Mnemosyne
Every day is the same. Every day is different.
Mnemosyne was titled by that familiar stranger who named them and spoke it to the first who was cast into the world. The word was followed by a laugh as he wandered away into the mists. That’s what they say at least. He does have a knack for naming things with a twisted irony. Something of a calling card you could say. There is another story though. One in which the nameless town was called Mnemosyne not in jest but in prayer. The call for help from a someone who was very, very lost without any haven in this world cursed with amnesia. Mnemosyne became the haven for the lost and displaced who find themselves trapped within the walls of lost memories.
Lost? Or discarded? I can never remember which.
What was lost though can be reclaimed. That was the promise in the words he leaves everyone with. What is the memory to the individual? Just a collection of events? Hardly. Our memory cannot be summed up so casually as banal list of facts and dates. They lack perspective; to be specific, our perspective. The way we fit into those events is important but even more than that is how we view them with all of our multitude of biases. It’s that personal touch that makes them our own.
You mean the lies? Yes, I suppose that is what makes them uniquely yours. Emotions taint the details over the years. People do not remember the full truth, instead you’ll find they recall only so much as supports their views while the rest is lies to fill the spaces betwixt and between. You see, man can’t even be honest to himself.
It is because they are not objective that makes them wholly unique. There is value in the differences. It shows that they have had lives filled with different experiences. Each view may tell something different about the event and they might even conflict but there is still worth in that. Perhaps even more than you would find in untainted facts. Each memory cannot exist on it’s own just like history isn’t just a series of stand alone events. They are a series of strings that tug and pull in ways we can’t even begin to predict. The memory is no different. That is what makes the memory of the individual so fascinating.
Fascinating? You find their memories interesting do you? All of them? Can you really find the worth in every single one? Maybe we aren’t so different, eh?
~~~
A rusted hangar stands alone amidst fields of golden wheat beneath the grey skies and mists. Just another random piece of the landscape that will change when nobody is around to notice. Least, that would be the case if it were like any other piece of flair that appears in this land. This hangar though came with a deep sense of deja vu that triggered when someone drew too near. It was this sense of recognition that marked the hangar as doorway to a memory.
Opening the doors you’ll find a sight that betrays expectations. It is not the interior of some abandoned hangar. It’s not a building at all anymore. The world opens up in front of you and as you step past the threshold you’ll find the way back gone entirely. The way is shut leaving you with only the choice to push on into the memory itself.
You stand inside a camp filled with green men in matching fatigues. Their faces indistinct and waxy as they run about in a hectic fashion. The sound of explosions can be heard in the distance but they don’t seem to be a threat at moment. The sound of a commander shouting orders beneath a nearby canopy draws your attention.
A detailed map filled with tacks and handwritten marks dominates the focus of the man in the room as he waves away others as they run past to carry out their orders. The commander looks much like the rest of the green army save for having a larger hat to show his importance. He looked up at the sound of your approach and gave an expression that was impossible to read given his wax face.
“So you’re the reinforcements I was promised? The crack team of specialists? Gotta say, not what I expected. They running out of good ol green boys back home? Well, can’t go lookin a gift horse in the mouth. Let’s get you caught up,” he turned back to the map and gestured to an area south of the center of the map where a green flag was stabbed. “This is us...and that’s the Town,” his finger dragged across the open space until it reached the city in question which was indeed labeled “Town”. Even without him saying more you sort of got the gist of it as you saw the multitude of red marks within it.
“The reds are buried in deep and ready to fight us for every street. We keep hittin em and they keep pushin back. Which is where you come in. Need you to get in there and give us an opening. Now, we’ll need a few of you in the air to do a run...here,” the commander stabbed down onto a ridge line north and west of the city. “Got themselves artillery up here that hammers our boys as they make a break for the city. You’ll run into the baron and his boys in the skies above but so long as you can take out the guns that’s all we’ll need.”
He gave a waxen look at our numbers. “Need the rest of you to lead the charge on the ground. I’ve got some armor you can commandeer or go on foot if that’s your thing. First points are here, here, and there,” he gestured to three points around the center of the Town. “They’ve set up some flak to keep our air from moving in. We’ll need you to take em out before we send our teams in to do some runs over their headquarters to soften it up before the final push.”
“You get all that?”
OOC
A cobblestone path leads any passerby through a small copse of trees, along a small creek, up a hill, and to a lone house that, if not for the fog, would overlook the town of Mnemosyne. There was a white picket fence surrounding the house, a large tree in the yard with a swing able to seat three, and a dog house with the name Spike on it. There was also a rocketship.
Even for the people of Mnemosyne, who are not known for their great powers of memory--rather, the opposite is true--this rocketship seemed out of place. Not only for the fact that most humble and picturesque homes were not likely to be the site of a rocket takeoff, but also because of how crudely constructed it was; with a red nose and red fins that stuck into the ground with no scaffolding, it looked more like a child’s toy. As those drawn to the rocket approached, the door opened with a loud hissing noise, and a small stairway lowered to the ground. They entered
The interior was massive. While outside it looked to be able to fit 6 people side-to-side, there was now room enough for nearly twenty people. As they looked around the ship, they were quickly alerted to something odd--they were in space. In the cockpit, they could see the planet getting farther and farther away. There was no turbulence, no sound from takeoff, no one to direct the ship’s course--but it was moving.
The planet they left (what planet was that, anyway?) grew smaller and smaller, and they rapidly approached a red planet in the distance. As they got closer, the ship began to shake. Slowly at first, only every so often--but then rapidly, dangerously, constantly. An alarm began to sound, red lights flashed, consoles flashed blue and yellow, and a voice from the cockpit screamed “Ground control to Spaceship, come in! I repeat, ground control to Spaceship, come in! What in god’s name is happening up there?”
The turbulence got worse, and the impromptu astronauts struggled to keep their footing. The red planet drew closer and closer, and Ground Control--he called himself Major Tom--kept shouting, sounding increasingly concerned. If only anyone knew how to work the ship and talk back.
Suddenly, a boy of about eight years came running from the back of the ship, pushing everyone out of his way, and took matters into his own hands. He grabbed the wheel (did spaceships have steering wheels?) told everyone to hold tight--apparently this situation wasn’t odd for him.
The ship careened into the planet. Eight year olds made terrible pilots.
However, strangely enough it didn’t seem to matter. Everyone drew themselves out of the wreckage with minimal injury and found themselves on a barren red desert. The eight year old had a spacesuit, but you seemed to be breathing just fine without one.
In the distance, there was very little. A number of large rock formations, maybe a mountain or two. It was a very boring planet. You don’t know from where, but there also suddenly seemed to be an army of giant robots.
“Come on, men!” the eight year old shouted, “We’ve got a job to do! Suit up!”
You might find yourself asking why you should take orders from a child, or perhaps what, exactly, you were going to suit up in. But the answers were obvious: in the wreckage of your ship, you find massive-scale versions of yourselves, giant robots with your face on them. The playing field just got quite a bit more even.
Edited by Wandering Rogue, 07 February 2015 - 11:51 AM.