BACKSTORY: ANOTHER BORDER

[returnjourney]

BACKSTORY: ANOTHER BORDER

"Slowly, painfully, I realized what I had been reading from the very first words of his journal. My husband had had an inner life that went beyond his gregarious exterior, and if I had known enough to let him inside my guard, I might have understood this fact. Except I hadn't, of course. I had let tidal pools and fungi that could devour plastic inside my guard, but not him. Of all the aspects of the journal, this ate at me the most. He had created his share of our problems―by pushing me too hard, by wanting too much, by trying to see something in me that didn’t exist. But I could have met him partway and retained my sovereignty. And now it was too late."

― Jeff VanderMeer, Annihilation

Introduction

March 23rd – March 31st, 2022
Welcome to the backstory log for the "Another Border" simulation! Here, we play out big moments in our characters' AU histories. We've included a list of ideas below; feel free to experiment and figure out what feels right for your character's past and motivations. Consider what specific moments might have prompted them to venture into Area X!

This log is set before a simulation begins, to give players a head start on ironing out the specifics of their AUs. During this time, Peregrine life will continue as normal.

If you have any questions about the event, please ask here. You can familiarize yourself with simulation basics on our events page.

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Ideas

1. Your first meeting with an important or influential person.
2. Doing something important for someone.
3. A time you really screwed someone else over.
4. A personal loss in your life.
5. An injury, illness, or similar struggle.
6. Domestic events: falling in love, getting married, building a home, having a child, navigating a change in a relationship, divorce.
7. Getting a new job or a promotion.
8. Discovering a passion.
9. An important religious or philosophical moment, a moral challenge.
10. An event that changed how you see the world for the better.
11. An event that changed how you see the world for the worse.
12. A sight you saw or place you visited that made you consider your place in the world.
13. A dark night of the soul.
14. Learning about the discovery of Area X.
15. Getting your Area X assignment.

Comments

for william (screams)

[nineteenfortyfive]

Everything is a blur. There's panic and fear and chaos, and words that sound a thousand miles away. What happened? Hell if anyone knows, no one can tell her anything with any amount of certainty. It has her terrified. A numbness and a shock as she's given condolences and apologies from strangers and no one knows if he's dead or lost but it's been weeks and there's an alarming amount of flowers piling up at her door and she has to purposely step around them to open it.

For a long moment, she just takes in the sight of William.

Halfway expects to hear her husband call down the hall, asking who's at the door.

There's just a silence that makes her want to smash the nearest vase of roses.

"William." Instead, the emotion escapes as relief as she wraps her arms around him, and she's surprisingly strong for some widow rattling around a stupidly lavish home like a ghost. She told herself she wouldn't cry on him, because the poor man has been through enough already, but there's a definite threat of tears when she lets him go and takes a step back so he can actually come inside. She sniffs, wipes her face just to be sure she's not crying, and nods.

"Please. Come in, it's..." Good to see him? "I'm glad you came."

🤗

[omniavincit]

What time, he'd said when she asked him to the house. Hours in advance he'd laid his clothes out on the bed: touched his shirt at the elbows, hooked a finger inside the collar. He'd turned his hands over, examined the veins at his wrists. Blue tending toward purple, the width of a penstroke.

Thin-skinned, Robbie had called him.

He traded the shirt out for a grey one in the back of a drawer. Threadbare and short-sleeved, the cuffs worn away as though they'd been nibbled at. Faded letters advertising the Florida lottery. His awareness of time came and went: to be safe he drove to her house and waited in his car. Rang the doorbell exactly on time.

She could have said three in the morning and he'd have done the same thing.

He looks gaunt, his posture rickety as an old chair. When she seizes him in her arms his eyes widen. He doesn't lean in or relax, but his hands find her waist, resting on either side as if to assure himself of her shape. She lets go and he follows her into the house.

The flowers strike him as both simplistic—bunched together in the crude orderliness of a child's drawing—and a kind of cruel joke, although nothing in Robbie had bloomed in the end. He wishes he could explain it to her, the neat lines of her house, brick slotted into brick. Why it makes him want to laugh.

“I don't know anything new. I mean, I don't remember.” He sounds more disturbed than apologetic. Frustrated. He brushes one of the rose blossoms with his fingertips, retreats into manners. “Thanks for having me.”

