voidtreckerexpress | A New Platform [Intro Post December]

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A New Platform [Intro Post December]

On the Train

It's only been a couple of days since the Voidtrecker Express took to the void once more, and many of the passengers are still recovering and recuperating after a very hectic end to their latest mission. Nevertheless, they are awoken by a familiar message.

"Good morning passengers, it is day sixteen of the month of Imagination. Points have been updated on the system."

They have indeed, and everyone can spend the morning shopping. Those who have been on the train for a while will be expecting the second announcement that comes a few hours later.

"Shortly arriving into a designated void platform. Exit from void in ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one." A lurch and a jolt and the windows fill with the fog that means they are at a platform. It is warm outside with a pleasant breeze that flows down the platform, rustling the light spread of leaves that litter the floor.

As usual the first to leave the train notice nothing, walking silently, rucksacks on their backs, towards the barriers. Akemi Homura, Alfred the Poisoner, Donatello Versus, Chie Satonaka, Joscelin Fitzthomas, Ronan Lynch, Rose Tyler, Tangle the Lemur, Trowa Barton, Wester Mazaki and Whisper the Wolf all pass through the platform, not looking back before they disappear through the barriers and into the fog beyond.

But on the platform itself there are new faces. Wearing hoodies in all four colours, in various states of confusion.

For New Passengers

At first all they can see is steam, billowing around them as they come to their senses. The second thing they will notice is the swirling leaves at their feet, moving in flurries and rattling against each other softly. As their eyes adjust, they will see they are on a platform, cement and packed earth forming a very practical, plain-looking shelter. Behind them is a set of barriers, and in front of them is a single track extending both ways into thick fog.

They are standing, in clothes that are not their own and a style they might not even recognise. They are carrying a rucksack on their back. For a moment it seems to just be them, alone in the white haze but then the steam begins to fade and they realise they aren’t alone.

The platform is not large and it holds eight figures all facing the tracks, all dressed in cargo trousers and hoodies. Both left and right the tracks disappear into the mist. Then there is a roaring sound and out of the fog arrives a train. Jet black with gold writing on the side. The Voidtrecker Express. There is a hiss as the doors slide open and out into the gloom step a selection of people. Some are human, some are less so. Most are wearing the same hoodie in one of the four colours, red, orange, blue and purple though some are sporting different clothes in a variety of styles.

The Train

The doors hiss open. Those from the train may encourage those on the platform to board. It’s not like there's anywhere else to go and even if there was, you feel a pull. A need to board, a feeling that staying on the platform would lead to something terrible. If that is not enough, there are plenty of people on the platform now, to encourage them onto the train.

Each ICP shows the same message and next to the screens there are stacks of leaflets written by those on the train, with further information (see
'Publications'). The store rooms have been restocked with more jars of honey, the ingredient of the month of Imagination, as well as sundries.

A new carriage has been added right next to the luggage carriage. It is a second medical carriage, or triage carriage. Downstairs is more open with beds and chairs, upstairs are two surgical bays for those that need immediate attention.

For those intrigued by the claim of a parcel for every passenger they will find several large boxes filled with small blue bags. Inside each bag is ten dark blue coins imprinted on each side with a silver snowflake. Each bag has a small label with a passengers name. On the other side of the label it reads: Keep these safe for now.

Of course for any passengers that have bought items, these are also scattered around the luggage carriage as well.

New passengers will find their tickets allow them into their cabins. They may need to negotiate for beds, especially if they want a top bunk!

Room is tight but there are storage cubbies at the head of each bed, beds fold up and the bottom bunks double as benches for the small table. There is storage under those benches and you will hopefully find a pillow for your bed if it has not been nabbed by a roommate, there are also spare blankets for if it gets cold.

Departure

A second horn sounds to encourage any stragglers taking advantage of the pleasant weather and the doors slide shut. Veteran passengers know what will happen next, but they may wish to brief their new companions.

