cultmirror | 02. (Week One)

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02. (Week One)

[will link Harry’s TL with his altars here when posted, available to be prayed at, vandalized, etc]

Out of the murmur comes an image: an altar made of tires and chains and cinderblocks. Decorated with multicolored feathers and the cleaned bones of hosts. Crowned in antlers made majestic with their twisted metal branches. An assortment of candles sit around the base, flickering with a gentle and inviting light.

An image isn’t the only thing being transferred in this moment. It comes messy with the residue of Harry’s feelings. (A tumultuous mass of mismatched colors and limbs that tear and bite at each other.) He’s nervous, absolutely terrified of what’s to come upon them all, and afraid he’ll be turned away, mocked-

HALF LIGHT - (Stop! Stop! This is a horrible idea. They’re only going to yell at you.)

-but there’s a hope. That if he does right it’ll all be worth it. Nausea boils in his stomachs. Rejection is painful, scary. It’s cold.

His rough voice echoes as if coming from many mouths:

“I invite any and all of you to come worship with me. The world is splitting, its fragile seams are tearing open all around us. The world ends again. The end of ends comes.”

Speaking of her calms the noisy background chaos of his mind. All can feel it: a deep love for Sleep, and the time he’s spent with her.

“You can offer her what you want, your hope, your past, your blood. I once gave her a memory of a song…sharing that with her was wonderful.”

He falls into a nervous silence, not totally sure what to anticipate.

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[ There's some about this message in the Murmur that 'Hikaru' can't help but pay attention to. He normally ignores the stream of intrusive voices and feelings, but something about this one... ]

Cool altar. It's like somethin' out of a movie.

“Is that a good kind of cool?”

He likes movies, or liked them. He doesn’t really remember them exactly, just enjoying the watching of movies. So that’s a positive connotation to him but what if it’s bad to this guy? Youths are especially mysterious creatures.

Yeah, totally. Yer going all out.

[ It's kinda funny. 'Hikaru' knows this pageantry isn't required or expected to make Sleep happy, but... maybe the theatrics are part of the process for this guy? ]

I'll come over. Where are ya?

“That’s the only way I know how to do things. I'm over by…”

Easier than giving directions: Harry conveys his location through impressions, images. It’s tucked away in an alley, he hoped to give it an air of privacy, perhaps even security. A place vessels could gather or come alone for solitary reflection. He has other ideas too, like shrines built inside buildings to offer more literal shelter.

[ he's not laughing but he sure is worried. He knew something was going on, but now it's very obvious. ]

Harry... oh, Harry, damn it.

“Hey Aventurine! It’s cool, I'm fine. I mean I'm not hurt. Yet. I'm fucking scared. This is crazy. What happens next is going to be worse.”

He would like for them all to survive it.

... What's happening next?

“I don’t exactly know.”

(Please don’t laugh!)

“Something really bad. These holes in the world, they aren’t just going to stop. The world is breaking. The ground under our feet knows its final days are here.”

[ Aventurine is very much not laughing. That really does not sound good at all. ]

Ugh, is there anything she doesn't like breaking...?

He buries down the impulse to defend Sleep. She does break things. That’s a thing she does…and he's thankful he’s believed.

“I don’t think it's her. Or if it's her I don't think she’s doing it? I talked to One and he was…really fucking angry at us. Us vessels I mean.”

[ Aventurine considers a moment how to address this. He wants to appeal enough to Harry that Sleep can't easily convince him to turn on Aventurine if things get bad enough between himself and Sleep, so... ]

Harry, you're a detective. One is subservient to Sleep. Shouldn't she be able to control him? Or has she explained to you the situation better than she has us?

[He gets it. When Harry's feelings slam into his, Ain meets them with commiseration and agreement, quiet under the tumult. He loves Her too. She gave him a new purpose after he came here, like the mother he never really had.]

I'll worship with you.

“Awesome!”

Theres the distinct impression of a tail wagging, slapping the ground a little. Thwap.

“I’m at…”

An assortment of images and impressions, to relay the exact location. Way handier than using street names in his opinion.

I'm on my way to you, then~.

[AKA he will arrive at the designated toplevel, but since he has Harry on the line...]