🤢

[nineteenfortyfive]

The time, his clothes, none of it really matters for Claire. Her own appearance isn't that of the woman she was: leggings, a loose and faded shirt, and an equally loose knitted sweater hang off her slender frame. No finely pressed dresses and obnoxiously ironed t-shirts, here. She can't remember the last time she ran a brush through her hair or stepped outside. It shows.

Claire watches William inspect the flowers with a sense of validation. Stupid, aren't they? she wants to remark, but he speaks up before she can find the words. Her arms cross around her middle, and she lets out a deep sigh that makes her shoulders heave.

"I didn't invite you over to interrogate you," she says. "I have questions, of course, but I just... I needed to see you. None of this feels real. I don't know why these flowers are here when it feels like the both of you are still--out there."

She motions at the door. But now Robbie is the one out there, status unknown, but the business ties and so-called friends seem ready to bury him.

Claire runs a hand through her hair and lets out another long breath.

"We didn't lose you, too. That would have been too much." Lost. Lost is the only word she really accepts.

🤠💐

[omniavincit]

He leans in to smell one of the bouquets—the scent faint, sickly. His eyes closed, his whole body somehow involved in the process. See you, she says, and instinctively he hides his face. “The air was heavy in there.”

He lifts his gaze to her. He'd emerged with more of a beard than he'd had in his life, stared himself down in the mirror as he scraped it away, terrified of what might be underneath. Now he studies her face, sees himself reflected in her eyes. Maybe she knows: the way she crosses her arms makes him think so. “Like—some people, you can almost hear when they're thinking. They're loud about it. Like that.” The frenzy of growth, the necessity of rot.

He pulls himself away from the flowers. Wonders how long she'll keep them once they've started to die. “He's not coming back.” He says it with quiet conviction. They're only a few feet apart but it feels like parallel dimensions, like if he tried to reach for her space would warp around them. “I don't know”—his gaze breaks off, his breath caught in his throat—“if I am either.”

[nineteenfortyfive]

Claire's one of those people. A glass face, Robbie always said, because even when she struggled to mask her emotions, it was clear something was going on under the surface. Much like now when she watches William, wanting to both pulls him close and hold on for dear life while simultaneously wanting to grab him by the shoulders and shake him because how did it come to be like this? They're ruined.

William isn't the first to say Robbie isn't coming back, but hearing it from him does hurt in a new way. It's clear that it does, too--her already glassy eyes worsen, red around the edges, and the tip of her nose goes red as well. But she sniffles and holds it back, because she keeps reminding herself that no one knows anything for certain. As long as there's that, there's hope.

"You've been through something beyond imagining," Claire says gently. After a beat, her arms unfold so that she might touch a hand to his elbow. "You just need time. Let me help you."

for loki!

[reek]

[ Theon’s apology was, admittedly, a bit of a mess. On social media, he chalks that up to the intense emotions he was feeling in the moment. In person, he couldn’t care less. His sister had linked him at least three body language analysis videos about how “fake” his apology had been. Who would have ever thought that so many conclusions could be drawn based on what direction his eyes were looking?

But he still apologized. Who cares if he actually meant it or not? What was he supposed to do? It isn’t his fault people got offended. All he knows is that his views are down and still dropping. It’s the worst, and he’s certain it means his life is over if he can’t remedy the problem.

If worse comes to worse, he can always fake his best friend’s death or just continue to show off his massive amounts of wealth, but today he plans to film a reading he has scheduled with a supposed psychic. Theon believes him about as far as he can throw him, but that doesn’t matter. He’ll do it for the views.

Theon barely looks at Loki as he sets up his camera. In fact, he hasn’t taken his high end sunglasses off. Did he even ask permission to film? He can’t recall, but surely he did... ]

Oh, you don’t mind, do you? Bit late anyway. Just ignore it. Ready to begin?

[shiftedshape]

[Loki moved past having a shop years ago, once he started gathering wealthier clientele. Instead, he's set aside a room in his home to host readings, decked out with all the expected tapestries and candles and overstuffed chairs. At the center sits a table with a (completely untouched) crystal ball set atop an emerald green tablecloth.