The train sets off, the fog obscuring the view again as it picks up speed.

"Welcome aboard, passengers of the Voidtrecker Express." A female-coded artificial sounding voice echoes throughout the train. "Please take the time to read the passenger information displayed on the Information and Communication points and familiarise yourself with the layout and emergency exits."

The train begins to tilt, leaving the ground and rising up into the fog-filled sky.

"Entrance into Voidspace imminent. New passengers are advised to remain seated. Entry into Voidspace in ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one."

A shudder, a jolt, a lurch to the left. A flash of light, colourful and blinding. As quick as it happens it is done. The train seems to steady. The fog from the windows is gone now, replaced with a kaleidoscope of ever-changing colours.

Welcome to the Void!

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It's starting to hurt in pulses, too, each sharper than the last. But Koumyou is as stoic about pain as ever, even when an area full of so many nerve endings has been punctured. The only sign that it's hurting is how his fingers twitch at each pulse of pain.

"I suppose."

So, off to medical they go.

Those twitching fingers have Devero just a little bit concerned. Given how extensive his Implants are, he knows just enough about the way a body is put together to be worried about an injury to a tendon or ligament. (And little enough actual anatomy to be sure if that's actually something to worry about in the specific location where the ceramic sliced into Koumyou's flesh.)

Off to medical they go, as fast as Devero can chivvy Koumyou along. His worry has made him officious by the time they actually arrive. He shoulders his way into the first examination room-- glad to see it empty-- and makes Koumyou sit.

"How's that feeling? Can you still move your thumb?"

And Koumyou sits, no argument there.

"Yes, everything can still move," though even Koumyou can't help but suck in a sharp, sharp breath when he rotates his own thumb in demonstration. "Haaaa... there are... there are a lot of nerve endings in there, you know?"

The twitching, of course, only gets more pronounced after he just pissed the wound off all over again. Tiny muscle spasms in his fingers and palm. It's only through force of will that he hasn't clutched at his hand the way instinct says he should, as if that would actually help any more than the pressure Dev's been applying in his stead.

Which he will definitely take over on applying, if the other man needs to step away at all. Just because he's stoic about the pain doesn't mean it's fun!

Devero's hands close about Koumyou's again for just a moment. Applying pressure, yes, keeping him from moving his thumb further, yes, but also just to offer a moment of commiseration. "I know," he says quietly. "Hang in there, let's see what I can find for you."

He does have to leave him then, so he can ransack his way through the supplies in the cupboards. He's obviously looking for something (or somethings) specific, because after a few minutes he slams his hands down on the counter beneath the cupboards. "Where the hell is the r-jelly? Where's the synthskin?!"

And Koumyou indulges instinct for the moment, not only putting pressure on his hand, but curling it in close to his chest, too. Like that'll help, somehow.

"I've never heard of either of those things," the priest offers, "that might be a little too advanced."

Devero freezes with his hands splayed on the counter, staring into the back of one of the cabinets like it hadn't even occurred to him that the medical conveniences he took for granted wouldn't be present. But they wouldn't, would they? If this virus-riddled excuse for a transport didn't even have a proper net, why would it bother with civilized medicine?

His fingers dig against the countertop as he struggles to wrest down the surge of anxiety and straight fear that inspires in him. Now is not the time, not with Koumyou needing his head clear so he can render first aid.

"Fine," he says-- through gritted teeth, but he says it. "That's fine. We'll make do." And he starts to go through the cabinets again this time, actually looking at what's there instead of what he wants to be there.

Koumyou, meanwhile, works on getting his arm-warmer off while not letting go of his own hand for more than a second at a time. He'd rather have any bandaging under the hand part, instead of over it.

The priest peeks under the napkin to gauge if it's still bleeding. It is, but not much.

"What is r-jelly?" Synthskin seems pretty self-explanatory, probably some kind of super high tech bandage.

