boxfullofzeroes | what is going on here?

From:

dustless

They're all alone, exploring.

Or they're a ghost.

Or both. Exploring ghost.

From:

luckytobealive

(Eliza Hamilton, they say, is somewhere in the old city, perhaps at home. They say she is keeper of every story of the Revolution. That she is silk hiding steel and emptying the city's spirits one by one, and if you are desperate to seek history, advice, or a "second chance" (whatever that means) you go to her.

No one has in years. No one has dared.)

An old home and an old garden in an old city; this where old souls like Eliza have come to rest.

There's a lot of souls, or there were. She's helped many move on, misguided in their reasons to stay, but still there remain hundreds in a city that once housed thousands. It's long since ruined; she's existed long enough to see it built up with brick and steel instead of wood before the trees started growing in.

It's greener than you'd expect from a broken city, or perhaps not so. Nature stakes its claim in ivy and birds and trees. It's much better than the first years when everything was wiped and abandoned.

Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton; she is one of the lucky few to remember her name, cut into her grave and on a plaque on her old house, which had become something of a historical site after she died and her remaining children had all moved out; for this, she is glad, because all the work she put into preserving legacies was not in vain though but not enough to satisfy what keeps her here. No, she wants to know how history played out. If the name Hamilton was lost to ghost stories and sparse pages instead of war stories and the man who wrote one thousand pages a year in non-stop brilliance, helping found a nation.

Unfortunately, ghosts are somewhat of a deterrent to human life, and she cannot leave the city.

So she lingers in old homes and gardens.

Edited Date: 2017-05-24 10:55 pm (UTC)

From:

techconvention

Otacon--Dr. Hal Emmerich--researched this place before coming, and he isn't perfectly satisfied with what he gathered.

It's not that he doesn't believe in ghosts; for a man of science, he's been in enough impossible situations to discount it. There just isn't enough information about the ghosts. They might not be ghosts at all, but natural phenomena, or they're artificially made (though he hopes there aren't going to be any cyborg ninja zombies here), or a front for a terrorist organization, or psychics...

Not enough sources gave anything even close to proper information. The only cameras he could hack to look were from satellites, which aren't all that efficient.

He didn't want to go through somewhere so unknown, but his hand was forced. He had to split up with Snake and make plans to meet on the other side of the state with mere minutes of planning, and the route he found best winds right through that abandoned place.

And because the universe couldn't give them a break--and this was really starting to feel like an episode of Scooby Doo--his car breaks down halfway through, just at sunset.

Hal covers his face and groans.

From:

luckytobealive

Hal is lucky it's not a place of malevolence, just an old city with old souls. (Mostly. She's met her fair share of… well. She's glad she was already dead.)

The sound of a motor attracts damn near everyone in a place that's been practically overrun by nature, Eliza included, and she has the mind to figure that the visitor won't take well to being surrounded by a dead crowd. (Thankfully it's only the early risers who caught the sound earlier in the evening.) Scaring him off wouldn't be very becoming--nor is it very good to scare off the only human that's passed through in god knows how long. (It reminds her of the Odyssey. But there's no offering. Just a car.) De-facto leader Eliza, one of several, manages to shoo most of them out of sight.

Then the sun sets and the stars peek. The flickering shade of a middle-aged woman in a dress outdated by several centuries is walking down the street from a nearby corner. It's better than appearing in the back seat.

(She should warn him about that. An empty seat is an invitation, and there are some things best left outside.)

From:

techconvention

The car door swings open, Hal hopping out with a stretch and gentle crackle of his back. He's not all that old, but that's just reality, being a nearly non-stop hacktivist.

Then he spots her, and freezes.

There aren't many reliable-sounding contingency plans for ghosts, at least where he'd searched, and it's not like he had the time to get anything ready. If he wasn't fast, it's prison at best, death at worst, and the latter isn't unlikely. That's still a possibility; get to work, Otacon.

At least she looks more human than the last ghost he saw. And less armed. And less anime.

He's never been good with people. He gives her an awkward wave and steps around the car, popping the hood open while keeping her in the corner of his eye.

--And then quickly darts back around to fish a flashlight out of the glove compartment. Can't check on the engine in the dark.

