ARRIVAL LOG 005

[larkers]

WHO: Everyone
WHERE: New Amsterdam
WHEN: Night of August 23 (through to August 30th)
WHAT: The fifth arrival
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Coercion and loss of autonomy. Further notes at end of log.

> ARRIVAL LOG #005

Awareness comes to you in blurred snatches, cloudy fragments of sound and light, color, sensation. Hazy and difficult to grasp on to, but slowly aligning into focus. A series of regular, rhythmic beeps. A medicinal, astringent smell. The sensation of movement, a low hum and accompanying vibration under you. Your eyes are heavy, hard to keep open, but in the glimpses between slow, dark blinks you see four people in black body armor seated opposite you, as well as a man in dark gray scrubs. You realize there are others next to you. All of you in white scrubs, hair recently cut but at various stages of growth, restrained by straps across your chests, arms, feet, holding you to the bench under you. To your left, an armored interior door, two more people visible, the movement of dark streets and neon windows passing through a windshield. You try to open your mouth to speak, but it's as if your tongue is coated in tar, and you manage nothing more than an empty parting of lips. The vehicle stops. The guard opposite you stands and comes to unbuckle you from the bench, helping you to your feet. Your limbs feel wooden and heavy, slow to move. One guard opens the back of the vehicle: beyond it, a chamber only dimly lit by strips of light along the floor. The nurse moves to stand at the back of the vehicle, checking each passenger over one by one just before they're helped out of the vehicle, quick and methodical. She doesn't climb out after you, moving to sit as the last passenger is unloaded. The guards keep their heads down. Their actions are quick, firm, but not entirely unkind. Under your feet, you can feel the thrum of heavy bass vibrating through the floor. You see nearby that there is another bus, another load of passengers being helped out, lined up much like you are. Once you're all in place, the guards move down the line, pulling dark hoods over each passenger's head. Your arm is lifted, placed on the shoulder of the passenger in front of you in line. "Hold on," says one of the guards. "Stay quiet. Keep moving until I say stop." There is no will in you to fight the orders. How far you walk is hard to determine. Counting steps is difficult, and any concept of time passing stretches between the sound of footfalls and breathing - soon overshadowed by the music. Growing louder, closer, the heavy bassline begins to reverberate through the air around you, amplified by the acoustics of the place. Melody and vocals become audible, the chatter of a crowd. Finally, you stop, and the hoods are pulled off, following down the line as the guards walk back. You turn to look after them, but they quickly disappear into the darkness of the tunnel behind you. The door in front of you swings open, the full weight of the music washing out. A tall woman with sharp, geometric patterns of ink tattooed across her skin smiles at you with sharp teeth, glowing luminescent in the UV lighting above her. "First timers?" she asks, but doesn't wait for an answer. "Don't worry, those costumes are great. Come on, come in." As you move to comply, she takes each of your hands, stamping a twisting design on the back, shining bright in the UV light. "Welcome," she says, as she ushers you out of the lobby and into the noise and crowd beyond. "To the Insomniacs' Ball." ◉ Though entirely capable of independent action and thought, new characters will find themselves completely, unquestioningly compliant to any verbal statement which could be taken as a command or request.

