middleofsomewhere | The Endless River

The Endless River

On the morning of day twenty one of the month of Kazoo there is a message on the ICP screens around the train. Their SCA's will light up the colour of the Void and show the following information.

World #398050 is a void nexus known locally as Tshering. As a void nexus this world has strong links with the void and the connection through worlds. World #398050 is home to the Endless River. Legends speak of this river being powerful enough to send thoughts from one heart to another across any distance. All that is needed is for you to know who it is you wish to reach.

On-board

The dressing carriage is open, filled with clothing best suited to a pleasant spring day. Light, airy and in a rainbow of joyful colours and florals. One closet is entirely filled with wide-brimmed hats bedecked with ribbons, feathers and ornaments. A stack of picnic baskets and containers filled with an alarming variety of passenger-suitable foodstuffs and flasked drinks sits in one corner, next to rolls of thick, weatherproof blankets in the four team colours.

The large box marked Do Not Use Yet, filled with small, empty jute bags, is hopefully still sat in the Luggage carriage, ready for passengers to grab handfuls of its contents as directed by the announcement.

Upon landing (after an appropriate countdown), the train remains on the surface, its carriages partially curved to form a gathering site for the day. Welcome to Tshering, the eighth void nexus!

A Day for Picnics

Tshering, system #398050, is a strange place, only habitable by grace of the passengers' SCAs. The sky is shot through with colours, a cascade of sunsets, and through it, the void shimmering through it in seams like a child's painting of the milky way. Still, there's a beauty to the chaotic mash of colours that soaks through its landscape, and in the shelter of the forests of towering funghi that dot its surface, the Void can go unseen by its visitors.

The temperature seems mild, suitable for the provided clothing, and if there are weather patterns around the world they've taken the day off. The funghi are sturdy enough that what air flow there is doesn't disturb their stalks, and carved grooves and holds in some of the larger examples indicate that climbing them to sit atop their glowing crowns is eminently possible, and, in fact, encouraged.

the Endless River

The Endless River is a font of pure chaos, flowing from a multitude of small rivulets across the area to a central reservoir, from which it pours directly upwards, away from Tshering's surface and out of sight, beyond the world's atmosphere.

Anything bagged and placed within the Endless River will also flow upwards and soon be out of sight, passing, presumably, into the Void. Scattered across the surface of Tshering are small, glittering pebbles, as described in the announcement.

The stones are pleasantly cool to the touch, and all passengers need to do is feel. Messages can be in any form that the Voidtreckers wish. Perhaps words, perhaps feelings, perhaps an image from their mind into the stone. Perhaps a mixture. Once they begin their message the stone will glow slightly and continue to glow as they secure it in the bag and cast it into the river. They will feel, almost instinctively, that they need to focus as they do so, thinking of the person they wish to reach all the while.

There are plenty of bags and many more stones; passengers will not be limited in their sendings.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Okay, okay," they give in, holding up both hands in mock surrender. "You understand complicated. Mostly people just don't like to hear about it, is all. It tends to make people pretty mad to get the details." They've learned, after a long time of just dumping awful revelations on people at the slightest question, how to actually keep things back out of tact.

"But if we're going to start exchanging horror stories, we should probably sit somewhere. Eat some of that picnic of yours." They've got snacks tucked into their pockets, too, though some of them are probably a little smashed now.

"Oh, I'm sure I'll be pissed, same way you'd be pissed about mine." Soldat's already been pissed about his, and they've barely done scratching the surface. "It's got a bunch of human experimentation bullshit too, as fair warning."

He adjusts the basket and clips his phone back to his belt. "Pick a mushroom, any mushroom, I guess."

"Yeah, well, so does mine, so guess we're probably even. Mine's got a lot less aliens in it, though, I'll give ya that." There's a brief urge to throw the flesh arm around Ghost's shoulders, knock their heads together, and tow him along-- but Ghost is not small!Steve, or Sora, or Misty. And they know they couldn't keep in that much contact for more than a minute anyway, so of course they don't do it. But the urge is there.