Supplies assembled on the counter, Devero returns to Koumyou's side. He helps him get the arm-warmer the rest of the way off, if he needs it, and then brings him over to the sink to wash away the blood.

"It stands for regenerative gel," he explains as he does so. "It's made specifically for shit like this-- it disinfects the wound, numbs the pain, and stimulates the cells on either side to heal it up quick. I wouldn't need all of this shit--" He waves a hand angrily over the bandages and supplies on the counter. "--if we had some fucking r-jelly here!"

Koumyou continues to be an easy patient, at least, moving where he's directed without fuss.

"This isn't exactly a dire wound, you know," Koumyou has to point out, "you've seen what I look like."

He's had much, much, much worse.

Everywhere.

Devero gives him a look. "Does that mean I shouldn't care that you're hurt now, just because you've had worse in the past?"

He doesn't wait for an answer on that, focusing on the work as he pats Koumyou's hand dry and starts to tend it with the supplies he's found. For all the sharp anger in his voice, his hands are gentle-- if a little clumsy as he tries to put what he knows theoretically into use practically.

It's as he's winding a bandage around the priest's hand to hold the dressing in place that he speaks again. "You wouldn't have scars like that where I come from. No one does, no matter how badly they've been injured."

The priest takes that reproach with a soft laugh, and no further argument. He wiggles his fingers as the bandage goes on, partially to test his range of motion and partially just to be silly.

"My scars don't bother me," Koumyou responds that last bit, "they're just proof that I've lived."

They seem to bother Devero, but otherwise they wouldn't be of note at all to Koumyou.

Devero actually pauses in wrapping the hand to look up at him. "...I suppose they are, aren't they?" he asks, mulling that perspective over. A moment later he murmurs, "I should appreciate each and every one, then, since they mean you lived long enough to get here."

He secures the end of the bandage and steps back. "Feel all right? Not too tight?" He suspects not, given the wiggling, but he has to check.

Koumyou smiles at him, and it's not his usual goofy expression, but something much more radiant. "You're sweeter than ice cream and honey, you know that?"

Edited 2020-12-14 04:50 (UTC)

"Flatterer," Devero accuses him, returning the smile even as he looks away, shy. But he looks back an instant later, leaning in to peck Koumyou on the forehead briefly. "Thank you."

The chakra might feel a little odd, to Devero. It's raised, round, and hard, like half of a small marble.

But Koumyou doesn't mind the gesture, at least, and wiggles his fingers a bit more carefully before answering Devero's earlier question. "It doesn't feel too tight or anything."

It does feel odd, much harder than he'd expected. He's been curious about the red mark(?) in the middle of Koumyou's forehead; he'll have to remember to ask.

Not right now. Right now he nods, and looks down at Koumyou, and asks a little hesitantly, "Did you still want to talk?"

"...I mean..." Koumyou hesitates, then sighs softly.

"Not really? But it's not fair to you, if I brush everything off and pretend nothing's wrong inside."

He's seen Devero so upset he couldn't speak.

It seems cruel to just brush off his attempt to help, like Koumyou's so much better or something.

"And I guess you should know what you're getting so attached to," he adds quietly, "before it's too late."

Devero slides his hands into his pockets and steps back again, giving the other man some space. There is a voice in his head urging him stridently to back off-- it's not his place to ask, he's pushing his luck, how long will it be before Koumyou loses his patience and finds a way to shut Devero up--

After all, Madame doesn't often tolerate Devero's attempts to get her to talk to him anymore. She much prefers his mouth to be occupied elsewise.

But Koumyou isn't his Madame. He has to remember that. So though he wavers here, he doesn't break.

"Of course you don't want to talk about something painful," he says, quiet acknowledgement of asking a question with such an obvious answer. "Who does?"

That last, quiet comment makes him look up, his brows drawing. "Afraid you're going to scare me off, Sanzo?"

That last question gets a wobbly little smile from the priest, "...Perhaps a little?"

