::1.2:: There is a Place

"What a strange Before," is what Hansol meant to murmur to himself.  Instead, he says it a bit too loudly, and has Jeremiah Sherbet and his strangely-dressed friend turning to face him in an alcove of the mostly-empty library--and, hm, maybe Hansol should work on this habit of talking to himself he's developed recently.

"What was that?" Jeremiah asks.  He doesn't sound aggressive, necessarily, but he looks thoroughly weirded out, which is the exact reaction Hansol has been trying to avoid for the past week and a half that he's spent actively dodging social interaction.

"Um." He tries to not be intimidated by a guy with hair the color of stale bubblegum, but if he's being honest, anybody who isn't like him is intimidating.  And that's--everybody.  

As a result, it's impossible for his brain to conjure up a proper lie.  "It's just.  I can see your past life... and stuff."

"My past life," Jeremiah deadpans.

"And stuff." Hansol deflates.  He knows it sounds crazy.  He feels like he's going crazy, has felt that more and more with each day he's spent alone.

"What, like a mind reader or something?"

"Or something."  He shifts uncomfortably, hopes that a chance to leave the conversation will present itself as soon as possible.  One thing he's learned during the past week is that it's not mind-reading, it's--something else.  Something more complicated.

Jeremiah looks amused, and while it's slightly condescending, Hansol appreciates that it's not open hostility.  "That so?  Wanna tell me what you see, mind-reader man?"

So he does.  Maybe he thinks it'll cause less of a scene than refusing, maybe he does it to avoid being called a liar; or maybe he's just tired of keeping all these things, these past lives he sees and senses, inside.  Whatever the reason, he tells Jeremiah Sherbet about his 'Before,' the uncreative and grammatically incorrect title he's given the pre-Sunset Valley fragments he picks up from others.  Some sims have more fragments than others, and Jeremiah's are particularly vivid.  Hansol tells him everything he sees--the story behind why he prefers his hair long, a few of his fondest childhood memories, how he met the now-absent mother of his son.  He can't resist throwing in a few grandiose hand motions as Jeremiah's expression morphs from skeptical to mystified.

"I didn't know anything about my son's mother," he says, more to himself than Hansol.  "I... I never really thought about it before.  Where is she?  Why isn't she here now?"

"I can't see that."  Hansol drops his hands.  "I'm sorry."

It doesn't take long for word of the local "fortune teller" to spread.  Hansol soon finds himself being accosted wherever he goes--first he's approached at the gym during his morning shower-run (neither his wagon nor the house he's determined to ignore have plumbing), then he has small groups waiting for him at the library, then there are sims knocking on his wagon door.

"I've been looking everywhere for you," Doranne Ambrose says accusatorily after cornering Hansol outside the men's locker room.  "You weren't home."

He finds that, despite seeking out his services, most sims aren't that bothered by the implication that they have memories of an entire existence they've been robbed of.  Some seem to find it comforting in the shallowest way, but to most, Hansol can tell he's just a novelty.

But when Doranne asks him how much she owes for the "reading," Hansol supposes he can play the role of town oddity.  He has bills to pay on that stupid house he's never in, anyway, and he's so low on food that he's had to start rationing his remaining ice cream tubs.

Besides--it's not like he's lying to anybody, and he himself is comforted when he's able to return the fragments he's collected to their proper place.

Another week passes.

Then, one afternoon, there's a woman waiting for him outside his wagon.

She is distracted--and horrified--by Jeremiah's chess strategy.

"Oof.  You haven't even made the move yet and I can tell it's going to be wrong."

"Thanks," Jeremiah grits.

She introduces herself as Clarissa Bradbury, an employee at the local science center.  He recognizes her immediately as the bumblebee woman from the library.  It's been months since then, but he'd be able to identify the crackling sensation of her aura anywhere.

"I've heard a lot about you, Hansol Moon.  The grapevine says you can see things in other people.  Things nobody should be able to see."

