Ghost Static
Ghost Static is what happens when a volume of unpasteurized meta becomes charged with a critical mass of traumatic Qualia—such as after mass tragedy or disaster. It becomes a hazard, bombarding any unprotected Soul with figments of experience, typically traumatic.
Altough Ghost Static is an unseen force, anyone with a Soul can be affected by it. It can manifest in many ways, and has earned the titles of Pall March, Witch Fog, Ghost Fog, Dead Noise, The Muttering, and Curse.
Well, we all hated working the undercity of Sig V, didn't we? That's where the city shoved its worst problems. That metastasized misery always came up on the shortwaves as a rumbling, angry static, like a hot mic left open.
We all knew: if the voices got too clear, it was time to run.
Named for the visible phenomena of miraged entities which occur when Ghost Static encounters a particulate volume, such as a dust storm or mist.
Most analog and digital sensors pick up a little interferance withinside Ghost Static, giving it its name.
The longer you spend in Ghost Static, the more you will begin feel the memories stored within it.
A Vast Soul
On any other world fog was an adjective which accentuated some other environmental noun. It may billow and writhe around meadows and mountains but it was nothing more than a feature of those places, an addition instead of a defining thing. The misty mountains, the foggy forest, it was only ever an antecedent to the main attraction.
On Saumai the fog had a mind of its own. It veiled the world in an ethereal landscape—an undulating map of cliffs and mountains, of tidal waves that buried the Baikal for hours on end. It cascaded from the heavens in languid downpours. It chased the ship and ran from it, and if they left a door open it crept inside and explored the halls farther than it ought to be able to.
That’s what made the fog so unnerving: it wasn’t just something to work around, it was a creature with intent, and it mocked them. Sometimes it veiled them in oppressive silence, limiting their view down to tens of feet and muting the world beyond. Sometimes it spoke to them, throwing back the plosives and susurrations of their speech, the creaks and groans of the ship. They heard other things in it, as well, things best not shared with eachother.
Tskhan heard Immuena in it.
They began to discuss the possibility that the fog wasn’t natural at all, that maybe it really was alive in some way. Sorja was the first to say it aloud, while on watch with Tskhan. “-This fog is cursed. It has a soul. It’s Witch Fog.-”
By the night it had an ethereal glow. Internal, or lunar? They couldn’t tell.
The news spread to Morkun and Allarah, Allarah told the other leaders but insisted on silence. The four of them took to the corners of the ship and measured the thickness of the meta. Not only did they sense that the meta was higher here than ashore—strange enough on its own since there was no sophont out here to generate it—but they confirmed the worst: it had a soul. It was a soul so large and so thin they hadn’t noticed it without searching, like only noticing a room cooled after someone else mentions. The fog responded to nothing, reacted to nothing. It followed them, and that was it.
On their second day at sea, as a gesture of good faith and to reject her SoFaeo Haimarchy heritage, Allarah had allowed Sorja to cut her hair. Though confused, the witchdoctor leapt at the opportunity and proved quite adept at it despite (or perhaps because of) using nothing but his claws. He had kept the braid and clippings without asking. Now, in light of the witch fog, he wove dreamcatchers of an unfamiliar mandala from her locks. He hung from them macabre fetishes: the gory heads of rats gathered from the ship's bowels, suspended with her hair threaded through their eye sockets. He hung them by the doors, just another reason for people to stop going topside. With how frigid it was outside, and given that the largely autonomous ship could be run without going topside, it took almost a day before anyone even mentioned it.
“Oh Jesus fuck…” Ijin said, cringing as she leaned in close to look at the disgusting contraption. Tskhan placed a hand on her shoulder and gently pulled her away. Gruist snickered.
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