From:

luckytobealive

He'll find there is little anime about her. Solace is in the small things.

Eliza, whose presence grows stronger as the stars do, strides over to the car, peering curiously. She must admit, it's far beyond her understanding. She's observed cars as a ghost, of course, but never took the time to understand them--and besides, all of the broken down models sitting abandoned are miles behind Hal's. Technology sure is something. She can't imagine how far the rest of the world has moved on, aside from occasional overhead aircraft.

"It's a shame you're only passing through."

From:

techconvention

The light steadies on a single point, the radiator. It's clearly not the problem or it'd already be spraying scalding liquid, but it's easier to stare down at that than at the ghost.

That...really sounds like the start of a horror movie. He hopes she can't...he doesn't know. Possess him? He doesn't know a thing about clothing styles, but even he can tell that dress is old. She's been around a while. That could mean she's strong.

"I-is it?" Impressive introduction, Otacon, he can hear his partner say, clearly enough his empty hand twitches up to check the CODEC hidden in his ear. But no, they've both left that off.

"I don't think it is. I have work. I can't do it here," he explains, still staring down. Please don't try to keep him here, ma'am.

From:

luckytobealive

A sigh. "We hardly get passerby, too. It's difficult for the dead to move on when there aren't any people to give them their answers." (As if she hadn't already helped release hundreds. Hundreds remain still.)

Eliza moves her gaze from the car's insides to Hal. It's only polite, to look at someone when you're talking to them, though she doesn't blame him for averting his eyes. She's very well aware of the stigma surrounding the dead; the fanciful tales of demon possessions and hauntings seem to have kept up their ardor.

She looks him up and down as the breeze passes through her. Less of a mechanic and more of a scientist, by the looks of it, and she wonders if he'd ever believed in the supernatural before she showed up.

"I'd offer you a seat and tea, but the trees seem to be in possession of my holdings now." That's a joke, but kind of true. "The only thing I have to give is conversation, if you wouldn't mind?"

(The only thing she has to give, besides everything people rumor to seek her for.)

Edited Date: 2017-05-28 05:13 am (UTC)

From:

techconvention

Hal's hand steadies.

"The living don't always have answers to give."

Murder is something he's familiar with. He's never fired a gun, but it's his fault people have died, and the world's in jeopardy. He wouldn't have an answer if the people his mistakes have killed came to ask why it happened. I thought I was doing good. I didn't look close enough and I trusted who I shouldn't. I'm so sorry.

Maybe an apology would be something. If he was lucky.

And his hand twitches again. He's not...good at normal conversation, is he? He glances up at her, looking more worried. Did that serious statement really just come from this man, this face?

"I don't need tea. I--I have my car, if I want to sit down," he says, gesturing awkwardly with the flashlight. "I don't have a lot to talk about, you know." Of course she doesn't.

From:

dustless

Hop. Skip. Hop. Crumbling sidewalk and stone can be fun to jump across, as long as you don't fall. Adrenaline rush, they think's the term.

Toriel doesn't know where they are, but that's fine. Their cell phone still has reception. (They're pretty sure they could get that anywhere, from the center of the earth to the other side of it. Thanks, Alphys.)

Frisk likes ghosts. They suppose that was why they were dared to go here, even if the group of human kids insisted they thought the spirits needed help being put to rest. They're not stupid. It's just that the dare was as fine of an excuse as anything.

Not that they're expecting to find much. The ghosts they know are SOULs or monsters, after all. Though they are keeping an eye out for floating hearts.

From:

luckytobealive

The sun is setting, too, because that's when the ghosts come out, the children know this much.

By the time they start becoming visible--mere shades with no sound and no features, they'll see Eliza trying to shoo off other spirits. What, scare off the only live human passing through in god knows how long? No, she thinks not. She chases off a fair amount, and thankfully most of them are just curious folk and not ones with a purpose. Not all of them need answers from outsiders to move on. So it goes.

By the time she becomes more than a transparent silhouette the stars twinkle dimly in fading sky.