From the moment Theon began setting up the camera, Loki's been shuffling his worn deck of tarot cards. He should have known this was coming-- he'd looked the boy up as soon as he'd made his appointment, after all --but he isn't really. Prepared. To be recorded. It's really throwing off the vibe in the room, honestly. And Theon is already bringing a ton of negativity in just fine on his own.

Not that he's going to say anything when Theon paid for the premium reading, of course. When Theon finally turns back to him, he clears his throat and nods, clasping the deck between his hands.]

More than. [He flashes a kind smile.] What brings you here today? Is there a specific concern you're looking to explore?

for Alice!

[shiftedshape]

[They used to be much closer, years ago. Before Loki started pursuing his psychic business in earnest and becoming successful, really. And he knows why. Knows Alice is a skeptic, a scientist, and while she has never outright said she disapproves, she also hasn't said she approves, either.

But he's still glad to see her, pulling her into a hug the instant he opens the door.]

Alice! Ahh, you look fantastic!

[He gives her a squeeze before releasing her and stepping aside to let her in.]

Come, come! We've got to catch up. I've made some tea, if you're interested.

[He leads her to a small sitting room-- not the one he uses for readings, just to avoid any awkwardness there --and gestures for her to sit as he pours them both a cup.]

for Silco and Loki

[smugreport]

Silco.

[ Rhys sits in the dimly lit room, the sound of the bustling bar right above them dampened by the rotting insulation between the floors and nicotine-stained walls. He jiggles his leg as he waits, all nerves, he's late a payment again, his most recent winnings used to buy a replacement for the arm he sold to pay off another chunk of his debt. ]

Listen, I know you guys were expecting money to come in last week and- and it is, it's on its way. I just need a couple more days to secure it.


Loki

[ It's not that Rhys believes in actual magic, that isn't a thing, but some time in the last year he's started to become somewhat superstitious. He figures with his current lifestyle he could use all the luck he gets, so he started carrying totems around, looking for signs, and seeking out Loki, a local psychic who's ad he saw in the back of some paper and felt particularly compelled to get a reading from.

The joke was on him though, because despite following Loki's predictions about which horses to bet on in the upcoming race, Rhys had walked away a poorer man.

The little neon "psychic" sign glows and blinks in the window as Rhys pulls open the door of the office, stalking into the place with a sense of purpose. ]

Hello? Loki?

[shiftedshape]

[Loki spins on his stool from where he'd been sat hunched over his computer-- God, making an Etsy was a mistake, it's so bad for his back --eyes wide with surprise. He hadn't had any appointments, and he couldn't remember the last time he had a walk-in this late.

But he recognizes Rhys almost immediately, and he recognizes Rhys' annoyance a second after that. Oh dear.]

Rhys! It's so good to see you! I'm not forgetting an appointment, am I?

[smugreport]

[ He walks straight up to the desk, slamming his remaining hand down on the wood (followed by a wince of pain- too hard.) ]

All my money on Seabreeze?! ON SEABREEZE?! That's what you said right? That's the horse you said would win!

[shiftedshape]

[Loki flinches back, rolling his chair away in the process. His hands fly up and his mouth begins working just as reflexively.]

Did I? I can't quite recall! That was, what, two weeks ago?

[It wasn't. And he does recall. But playing dumb is always where his mind seems to go first.]

for aki.

[goty]

The thistles that grow between their houses are the same color as yesterday. Ellie has been told via Aki, who learned through unverified reports on some cryptic subreddit, that they are different colors in the Shimmer. Everything is different in the Shimmer, according to him. The air will smell different, the sun will shine brighter, and the sky will be blocked out in iridescent ooze.

It makes her notice everything, the color and the shape of the real world. Joel approves of her new bent for observation. He thinks she's taking an interest in survival, says it's time they moved out farther, beyond the boundaries of cell phone towers and surveillance. When you only have to rely on yourself, then you're truly free.

She can't argue with that, but she thinks she'll miss Aki. Even after she was adopted, they kept in touch. Ellie tells Joel she needs some alone time in the woods, and walks to their old neighborhood. He respects that, though he doesn't know her real reasoning. It doesn't really matter, in the end.

They used to play pretend, when they were younger. Now they pretend they aren't pretending. Her questions are the same, anyway. Sitting by a rusted swingset, Ellie makes a grass whistle and listens. "How long does food last in the Shimmer?"

