≫ andronitis

[second day sea]

*AGE ?? »» __ *RANK C »» __ *DANGER LEVEL ? »»

ADOPTIVE MUSCLE MEMORY You have extremely good muscle memory but by figuring out this particular noise manipulation, you have lost your long term memory. In the end, you can learn many things through muscle memory easily, for example, how to fight, how to play an instrument, but you have lost your long term memory as compensation for this power.

▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌MUSICIAN » ANDRONITIS

The unaccompanied sonata. You're the musician who relies on muscle memory to play songs and you're never found without your instrument. With this power, you've found that it’s hard to form relationships. You barely know anyone’s names and you barely know when you decided to visit the DWELLERS. Apparently you were getting unwound and that you, as a ward of the state, could no longer be supported because your music was going downhill. Your music was tainted. Without telling your carers anything, you packed your bags and ran, living on the streets until you stumbled across the DWELLERS — or did they find you? You think you’ve met » LACHESISM more than once, but they’re just an eerie ghost in your memory. You're pretty fiery when it comes to talking about UNWINDING. You know your stance on it and you know what you want to do. It's one of the few things you remember, actually. You want to stop being so afraid all the time. Out of the group, you’re the one who’s most likely to get into fistfights and you’re the one who’s most likely going to win. No one really wants to fight you but you often provoke them until they have no choice but to try their luck against you. » ANEMOIA is one that you’re trying to fight with the most because you want to know how strong they are and whether or not you two should be allies. You know that they have good noise control because you can barely read them, so you want to know what ability they have but you’ve had no luck so far. » MONACHOPSIS is easily forgettable, truly. You forget that they exist most of the time.


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PROMPT The first time you’ve realised that you’ve forgotten something important / the process of learning a new ability / trying to run from your unwind fate.

signaltheend━━━ ━━ ━ second day sea ✖ ✖ ✖

[second day sea]

MUSICIAN » ANDRONITIS
codedby▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄
shinyponkan4parchmentsO H _ Y O U _ L I E _ N E X T _ T O _ M E ___ H E A R T _ I S _ B E A T I N G _ H E A V I L Y
shinyponkan♚ ANATOLY ...?

ponk*AGE 17? 18?»» __ *RANK C »» __ *DANGER LEVEL 7 »»
ponponponponponponway• __ • • __ • • • __ N O I S E _ T Y P E
ponkan15% LEFT ▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌85% RIGHT



━━━ ━━ ━ ADOPTIVE MUSCLE MEMORY ✖ ✖ ✖
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Anatoly's power is built on his ability to watch any set of physical movement and immediately reproduce them. He's also got his ability to thank for his music talent, but he likes to think that's always been with him. It takes a little creativity to be able to play, doesn't it? When it comes to fighting though, he's quick and fast, knowing hundreds of ways to make up for his tinier build and the fact that he hasn't been fighting all his life. He can use any weapon so long as he's seen it in action at least once. It's not like he can magically become faster just by seeing someone run, or learn to cook watching someone flip a pancake, but fighting is the one thing he hates losing in. He's got the techniques all stored up in his head and without thinking, he can mimic them perfectly. Anything you can do, he can do. Better.
But nothing comes free. He's been paying the price all his life, losing every memory that makes him who he is. He's just a name, one he's not totally sure is his. The better he becomes at controlling his noise, the more skills he can learn, the quieter he becomes, the more memories he begins to lose. The noisier he is, which is often, the less and more imperfect skills he'll pick up, the longer he gets to keep his memories. Truth be told, even Anatoly hasn't yet realized this connection though. You don't realize you're losing anything if you don't remember having them in the first place, right?


━━━ ━━ ━ PERSONALITY ✖ ✖ ✖
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• pretends to be enthusiastic at all times (tries to treat everything as a new, great experience)
  
• noise is like a soft song, clean and pure
  
• not many words, even less images or sensations
  
• just a song whose name he doesn't know
  
• sly-tongued, tough, humorous and quick to poke fun at others
  
• challenges people almost unintentionally
  
• craves attention and warmth, wants to have a home
  
• tries to remember to keep people at arm's distance
  
• forgets
  
• makes friends easily, unintentionally
  
• forgets
  
• burrows themselves into relationships, trysts, promises
  
• forgets
  
• treats everyone affectionately, intimately
  
• touchy about personal details, quick to brush those sorts of questions off
  
• considers fighting a great way to leave an impression on others
  
• if they can't remember themselves, they'll make everyone else do it for them
  
• feigns confidence
  
• sometimes it gets hard to breathe
  
• sometimes they try to run away
  
• forgets
  


━━━ ━━ ━ HISTORY ✖ ✖ ✖
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• you know how sometimes you lose track of your thoughts
  
• like when you walk into the room, and you pause
  
• you forget why you're there?
  