Eliza is aqua. There is no reason to wonder, really, though she certainly shucked that quality to the side a little in her last fifty years. Oh well. But--there's a human child here, finally, for once an outsider, and she wants desperately to seek answers so she can move on, but patience. And besides, it's unbecoming, and children don't always have the answers. She'd be better off with a historian, she muses, but… she'll take what she can get. If they have none, then… she'll be sorely disappointed, but the fault is not on them. Perhaps it'd be nice to have a young look on things.

Eliza steps from the street corner, features a little more distinct: a dress outdated by at least several centuries, adorning a middle-aged woman who looks like she has seen things and come out of it kinder and wiser. Her poise and grace is nearly impeccable.

She stops near a dead street lamp, waiting for Frisk to spot her. Not all the living react very well to the dead.

From:

dustless

Long before she appears, Frisk notices the change in the air.

It leaves the back of their neck prickling, because it summons memories of being terrified and nearly alone, but they know better than to run when they can't be entirely sure what they might be running from. Gotta keep a look out, that's all. 'Sides, running away could be pretty mean.

(Or it could be the air getting cooler with the sunset, but Frisk trusts their instincts.)

Despite expecting something, they still jolt when they see her. 'Cause she's a person. An actual whole one, not just a SOUL. And she's so fancy, too. They like her dress.

They're staring. When they notice, they stop doing that and wave. "Hi!"

From:

luckytobealive

Graciously enough, Frisk is welcoming of the dead. Tension inside her unfurls and comes undone. Eliza smiles, the kind from aged mothers, and starts across the street towards them for a greeting. She looks like she's walking, but leaves no clack of heels against asphalt.

"Hello," she says, stopping a few feet short of them. She's very much not solid, even if distinct--it's as if the breeze alone sways her. There's also the lovely view of the buildings behind her, through her. "You're very brave to come out here by yourself."

From:

dustless

They bounce forward a few steps, though they're careful to stop before they can actually cross paths. They've run through Blooky before, and there's no saying this lady would be as forgiving as them, even if she looks nice enough.

"Thanks. Not really, though. I didn't know there were really human ghosts," they say bluntly, tiling their head. Frisk isn't staring at her chest like a weirdo--well, no, they are, but they're only trying to see if her SOUL's in there.

From:

luckytobealive

It sits snugly in her chest where a necklace might rest, shimmering and aglow in waves of aqua with the barest shades of green and yellow, like taffeta silk. In the rapidly growing darkness it's a pretty good de-facto lamplight.

Eliza quirks a brow. "'Human ghosts,' you say? If not humans, then what?" Animals? Creatures? She can hardly imagine any rumors and tales about those, especially in a city like this one.

From:

dustless

Multicolored. Is it 'cause of her dress, or is she just very different? Maybe older SOULs can figure out how to be more things than kids'.

"Monsters!" they say loudly, then pause to glance around. They echoed, and most monsters are actually good about not trespassing when there's signs up for it. Papyrus and Undyne might stop by to visit, they bet. "...They're nice, though, they just don't look like us. And I saw other ghosts once, but they didn't have..." Frisk waves their hand at her general form.

From:

luckytobealive

"Monsters," she repeats, somewhat disbelieving. Hmm. Either this child is living as children do, or something has very much changed since the city went empty.

"Well," she hums, "I didn't think monsters and humans would get along. To my knowledge, they didn't." There's certainly enough books about men hunting them, that's for sure; werewolves, vampires, the heroes of old Greek myths.

Oh? "What didn't they have?"

From:

dustless

Frisk's seen that face before, quite a bit. Most recently the last time they'd wandered off in the mall and had to describe Toriel to a concerned security guard.

"Monsters," they say again firmly. "They're real and they're better at being good than a lot of humans. They were just locked up a long, long time ago 'cause humans were scared."

They demonstrate by tugging out their SOUL. "They just looked like this. But different colors. Not...all...not like humans anymore."

...they wonder why.

From:

luckytobealive

…
Hmm. She takes this child's word with a grain of salt, but it is possible that they speak of not… technically monsters, but something else that they might mistake for such. (What, she does not know, but she does know what children have the tendency to be far more perceptive and clever than the usual adult gives them credit for.) And besides, ghosts exist.