"That's the gist of it, yeah," Hansol shrugs.  He's done his best to keep up an act of nonchalance in front of others--his eccentricity already puts him on thin ice with some neighbors, he can tell.  The last thing he needs is to be labelled as unstable or crazy, even if his sixth sense is digging deep into his psyche.  Even if the facade leaves him extremely lonely.

"That must be a difficult burden to bear," Clarissa hums.

"I don't know if burden is the word I would use," Hansol replies, even though that's exactly the word he would use.  "So, did you want a reading, or...?"

"No," Clarissa shakes her head. "I just wanted to talk to you about what you feel, your--awareness that there's something more.  That something is incomplete; something's not right."

Hansol adjusts his beanie nervously.  "Look, I'm done for the day, and I'm really tired, so--"

"I'm sorry," Clarissa says hurriedly.  "I don't mean to bother you, it's just..."

"I feel it, too."

Hansol isn't sure he heard her right.  He lifts a shaky finger.  "You... you can also see the Before?"

She takes his reaction in stride, smiling gently.  "I can't see the past," she admits.  "But I can tell there's something more going on in this town.  There's something below the surface of all this--I can't see it like you can, but I know it's there.  And when I heard of someone else who felt something similar, I thought... I don't know.  We could help each other out."

They spend the rest of the afternoon and a good portion of the evening talking.  Her aura makes Clarissa easy to trust, and Hansol lets what little he knows about his abilities, as well as the information he's gained from them, pour out for her to absorb like a fascinated, bespectacled sponge.

As she said, Clarissa can't see others' fragments like Hansol can, but she is a certified genius, which is what landed her the job at the science center.  She's been very much aware of Sunset Valley's strangeness since day one, as well as her own mental emptiness, and has been using her position at the lab--however low-level it may be--to dig deeper.

"This whole town gives me the creeps," she says, brow furrowing, lips turning downwards.  "So mechanical and hollow beneath the surface.  I can hardly stand it sometimes."

Hansol hasn't ever thought that, exactly; it's more his internal chaos that he wishes to alleviate.  But maybe there's more to it than just the forgotten memories of others.  Maybe there's something else going on, that Clarissa can sense and he can't.

Whatever the case may be, just having the chance to finally release the mess of thoughts tumbling around in his otherwise empty head is... nice.

☽

Clarissa is very invested in her research of Sunset Valley.  She convinces Hansol to meet with her that weekend, insisting that his abilities might be able to help her with her most recent discovery.  Hansol, having nothing better to do and eager to keep his first real connection, agrees.

She leads him past the buildings, along the sidewalk and road to where they dip in-between the hills surrounding the town.

"What's with the face?" she asks, partially teasing, partially to make conversation.

"It's hot," Hansol grumbles.  "You didn't tell me we'd be walking this much.  And the grass feels weird on my ankles."

"You're weird," Clarissa counters lightly.  "You literally live in a park."

"No, I live in a wagon.  It just so happens to to be located at a park.  And I can't move it; I already tried.  It's too heavy."

"And yet everyone still sees you wandering around town all day."

"Out of necessity!"

"Still weird."

"Says the one wearing heels on a hiking trip," Hansol mutters.

"Touché," says Clarissa.  And then, suddenly, they both stop.

Hansol's grumpy face shifts to a frown of confusion.  "That's... weird."

Clarissa puts her hands on her hips and sighs.  "You feel it too, then?"

"I can't step forward," says Hansol.

"Mm.  It's like this along the entire perimeter of the town."

Hansol takes an experimental step back.  Then he steps forward again.  And then, like the first time, he can't take another.  The idea, the intention, is in his head--but his body refuses to cooperate.

"I came up here a few weeks ago," Clarissa explains, when all Hansol does is stare at the grass, the trees, the empty road ahead of them, which plunges over the top of a small hill in the distance and out of sight.  "I thought maybe if I kept following the sidewalk, it would lead me to... I don't know, somewhere else.  But I froze here.  It's like there's an invisible barrier, but it's not physical.  It's mental.  Somehow."