• what you've come for, what you needed?
  
• you never remember what you wanted
  
• you go back to the quiet room by yourself
  
• you sit down
  
• you forget
  
• ...
  
• ...
  
• Nails says they've been with the dwellers for a month now
  



codedbyshinyponkanforparchmentsT H E R E ' S __ B L O O D __ I N __ Y O U R __ E A R __ T H O U G H
codedby▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀

BLOOD ON YOUR SHIRTcodedbyshinyponkanSECOND DAY SEA ♔

[second day sea]

TM040

The frustration at how long it takes to know someone.

PERSONALITY
- pretends to be enthusiastic at all times (tries to treat everything as a new, great experience)
- sharp-tongued, tough
- challenges people almost unintentionally
- craves attention and affection, wants to have a home
- makes friends easily, also somewhat unintentionally
- forgets friends even easier
- treats everyone affectionately, but holds them all at arm's distance
- has been used before by someone who knows about their memory
- touchy about personal details, quick to brush that sort of thing off
- considers fighting a great way to leave an impression on others
- if they can't remember themselves, they'll make everyone else do it for them
- pretty sexual

POWER
control up: skills up = memories down = quiet
control down: skills down = memories up = noisy
danger level: 6/7
- doesn't realize that noise control is making more memories disappear
-

DETAIL
- looks younger than they really are
- unimpressive at first glance, light and pretty scrawny
- rough around the edges / piercings, messy hair, etc
- writes everything down
- never forgets how to do anything related to muscle memory
- forgets everything else within about a week: people, places, experiences
- plays guitar daily
- often goes to the same shop for instrument equipment (forgets the shop keeper every time)



BREAKDOWN

At first glance, Andro is one unimpressive ********. They look like a brat that's got something to prove. They ARE a brat that's got something to prove. The guitar slung over their back is about as big as they are, they've got piercings studding everywhere, their body is a permanent mess of bruises and scars. They keep trying to pick fights and most people have enough sense to leave the little scrawny kid alone, but every once in a while, there's a person who comes by who thinks they can make a quick buck off this brat with britches too big for them, and, long story short, the longest anyone's lasted against Andro was a record-breaking twelve minutes.

See, Andro's got this thing where they only need to see a move just once to know how it's done. They just need to watch a few seconds of someone to know how to do it. Of course, not everything can be done with just theory, but Andro's also been fighting on their own since (who actually knows) and they're not the tiny weakling they seem to be. When it comes to physical activities, Andro's on a level of their own. It sounds great and perfect and an easy hack through life, save for the fact that their power is simultaneously erasing every single memory they've ever made. Every person they've ever met, every feeling they've felt, every place they've ever seen. Their favorite food, their favorite song, the day they were born, their family. Gone.

As far as Andro's concerned, it's not worth it. Nothing is worth this. Like driving a car in the fog, and the only thing you can see is the three yards behind and before your headlights. They don't know where the road is taking them, only that they have to keep facing forward or they'll lose track of the road and go right through the guardrails. They struggle to form relationships, knowing that in a week or two, this person they're sharing drinks with will have stories of which they have no memory. But even worse, even though they know they should go around keeping everyone around them at arm's distance, they can't. They're meant to be distrustful, but anyone who has the memories that they lack is someone Andro can't say no to. They crave affection. They'll do anything to feel like they belong, to feel like they're not so alone. Just to ease the feeling of loneliness, they throw themselves at the others around them. Fighting is what they're good at; fighting is the easiest way to leave an impression that will last. But that's just one way. They're confident and talkative, they know how to pull others to them. They laugh the loudest when they're around others who can see them, feel them, promise them that the only thing important is the here and now, even though when they're alone they'll know that the opposite is true.

To the people hunting them, they're just a prime subject for unwinding, a treasure trove of skills and talents, and they're afraid of being reduced to just that. It's part of the reason they want to erase the unwinding business. Somehow that's one thing they've never forgotten. Or maybe if they ever do, it's because of how much the business disgusts them deep down that no matter what they forget, they continue to struggle against it. They know constantly they're being chased, and sometimes it begins to grow fuzzy why, who, but then a shadow appears at the corner of their eye and they feel a panic rise up in them and they run as far and fast as they can.

