, you're fairly certain.
Anyone you ask about it will say the party is for you. You and the others also waking up and looking confused. Further questions will lead to the partygoers insisting you have something to eat. You're starving and others are eating the food without repercussion, so you figure there's no harm in a bite. You finish your portion.
It's a garden party at the crack of dawn, with the sun still in its early stages of climbing through the yonder, casting a good mix of pastel hues of blue, pink, and beige on everything. Heralding the first day of spring, the Ruler of the Spring Court has found it fitting to arrange this gathering where guests can feel the blades of grass touching their ankles, as well as the rich soil beneath their feet. Flowers of all kinds surround the party as if they were carefully curated. With spring as the "dawn of seasons," which marks a transition from winter's latency to the resurgence of life everywhere, the Ruler of the Dawn Court has also seen it fit to host aspects of this party during the one time of the year that dawn occurs the whole day. Tall candles and torches grace the outskirts of the garden party, providing warmth and an orange glow everywhere. Not one flame goes out even with the occasional wind, the Duchess always makes sure of this.
There are also freshly picked blossoms and branches with leaves on every table accenting the festive spread of food and drinks. This time, a lot of the food prepared for the Adopted guests are familiar to them with a little bit of a twist. Burgers might come in small packages and in toothpicks, while hotdogs in buns are also diminutive. Cookies look delectable but they have a flowery flavor to them, as if eating freshly picked daisies or daffodils. Fruits that may have been present in an Adopted's home, such as pineapples and watermelons, have seeds in odd places. Picking this selection of food is an attempt to be more welcoming and to appease the lovely guests the fae have invited.
As the party winds down and everyone's eaten, a tall, stately woman stands up and speaks. You feel her voice more than hear it.
I am the Lawspeaker of the Fae, elected by Seelie and Unseelie alike, and you are all, now, subjects of Faerie. You cannot leave this realm once you have eaten our food, and even if you could, there is no saying how much time has passed back where you're from. Your loved ones are likely dead, your problems have likely played out. We require assistance in various matters, and each of you has been chosen for your talent and skill. You will be adopted by one of the Seelie or Unseelie Courts based on your strengths and personality. Your Court will decide what to do with you from there.
As suddenly as she stood, she sits back down.
A party is not complete without dancing, of course, and while during the last gathering held for the Adopted, different fae danced to music exclusively for them around a glowing tree, this time they are insisting their guests to join in.
This is a party for you, after all.
If the prodding of the different fae hosts won't convince you, perhaps the music will. They play easily recognizable tunes that their wonderful guests must have heard before. These melodies have certain unique effects to their mortal attendees, which are as follows:
- Upbeat Music: You will believe that you and your dance partner have been friends forever and have known each other a long time.
- Romantic Music: You will become amorous and flirtatious towards your dance partner.
- Slow Music: You will develop some tension with your dance partner. It may be negative or sexual; completely up to you.
- Quiet Music: You will assume your dance partner is a threat and try to fight them.
At the Spring King's behest, every Adopted should wear a flower corsage or boutonnière to the gathering. After all, this is to celebrate the coming of spring and what better way to do that than to honor everything in bloom.
The thing is, though, the King of Spring, while amorous and friendly, also has a penchant for playing with mortals' memories, if not also affect their desires and despairs.
So, mischievous as he is, he made sure to enchant the different flowers present in every corsage and boutonnière for the party with the effects below:
- Rose: You will recall a horrific trauma
- Carnation: You will see a vision of your future, whether it's good or bad
- Orchid: You will remember a time you lost someone
- Chrysanthemum: You will believe someone among the Adopted is your soulmate
- Dahlia: You will believe you betrayed someone important to you, whether you actually did or not
It is perhaps a good thing that no one but the Adopted are allowed to see these visions and memories, but everyone who wears a corsage or boutonnière will be able to see each other's memories and visions when in close enough physical proximity to the vision-haver, for better or for worse.
You feel a vibration in your pocket sometime after the Lawspeaker addresses everyone. When you search for the source, you will pull out your Leaf, the device the Fae use to stay in touch with each other. Anyone who's used a smart phone will easily recognize how it works.
Greetings, Adopted. This is your Lawspeaker.
Tell us all of a time you gave someone a gift. Perhaps a bouquet of flowers or a box of chocolates. Was it appreciated or not? A reward might await the most meaningful gift given.
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Everyone back in Paris, at least. Here, guests could only see a limp, soaked dog of a man. As if suddenly aware of his bedraggled appearance beside Andros, a perfectly normal-looking and much better-put-together kind of fellow, he makes a lame attempt at smoothing some algae off his heavy coat skirt and flicking it aside.]
Give up! No. That is not what this is about.