Hansol surveys the area contemplatively.  There's definitely an unnatural energy in the air, but he can't pinpoint it.

"Do you sense anything?" Clarissa presses.  "I brought you here because I thought maybe you'd see something I can't."

At first, Hansol doesn't.  But then he notices it, out of the corner of his eye; whirring above her head, spinning frantically.  "Your plumbob," he mumbles.

Clarissa glances up, though all she can see overhead are leafy branches and sky.  "The little green crystal you said was above mine and everyone elses' head?  What about it?"

"It's going crazy."  He isn't sure how to explain it to her, though he tried on the day they met.  He'd learned early on that it wasn't peoples' minds that he was reading, but their plumbob.  Each individual had one, and they were packed with information, from the mundane--name, occupation, favorite color--to the mysterious--their fragmented memories.  From what Hansol had gathered, no one else was even aware of their plumbob--the name he'd learned from the information inside the plumbobs themselves--much less able to access the details inside.  Hansol isn't even sure how he is able to tap into them; just that he could.  He could see past the emerald shell, into the jumble of data it held, and translate it into facts his brain could understand.

"Is that not normal?" Clarissa asks.

"Very," says Hansol.

Clarissa hums, then fishes her phone out of one of those hidden inner-skirt pockets.  "I'll make a note.  Here's the thing, though; I've spent quite a bit of time near the perimeter, trying to map it, find someplace where it doesn't work.  And every once in a while, a car will come down the road, and pass me, and disappear over the hill.  Like it's nothing."

"Cars don't have plumbobs," Hansol says.  "Not unless there's someone inside."

At this, Clarissa shuts her phone off and puts it away.  "It must be the plumbobs, then," she says, with an air of finality.  "They follow us everywhere, store information on us, and make sure we don't go past the limits of the valley.  Do they control us, too?"

"I don't think so," Hansol says slowly.  "It's never seemed that way to me."

"But they have enough power over us to stop us from passing a certain point," she murmurs.  She falls silent for a moment, leaving Hansol to listen to the wind whistling idyllically through the trees, watch the soothing shade shift along the ground.  Then; "We'll have to find a way to get rid of them, then."

"We?" is the part of that proposition Hansol chooses to focus on.

"Don't you want to?" she asks earnestly.  "Living here, constantly feeling out of place because you can't shake the feeling that something is wrong--doesn't it drive you mad?"

"And, what, you--you think you'll find the answer out there?  What if you don't?"

"There will be some sort of answer," she says, "there has to be.  And I think that finding it, whatever it is, will--make me feel better.  It'll placate the anxiety this place gives me."

 Hansol watches her fall silent again, gazing upward, past the trees, past the hill, past the spiraling plumbob she can't see.

He thinks maybe she's right.

So he says, "Okay."

☼

::

"There is a place where the sidewalk ends

And before the street begins

And there the grass grows soft and white,

And the sun burns crimson bright,

And there the moon-bird rests from his flight

To cool in the peppermint wind."

(Shel Silverstein, Where the Sidewalk Ends)

Since I planned for her to be my founder's partner (spoilers?), Clarissa's traits were also randomized in CAS.  She turned out to be a frugal, snobbish, loser genius who also happens to be a great kisser.

The exposition chapters are almost out of the way, I think.  Maybe.  Hopefully.  There might only be one left, if I can write concisely enough.

A song to send you on your merry way:

::1.1:: Sad Ice Cream in the Dark

On the first day of the first year of the first forever, Hansol Moon opens his eyes.

☽

He blinks; looks around.  He's standing on the side of a road, with an empty field and vast, blurry sky before him. 

He looks down at his converse; purple laces.  He likes that color, he decides.  But what is he doing here?  Why is he doing here?  And what was he doing before?

And whose house is this??