They're afraid of so much though. Worst of all, they're afraid of their own selves too. Sometimes they find out that they know how to shoot a gun, how to use a knife, how to kill someone and they have no recollection of when or why they've got such a skill. They're afraid of what they don't know. They're afraid of being alone. They're afraid of waking up one morning and not knowing their name. They're afraid of what happens when they run out of places to hide. They're afraid to one day find out that they had a family all along, that no one's been searching.

The smallest relief is in the form of their music. Just stolen skills from someone else, they suppose, but it's fine. Because music never killed anyone. They can count their belongings on just one hand, this beat up guitar one of them. To them, music is salvation. They've got this whole archive of songs in their head and even though they're all attached to some memory that Andro doesn't remember anymore, they conjure up feelings. Sometimes the songs they play bring up the smallest flashback, like a smell or a smile or a laugh that hovers somewhere in the dark. Feelings that prove Andro wasn't dropped on this earth a week ago; that they DO have a past and they DO have experiences. They have a life far beyond that which their power lets them remember. Sometimes they drop everything they're doing and play a song whose name they don't remember or never knew, then they sit and wait and hope that the moment, the person, the feeling stays with them forever. Or at least for another day.

They say people are shaped by their experiences. By the people they've met and the things they've seen. By the things they love and the things they hate. They don't love anything; everything is their first experience. They also don't hate anything; can't hate what you don't know. (Andro wishes with all their heart that that isn't true.) But it always is, because people ask them, "what's your favorite color?" and "what do you like to eat?", "what are your hobbies?" and "where you from?" and Andro doesn't have anything to say about it. Maybe a bit desperately, they've constructed the most basic history they possibly can, so they lie whenever they're asked. That sometimes when the topic of childhoods comes up, they chime in with their dog named spot -- because spot is a common name and the odds are good that it's not entirely a lie, right? -- and they talk about how much they hated school -- yeah I hated math too -- and how on their sixteenth birthday party they had a really special one -- oh, it was so great, but I won't bore you with the details. Because no one can prove any of it wrong, just like no one can prove any of it right.



POWER
I was thinking that Andro's powers work like a scale, except I guess that's not super accurate. The better they become at control, the more skills they learn, the quieter they are, the more memories they begin to lose. If they could choose to lose the skills they have, perhaps their memories would begin to come back. At the very least, the noisier they are, the less skills they learn, the longer they get to keep their memories. Truth be told, even Andro hasn't yet realized the connection between their skills and their memories. I mean, they know that they don't have memories because of their power, but they haven't realized that the more they learn the more they lose. You don't realize you're losing anything if you don't remember having them in the first place, right? They've been fighting enthusiastically because they think that with every person they defeat, they're making a name for themselves and becoming unforgettable. They think that every song they learn is another thing they'll be able to remember. Turns out that's the last thing they should ever be doing.

Their danger level is high. 6/7? They're not all that mentally unstable in most cases, but I think that having your mind constantly doing a hard reset will have an effect on you eventually. I haven't figured out a history yet, simply because it's literally the blankest slate possible and I think that'll make for a lot of potential in terms of plotting. But if possible, working out Andro's true past and having it snap back at them would be really fun for me to explore.

They're loud. More right brain than left brain (30L:70R), noisy except when they're fighting. Then they go quiet and cold, unreadable.

Price has been covered reasonably thoroughly, I think.



PROMPT
"Hey, you know that other song they do? Little Lie?"

They glance up, eyes unfocused, expression glassy. Their fingers skitter over the strings, nails scraping out a tune whose name they can't remember. It takes them a moment to realize they're being spoken to, another to get their hands to stop playing, the song grinding to a halt. "Sorry, what?"

"That song. That's Complex Genocide, right? You know their other song? Little Lie? That one's my favorite." She leans against the ropes, crossing her arms under her.

They grin, tapping their fingers against the guitar's body. "Dunno. Sing it for me."

"Oh ******** off," she laughs, pushing herself up. "C'mon, just play it."

"Dunno it. Sing it for me," they say again, they cup a hand under their chin, the picture of perfect innocence. They count every second going by, painfully away of it.

"Oh fine." She hums a few bars, fast forwarding through it, nodding as it comes to her. Then she begins humming, softly at first, shyly at first. Her cheeks are turning red and they notice, but they say nothing, merely smiling until she cuts herself off with an embarrassed cough. "You know it or not?"