But Frisk says--locked up long ago, because humans were scared, and yes, that sounds very human--rampant slavery and Indian slaughter, humanity has the lovely tendency to go witch-huning for anything strange. It certainly explains the lack of magic beings despite ancient myths of rampant monsters.

Eliza considers, quiet for a moment.

"Well," she hums, "monsters are not mortal men, after all. It would not surprise me if their fundamental nature was different."

She's probably interpreting wrong, but she trusts them to correct her.

"I confess I lived and died too early for tales of monsters. Spirits, perhaps, and myths, but not monsters, so you'll forgive my ignorance on the matter. You've found where they have been sealed away, or have they been freed? You seem to know much on the matter."

From:

dustless

"They're mortal. Or, um, most of them are." All of them can be killed, but the fact their mom and Asgore are going to outlive them--they might be a little bitter at Gerson. But he was just telling the truth.

Frisk ambles a little bit closer. "When did you?" they ask bluntly. "'Cause it was...a very long time ago, so they still might've just been stories to you. I didn't know they were real until I found them. And they're out. I helped."

From:

luckytobealive

"About two hundred and seventy years ago," she hums. "1854. Of course, I wouldn't know the exact amount, it's hard to keep track of the centuries without a calendar."

She blinks a little. Eliza admits she hadn't expected them to be directly involved in the release of a race sealed for thousands of years, but the unexpected comes from the unexpected.

"Oh. I apologize, I thought they'd been released some time before you were born and after the city faded. No news passes through this place, only the cycling of old stories lost to time. Except for the Hamilton legacy--my family. I've worked my life to keep it sustained. I only hope it was worth it."

From:

dustless

...Still a long time, but only for Frisk, probably. Long after the war ended and monsters were mostly just stories, probably--Frisk doesn't know their history very well, so they're sort of lumping the 1800s with stories of witch hunts from eras even earlier.

Despite their general lack of knowledge, there's...something about that name that leaves their brow furrowed. Sort of familiar. "Stories keep going for a long time," they offer, neglecting to mention they can get pretty messed up in retelling. "What was...that story about?"

From:

luckytobealive

Admittedly, Eliza's the same way with the eras preceding hers. She isn't quite sure if the witch hunts were the 1500s or the 1600s. She's quite sure early colonization was the 1400s, though. That's besides the point.

"Of my family, do you mean?" That's what it seems like. It's... quite the story to tell. "I pray you've read the last name Hamilton in books and engraved in statues." It's true she has seen his face embedded in the currency, but if those kinds are still in circulation, she wouldn't know; and if anyone really knows anything of him beyond that he is on the currency.

From:

dustless

"...statues? Not those. I...think books. Um. I'm...I did bad in school."

They've never actually cared about that before this, but now that they're looking at living--er, history, who thinks she should be known, Frisk's feeling...pretty bad.

"But my mama's a teacher," they add in a rush. "My new one. She prob'ly knows. I can...ask. Or bring her."

From:

luckytobealive

Eliza is visibly a little crestfallen, but she cannot fault Frisk. They are young, and school does not work for everyone. Besides--complex history isn't typically taught to children who look as young as Frisk does.

Still. It was worth a shot.

And there is still hope.

"I couldn't ask to bother you and your mama too much. Ask her if the name 'Hamilton' is known; please return with an answer. I would… I would like to know if my husband has the legacy he deserved."

From:

dear_henry

If Eliza Hamilton has any hopes for a quiet evening of afterlife, those are about to be dashed. There's a '68 Ford Bronco driving through the pothole and crack-ridden streets at an inappropriate speed, being driven by a man of middling age and strung out face. The driver probably isn't as alarming as the presence in the back of the car though; there's something very angry and very potent in there.

The car bounces through one street, than another. It's been over a day or so since Chicago and Henry doesn't have a particular destination in mind, just as-far-away-from-civilization-as-possible and he hasn't hit a dead end yet. The car turns another corner and-

A deer, out nibbling on some foliage growing out of the cracks of the streets, looks up and freezes in the headlights. Henry yelps, the car swerves, the deer makes a belated break for it, and the car skids along, tilts, and smashes sideways into the ground.