Instead, they prowl over to a mushroom stalk with a broad cap and plenty of springy moss underneath to sit on. They settle, one knee up and the other out, not comfortable sitting cross-legged, and start pulling little bags out of pockets. "I have wondered before if the arm is alien, though," they admit, opening one and making a face at how crumbled the trail mix inside has gotten. "It was installed in the 50s, I'm pretty sure. Nobody had tech like this in the 50s."

Wow, rude, he's not that small! (He's absolutely that small.)

Ghost follows Soldat over obligingly - he swings the basket off his shoulder and just lets go of it, telekinetically setting it down before dropping into a casual seat on the moss. At the mention of the date, he squints at the arm in question.

"Well, if it is, it's not the same kind - Typhon weren't even discovered until the space race. America locked Russia out of the loop later on, and the whole thing shut down with a containment breach in the... early eighties? Somewhere around there, I think it was Reagan. Got shut down after that until a megacorp called TranStar bought the research station from NASA." He pauses, shakes his head, flicks the lid of the basket open with a gesture that doesn't actually touch it. Soldat now gets to suffer increasingly casual telekinesis. "Probably not the best starting place for the whole thing, though, since most of that history doesn't impact my life that much."

Soldat lived with a witch for a year in Beacon, and is good friends with a magic-user here on the train. A little mind-moving isn't going to upset them.

"I don't know who Reagan is," Soldat admits. "I was still in Russia at that point, up through the early 90s I think, and they never actually got locked out of the space race, so. Definitely different versions of Earth." They peer into the basket, wondering if it's appropriate to just start pulling things out. But if not, well, they're gonna start anyway, shrugging off their jacket and setting things down on it. "I'm still piecing the timeline together, to be honest."

"Well, not the whole space race, just the part with the top secret alien research." Ghost shrugs, and grabs a wrapped sandwich out of the basket without further ceremony before the whole thing tilts a little in Soldat's direction. Help yourself, buddy. "Reagan was one of the US Presidents in there somewhere. Most people kind of hate the guy.

"TranStar started fixing up that research station ten years ago or so; finished it in five. Officially it was for engineering research and neuroscience, and don't get me wrong, a lot of both of those things happened on Talos I. But the public sure as hell wasn't told about the aliens, or what actually happened to the 'volunteers' TranStar brought up from Russian prisons. Morgan's family was TranStar's corporate royalty - both parents on the board, Alex the CEO, rampant nepotism as far as the eye could see."

That's good enough on the historical context, probably. The question there is where the hell to start with all the rest.

Well, no time(line) like the present.

"The first words I ever actually heard were Good morning Morgan. Today is Monday, March 15th, 2032." The great thing about using a voice synth is that he can switch it off Morgan's voice setting for the alarm clock's line, instead delivering the feminine computerized 'personal assistant' voice exactly as he heard it. Ghost takes a deep breath. "The day that Morgan was hearing those words was actually February 23rd, 2035. The day I was hearing them was September 9th, 2035, because the fucked up simulation had fucking layers."

They take a sandwich, and find a little bag of cookies that aren't too crumbled to offer, in return. Their expression, though, is grim. "Simulation," they repeat, an obvious invitation to explain. Because they already don't like where this seems to be going.

They can guess what was happening to those Russian prisoners, too. (Technicians. Doctors. You said it, pal.) The Asset is going to take that personally, they can tell from the way it used two words, and all but growled them. It's the most Russian of the four of them. (I ain't thrilled, either.)

Can you really, Soldat?

"I understand why they did it."

Ghost closes his eyes, briefly, setting the sandwich down on the closed flap of the picnic basket. One of his arms goes Phantomy again - and then strikes at the mushroom behind the two of them, fast as a whip, the curled tendrils stretching and sharpening to at least eight feet of reach with a nasty point at the end, leaving a deep puncture in the mushroom stem.

It's not hard to imagine what it would do to human flesh.

"Not letting something that can do that as a starting point loose around humans until you know it won't immediately murderize everyone in sight is the smartest decision they could have made." Ghost pulls the tendrils back, curls them up into a hand again, his fingers balled into a fist. "But the way they did it was by throwing me into a simulation of Morgan's actual experiences during the Talos I containment breach to see what I did."