They scratch their cheek with a finger, hmm'ing. The answer is always no, but if bullshitting were a competition they'd win every time. Tapping their foot, they set the rhythm, letting the melody stream through their head, trickle down their spine, seep into their fingers--

"That's it! That's the one!" She claps her hands together and they just give her another faint smile as she leans again on the ropes. They play it softly at first, the way she hummed it, picking up as the melody does. With every note, they try to memorize the moment. Her cheeks turning red, her expression growing thoughtful, the smell of the gym, the play of the dust in the yellow lights overhead.

They can see themselves in her noise, reflected back at them the way she sees them. Sitting against the wall with a guitar case propped up at their side. They see the way she sees them. It makes their own noise turn pink at the edges, embarrassed and warm.

"Did it always sound this nice?" She asks after the third playthrough and they just shrug, because they don't know. Because the answer is always no. And finally, when they think they've got it all, when they've engraved the tattoo on her shoulder into their brain as deep as it can go, the way the light hits the sharp lines of her face, the way her noise is dancing in their head, bright and sweet, they draw the song to a close, adding a final chorus just to make it end.

A soft silence hovers between them.

Then she pushes herself up and stretches her arms above her head and says in an offhand voice, "Well, you gonna fight or not?"

"I'll watch you a little longer," they say, leaning the guitar on the wall against them.

"You're not gonna get any better like that."

"Wanna bet?" they say, laughing, and she pauses, giving them a coy look that doesn't even need the flash of noise for them to understand what that means.

----------------------

"Vain, don't you think?"

"What is? Have you seen my pants?" They dig around in the mess, tossing aside a frilly dress-like thing that looks wholly impractical to fight in.

"You are."

"What? Why?" Finally, they pull out a pair of ripped jeans, still with the belt half-looped through. "Yours? Mine?"

"You can have it. Beats your shitty pair."And I mean your tattoo." She taps a finger against her collarbone. "What kind of person gets a tattoo of their own name?"

They catch a glimpse of the tattoo she's talking about in the window's reflection, a square over their heart, a name scrawled inside. A name tag. "So I don't forget," they say truthfully, and she laughs.

"Fine, if you can't tell me, just say so." She sits up in bed and drawing the sheets up to her chest. "Explain to me why those look better on you than they ever did on me?"

They tighten the belt and force a grin, flipping back into bed, bringing her down with them. They burrow in the sheets, kissing her naked skin, making her laugh and squeal.

"Stop! Cut it out! Hey-you little--you'll pay for this!"

"Make me," they say, straddling her hips, pinning her down by the shoulders. Her tattoo flexes beneath their thumb and they catch themselves staring. It starts at her shoulder, spiraling, spreading, crossing her throat like some sort of hand, spreading between her breasts, disappearing below the sheets.

"What?" she asks, fidgeting under their gaze. She gets embarrassed so easily and they wonder how much longer they'll know that fact. A day? Two? A week? How long has it been since they met?

"What does yours mean?" they ask after a moment, and her face clouds with confusion.

"Didn't I tell you, already?"

A beat passes and then they try to laugh it off, try to pretend that hasn't just happened, but they can feel it beginning. The voice in their head telling them they've stayed too long, they've gotten too comfortable, too lax. They bend down instead, they kiss her one last sweet sad time, and then they push themselves off the bed.

"Where you going?" she says, brow furrowed. She sits up again, pushing dark hair over her shoulder.

"I've gotta take care of some things."

"You coming to the gym later? I forgot to tell you, Smoky told me to have you come. Said there's someone new--"

They can't even bear to look at her face. "I forgot something at home," they lie badly.

"Home? You told me you're living with the Dwellers."

Their hands tremble as they pull on a jacket, button it up to the throat.

"What's going on? Are you okay?"

They fight the urge to tell the truth. But they've gotten good at this, they think, cause they manage a laugh that sounds at least seventy percent true. "Yup. I'll call you later--Babe," and there's a gap-pause that says it all. They look up and her face is dark, unreadable.

"Rory," she says quietly. "My name's Rory."

"I know that," they lie badly, grabbing the strap of their guitar, swinging it over their shoulder and leaving without another word.

[second day sea]

"Hey, you know that other song they do? Little Lie?"

They glance up, eyes unfocused, expression glassy. Their fingers skitter over the strings, nails scraping out a tune whose name they can't remember. It takes them a moment to realize they're being spoken to, another to get their hands to stop playing, the song grinding to a halt. "Sorry, what?"

"That song. That's Complex Genocide, right? You know their other song? Little Lie? That one's my favorite." She leans against the ropes, crossing her arms under her.

They grin, tapping their fingers against the guitar's body. "Dunno. Sing it for me."

"Oh ******** off," she laughs, pushing herself up. "C'mon, just play it."