And then Koumyou goes to sit down on the side of the exam room's little bed again, running his uninjured hand up and over his head as he does so, his short nails scratching over his scalp through his hair.

"Muichi motsu, do you know of it?"

"I'm tougher than I look," he says. "Promise."

There's a stool clicked into a bracket against the wall and he pulls it loose, sitting as Koumyou returns to the bed. He's still giving the other man space-- room to breathe, room to think.

The words are unfamiliar and he shakes his head. "Never heard of it."

Koumyou hums to himself in thought, and folds one leg up onto the edge of the bed before him, horizontally. The fingers of both hands grip his shin through his jeans, less out of any necessity to hold the position and more... for something to do with his hands.

"Muichimotsu, or roughly, 'hold nothing'," he recites, "If you meet Buddha, kill Buddha. If you meet the patriarchs, kill the patriarchs. Free of all, bound by nothing, you live your life simply as it is."

Koumyou's gaze drops from Devero, to the floor. He's not really seeing it, though.

"Everyone has their own interpretations of these teachings, that's just how it is. For me..."

He has to think about it for a second. "I... watched so many people I cared about die, you know. The impermanence of life... the inevitability of death. It was comforting to think... there was nothing I could do about it anyway, right? So I may as well just... let go of them."

It's so hard to try to put into words, but he's trying.

"I let myself care about the people I cared about, sure, but how much? When it was time for them to die, I just... over and over. Just..." Koumyou lifts his bandaged hand into the air, closed, and opens his fingers like he's dropping a fistful of ashes into the wind. "Gone. It's the only Buddhist teaching I ever passed on to anyone. I taught it to Ukoku, and I watched his soul shrivel away... and I did nothing to stop it."

If there had been anything to do to stop it, was another question altogether. But he hadn't even tried. Ken'yuu hadn't been entirely empty, surely, there must have been a chance. But, in the year they'd traveled together after Ukoku inherited the Muten sutra... Koumyou had just watched, a passive observer to life, as the last flicker of light faded away.

Muichi motsu.

"I even taught it to my son."

Edited 2020-12-14 11:25 (UTC)

Patient and watchful as a stone, Devero listens to what Koumyou has to say, and tries to understand.

It's hard for him. He hails from a world of plenty, a world of ease. Death comes gently for people in his reality, in most cases drifting into lushly appointed hospice facilities to bring peace to the tired and ailing. That's not to say that accidental and intentional deaths don't occur, but those are the exception, not the norm. It's hard to imagine living with so much pain and loss that he would choose to retreat into the kind of nihilistic apathy that Koumyou is describing.

Hard, but not impossible. "It sounds like you did what you needed to, to guard your heart."

"Did I?" Koumyou's hands on his shin squeeze tightly enough that there's likely to be bruises. "I burrowed so deeply into muichimotsu, so hard, I didn't even grieve for my friends. I just watched. Like everything was a movie!"

He shuts his eyes for a moment, steadying himself.

"I can still see Tenkai, covered in his own blood, reaching for me. And I did nothing. I can still see Goudai's blood bursting into the sky, soaking the ground -- and I did nothing. Less than nothing, I trained his killer for a year after! Who would do that?!"

"You would, apparently," Devero says quietly. His voice is... even, his expression reserved as he tries to put himself into Koumyou's shoes. "Maybe a better question right now would be why? Why did you do that?"

"Duty. The Muten sutra needed a protector, and he was Goudai's heir. I named him Ukoku Sanzo, and wandered for a year at his side."

It's Koumyou's turn to draw a knee up and wrap his arms around his leg, but rather than hide his face behind it, he sets his chin on his knee.

"On paper, it was the correct thing to do. On paper, everything I did was the correct thing to do."

It didn't help.

"I was so detached from reality... when you asked if I'd stopped helping people, I realized... I could have looked right at someone who needed my help, and my eyes wouldn't have even registered it."

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cw abuse trauma

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