And it wasn't fun, needless to say.

"Good strategy, shitty implementation," Soldat suggests. Not gonna change their mind on that, buddy. Though their threat assessment of Ghost sure did just go up. It's probably a good thing they've already slotted him pretty firmly into "friend-shaped" in their head, and also managed to conflate him with the Widows into "needs protecting".

Friends can also be very dangerous, though, as can people who need looking out for, so it's fine.

They look down at Ghost's tightly-closed fingers. "What happened."

Well, Ghost sure isn't going to argue with that. The question gets a bitter laugh, a little helpless.

"What didn't happen? It was a recreation of the worst 48 hours of Morgan's life in perfect-memory-perfect detail, directly designed to trigger sense memories to make it seem like more than just wearing a VR headset. And it all starts Your memory is full of holes. I'm sorry, but it's permanent and You're not going to like what I have to say next."

He's quoting Morgan, but it's hard to tell, since there's no telltale shift in accent, much less in actual voice. Ghost takes a deep breath and continues.

"So the main secret research was centered around something called neuromods, which - well, you can probably figure out the purpose from the name. Used alien matter to artificially construct neural structures, gives people skills in a ten minute injection process instead of years of learning thanks to advanced brain imaging. 'Removing' them was a neural reset to when they were installed - memories included. Short version is that Morgan used himself as a guinea pig for alien psychic power mods and lost the whole three years he'd been in space as a result."

That's not the worst part, but, there's a lot of fucked up there already, so Ghost is going to take a break there and eat this sandwich, mentally watching for the reaction even if he's not looking at Soldat directly.

"Jesus Christ," is what they mutter, but at least that's all it is: a mutter. They have to look at their own hands, instead, and carefully set down the sandwich because they kinda just punched a hole through it with metal fingers. The flesh hand, still clean, goes up over their hair to still the shaking.

Memory loss is kind of a thing they're familiar with. And are terrified of. After their hair, that hand goes into a pocket, where one of their memory stones is, just a couple taps as a reminder that it's there and they can at least get those memories back if they have to. The only thing that's keeping them remotely steady is the knowledge that Morgan did it to himself. No Chair. No straps.

(Technicians. I don't know what you mean, Asset. Others.) The Russians that the Asset hadn't forgotten about. Given what Ghost said, and what Morgan was doing.... They put their head down in their hands. Hand. There's mustard on the metal one, which means there is now a little mustard in their hair, fuck. (I really didn't need you making that connection just now, buddy. No.)

Paper folding. That's a better idea right now. Soldat works their way halfway through folding a crane in their mind before they can pick up the sandwich again. They're not sure if eating is a good idea, so they just put it back on the picnic basket, themselves, for now, and only pause to lick the mustard off their damn fingers before saying: "Okay. Okay, go on, then."

"You sure? Because if you're fucked up about that part - look, I'm going to be honest. Whatever you're thinking? It's probably worse than that. Like, nine in ten, it's worse than that." He's trying to stay out, but the Asset is loud, and snapped one of the connections into place and - well, Pytheas, but just regressive neurotomy wasn't the worst of what happened to the volunteers, either.

Ghost does, however, pull a napkin out of the basket and offer it in Soldat's direction. "Here, you smeared the hell out of your hair."

"Give me five more minutes of dwelling on it, and I bet you I can get to worst case scenarios all across the board," Soldat says, aiming for dry, just coming out bitter. "I've got a damn fine imagination for a murder machine. I'll lock it down now that I know what to expect."

But they accept the napkin and untie their hair to start getting mustard out of the strands. "Let's just not talk about the other ones," they suggest. "It's your story I'm here for, not theirs." The Russian prisoners aren't here, and they can't do a damn thing for them. Ghost, maybe they can, even if it's just being a friend.

"I'll do my best." It's a weak smile. "Unfortunately, my story's Morgan's story for most of it, and Morgan was involved in this shit at all levels. It's the fact that he understands it and regrets it that makes him a better person than he was in the three years he lost."