She expects the answer will be mundane, but there's always the chance he'll say something fantastical with complete conviction. Maybe the tuna sandwiches she packed would have spouted winds and flown away.

[spanning]

It hasn't really been the same since Ellie was adopted. Sure, he could say that about any of the other kids (if he wanted). Could say that about himself, aware he's about to get shuffled off to another family. But—he doesn't. He won't.

So, when Ellie tells him she's taking a break from her weird cabin-in-the-woods, pretty sus educational rite, Aki skips school. He doesn't feel bad about it; it's not like it matters. And when she showed, he tossed a book at her, filled with those dumb puns she likes so much, and some crappy candy he swept off the desk of the asshole who sits in front of him in bio.

"Depends." He rocks on the swingset, seat creaking and feet still on the ground. The end of a dum-dum sucker sticks out of his mouth. "You know they say time moves differently in there?"

[goty]

Ellie sets the book on her lap, letting anticipation mount before she reads it. Instead, she hands Aki half of the sandwich. Joel caught it in a river-- she's not really sure it's tuna. But it tastes fine with that much mayo, so who really cares.

"It does?" Ellie, always with her nose in a sci-fi book, feels her imagination begin to light. "Does it move backwards?"

[spanning]

"It's not a time travel machine," he says, a little haughty. "Maybe it's more like a black hole? The closer you get to...whatever, the more unstable it gets."

His nose wrinkles when he looks down at the sandwich. "Why's there so much mayo?" Like saying it alone offends his sensibilities...and yet that doesn't stop him from popping the sucker out of his mouth to take a bite.

[goty]

Mentioning space phenomena is a great way to get Ellie to pay attention. She considers her answer as she chews her food, speaking as soon as the idea rises to the surface-- around sliced tomato and spinach. "Then it'd have to be moving at a different orbit than the rest of earth. Or it's... super dense."

Which might explain it, but- "Joel-" she swallows her food. "Joel says when we go into the woods, there won't be any mayo anymore. He's trying to get rid of 'perishables'." She makes a single scare quote with her free hand.

for Bucky

[expectaspectre]

The bell over the coffee shop door rings the same way it always does when she pushes it open-- too cheery, too bright for so early in the morning, as if mocking her for her pathetic addiction to sugar-blasted coffee. But Grace barely takes notice anymore. Too many days' sleeping-in time replaced with early coffee runs before heading to the dreary soul-sucking office that occupied far too much of her life lately. It kept her away from the things she used to prioritize; hobbies, friends, family. Now it's just work, playing a lot of phone tag with increasingly disinterested college friends... and coffee.

"Seriously, Jason, call me back," she tells her phone as she hustles into the ever-lengthening queue in front of the barista with the poorly bleached hair and exhausted expression. "I know you're avoiding me. I'm not mad, I just want to talk about this. Please." She sighs down the line. "I have time after work today. Just... call me, okay? Before you do something you can't take back."

She hangs up her phone and chucks it into her bag, as if burying it underneath the piles of nonsense cluttering it will end up pushing the frustrations away. It doesn't. Grace sighs again, a huff of exasperation let loose. Maybe coffee will do it. Another order taken, another step forward in line. How much longer is this going to take?

How much longer does she have?

[counterstep]

There's already routine in the act, popping by on his way over to where he's been assigned when his eyes are feeling heavier than usual. The last thing he needs is zoning out during brief, and despite what his CO thinks, the coffee machine they share with the other support staff on site does in fact only make coffee that tastes like dirt. If he had more wherewithal, he'd get a team to prove the theory for him, but being stationed at the perimeter of Area X means he's nowhere near the makeshift labs anyway.

He's already exhausted the moment he sees the line, but when he's filed himself neatly behind the last occupant, he realizes it's her and can't help the faint flutter the thought brings. She's always tried to hide the way she stares, but after a point, he couldn't help but look and smile back.

She digs through her bag for. Nothing, it looks like. Habit? No, she seems rather down, actually. A shame, when seeing her usually manages to cheer his own dull life up. Should he make a joke? Say hi, at least?

Thankfully the line buys him some time to decide. When she reaches the front, he steps alongside her, catching the attendant's eyes before grinning. "I'll get hers with mine," he explains, lifting his card. Looking to her, then, "What do you want?"