It takes a few more minutes of standing completely still, gazing out hollowly over untouched grass, before his brain decides the proper response to knowing absolutely nothing is to freak out.  He takes off down the sidewalk that lines the empty road; he doesn't know why he's running, or to where.  All he knows is he needs to move--needs to find something.

It doesn't take long for him to reach civilization--some sort of small town.  He doesn't pause to take in the scenery, to see if there's some part of it he can recognize.  He can already tell that it's all foreign.  Foreign, but not exactly unfamiliar.The town looks and feels empty at first, which doesn't exactly make him feel any better about his situation; about having no memory of this place, yet not feeling lost; about knowing instinctively what corners to turn at, yet not knowing where his own feet are taking him.

It isn't the fact that he doesn't know the town that scares him--it's that he doesn't know if he knows.

He stops when he sees people milling around behind the windows of a building; his mind is foggy as he enters, unable to focus on any one thought for too long.  He tries desperately to think as he absently counts the steps--onetwo threefour fivesix seveneight--of something, anything; about himself, his life, his past before he opened his eyes and saw grass and sky and pavement.  But he can't hold down any thought long enough to parse it.

It's a library.  There's a small smattering of people inside, and he doesn't recognize any of them, but they don't feel like strangers, either.  Mind still swimming in thought soup, he mimics what everyone else is doing and pretends to carefully select a book from a bookshelf.

It's a book about llama anatomy--llamanatomy?--but he doesn't pay attention to its contents.  He's too busy sensing the people around him.  It's not something he's trying to do, exactly, but it's a feeling he can't shake; their minds are blank, just like his, but unlike him they don't seem bothered by it.

Who are they?  And who is he?

He spends the rest of the day searching for any sort of clues on--anything.  Each book turns out having the same sort of non-help--he doesn't care where Bella Goth is, he doesn't even know where he is, and he doesn't need a recipe on goopy carbonara when his brain already feels like it--so he settles for the internet.  Apparently he knows how to use a search engine, but doesn't know what he had for breakfast that morning.  Did he even have breakfast?  Sad.

He types anything he can think of, and his search history soon becomes a jumbled, panicky reflection of his thoughts.  Amnesia.  How to tell when you're dreaming.  What to do when you end up in front of someone's house with no clue how you got there.  What to do when the library's about to close and you still have no idea what the hell is going on.

In the end, he feels even more confused than before.

When he's finally kicked out, he returns to the house he started at, surprised--but also not?--that he remembers the route back like it's second nature.  He ducks under the roof awning just in time to avoid the rain.

Inside, there isn't much--a mysteriously-stocked fridge, a single rotting counter space, and a few rooms with carpeting.

After a sad dinner of ice cream in the dark, he finds a sleeping bag rolled up in the farthest corner of one of the carpeted rooms.  He isn't sure if he wants to sleep--what if his memory is even worse tomorrow?  What if he doesn't wake up?--but once he cocoons himself, exhaustion makes the decision for him.

☽

The next day, with nothing better to do--and still slightly afraid the homeowners will return and catch him camping out by their fridge--Hansol returns to the library.  Sleep did him some good; he feels refreshed, is thinking a bit clearer.

He'd spent that morning, over a sad breakfast of ice cream in the dark, developing a game plan, and it's is far more practical than his fever-dream-esque attempts from yesterday--first he'll figure out where he is, who he is, and who others are, and then... and then something.  Not sure about that part yet.  But it's a start.

A simple plan, but he doesn't get far into his research before he's distracted by another visitor.  There's nothing outwardly strange about her--although he thinks absently that it's a little weird to wear heels to the library--but what draws his attention is the low buzz of confused, nervous, awake energy that surrounds her like an invisible aura.

He recognizes that feeling; it's the same he's had since he blinked awake the day before, and she's the first person he's found who shares it.

SUSPICIOUS.

Some part of him, the part desperately seeking answers, wants to approach her.  But he can't think of anything to say that wouldn't make him sound like a complete lunatic, and the last thing he wants to do is get himself into trouble when he's still so... clueless.