> THE INSOMNIACS' BALL

The message from El comes the same as previous: insistent, not waiting for any active attempt to open it. Scrolling within your vision as if being written while you're reading it. I'm not saying bus #5 got past me, but our favorite mysterious human traffickers have gone seriously sneaky this time around. And I'm not saying I can't help you get to where you need to be, but I can't. This one needs legwork, because you're going to have to land invites to the Insomniacs' Ball. The Insomniacs' Ball is an open secret. A New Amsterdam urban myth, disbelieved by many and desired for by even more. A week long party held every year as the working schedule changes, as the city struggles between the oppressive heat and the shifting of sleep cycles. Whether you'd prefer to be asleep at night or day, the ball doesn't care - a rolling, 24/7 event that continues until it disappears, as quickly as it arrived. Its location is a secret. Existence frowned upon, possibly even shut down by the authorities - dancing until you fall down is hardly advisable while water rationing is in place. Yet every year the rumors spin again, the whispers, clues and tastes and photos shared on social media which vanish before anyone can really be sure what they saw. Whoever puts the ball together is as good at keeping their head down as Morningstar - and most likely greases more wheels, rather than trying to be a wrench in the machine. Either way, all El can do is point you to the same paths anyone else hungry for an invite is taking. THE PUZZLE Emerging on social media like proverbial white rabbits, clues in the form of bizarre symbols, phrases or riddles have appeared, hidden in images or tucked in VR simulations. Solving them isn't for the impatient. Some take more work than others, a knowledge of numbers or pattern recognition, or ancient cultural references. The answers come as new clues, pointing to locations in the city, to other VR simulations, to figures waiting in cafes or particular enemies in your favorite VR video game. A treasure hunt for the modern age, as each step is completed the participants are whittled down, but for anyone who reaches the end, the prize of an invite to one of the most mysterious pieces of New Amsterdam life is worth all of the work to get there. THE DARE The challenges start small. Stand up and sing in a crowded restaurant. Take a selfie at the UNA's front door. Eat a live scorpion. Soon it escalates, taking even the most jaded of adrenaline junkies on a rollercoaster of illegal and death-defying stunts. Joyriding a notorious gangster's hoverbike. Climbing a construction beam between two of the tallest buildings in the city. Standing in central square and declaring yourself to be a Morningstar operative. The risks climb higher and higher, and for some the stakes are too much. Others hold their nerve, eyes set firmly on the goal, the victory of holding an invite in their hands. THE BOON And then there are those who make no effort at all. Passed to them by the hands of lady luck, their invites arrive in their pockets, slid under their doorframes or hidden under a glass at work. Bartenders open up crates of stock and find a wedge of them tucked in amongst the packaging; bike couriers arrive at delivery destinations only to find a parcel waiting there for them. Whether targeted or purely a matter of chance, many attendants at the Insomniacs' Ball will have had the opportunity simply fall in their lap - and some may not recognize what they've received at all. However you've managed to get your hands on an invite, the directions on the back are the same - leading you deep down into the city's underground, past some of the darker corners and into some even darker ones. A rusted, disused door to an abandoned maintenance area wouldn't look like the place, but the intricate geometric design painted silvery and barely visible across the surface matches the invite you hold, and you know you've found the entrance to wonderland. Behind the door, lies a twisting network of tunnels and rooms built into natural caves, ultimately abandoned by the city when its insides proved too difficult to navigate. Now, for a short time, it's home to a carnival of revelry. Strobing neon lights illuminate snatches and glimpses of the crowd, glowing in pools of UV: a dense mass of people from all over the city, young and old, music and dancing flowing from chamber to chamber, clashing and mixing between. Extravagant, outrageous costumes mingle with simple streetwear, or with no-wear at all. People hand out masks, drinks, substances which it may not be advisable to consume. Sealed bottles of water seem to appear from nowhere, passed among the people, their source and seeming escape from the rationing in the city far above going unquestioned. Smaller chambers offer some respite for those who need to take a minute, catch their breath, or want a quiet corner to talk with a new friend. Other chambers contain more hedonistic displays, with most participants always willing to accept another into their number. No one seems to be in any rush - there's roughly a week to soak in all the delights, and you can even come and go as you please, the UV pattern now stamped on your hand allowing access back through the various doors, if you can find your way back to one. But you're here for a different purpose, and whether it took you hours or days to find your way here, you know that the party will end eventually - and anything more unusual which may be hiding inside will be revealed. ◉ The Insomniacs' Ball and the related methods of gaining an invite will last for one week, from August 23-30. New characters can be retrieved at any time during this, or can find their own way out and be discovered on the streets - just please be advised that they will not be able to survive in New Amsterdam without first spending time in the Morningstar safehouse and having their ID set up. ◉ We will not be dictating set pieces of the ARG puzzle or challenges - these are left to player discretion as to what your character would have realistically managed to solve or complete! ◉ The invite themselves are business card sized pieces of metal with an intricate geometric patterns etched on one side, and an address on the other. The address leads to a quick series of clues and locations which will take characters to the door as described. ◉ The same geometric design will be present throughout the ball, worn by some of the guests and doorpeople, and even carved into the walls of some of the caves. ◉ While in the ball, there will be rumors and whispers circulating about the owner of the ball being in attendance, and that particularly impressive guests may earn some special reward - or just guarantee an invite again next year.