Do you want anything to add to the altar? I could find something to contribute if you wanted.

CONCEPTUALIZATION - (Shiny things! Things that glitter and gleam!)

He pauses for a moment. Shiny things are very alluring after all…or, that’s a Bird Thought, isn’t it?

”Do you have any candles? Other than that I’d ask for…something that feels significant to you. And to how you see her or yourself. Could be anything at all. What matters is it’s imbued with meaning.”

I have lots of candles. I'll dig around and see what I can bring.

[Ain likes books... perhaps a novel, then, he thinks. He'll have to root around through his stolen collection.]

Can I ask one more thing? When you gave her a memory of a song, did you lose that memory...?

“Awesome! Perfect.”

Harry doesn’t want her to be alone in the dark again. He knows he can’t keep candles lit here forever, but it's the thought that counts. His intention.

EMPATHY - (You can’t help but wonder…is there something he *wants* to forget?)

“Yeah. It's gone. I remember what it was, like I remember the guy I first heard sing it but the tune, the lyrics are gone.”

[ Terror hits first, followed closely by a curdling realization. Harry is worshipping Sleep. Fallen hook, line, and sinker for her promises. Pity blooms, but it rots just as quickly as her hatred rises, uncontrolled and spiraling. ]

What the hell is wrong with you!?

Concern flows from Harry immediately.

“Are you okay-?”

Then comes the anger, he flinches back. He verbally fumbles, sputtering. It’s his turn to be scared.

“I’m not- can we talk about this?”

What is there to talk about? You're— [ It's difficult to think when she feels like this, so overwhelmed by the weight of her rage and hatred. ] You're building altars for her. You're giving yourself to her!

And what do you get, huh?

“I can understand her- she needs to be understood by *someone,* she needs help!”

Why doesn’t anyone else see how badly she hurts? How lonely she is inside? Is he supposed to just leave her to her pain, where no one else can reach her or even wants to try?

“I’m not doing this for power or any shit like that…it wouldn’t matter if I was! Right now something really bad is going to happen and we need her help.”

[ Corrosive laughter spills out from her, so sharp it almost surprises her. ]

What you're doing is self-serving, and you know it. [ Venomous. ] Bad shit happens here all the time. We barely get a moment to breathe. And we've survived that without her. Whatever is coming, we can handle that, too.

She is a slow-acting poison, and you're drinking it up, begging for more like a fucking dog.

EMPATHY - (Sharon’s never been cruel…not since that night.)

He’s been trying not to think about it. Shit, he rubs at his jaw. He’s grinding it. Has he been grinding it the whole time?

…Maybe he has been stupid, believing that someone like her would ever be more than her hate. Maybe she’s hated him this whole time and he was too dumb to notice. He is after all, a dog. This feels realer, this disdain. It feels true. Like the icy winds of March biting his fingers and toes. Like the way the tribunal descended on him, and they made him stand there on his gunshot hip. And he really saw how they hated him, how they hated him this entire time. Cold hard reality.

SUGGESTION - (You think of the tuna and crackers. Like bribing a scared dog out from under a porch.)

HALF LIGHT - (And you just stuffed them in your face, like an animal.)

His words come out garbled, his jaw is locking up on him. His multitoned voice frays. All at once low and gravelly and high pitched hysteria.

“You- you think I’m just a stupid fucking dog! You think you can- just give me treats when I’m how you want and then scare me back into submission when I’m not!”

[ His emotions crackle over the Murmur, sharp little bursts of confusion, uncertainty, and then the cold snap of realization. Harry isn't doing well. Something in him is coming apart, and the more weakness she scents on him, the hotter her anger burns. She tries to smother it. It doesn't take. ]

A man who acts like a dog shouldn't be surprised when he gets treated like one. [ The words come out a sneer. She knows it's cruel, but she's too wound up, too furious to rein it in. ] I'm not trying to scare you. You're just a coward, and it doesn't take much.

[ Mean. Mean. Mean. Some part of her knows shes gone too far; the rest of her couldn't care less. Men like Harry, steeped in cowardice and reeking of desperation, are why they're stuck like this in the first place. ]

That cloud, that crawling chaos of emotions and colors solidifies into a cruel sneering face, a cloaked figure, wreathed in laurels. A fallen king stands, the hilts of rusted swords emerging from his back. Shadows scatter away from its feet.