The current Morgan is definitely an improvement, if you ask anyone but Alex. That's the problem.

"But so in October 2034, Morgan gets his memories pulled out in the sake of making himself a guinea pig to see if neuromods based on Typhon are a thing that can be done, to see if humans can get powers like this." He levitates his sandwich, spins it in the air, and drops it back onto his knee. "Entrusts his brother, Alex, with basically the sanctity of his mind."

Soldat can probably see where that's going, see why it's nine in ten worse than you think.

"The thing is that doing shit to your brain like that - cycling neuromods that much, putting that much alien matter in, all of the above - it causes personality drift. Makes you paranoid, but also makes you more inclined to empathy in the real 'understand what you're doing to other people is fucked up' way. Makes people blander, too, depending on exactly what's going in and out." He shakes his head. "I've got my thoughts as to why, but that's not the important part. The important part is that starting around December, Morgan decided he wanted out. Wanted the whole thing shut down, actually. Alex... wasn't a fan. Couldn't get it in his head that the 'new' Morgan was still the 'real' Morgan. I'm not sure he has even now, honestly."

He's maybe going the long way around it, but given how badly Soldat reacted at first... "So, in late January sometime, Alex tells everyone on the station that Morgan got shipped back to Earth. And Morgan started living that Monday, March 15th over and over until the Typhon broke containment right in front of his nose - literally, the first casualty was one of the scientists administering the Typhon mod tests. It's not a fun way to die."

Yeah, it's about on par with where their brain would've gone. They can keep their reaction to a nod and some grim feelings-- if this weren't in the past, and weren't clearly something Morgan was already free of if he was making alien hybrids named Ghost, they might be angrier about it all. And they're a little angry, as it is.

"No, doesn't seem like it. Given what you can do. He got out?"

"Oh, I'd way rather be killed by a Phantom than a mimic." Anyway, not the point.

"He 'got out' into the middle of a situation with killer aliens everywhere, his own failsafe robot telling him to blow up the station and everyone on it, Alex gaslighting the shit out of him, survivors hunkered down in whatever corners they could find, a dying ex-girlfriend he couldn't even remember, and oh yeah, his corporate bastard father sent a guy with your kind of skillset in to kill everyone so they could write the whole station off as a loss." Beat. "And he did specify everyone. Morgan's family does not have a genetic predisposition towards being decent people."

He sighs heavily.

"And that's kind of where it breaks apart, a little bit. Because what I went through was a simulation based on Morgan's experiences, but it wasn't designed to just be like, a movie. Morgan saved ... Well, everyone it was possible to save, I think, bundled everyone on an overcrowded shuttle and escaped just before the reactor blew. I'm not that good - not at saving people, at thinking ahead, at whatever measures the whole simulation was set up to measure. No perfect scores here." Ghost shakes his head, closes his eyes briefly. "Some of that shit I'm not proud of."

Not like Morgan's any better - but when you're friends with someone you remember shooting in cold blood, because you just didn't really get it at the time, it weighs on you. "After the simulation, I woke up to... Well, a lot of discussion of my performance like I wasn't even there, and certainly wasn't a person yet in their eyes."

Would you let it live?

"The whole thing was set up to measure just how human I was - how much empathy I had, meaning 'is the alien a decent fucking person?' ...Good enough for them at the time, obviously. But they didn't really break the 'you're not actually Morgan' thing gently."

With more pieces to the story, and remembering the time Morgan said they came from, and the date this was really happening... Soldat might manage to get a little mad again. They keep it locked down, letting the Asset mutter with it far in the back of their shared brain where hopefully even Ghost can't hear it, but it's still there.

"They put a baby. From a brand new species. Through a situation he couldn't hope to complete perfectly without actual training and understanding of what was happening. And then blamed him for not getting a perfect score?" they ask slowly. They're not even going to tackle Ghost blaming himself for not succeeding. That cuts way too close to things they don't think about ever, if they can help it.