> THE SAFEHOUSE

Access to the safehouse is a hatch hidden behind stacks of empty storage shelves in the back of an abandoned supermarket in an outer district of the city. The immediate area is similarly abandoned, empty stores, flanked by several blocks of dive bars and clubs which cater to more niche tastes. A place where people can come and go unseen, or, if seen, not spoken of. A dark haired woman called Gaby is ready to greet the new arrivals and get them settled in, brusque and no-nonsense – she'll be open for in depth questions later, but will advise everyone to ask the people who brought them in for the beginning bits of information. ◉ The safe house is a large open space, filled with rows of basic cots set up to sleep a large amount of people. Basic, but outfitted with everything necessary for daily life. A few doors lead to back rooms for storage, medical care and a large communal bathroom, and past the long rows of cots there is a communal kitchen, fully stocked, and an eating area. Privacy is at a minimum. ◉ New characters will be asked to pick their beds, and provided with a change of (second-hand, mismatched and somewhat threadbare) clothes and basic toiletries. ◉ While there were previously also NPC occupants of the safehouse, natives to New Amsterdam, these people have now been moved on to somewhere safer. A few of their belongings remain, discarded or accidentally abandoned. ◉ Gaby will make it clear to all new arrivals that if they have any requests or queries, they should contact her or El. ◉ The drugs making new characters compliant will remain in their systems for a few hours after their being dropped off by the guards before finally beginning to fade. They will be gone entirely after a night's rest. In the meantime, they may want to be careful of what others say to them. ◉ New characters will be given rudimentary access to the network on arrival in the safehouse, but will not have their ID set up yet. They will be able to make posts and replies, but their messages will be anonymous and they do not have inboxes yet. ◉ New characters will not be allowed to leave the safehouse until FOUR DAYS AFTER THEIR ARRIVAL AT THE SAFEHOUSE. These 4 days are for them to adjust, learn about the world they've arrived in from their fellows, and for El to speak with them and work on setting up their IDs.

> FINAL OOC NOTES

Welcome to Meadowlark, newbies! You're now free to post to the network and logs comms. To reiterate, your characters will have no IDs or inboxes, nor be allowed out of the safehouse until they have been there for four days. At that point it's expected they'll have gotten a good idea of their new situation from their fellow characters, and will have discussed their background and job potentials with El in order for their false IDs to be set up. If you have any questions or ideas about how you'd like to get your character involved in the world, or if they'd like to join Morningstar, please head over to the plot engagement post and drop us a comment! For questions specific to this log, there is a thread below. Please check out our December calendar rundown for a look at things happening this month. As a reminder, AC this month will be a check-in only. AC will be posted on December 20 and close on December 27. If you do not reply to AC, you will be considered idled and dropped from the game. We will not post a warning list.

> NAVIGATION

Comments

QUESTIONS.

[larkers]

[kometes]

I'm so sorry if this is obvious, but to clarify: are the newcomers in their white scrubs at the club?

gaby – mod npc – ota

[vns]

A: THE BALL

[ Gaby is cool, effortless. she gets everywhere with ease – or not. she ends up with an invite to the ball because every bartender at her job got a random shot, a random chance to be there. her arrival has a lot to do with who's likely to be found there – but also curiosity. everyone's heard about the Insomniac's Ball. everyone.

if they pay attention.

if they listen.

(in her life, there's someone who's made her listen.)

she looks different than normal, with her hair pulled back, tight up into a bun, and there are a few people around her who speak to her as if she's familiar. but her eyes wander, looking for the tell-tale gaze of someone who's having a bad day ... or days. she won't be keen to nod toward anyone she definitely knows – appearances must be kept – but anyone else who's new? recently dropped off? left in this maze? she'll try to pull them aside. get them water.

no one deserves this hellish party as a part of their rude awakening.