AUTHORITY - (She's right about that at least. Coward. Dog. You’re too scared to tether, too scared to touch, too scared to fuck.)

-1 MORALE DAMAGE

ENDURANCE - (Fuck off your lordship. When was the last time you did anything other than hurt him? All because you can’t live without a badge.)

AUTHORITY - (I didn’t want to be here. I told you all, if we are to be sentenced the least we can do is accept it, and die with our dignity remaining. You chose to listen to the *animal* over me.)

“Shut up…”

HALF LIGHT - (Go back to being dead! This is all your fault. You got the Lieutenant killed.)

AUTHORITY - (He was our half brother. We should’ve died with him. We should’ve walked forward, into the sea.)

PAIN THRESHOLD - (Yes. It only would’ve been right. Clean.)

AUTHORITY - (Not be lead astray from our fate by the nimble tongue of a distant god.)

INLAND EMPIRE - (The dead weight of his body falling against yours, mysteriously light. Like a pillow onto your hip. You remember watching the orange of his jacket turn red and wet with the last of your consciousness.)

EMPATHY - (He was still trying to stop the bleeding. He hoped the weight of his body would be enough to save you.)

-1 MORALE DAMAGE

-1 MORALE DAMAGE

Harry hooks his fist back behind his shoulder.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

And slams it hard into the asphalt. Once. Twice. The pain sends his thoughts scattering away. He feels the small bones in his fingers crack and splinter. He wrenches off his mask and screams.

[ It's awful how much satisfaction his reaction spurs within her, a cruel, cold coiling of venom and fire. The flashes of pain, the explosive anger. Maybe some small part of her, the bits and pieces left of her goodness, feels some hint of guilt. The rest of her can't even be bothered to pity him.

Harry will learn. She will make him learn. ]

[Hmm. Now that's interesting. And rather artistic, actually, even if Silco finds the whole thing a bit unsavory.]

One finds comfort where they must, I suppose. What is the benefit, then, to your worship?

A familiar presence! A pragmatic approach. The frankness soothes his nerves a little.

“What I get from Sleep is probably not what others need. I was born with my ears open to the cries of the world spirit. She’s familiar to me. She understands me.”

Everything is kind of just tumbling out of his mouth at once.

“Sleep is nourished by love. Like anyone is. She overwhelms and I don’t think the others here are equipped to understand her like I am.”

RHETORIC - (Hey, you haven’t actually answered him yet.)

“Sorry. Her power guided me out of the void a few days ago. Also I see tethers. That’s a gift from her. They’re beautiful.”

[Whenever someone says something like 'they understand me', Silco assumes manipulation is involved. It's not so difficult to make someone think you understand them, if you're observant and careful with your words.

And frankly, Harry seems like an easy target.]

There are quite a few here who seem to hate her very personally. You don't think they have reason?

“No, I think that’s fair. I don't mean to say people are wrong for how they feel. She has hurt people. She’s largely beyond human understanding and I think in some ways she doesn’t totally understand us. There’s a barrier between us. So if they want to hate her…or me, I get it.”

Still hurts though. Being hated never gets any easier. It’s less lonely when it’s at Sleep’s side, for what it’s worth.

“I’ve seen how she’s hurting. Leaving someone in the dark when they need help doesn’t change anything. I think it’s easy to hate Sleep and shuffle her off to a corner of your mind where you don’t have to think about her as a person.”

Vague images of desperation travel through the murmur. Not intentionally sent by Harry but the memories cling to his feelings, can’t be separated from them. A lonely old woman bent and weeping. The faces of two dirty children. The flash of a woman pressing a gun under her chin.

“Hating Sleep won’t fix the world, won’t even bring it back…was rotten before she got here, anyway.”

Loving Sleep seems unlikely to fix the world, either.

[The imagery is familiar to Silco, not at all unlike where he grew up, the city he ruled. Desperation, at least, is intimately familiar. And Harry, it seems, feels it keenly.]

But perhaps your hope is that it will fix you. [There's no particular judgment in his words, only observation.] That you can find meaning in loving her, the sort of meaning that can be difficult to find in people that are smaller, that you can understand.