The woman skims a few books, disappears to the second floor, returns a few minutes later with a frown, and leaves, taking her bumblebee aura with her, and Hansol is left to concentrate on his research.

This town, he learns, is Sunset Valley, or so the grand total of two daily newspapers archived in the library say; an internet search of the name renders a map, a few blogs run by locals, pet adoption services, and a dating site.  There's no mention of anyplace else, and nothing dating further back than the day before--and, most frustrating of all, no source giving an explanation why.

Fed up with the blatant lack of information, he goes back to the house for a sad lunch of ice cream in the dark.  He also learned during a self-search that the house is under his name, a fact of which he remains dubious; if he were the owner, he's sure he would have bought at least one light for the poor place, and stocked more than ice cream in the fridge.

It's not exactly sweater weather, so after lunch it's a quick change, and then back out for more exploring.

It seems harmless enough, so he isn't give it much thought, but he really wishes the green thing constantly hovering above his head would leave him alone.

Further exploration of the town only teaches Hansol that he really, really hates being outside.  

Although, the strikingly out-of-place wagon in the middle of the park is an intriguing find...

It's tiny, gaudy, and not exactly in the best location for privacy, but it seems unused and has actual lights, strung up on the inside and outside, and that's good enough reason for Hansol to pack up his little sleeping bag and make himself at home.

He isn't sure what happened the day before yesterday.  He isn't sure what's going to happen tomorrow, either.  But having some memories, even if they're just from yesterday, and a home he picked himself, even if it's small and a little dusty inside, makes him feel better.  Like he's a little less lost, a little less of a blank slate he doesn't understand, and more of a person with an actual identity, however fragile it may be.

He's Hansol Moon--whoever that is.

☼

::
Welcome to my Sims 3 random legacy blog!  Thanks for stopping by.  Sorry about That One Paragraph that's too dark to read; that block of text is cursed, and I am not a high enough level coding wizard to fix it.

This isn't my first time blogging a legacy, but my other sims family are on a tragic hiatus due to some problems accessing their game file.  I plan to continue their legacy eventually, provided I manage to recover them and all that, but for now this story will have my full attention.

Writing this first chapter was hell.   I was pulling my hair out over every little word for a good while before I remembered that one of the main reasons I started this blog in the first place was so I could have a space to write pressure-free.  And then I (kind of) stopped caring.  So I hope you enjoy lukewarm storytelling!

That said, this will probably not be plot-heavy.  I know the first chapter contradicts that, but this is mostly for the sake of exposition.  I love reading big fancy story blogs; I loathe writing them.  It's just not what my play style caters towards.

Details on The Legacy and Rolls:
Hansol Moon is my attempt to create a sim different from my usual "style".  I couldn't resist giving him neon eyes, though.  It's still TBD if they'll be a plot point or if they're just... weird.

Speaking of, I know things seem pretty meta so far, and it will be somewhat--but, just for the record, the answer to the mystery will not be my sims coming to the realization that they are tiny pixel people being controlled inside some college student's computer.  There's just no way to write that in a non-parody way without being cheesy, imho.  However, I will be using some elements of the game, such as the plumbob, as part of their reality.

Anyway, here are the rolls:
Single Parent
2 children
Fortune Teller (Genuine Psychic)
A Party to Remember
Random Traits

Hansol's randomized traits in CAS are grumpy, hates the outdoors, insane, mooch, and night owl.  Not half bad, and actually helped shape the story I want to tell.

Also: I have a limited number of towns to choose from, and Sunset Valley is one I haven't played in for a while.  For the sake of my poor legacy's genetics, I gutted it of its townies and replaced them with my own.  My sim-making creativity has officially died, but it was worth it (I hope).  I left the Goths in on accident, as well as a few of the more palatable "Roomies" out of laziness.

This is getting to be almost as long as the chapter itself, so here's a song to send you off.  It isn't related to The Sims or this blog in any way; I just like it.  Thanks for reading!

☽