(though "hellish" is in the eye of the beholder, and said beholder – Gaby herself, in this instance – seems to have mixed opinions when she isn't subtly playing agent.) ]

B: THE SAFEHOUSE

You're all new, so you get a freebie.

[ this is said to the newbies. an announcement. a PSA. if you're not new? you don't count.

(Vanessa counts. she's newly returned, and that's got to be fucking freaky as hell.) ]

Take a shower. Take your time. Get some water in you, you need it. Then it's water rationing time. Eat. I'm not gonna shove food in your mouth, and I don't need to know what you got up to in there ... so just do it. Got it?

[ once this is done, once she's satisfied that people have their beds, she'll be around for answers. she looks tired, with bits of hair sticking out in a lot of different directions. it's hard to say when she got to the ball or if she intends to return, but she looks like she's had a definitely take on the in part of insomniac.

that doesn't mean she won't be cordial.

cordial for Gaby, anyway. ]

[ ooc note: very open to threads at either location, with people new and old. Gaby may not acknowledge someone, but that doesn't mean she doesn't know them. ]

safehouse;

[revlon]

[ She's gotten the gist of her questions answered — for now. But some require a local's perspective and Gaby is clearly in charge here, so Peggy seeks her out once things have quieted down for the day. She's still buzzing from the past few hours and she's sure sleeping it off will do little to soothe the yawning pit in her stomach, but one step at a time. This next one counts, too.

She means to thank the other woman for her hospitality, which is what she leads with along with an introduction (Peggy, not Margaret, which is what she'll offer El later on) but there's more to it than that. ]

Are there other cities like this? [ She waves a hand to the general outside world, the gesture absent. ] New York, Los Angeles, London.

Giovanni Rammsteiner | DOGS: Bullets & Carnage

[ofobedience]

Arrival | The Insomniacs Ball

[Perhaps he's dead. Perhaps he's dead and this is the true shape of hell because no matter how hard his mind reaches for it, he can't grasp at a more logical explanation for how he arrived at this point. The last thing he recalls with any real clarity is the gag, the blindfold, the restraints, Zollner's voice droning on as he waits to discover what will be done with him as his mind continues to fall away in snags and starts and razor-edged snatches. Waking to find himself buckled down to that bench with the buzz and thrum of the vehicle moving underneath him, swapping one form of restraints for another, his first hazy thoughts were only that he was being moved, the peculiarities of his situation not having quite made themselves known to him yet. But now, amidst this, the noise and the lights and rhythmic movement of too many bodies, his mind stutters and staggers after a logic that alludes him.

So perhaps he's dead and this is hell. Finally. Finally.

Someone bumps into him, turns, their face filled up with an ecstatic grin, and with an unpleasant whooping noise pushes something into his hand before throwing themselves into the throng again. He doesn't even look down to see what it is before he's leaning back against the cavern wall with a bright peal of staccato laughter, a sound at odds with the tight cold fist of fear that coils at the core of him, holds fast.

When he speaks to you, or perhaps it's to no one, or everyone - did he really say anything at all above the undulating waves of music that crash over them? - it's something like this--]

Funny. I thought one ought to be in possession of a soul in order to end up in hell.

The Safe House

[He ends up here eventually. And whilst it's a vast improvement on the hellscape of his arrival (it's the first party, in the traditional sense of the word, that he's ever attended, okay?), it's still a far cry from being enough to settle the razor-wire jangle of his nerves. He feels...stripped on a fundamental level, vulnerable and open and sickeningly lost and there's something (everything) wrong because the rattle and pant and scrabble in his mind has been reduced to the faintest of whispers and his body feels sluggish and slow to him, he's been here before, and the thought of that fills him with the reaching tendrils of fear.

The Spine isn't functioning quite as it should.

But the near-panic that rises and crests inside of him fails to manifest in his outward appearance; there's only the slight upturn of his lips, a subtle expression of distaste as he runs one hand over the shorn shock of his hair, sliding back briefly to alight on the collar bolted down through flesh and muscle into bone, then away again. With red eyes turned down towards the bed and the threadbare clothes he dumped upon it, his complaint doesn't touch on his real fears, his bone-deep heart-gripping terrors. Instead he focuses them down into this--]

Denim. Really.