[The sort of impulse that leads someone to religion, clearly. Silco's never been inclined himself, but it certainly can be useful.]

Is it really worth the hate you'll get?

...you must have been suffering a great deal, mustn't've you?

“…what? What's that supposed to mean?”

He’s getting increasingly uncomfortable.

“This isn’t like an artistic expression of my inner torment. It’s for Sleep. It's an altar.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA - (An altar is commonly a table or flat-topped block used as the focus for a religious ritual, especially for making sacrifices or offerings to a deity.)

“Ok it’s an altar *and* a shrine, it’s a combination.”

Yes. But I suspect some extent of hurt went into the makings of this... altar. Didn't it?

“Fine. Whatever. Sure. I get my big sad all over the place. Do you have a point?”

I'm only asking because I'd like to know if there's a way to help.

“Oh. Sorry. I feel like a fuck now.”

Now, now. No need for that.

My hopes, my past, my body [he holds up a hand currently curled into talons] my blood - and most importantly of all, my future - are my own.

[His voice is firm but gentle.]

I think in this conflict, regardless of what preternatural elements we decide to ally ourselves with, based on whatever is the best arrangement of convenience or survival, we still must keep sight of the truth:

Our ultimate loyalties shouldn't be to beings that have turned us into pawns in a strategy game, they should be to each other. Above all else.

If Sleep has the ability to relieve us of what's happening to us, pray tell, why hasn't she stopped the visions exploiting childhood trauma I'm not responsible for by choice? If she's apparently willing to act on the goodness of her heart? If it's so easy for her all it takes is sharing a memory?

You've confused protection with extortion.

Great. Harry really liked this guy too. It’s not like his social life has been blossoming since his fucked up face exploded.

“Okay, so it was an *invitation,* not a demand...I’m not used to this. I wanted it to sound grand because it’s obviously a fucking pile of junk!”

He sighs. A deeper exhaustion than from the physical toll of building the shrine has come over him. A profound weariness radiates from him across the murmur, to him it’s a familiar loneliness. Everyone wants him to be something he isn’t. A cop. A crazy junkie bum. A punching bag. A corpse. The savior who stops an atomic fucking bomb. At the end of the day she’s the only one who sees him.

“You know what that’s great. I used to believe in stuff like that too. Do you come from a place where faith in collectivism can alter physical reality?”

[Careful, Julian. That’s a trick question.]

“I don’t know anything about your dreams! I’m not here to be Sleep’s PR guy, I’m not saying what you think I’m saying! And what I shared with Sleep wasn’t extortion. You don’t get to talk about it like that!”

Yes, I am from a place where faith in collectivism has altered reality. We chose to become a people that lived that way.

After nearly destroying ourselves, humanity ended war, hunger, prejudice, poverty. We only face it from external threats. And now we're allied with many other species that live in harmony and adhere to the same ideals.

It has taken work and sacrifice but if we're to make any sacrifice here it should be to each other.

You're suggesting we give more of ourselves to someone that is already taking from us, has taken from us. Our humanity. Our homes. And apparently this horror could be extended to other worlds.

That's a sentiment you should be questioning. While you still have a mind that can question it. What she's doing seems like love but that is false.

[His expression grows intense, though it's not angry. More like what he's about to say is personal.]

Because real love accepts people as they are. It doesn't demand change and transformation.

Harry’s had time to adjust to the idea of different worlds, different societies. This is something else entirely. It draws a pained wheeze from his throat. Noises somewhere between man and animal, building hysteria. He’s pulling at the feathers that make up his hair.

A roaring fury in his ears. The violent spasms of an animal dying in a trap.

It’s a useless and directionless hate with nowhere to go except to Julian. A cacophony of images and impressions barreling towards him. Coalition aerostatics buzzing over the city of Revachol like vultures. The gaunt faces of hungry children. Bombed out streets. Feral dogs chasing him and his friends in the valley. Monsters shaped like men in impenetrable shining armor. Garbled screams and the smell of burning flesh and hair. Never ending helplessness and humiliation.

“Cool. So you’re from some beautiful utopian future and the place I’m from is just fucking doomed. They don’t- don’t even have three decades left! Only twenty two years in Revachol!”