It's HYDRA but fucking worse. At least they trained their Asset first. Gave it the Words to give it purpose when the Chair took everything else away. Gave it missions with briefings and orders.

Ghost looks... a little surprised, maybe, at the vehemence.

"Nobody blames me but myself. It... might be easier if they did. I'd have a better idea what to do with that, or even just distrust, than someone I remember shooting in the face just having faith that I was a good person."

He really doesn't know what to do with that one. A sigh, and Ghost picks up his sandwich and takes a bite out of it as an excuse to delay, to wrestle with his thoughts, even though he doesn't need his mouth to talk. It still creates an excuse to pause.

"But when you look like the guy who saved everybody, sound like the guy who saved everybody, and generally act like the guy who saved everybody's lives before fucking off because he couldn't handle being in the same survivor hideaway with the brother that fucked him around like that and all the rest of his issues? People are going to fucking compare."

They take the break to have a bite of one of their only-slightly-crushed cookies, going with comfort flavor over healthy lunch, given this conversation. At least now they're pretty sure they're settled enough that it's not going to come back up.

Then the conversation resumes, and, well, if you were looking for a neat distraction from grousing about the people who made Ghost, that was a good one. They freeze for a beat, blinking, then hunch their shoulders just a little bit. "Yeah. Yeah, they really would, wouldn't they." Because they haven't run into almost that exact situation twice already today, themselves? "For what it's worth, I still think you're a good person. And I don't really care about Morgan."

Ghost snorts. "Well, I can honestly say you're the first person to say that last part. It's weird as hell not having the constant comparisons. They don't even have to say it and I can tell they're doing it. You know, the ones who don't think I'm a ticking time bomb of alien murder."

That's just kind of a fact of life for him.

He's stealing a chunk of one of your cookies with telekinesis, Soldat, don't mind him. It's 'munch shit until you settle' time now.

All of which is familiar. From remembering shooting someone who insists you're their friend, to knowing people around them are comparing them to someone else, to knowing some people fully expect them to explode into violence at any moment. Jesus fucking Christ.

They finish their cookie, and nudge the bag of the rest of them closer to Ghost, if he wants more. Look they offered those cookies to him earlier. He is absolutely allowed to eat some of them.

"There was another version of me on this train before me," they say quietly, after a moment. "From some universe that's not quite mine. There's a bunch of people here who. Knew him. And Steve. He knows the. Person. I used to be. A long time ago. More than I do, even."

Don't worry, he'll definitely be taking more, he's just balancing sweet cookie with somewhat less sweet sandwich, going back and forth between the two. Variety better suits his stimulation needs.

"Before Russia?" Ghost guesses, reasonably confident in it.

"Before Russia." They consider their poor, half-squished sandwich, but don't pick it up again yet. "HYDRA took my memories. Burned them out before and after every mission. When I died, I had twelve hours' worth, all of it mission or mission prep. Things have been coming back, but it's slow. In pieces. Not always with context. I'm guessing, from cross-referencing nightmares with flashbacks, that I've got about sixty actual memories. Less than half of those are from before HYDRA."

Ghost considers that, and after a moment says, "One, that's fucked. Two, fucking up just your episodic memory while leaving your procedural intact is ahead of your arm on the neuroscience technology pre-turn-of-the-millennia Russia shouldn't have scale." He assumes he doesn't have to explain exactly how he knows that, given how much he just explained about Morgan and poorly considered neuroscience. "Three, that's fucked. Worth restating."

"Targeted electrical charges. Here." They very carefully and very gently tap one temple with a flesh finger. "Probably only worked because I'm enhanced. My increased metabolism and healing factor. That's probably the only reason it didn't kill me, actually." They breathe out slow. "And I know. It's pretty fucked. That's not even all of it, that's just the part that means I think I might know how you feel. About being compared to someone else. I'm not. I'm not Steve's friend anymore, I only have a handful of memories about him. But he sees him when he sees me. Even though I tried to kill him."

And the whole "other version of them" problem, of course, but that's not related to HYDRA's fuckery, at least. That's just multiverse shit.

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