After a moment, the engine goes dead.

From:

dear_henry

Option A:

Henry dun fucking died and now he's haunting the animation studio.

Don't worry, he's less screwed up and dangerous than the rest of the... things lurking in the studio. (For now?)

Option B:

Based more on canon: Here Henry is, just a regular joe trying to find a way out of the ink demon infested animation studio he worked at 30 years ago. Maybe you're another hapless person who's gotten themselves stuck down here- or maybe you're dead or someone who got infested by ink.

From:

dustless

Ghosts? Frisk hasn't heard heard of ghosts being here. It's just a place with boarded-up windows and fences and NO TRESPASSING signs pasted all around it, visible every time they go visit the city. ...Certain parts of it.

Someone else was through here once. Maybe even a bunch of someones. Or maybe it's just fallen apart with age, the chain-link fence sagging and the boards coming loose. They wriggle through one of the back windows instead of the front door, just in case someone spies them from the street.

As soon as their feet hit the floor, something's weird. Something squishes and smells...really weird. (They've never encountered old-style ink, after all.)

From:

tragiclay

Clayface is getting quite used to hanging out in abandoned places. After all, Gotham City has a plethora of them. This place, as far as he can figure out, used to be an office building. Or one of the old hospitals. Whatever it is, it seems like a good place to lay low for a few days. He's picked out a decent room- not too dry, not too humid, relatively intact considering it's part of an abandoned building- and keeps himself from getting bored out of his mind by turning on a small radio he's been lugging around in his torso and zoning out to music. He's not feeling masochistic enough to listen to the police scanner tonight.

From:

dustless

...Music?

Music.

There's not supposed to be music in here.

Frisk hides out in the lower floors sometimes, since there's a window hidden behind some trash and a tangle of weeds that only someone as tiny as them can fit through into the basement.

There's either another kid here, or somebody broke in somewhere else. Probably someone homeless. They should leave them alone. Maybe leave.

...

But they gotta check to see if it's really coming from in there. Maybe somebody's just listening in the alley behind it.

They're good at stealth. Pity some of the stairs creak under their weight anyway.

From:

tragiclay

His senses aren't quite the same as they were- Clayface feels the muffled vibrations of the footsteps reverberate through him shortly before he actually hears them.

Crud. He's been heard. Or is about to be. Though it's probably just some harmless homeless person. Or a dumb kid looking for thrills.

Just in case, Clayface stretches his hand across the room to where the radio is perched on the sill of a boarded up window. His fingers slide, viscous, over the surface before solidifying over the OFF switch, enough to flick it off before he retracts his arm into within himself. And then, just in case, he melts back into the wall, flattening thinly across the surface, the color of his body shifting, blending into the dingy plaster.

From:

dustless

The music stops.

From their place at the top of the stairs, Frisk freezes too.

Exactly how thrill-seeking they are (and their specific levels of smarts) could maybe be disputed, but their curiosity is definitely something they have trouble resisting. They're already up here, aren't they? So many empty places around for them to explore, they've never felt like bothering to look at the upper floors of this building. It's usually the places people used to live in that were fun to find things in, and they're pretty sure this was just a place for people to work at, if the old printing stuff in the basement was any indication.

No music. No movement, either. No sound but their own breath. With the diffused light from the setting sun, it's a little creepy.

With slow, careful footsteps, Frisk continues.

And they make it to a door that's slightly ajar. They have a good ear for music, but only when it's there--they can't tell if it came from this one, it's just a guess, but they check it out anyway. Quickly, they jam their head into the room and take a look around.

The radio stands out. 'Cause it's not as old as the rest of the things in the room.

But it's...off. And the room is otherwise empty. No way out aside from the window, and it's not open.

So the music came from somewhere else...

Or.

Frisk lightly bumps the door a little more open with their shoulder.

"Ghost?" they suggest aloud.

Edited Date: 2018-08-20 09:08 am (UTC)

From:

returnvoid

There's no presence to it, no. Neither is there any extra 'weight', or anything of the sort, to the place, old and abandoned as it is. Nothing haunts the walls, no life clings to its innards, no ghosts in the drapes.