[His jaw cracks with its hinging, like he is ill-at-practice with speech. It warms slowly and smooths as he grows reacquainted with the mannerisms of life. The mind cranks equally sluggishly, and Andros might see the gears turn in his head with a palpable, ungreased creak. He drops his bland gaze with a pinched frown to his empty plate.]
No, [he repeats, quietly, confusion ebbing into his voice.] I accept what is in front of me, and what is plain to see and hear. Indeed, I must.
--Forgive me, what is it, now, that I am supposedly giving up?
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The young man besides Javert didn't seem to even notice his appearance. If he saw the algae Andros just wondered if it was monster residue. ]
Accepting. Giving up. Whatever life you had before they took you here. Do you not want it back?
[Okay, Andros' plan had been to try and shoot the Lawspeaker but had been assured that was a. Terrible plan. But, call him a little nuts, he really didn't like it when people abducted others. Small sore spot.]
no subject
Bold of Andros to assume he had any life left to live before he was taken. The dark, soaked doesn't explain his position, though, and instead stares at Andros intently. Was this young fellow joking, pulling one over him? Or was it that Javert assumes wrongly that they all come from the same 'predicament'?
It'll dawn on him sooner or later.]
Why the devil would I want that? I believe that ship has sailed and lost itself to the tides.
no subject
Instead, Andros mistook Javert's shock and actually looked around, wondering if he missed an incident. Was their a monster? An attack? The young man nearly pulled his morpher out before judging that, no, he hadn't missed anything.]
Why wouldn't you want to go back? Don't you have people to go back to? I don't know about you but I have a job to do and I swore I'd do it.
no subject
No. I finished my business quite decisively.
[He presses his fist into his chest, curling further out of reach. To deliver the last nail in his coffin, he asserts heavily,]
There is nothing left for me where I come from.
[The corner of his mouth dips into a frown, and he muses distantly,]
I take it that is not true for you.
no subject
So Andros? Andros was the kind of guy that went he hit rock bottom? He was going to take everyone else with him.]
Right. That's what I said before. You are giving up. Fine. For whatever reason you don't want to go home. Just don't bring that same attitude here.
And no, I have people and places I swore to protect. That doesn't just go away. I tried to retire, once.
[Wasn't this kid in his early twenties?]
It didn't work.
CW: implied emeto, implied drowning, some PTSD and heavy-handed self-doubt
Javert doesn't know whether to bark a frightful laugh or a sob. He is caught somewhere in the middle, fully unseated, choking on a strangled noise resembling a hoarse growl.
(He may actually be choking on something, a morsel of turbid sludge burbling up from the river rapids. He swallows it back down with a clenched jaw, heading off his urge to spew sickness in Andros's face.)]
That's enough, [he utters coldly, stark-still. He sounds calm and sure of himself. He is anything but, all semblance of manners slipping rapidly down the drain.] Retired, indeed, is that what you're picturing? What a joke! This isn't a matter of abandoning my duties.
[(isn't it?) be quiet be quiet be quiet, his fist curls into the fabric of his lapels as his mind takes a skip and a leap back to his last night in Paris, which felt like only hours ago--]
It is a matter of finishing them.
[(is it?) he slipped the 'resignation' letter into its envelope and sealed it in wax, Note for the Administration writ upon its face, and left it for the next shift to deliver to the Prefect of Police
He stiffens, his grimace easing, troubled and uncertain. His irritation with Andros's impertinence goes to war with his doubt, confusion marking the furrows between his brows. The sharp edge to his voice abruptly dulls, his strange fit extinguishing his brief flame of indignance.]
I am not speaking to your oaths, or your retirement. My 'attitude,' so you say, has nothing to do with whatever you're on about. Only my own. Don't lecture me, when you know nothing about me, monsieur.
no subject
[and he'd tell himself that as long as he lived. Because that was the only way he'd be able to live with himself. And wasn't his fury at....direct odds with what he had just been going on about? Yeah, go figure. Either way, Andros gives Javert a weird look when he chokes but lets him deal with it on his own.]
Has anyone ever told you that you are a profound pain in the ass?
Fine. So you think your work is finished and....you just don't care anymore. I guess everything was real important then wasn't it?
[Is Andros trying to piss him off? Actually. Yes.]
What's a monsieur?
[The twenty year old alien had only just figured out certain worlds in english, Javert. He was pretty sure by the sentence structure it was some kind of title. Or maybe an insult? ]
no subject
There's plenty of other meat to address, anyway. He mops the sheen of clammy moisture off his brow with his sleeve, succeeding only in smearing it around.]
Yes, in fact. I am the utmost expert in stubborn arsery, or so I've been told, [he mutters, vexed, and much paler than he'd been a minute or so ago. With an abundance of patience (and a hell of a lot of exhaustion), he appends quietly,] Of course my duties were important. If it hadn't mattered to me, I would not have resolved it in the manner I did. I want a drink. Come along, or don't, and continue spouting your lectures to empty air.
