Lucky/A Possible Intro to a Theoretical Idea

(Another Stupid OOC Note: Another twofer. One of recent past and one written just last night. Would this possible idea come to PRIME? Maybe not. It takes time to make one poser let alone several and I don’t have anything resembling a clear view on it yet. But it’s possible that this will be mentioned in my roleplays at the very least so here’s the build up so that you’re only 50% lost in future ramblings.)

September 23, 2021.

Boredom is dangerous.

Boredom makes us do things that we usually don’t allow ourselves to do.

Too much boredom makes it really really hard to push crazy thoughts away. And when an opportunity like this comes along, it also resurrects thoughts we had previously ignored.

When we decided to sign up for Murderhaus, our goal was not title belts. We’re sure that’s surprising. Surely, The Only Champion That Matters should jump at every opportunity to confirm her moniker in every damned wrestleplace on this mudball. But if one does too much chasing of shinies, that inevitably, undeniably becomes bland and dull. Besides we still have some form of integrity left (even though by all rights, we shouldn’t). It just so happened that our first match was to be a contender match with Genie. We sniped at each other a bit, actually making an attempt to sell…

but fuck us if the one time in however many years we build-up to a match with anything more that a picture and a bullshit quote, Eddie runs off into the abyss the same day. never doing that shit again.

(Until we do it again.)

So our original plan was more or less reduced to ashes at that point and thrown into the bin of bad ideas, destined to be eventually forgotten.

Then we saw the tweets.

And suddenly, there was a flare shot out from the bin of bad ideas. It blazed in glory and rather forced us to pay attention. When a bad idea comes back and forces one to see it, there’s usually a Very Good Reason.

Which is how we ended up here in the TARDIS holding up a fetus in a pickle jar like poor Yorick.

“Alas, poor Lucky. We know…”

A beat.

“…very little about you actually. We know that your mother was a certified nutcase who was constantly shoving you inside of her despite you no longer being applicable for life. Your father stuffed you in a pickle jar, put you up for grabs in a glorified clusterfuck as a prop, and ultimately abandoned you. Despite what we may call you sometimes, we do feel somewhat saddened for you. On one hand, you have been spared from a gruesome life at the hands of those two vultures. Yet at the same time…”

We look at the jar. From the vessel’s eyes, we can still see the features of the baby boy’s face even from the murkyness of his situation. His eyes forever closed in what one could call peace. What would inevitably be a cute button nose and a nice baby pout. Five-of-Four reminds us that he is but a lump of cells and there’s no need to explain to a corpse. Some of us agree. The Prime, however, very much disagrees. This needs to be said, even if we are the only ones to hear.

“…we see potential in you.”

The jar now stuffed under our arm, we wander over to the elevator. The door slides over, we step in, the door closes. As we move down, we cannot help but continue the conversation. Or lack thereof.

“We must admit that this is not a purely selfless endeavor. In truth, nothing is really selfless. Everybody gets something from whatever they do even if it’s something vague like warm and fuzzies. We do mean what we say. We are doing this, in part, because of your potential and all the possibilities therein. But part of our reasoning is selfishness. What we’re about to do is something we shouldn’t. Something that’ll answer more than one question for us. Does the thing work? If not, can we make it work? Does it work on humans? Does it work with dead tissue of this age? All of these questions can be answered with the tiniest donation from you. And the best part is the donation won’t even hurt you.”

DING!

“Or rather, not the pickle baby version of you. Well, we’ll explain what we’re doing when we get there.”

The doors slide open. The basement, full of all kinds of things not meant to be in a normal TARDIS, awaits us. We step out and briskly walk onto the cobblestone. As we dart our eyes towards every piece, we do notice that most items here would’ve either gotten us in severe trouble or gotten us praised back on the Homeworld. Perhaps both. However, the article we are going to visit leans towards the former. It sits in the back, far away from everything. The bronze is old but we’ve managed to get it to shine. The glass is squeegeed to clarity. The controls are not turned on…yet. And as we stand in front of this contraption, we hold up baby Lucky again. Less poor Yorick, more baby Simba.

“This is a Loom.”

After a moment of taking this in, we face his dead little face again.