[expectaspectre]

She startles, hearing his voice-- her reaction times dulled by the exhaustion of the morning as well as the sheer unexpectedness. It's him, of course, the guy from the coffee shop. Of course it is, she's in the coffee shop, who else would it be, but it's the guy. The one who's almost always there at the same time she is in the morning, the one she couldn't stop staring at. The one who eventually caught her staring, and instead of being understandably awkward or uncomfortable just kind of smiled and nodded hello. The one she'd wave to, nod back, pretend she wasn't staring at all, definitely continue to stare. The only thing, besides the coffee, she had to look forward to when she got up most mornings.

Which was extremely sad, because she'd never exchanged a single word with him before. Until, apparently, now. There's maybe a full minute of rapid-fire blinking before she realizes she's supposed to order.

"...ah-- venti iced caramel latte?" That is a very abbreviated version of her normal order, which he's probably heard hundreds of times. She knows his by heart, too-- his name, though, not so much.

→ 𝑏𝑙𝑢𝑒

[defensemechanisms]

You don't know me at all

He's on leave for a few weeks. Not long, but it's long enough that he finally got around to finishing a piece he's been working on for ages. Hadn't the first idea what to do with it once it was done, but Raj's fiancé knows a guy. Once she sets her mind on something it's bloody hard to shake her, and she nudges him until he agrees to let them put it in his gallery for a showing. He's not sure it warrants all that, but Raj tells him she's never gonna leave it, you might as well.

So he does, and he attends, feeling a little self-conscious about it as people pass by. He hovers unobtrusively, just taking in their expressions as they murmur or point or photograph it.

And then along comes a face he never expected to see again. It's mad, utterly stupid of him, but he gets an impulse to go up to her. No idea why, their few interactions had been the exact opposite of pleasant — stubborn pain in the ass that she'd been, a little part of him admired her for it. Probably would've done more if he weren't one of the people tasked with evacuating her team out of the area before the fighting broke out.

It's a terrible idea, but the urge is strong, and he can't shake it.

He steps up quietly beside her where she's standing, clears his throat awkwardly, and gives her a stiff little wave.

"Hello. Hi. I... dunno if you remember, but I'm pretty sure we've met."

[findthefuture]

It’s always a hard come down from her travels.

It doesn’t matter how long she has spent making the apartment hers — filling it with soft and handmade things, art that speaks to her, little curiosities from her travels — each time she comes back from the forrest, it feels like a stranger’s. She still finds herself wandering between the kitchen, and the living room/office, and the tiny bedroom like she is relearning where everything is. Fingers tracing the walls and the furniture as she tries to connect back with a life she’s always eager to shed.

The feeling will pass, she knows. All she needs is to give herself a little bit of time.

It’s a little like a deep-sea diver, rising slowly to the surface, allowing her body to get used to the pressure of city life.

Blue doesn’t try to write. Not yet. All her handwritten notes are jammed into a leather-bound journal and tossed into the bottom drawer of her desk alongside the laptop that holds all of the data she collected and a thick book of pressed leaves. Waiting for her to resurface. It will all be there in a week, when she feels a little less rootless.

Instead, she goes for long walks in her favorite park. She meets friends for coffee and talks animatedly about her most recent trip in crowded coffee shops. She goes grocery shopping and fills her fridge and pantry with fresh things. She attends faculty meetings on week days, leaving weekends and evenings to herself. She finds events to fill them with. Museums and farmer’s markets. Music performances and art showings.

Slowly, she sinks her roots back into the city.

It’s towards the end of the process — her roots firmly replanted in familiar soil, and her fingers beginning to itch for the keys on her laptop again — when she finds herself at an art showing with a glass of slowly warming sparkling wine cradled in her hand. The art on the walls doesn’t much appeal to her. But there are pieces scattered throughout — statues of varying sizes — and one of them catches at her.

A pair of wings in flight, they snag her attention, and she finds herself lingering.

There’s something to them that she can’t quite explain. But it resonates like the chime of a bell inside of her.

Without thinking, she slips her free hand into the pocket of her wide skirt; too aware of how easily her fingers might give into the temptation of touching unless she tucks it away.

The voice doesn’t click at first — when they spoke, he always sounded so certain, his words bitten out in precise orders without hesitation or awkwardness — but something about the accent does. When she looks up (and up), it takes a moment or two too long for the world to shift just enough to allow for his presence here and now. Dressed like a civilian rather than a soldier. But when it does, her face brightens with an immediate smile of recognition. Like the sum total of their acquaintance wasn’t spent stubbornly yelling at each other in a jungle.