[He will make his way around their table to the drink spread, reaching for a fresh pitcher to fill his cup. He has no idea what manner of wine it is, but it is wet, and it warms his gullet, and it quenches his thirst in a way that he aches to lose himself to. Does Andros want one? He'll pour a second cup without much of a glance and push it toward the young man's chest for him to take.]
no subject
Maybe you should sip that. Are you alright?
[He wasn't entirely sure what happened to the man. Injury. Torture. Illness. But, Andros didn't like it.]
no subject
No. [His eyes narrow the faintest bit. It almost qualifies as a wince.] But I shall make do with it, with or without your express approval. By all means, continue your abuses.
[The qualifying phrase, 'For now,' threatens to tumble out of his mouth, a warning. Javert stoppered revealing too much just in time, and drowns his testy tongue in drink.
He tips the cup back and drinks it dry in one fell swoop. He, too, isn't sure if the sweet sting of the stuff is real alcohol, but unlike Andros he yearns for it. He, who never much indulged beyond the customary drink with meals, longed for something to lift the heavy veil of preoccupation off his shoulders. A smack of his lips, as the taste rolls over his tongue. Perhaps it is a crude mead, he judges, honeyed and luscious in his mouth; that is a drink he knew about, but never tasted.
The color begins to rise back into his cheeks, as he reaches for an additional refill.]
no subject
Which. Andros couldn't actually enforce with Javert.
It was such a pain when people didn't fall in line and you didn't actually have an authority to make them.]
Sure, go ahead. If you drink yourself under the table or get sick I'm going to leave you there like the fool you are.
[He wouldn't. But it felt good to say out loud. Instead, he just slid his own cup over to Javert. He might as well drink it, Andros wasn't going too.]
no subject
He doesn't, but his hand does curl tightly around his cup, as he frowns blisteringly down to Andros's drink. His voice has sharpened, strengthened, as his irritation and indignation mounts.]
Keep it, and your thoughts on the matter, to yourself, [he snorts acridly.] It is a mistake to take me for a fool. I am not a sot by habit, but for today I make a rare exception. Leave me to rot, if it repels you.
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[Andros gave his reply while he was still trying to piece together the words Javert used in his sentence, but there was definitely one he didn't recognize.]
Sot. Like soot? [Sorry Javert, he literally has no idea what you are talking about.]
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'Sot. Like soot?'
Oh. Oh. This is an utter dolt. That is what he's found himself.
Javert holds Andros's stare long enough for the tremulous fury in his eye to give way to recognition and understanding, a light bulb flicking on. Then comes the mighty contraction in his face, where every wrinkle curls, balking. And, at last, he throws up a hand in a listless gesture and sinks down into a bench-seat, back propped against the table. He bends his face into his hand and massages his temple.]
Sot. Lush. Souse. Drunkard.
Take a drink, man, [he issues curtly into his palm.] Or stuff your mouth with one of those pocket pastries over there. Before you hurt yourself spinning those platitudes in circles.
[To emphasize, he tips his own cup in a mock-toast, but doesn't sip. He is too busy willing his migraine away.]
Who are you, now? Not a faerie folk.
cw: death, murder, genocide, isolation
I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.[Okay, not exactly correct, he knew the word drunkard. A bit of an odd word though? That man thought he wasn't a drunk? Andros gave him an odd look, looking at Javert and then the mug he just downed like he was trying to drown himself in it. Andros had perfected that up and down 'mean girl' look.]
I'm on duty. [He still wasn't sure if that drink was alcoholic but, he wasn't taking his chances. The self proclaimed 'not drunkard' could have it.]
I'm Andros. I'm .....[Andros paused, trying to figure out how to put into words what he was, concepts that someone foreign to his world might understand. Power Ranger? Special Forces?] military. From a space colony. [With any luck this idiot might not think he meant an ant colony.]
no subject
[There is no way in all the nine hells or eight Fae-birthed courts that Andros can recognize the French army regiment Javert mentioned. Andros will have to make do with more confusion. There's the whoosh of an exhale, a tired, drawn-out hiss through his jaws. He self-soothes with a mental count down from ten, dix, neuf, huit, sept...
He gives his temples a final, firm massage, grits his teeth, and straightens to his full, stiff posture. The cup comes to his mouth for a final sip, and then he thinks better of drinking more, setting the vessel down behind him.
Javert's tone cools considerably when he speaks again, his eyes downcast to match his deepening, apprehensive frown. His excessive weariness creeps back into his manner.]
That was thankless of me. I was quite cross and out-of-sorts, besides. Then you came rolling in with your irons burning hot, and I barked back.
You will call me Javert, monsieur. Tell me now what a respectable military man is doing on duty at a Faerie-Ball.
no subject