He hates you, Julian.

“You think you have any right to tell me how to live…the only one trying to change me right now is you. Sleep gave me a body unbroken, Sleep came to me after humanity left me to rot. You'll never understand why I love her, what we share, you can’t.”

[He winces at the images but they fill him with a duller horror than they would have a few years ago. He's subjected himself to places like this. Places of plague and violence and hopelessness.]

[He'd been naive enough to think he could fix them. In some, he'd helped a little but only that: a little. ]

[A brief flash comes of him haggard and living in bombed out ruins with a plague-riddled people. He's holding a newborn in bloody hands, helping the baby's mother hold her right after delivery. The mother has pestilence crawling through the veins of her face. He helps her hold her healthy daughter and she gasps her last breaths, still weeping with joy over the fact her baby will survive. Then the Julian of memory bows over the baby in his arms with a grimace of grief.]

[It's not purposeful. It's just the images remind him of her. When encountering deprivation his thoughts go often to Ekoria. ]

[Empathy comes back, in response to the hate. It's a reflexive reaction. Strong. Enduring. It's something people like Garak find slightly infuriating. Kick Julian and he worries about whether you hurt your foot. ]

[All of it, every bit of what he projects externally isn't an act.]

I'm sorry that your world is facing so much suffering. That they're... looking at that outcome.

[And he truly, truly is.]

But isn't that all the more reason to try to prevent the nightmares of this place from spreading to other dimensions?

You could help prevent it. Prevent suffering like your world's suffering from happening to others.

[His voice gets raspy with emotion.]

There is an entire multiverse out there worth fighting for.

Harry...

[ oh, she hates this. she does something she hasn't in a while—draws up a wall in the murmur, the shield she used to maintain between herself and all others. the fortress she hid behind to keep them out. she doesn't want him to know how she feels about this.

he is an Offering, after all. she, too, has felt Sleep's call, compelling and utterly beguiling, in a way her Token companions don't seem to; resisting it is exhausting work all on its own, never mind the voids.

still, to build an altar and invite the entire city to worship is... ]

You'll get pushback for this, you know. [ mildly; there's no real inflection to her voice, disapproving or otherwise. ] I just hope you're prepared for that.

[ she thinks to herself, quietly, that she wouldn't be surprised if his altar gets destroyed when he isn't there to protect it. ]

Harry braces himself for worse. It doesn’t come. Only the sinking feeling of disappointing someone else. His anger, defensiveness, it all fades fast. Replaced by a feeling of hollowness.

“Yeah. I…”

He doesn’t want her to worry about him. This hurts worse than the yelling.

“Yeah. I’m pissing a lot of people off right now…but something would’ve happened eventually. I’m just that kind of person, I think.”

PAIN THRESHOLD - (At least you aren’t waiting for it anymore. The waiting is the worst.)

HALF LIGHT - (Like tip-toeing on egg shells you can’t even see, only the certainty that Something is about to come crashing down on you and knock you back on your ass.)

I think people don't understand, Harry. She's hurt a lot of people. Very badly.

[ ... ]

I hear her too, [ she sighs. ] That doesn't mean she's the right or safe choice.

[This...

makes her feel a way she hasn't for a long, long time.

But those feelings are not for him. They're not for Her, either. Kalmiya holds them at a distance from this message, from the Murmur, from herself. She projects no likeness when she speaks; only her voice, measured with the careful patience of someone who has taken a thousand confessions.]

What happens when we worship?

[on one hand, it frightens Maria. her last memory is being killed for the sake of a ritual. being a sacrifice. the altar is terrifying in that regard.

and then in another way...Maria can't help but understand it. thinks it's beautiful in its own right. the beauty in terror and so forth. not that she can understand that well. it was never that beautiful to her.]

You really went all out, huh?

[she knows people won't be happy about this but Maria doesn't want to be one of those people to make him feel bad.]

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02. (Week One)

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cw: ideation, intrusive thoughts, self harm, just lots of bad coping

cries harry babyyyyy

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cw: suicide imagery

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COULD A TORMENTED PERSON MAKE *THIS*?

...well

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COULD A TORMENTED PERSON MAKE THIS?