That's probably the thing most off about it, really. Things rearrange themselves, in someone's presence, sometimes, when they look away for a moment, with some intent of meaning-- but there's no feeling of being watched. Never.

Honestly? It's a pretty lonely place. Forlorn, and possessing a sense of absence to it made all the more conspicuous when all other signs... really, should point to something being there.

(Without knowledge, one cannot be seen. But knowledge is a transient, ephemeral thing, so prone to slipping through minds like sand through sieves.

Does anyone still remember? He's not sure he does.

But if you hold tight to memory, then maybe, with some amount of determination... Well.

Wouldn't that be something.)

From:

non_egressive

This is an abandoned place.

No-one likes coming back Underground. And Toriel is no longer Queen.

And yet, she feels a responsibility. To the monsters and the child she left for so long--and Dreemurr wanted Frisk to make the trek up and through the mountain all by themselves. She refused; either they would go together, or she would go alone.

Today, she is alone.

Taking inventory, from Knight Knight to Gyftrot, making sure those who chose to stay within Mt. Ebott are still there and have supplies to last.

And today, she finds something odd. A room she cannot remember seeing, even in passing, after the original evacuation.

How strange.

From:

returnvoid

Nothing changes, everything changes. When everything changes, nothing changes.

When you've seen it all before, or at least think you have? Change becomes a novelty, cause and effect a curiosity divergent of continuity.

The door appears, from time to time. When conditions are right. That in itself isn't unusual. They poke and prod at the Underground, when conditions permit, and sometimes despite no longer being the Underground lets them be, lets them pretend they still are as they once were. Lets them carve out a pocket of space of their own and play at being able to affect things, to affect change.

Nothing ever truly comes of it, but he (they, them) settled/settles/will settle into usual position to play his (their) usual part all the same.

(The Grey Monsters- they skirt at the edges of vision, that much closer to being-- present, than usual, more willing to toe the boundary of not being and revealing themselves. Something has changed, in the Underground. A boundary, an endless loop of closed space... corrected?

Their script has changed. They, less scattered in self and mind than others, are curious.

Perhaps Toriel has glimpsed them, on her way through the Underground. Or perhaps she has seen the signs, the hintings of someone else.)

... The hallway, usually, does not appear to monsters.

(The ghost awaits in repose with a complacency born of... acceptance, maybe. Or perhaps it's something more like resignation? Perhaps that, too, depends on perspective.)

From:

non_egressive

This is The End. Perhaps epilogue. Toriel had an odd feeling last night, tucking Frisk into their bed, an inkling of peaceful unease, despite that being an obvious oxymoron.

Perhaps that is what lead her to leaving them with their friends today.

Toriel has taken stock of everyone required before Waterfall, slowly but steadily--she began in New Home, down the CORE, and now in Waterfall. She believed this would be the shortest part of her journey, so few monsters live here these days.

But now, there is a door.

There is a sense of deja vu.

Toriel's claws hesitate over the doorknob; she changes her mind and knocks. One, two, three.

From:

returnvoid

There is a loud sort of hush, a quiet rushing. A whisper of susurration, ambient sounds and murmuring as tends to be the case in Waterfall, with its flowers possessing vocal memory.

There are no echo flowers within the vicinity, and it comes from beyond the door. There is something faintly curious about the sound, as well as a weighty charge in the air now. ...it wasn't there before. The door itself seems of a strange quality, as if it would want to flicker and hide away when the back is turned, but after a moment, it stabilizes and remains in place.

A knocking at the door. How quaint. How polite, and tied to propriety and procedure. A gesture asking permission?

(It's different.)

He pauses. It's permission the ghost is unsure whether or not he can give. What is something when given by someone who does not, strictly, exist?

Still, why not try. There is a clicking noise, from where the knob would be. On its heels comes a more garbled wash of sound, spoken, like all things based upon magic tied to the soul, with meaning and intent:

...IT IS OPEN. PLEASE, FEEL FREE TO. COME IN?

The grey room, lonely carved out pocket of unreality that it is, has never destabilized while hosting another person, at least, so it should be safe.

break a leg, or some hearts

what is going on here?

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