Wildcard

[Any random thing goes here!]

safehouse!

[retravel]

[ Fitz swings his rucksack around to rest on the cot beside Giovanni's, having ditched his gaudy ball jacket on the way to the safehouse and stood now in plain black attire. Definitely his own, however, fitted where the newbies get baggy hand-me-downs. While the new guy's head dips, Fitz notes the protruding collar. That's new. Not a trend on the new arrivals, when he knows Peggy Carter was clean, no further alterations.

His nose wrinkles, sympathetic to the mundane whinging. Easier this way. ]

Bit shit, isn't it? [ his accent lilts, distinctly Scottish, unlike most in NA, as he busies himself with unpacking miscellaneous supplies. Assorted food and clothes, folded neatly. ] You have any requests for something lighter?

[ with the heat and all. A little shrug, as if to say it'd be no big deal, y'know. ]

I'm going on a supply run tonight, so.

dutch | killjoys

[motivation]

> ARRIVAL (open to fellow new arrivals)

[ dutch has been drugged before —many times. she's been taught how to identify many drugs and poisons by taste, by smell, by symptoms. she's been taught how to counteract them. she doesn't have any defense against this, mind too foggy to identify anything and nothing to focus on, no taste or scent to betray what she's been given.

focus, yala khlyen's voice sounds in her head. she's trying, she is, but she can't.

there's no fight in her and that feels worse than being tied up, than being in scrubs, than being told what to do. she's been told what to do so often, but for the last years, she's always been conscious of making it her choice, of choosing to follow or to disobey. now, her body's obeying before dutch's mind has even processed anything, her hands on the shoulders of the person next to her.

she tries to count steps, but her focus keeps sliding away from her. there are warm hands on her shoulders, warm shoulders beneath her hands, too. no one said anything about not being allowed to talk. ] Hi.

> THE BALL, part i (ota)

[ it's a big party.

now, ordinarily, dutch wouldn't be opposed to this kind of thing —hells, she might even like it. she doesn't think she's remotely dressed for the occasion, no matter what the woman at the entrance might have said. she's also not un-drugged enough for this, as becomes apparent when someone tells her to dance with them and she complies immediately. again, she might have decided to dance with the bloke anyway, and it might not have been so bad. he's not a terrible dancer and his hands only stray to her arse every so often.

it's that she didn't get a choice that has bile rising in her throat, that has her heart pound too fast.

anyone might cut in, ask her for a dance, ask her to get a drink with them, ask her to do anything at all and she'll have no choice but to comply, hating every single second of it. maybe someone does, maybe not —eventually, her dance partner moves on to a more proactive dance partner and dutch swipes a bottle of sealed water from somewhere and searches for a corner that's more quiet, for a place (and a way) to flush out whatever's in her body. she can't go on like this.

find her in a corner, or run into her while she's searching for a bathroom. ]

> THE BALL, part ii (ota)

[ eventually, the drug dissipates and dutch's mind is her own again. she'd sworn, running away from khlyen, that she wouldn't be anyone's puppet ever again. she'd told the same thing to turin, that she was tired of being manipulated, tired of dancing to the tune of someone else's flute. she meant it. this whole thing? she's already over it.

she's ready to —not kill, but at least maim and forcefully interrogate whoever is behind all of this. only problem? she's pretty sure it isn't anyone here at this party.

so she does what any enterprising killjoy would do in her position: she walks up to the nearest bar-like structure, picking a person to look straight in the eyes and ask ] Buy me a drink?

[ she definitely needs one. ]

> THE SAFEHOUSE (ota)

[ dutch is pissed off. she feels violated and that only makes her angrier. she's been angry for a long time, so this isn't a new state of being exactly. abductions like this aren't entirely new, either, but this still seems like a bigger operation than anything she's run into recently, and it doesn't seem to have anything to do with the hullen and the lady, which makes no sense at all.

find her

• in the showers, scrubbing viciously at her skin, uncaring of her own nudity. there are scars on her body that speak of an interesting life, burns and knife wounds, the rounded evidence of being shot in various places, that sort of thing.
  