"Dunno it. Sing it for me," they say again, they cup a hand under their chin, the picture of perfect innocence. They count every second going by, painfully away of it.

"Oh fine." She hums a few bars, fast forwarding through it, nodding as it comes to her. Then she begins humming, softly at first, shyly at first. Her cheeks are turning red and they notice, but they say nothing, merely smiling until she cuts herself off with an embarrassed cough. "You know it or not?"

They scratch their cheek with a finger, hmm'ing. The answer is always no, but if bullshitting were a competition they'd win every time. Tapping their foot, they set the rhythm, letting the melody stream through their head, trickle down their spine, seep into their fingers--

"That's it! That's the one!" She claps her hands together and they just give her another faint smile as she leans again on the ropes. They play it softly at first, the way she hummed it, picking up as the melody does. With every note, they try to memorize the moment. Her cheeks turning red, her expression growing thoughtful, the smell of the gym, the play of the dust in the yellow lights overhead.

They can see themselves in her noise, reflected back at them the way she sees them. Sitting against the wall with a guitar case propped up at their side. They see the way she sees them. It makes their own noise turn pink at the edges, embarrassed and warm.

"Did it always sound this nice?" She asks after the third playthrough and they just shrug, because they don't know. Because the answer is always no. And finally, when they think they've got it all, when they've engraved the tattoo on her shoulder into their brain as deep as it can go, the way the light hits the sharp lines of her face, the way her noise is dancing in their head, bright and sweet, they draw the song to a close, adding a final chorus just to make it end.

A soft silence hovers between them.

Then she pushes herself up and stretches her arms above her head and says in an offhand voice, "Well, you gonna fight or not?"

"I'll watch you a little longer," they say, leaning the guitar on the wall against them.

"You're not gonna get any better like that."

"Wanna bet?" they say, laughing, and she pauses, giving them a coy look that doesn't even need the flash of noise for them to understand what that means.

----------------------

"Vain, don't you think?"

"What is? Have you seen my pants?" They dig around in the mess, tossing aside a frilly dress-like thing that looks wholly impractical to fight in.

"You are."

"What? Why?" Finally, they pull out a pair of ripped jeans, still with the belt half-looped through. "Yours? Mine?"

"You can have it. Beats your shitty pair."And I mean your tattoo." She taps a finger against her collarbone. "What kind of person gets a tattoo of their own name?"

They catch a glimpse of the tattoo she's talking about in the window's reflection, a square over their heart, a name scrawled inside. A name tag. "So I don't forget," they say truthfully, and she laughs.

"Fine, if you can't tell me, just say so." She sits up in bed and drawing the sheets up to her chest. "Explain to me why those look better on you than they ever did on me?"

They tighten the belt and force a grin, flipping back into bed, bringing her down with them. They burrow in the sheets, kissing her naked skin, making her laugh and squeal.

"Stop! Cut it out! Hey-you little--you'll pay for this!"

"Make me," they say, straddling her hips, pinning her down by the shoulders. Her tattoo flexes beneath their thumb and they catch themselves staring. It starts at her shoulder, spiraling, spreading, crossing her throat like some sort of hand, spreading between her breasts, disappearing below the sheets.

"What?" she asks, fidgeting under their gaze. She gets embarrassed so easily and they wonder how much longer they'll know that fact. A day? Two? A week? How long has it been since they met?

"What does yours mean?" they ask after a moment, and her face clouds with confusion.

"Didn't I tell you, already?"

A beat passes and then they try to laugh it off, try to pretend that hasn't just happened, but they can feel it beginning. The voice in their head telling them they've stayed too long, they've gotten too comfortable, too lax. They bend down instead, they kiss her one last sweet sad time, and then they push themselves off the bed.

"Where you going?" she says, brow furrowed. She sits up again, pushing dark hair over her shoulder.

"I've gotta take care of some things."

"You coming to the gym later? I forgot to tell you, Smoky told me to have you come. Said there's someone new--"

They can't even bear to look at her face. "I forgot something at home," they lie badly.

"Home? You told me you're living with the Dwellers."

Their hands tremble as they pull on a jacket, button it up to the throat.

"What's going on? Are you okay?"

They fight the urge to tell the truth. But they've gotten good at this, they think, cause they manage a laugh that sounds at least seventy percent true. "Yup. I'll call you later--Babe," and there's a gap-pause that says it all. They look up and her face is dark, unreadable.

"Rory," she says quietly. "My name's Rory."

"I know that," they lie badly, grabbing the strap of their guitar, swinging it over their shoulder and leaving without another word.