“Look, we know it’s not much, yeah? On the surface level, it looks no different than the shitty pickle jar you’re in right now. But rest assured. There is a difference. Your jar is a vessel of preservation. It keeps you static, forever this child. This is a vessel of rebuilding. It is said that elderly Gallifreyians when they realise they’re going a bit senile would program their House’s Loom to go in reverse. They’d step in the tube there, it would close up, the semiotic fluid would flood in, and the fine cords would shred them up. Then when it’s time to get a new childe, the House turns it on, lets it weave, and POOF. Great-great-great-great-greatgrandpa is your new cousin. Not like either of you would know.”

Wink.

“This is, allegedly, how the Loomed kept their bloodline quote-unquote pure. Consider it a rather fucked up form of reincarnation. But here’s where things get interesting.”

We cannot help but smirk at this realization.

“You don’t need to shred up an entire body in order for it to work. It’s a bit too technical for us to bother explaining right now. We would like to get on to the action and we would imagine so would you.”

That’s a stupid thing to say, considering what we’re speaking to. Yet it feels like the right thing to say. And so we get to work. We sweep him over to a nearby desk, set the jar gently on the table, and rustle through our pockets. It will take us a while to find the tweezers we have placed inside. We tend to have a whole bunch of stuff in every pocket for every occasion. But the Prime has already figured out what we’ll do when we find them. She’ll say…

“With the smallest shred of you, dear boy, we can make you live again. There may still be a mummified babe formerly called lucky. But there will a Lucky that lives and breathes and lives his life. What you do after you spring from the tube is ultimately your choice. All we ask is that you don’t be an asshole to us and ours. We have enough headaches already.”

We will open that jar. Get a good whiff of staleness. Get on with the sampling. Maybe we’ll get a piece of his brain! Wouldn’t that be ideal? Then we will screw that lid back on and she will say…

“Thank you for the contribution.”

And as we run the Loom’s programming, allow it to boot, allow it to work its magic, we can freely give the child back to Asher without much damage. We do try to keep our word, after all.

But for now, WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY TWEEZERS?

________

Last Night. Or roundabouts.

I just want to belong.

It was a pipe dream of a thought, but it was there. Her mind felt like it was surfing. Like a giant boat sailing through the sea during a storm. The waves are high and the winds are violent. It always starts with one anecdote. A comic misunderstanding in class repeated over and over. At first in jest but then, endlessly examined by each repeat. And then the examination reaches out to other memories, seeing the strange links and the ways it all creates her. The more she obsesses, the more she worries something’s wrong with her.

Why did she feel so distant? Why couldn’t she connect? Everything is always off. No matter how much she reached out to her peers or tried to understand, something doesn’t quite fit. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps the tapestry really was loose strands. Maybe, just maybe, the sense of connection is just a shattering myth. And it always hurts to try. But try she did. Try, she still does. She cannot help herself for she is addicted to the possibilities–infinite to her and yet paradoxically impossible. It worked, didn’t it? She has friends. A loving husband. A good boi of a dog.

Is it she that has all that? Or do the Multitudes have all that?

The vessel has no voice of her own. She most likely never did. And none of these thoughts are thoughts at all. They are sensations, movements. The very buzzing of her mismatched cells. When she was different/smaller/younger, she would look at the various skies that colored her childhood(?). She would look up and hunt for the answer there with eyes just as empty as the rest of her in the hopes that everything out there could seep into right here.

Inner space.

Outer space.

No difference.

One can never stay in that same place, however. Life will always drag you down and force you to the grindstone. Eventually, you lose your godhood. Or it gets beaten out of you. Or you leave it behind in some search of “normal”, whatever that is. You forsake possibilities to touch glory. Does any of this make sense? Is this a babbling brook? Most likely. The Multitudes are asleep. Bucky is asleep. Jacky

(her cells just got warm looking at him)

is asleep. But the vessel is wide awake. With nothing in her head, she roams from her duck shaped marriage bed. Her feet are swift and automatic. She blinks. She’s in the TARDIS elevator. Another blink and she is in front of it again.

The Loom. The very thing that created L.M., failure as he was. Sometimes, what’s dead should stay dead. Sometimes, looms should retire. But not yet.

Before anybody woke up, the vessel would blankly clean the Loom again. Sterilize everything down to brand new. Or about as brand new as something could be. She was there when the Multitudes had their latest thought experiment. She could feel that if they didn’t get started soon, the grind would force the thoughts away. Lack of motivation would inevitably take its toll. Another blink. She’s bleeding. A cut from her finger. She feels it to an extent. She lets the blood drip into a dish.

She blinks.

It takes an empty vessel to create empty vessels.