He looks different here.

”Hi. Yeah. We did. We have,” she says, the words tumbling out quick, as if to make up for her hesitation. She couldn’t tell him the country, but she could describe perfectly the kind of tree they met beneath.

”Blue Sargent,” she offers, pulling her hand out of her pocket and switching the wine glass into it so she can offer him her right hand along with her name. ”I could never forget you. You almost ruined two months of work. Captain—?”

His name escapes her. As does his actual rank. Things were a little confused and loud when they were introduced.

[defensemechanisms]

Color him absolutely bloody shocked that her reaction is a smile. It looks good on her, and it softens up his eyebrows immediately. Gotta say, he vastly prefers that expression on her face to the anger.

Also a bit pleased she remembers him, God knows why. Maybe because he doesn't strike himself as particularly memorable. Just another blank slate in a uniform half the time, when he's working. Clearly not working now, though — no uniform to speak of. Just a Henley and jeans, not quite on par with half the population that clearly dressed up a few higher notches for the occasion.

She offers her hand, and he seems faintly amused by the gesture. Reaches out regardless, wrapping his hand around hers — dimly surprised in the back of his mind by how small it is.

"It's just... Conner," he says with a minute shake of his head. Dismissing the title. A beat later, his hand falls away and he uses it to scratch at the back of his neck instead. "I'd give you me last name, but honestly, nobody remembers how to pronounce it after so you're better off, really."

[findthefuture]

The thing about Blue’s anger is that it’s quick to spark. It burns hot and bright until it has consumed all available fuel. It doesn’t linger. Their argument lies on the forest floor of the Amazon where she left it. There’s no point dredging it up now. Neither one of them really got what they wanted. Blue didn’t get quietly into the evac vehicle when he told her to, and she didn’t get the extra week she really needed to wrap up her research.

They spent enough time yelling at each other in the depths of the jungle, his face and voice are etched into her mind. But he was doing his job as she did hers and removed from the situation, there is no fault left to lay with him.

“Conner,” she repeats, her fingers closing around his in a firm but soft handshake that has closed many a deal. His hand dwarfs hers. But then so do many others. The instinct to linger in the touch is unexpectedly strong. He’s a little bit of the rainforest right here in the city. Even if the association is negative, it’s still there. An unexpected connection. Like the statue in front of them that still sits heavy on Blue’s mind.

“Nice to meet you again. Under, you know, different circumstances.” Not better. Just different.

When she pulls her hand back, she tucks it immediately into her pocket, fingers curling tight against her palm.

They both look different here, taken out of their element. His edges are softer. She cleans up nice. Nothing gets her into heels, but her ballerina flats are made out of hand painted silk and the tulips on them match the upside down tulips painted in broad and bold strokes down her wide skirt. Maybe like this she looks less like the kind of person who argues with men holding automatic rifles. Maybe not.

“And you can just tell me if it’s classified, you know,” she teases gently, enough of the sparkling wine warming her veins to make it easy. It’s surprising how many uniforms (both foreign and domestic) she’s come across since her postgrad and she hasn’t seen one like his before.

[defensemechanisms]

Maybe it's just that he's glad to know she's still alive. Maybe that's what this is. He doesn't often get any follow-up on the people he meets in the field. He gets his assignment, he escorts or liberates or guards, weeks pass, he leaves, and that's the last time he ever sees whoever he'd made his highest priority for so long. It's an odd life, feeling dutiful to someone, dedicated as you can possibly be, and then immediately withdrawing from them with very little notice and a new set of strangers to fill in the gap all over again.

But here's her, looking happy and healthy.

Quite fit, too, but that's neither here nor there.

"It's not, it's-" He pauses, debates internally, and then heaves out a resigned sigh. "It's Jaskulski, but I just started signing it with a J. Leave out the rest. Makes life easier for everyone involved."

He scratches at the scruff along his jaw, eyes ducked, and feels the need to tack on the explanation, "Me gran's Polish. So."

God...

Why.

Why this. Why is he like this. Why would he think anybody wants to know about his Polish gran? This- this is why he hasn't been in a relationship in years.