• in the kitchens, opening cabinet after cabinet, peering into the fridge, asking Who the hells doesn't stock their safehouse with drinks? ]

part ii

[kometes]

[ Maybe she hadn't noticed, but a man in white scrubs, an outfit that is identical to hers, overheard that request and the compulsion to follow through overtakes all rational thought in his head.

He has no money. But he ought to buy this woman a drink, right? ]

... [ She'll find herself stared at, even if she's looking at someone else hoping for a drink. Though usually delighted to talk to a pretty woman, he doesn't seem pleased. Maybe the confusion is making him angry? ]

Alright. What drink do you want, little lady?

ardyn izunia | ffxv

[daemonized]

THE BALL ( CLOSED TO PROMPTO )

[It’s an awareness that’s barely an awareness at all, nothing but shuffling through the fog of a hazy mind and obscured vision. No agency over his own body, no focused thought to try to grope for control — only the sound of music beginning to thrum through his limbs, growing louder with each step, until the hood whips off and he’s assaulted by sensation.

It doesn’t take long to get lost in the crowd after that, the lights disorienting and the music pulsating. Moving bodies writhe in jarred rhythm against a bass tempo. Heat and the scent of sweat corrals him from all sides. He feels — (he feels) — nauseous, stomach decrying against a drug that hasn’t faded from his system, an experience so detached by centuries that it racks his mind with confusion. But most disturbing of all is the realization of a poignant change, something other than the obvious sudden displacement, the not knowing where he is or how he arrived. But rather, an emptiness in his blood and in the marrow of his bones, something once alive and thriving there, now gone silent. Gone missing? Gone dormant? Gone.

Someone bumps into him. Ardyn nearly stumbles forward, catching his balance with an admittedly inelegant forward step. Another individual shoulders against him, rushing to meet a friend, jostling his body again. He lifts a chin to look up at the lurid lights cutting through the air to dance across cavern walls, and despite everything, Ardyn’s lips curl into a sharp smile and he lets out a bark of a bitter, humorless laugh.

A third person makes contact with him, which he deems one person too many. Ardyn reaches out and grips whomever it is painfully tight — an arm, a wrist, their shoulder, doesn't matter — and practically hisses out his words, never mind a tongue that feels sluggish in his mouth.]

Do watch where you’re going. One might mistake clumsiness for being so very inconsiderate.

[“Hello, fuck you,” is the general sentiment. If it just happens to be a familiar face he’s latched onto, Ardyn’s not yet looked to notice.]

THE SAFEHOUSE ( OTA )

OPTION A; (cw: allusion to self-harm)

[In the kitchen, there’s a subtle clatter as a knife is placed dismissively on a countertop, its blade edged in scarlet. He hears footsteps approaching, which means that he’s quick to turn around in a whirl (one that might prove more dramatic if he still possessed a long coat, edges whipping about him with such fervency; too bad he has mismatched and threadbare clothes at best) and face whomever is lucky enough to run into Ardyn today.

A hand gestures at the stranger, while the other remains clenched in a tight fist — a small stream of blood ekes past the edge of where his fingers curl into a stinging palm, but he acts as if it’s nothing at all. Nothing but a test of what’s been changed, what’s been lost. If pain can hook its claws into him now.

It can, apparently. Today, in this one singular moment, at least, he’s quite certain he hates it.]

Need this space? [Spoken casually, with a lilted tone, but it’s hard to hide something sharp in his look.] Feel free. I haven’t made too much of a mess.

OPTION B;

[Wandering the row of cots with a blanket slung across one arm (one hand may or may not be wrapped up in gauze, spotted with red), Ardyn might appear to be taking this all in stride, but appearances are not always accurate. Unsatisfied with whatever summary he’s received of the situation thus far, it’s of keen interest to question those “alike” to him, those of whom he can glean more details from. To satiate maybe one or two curiosities regarding this maddening mass kidnapping, trafficking, and head-shaving issue.

So he’s walking up to you in those long, lazy strides of his. Yes, you.]

This is all very inconvenient, don’t you think? Look at what they’ve done to my hair.

WILDCARD

[If you don’t see anything you like, feel free to toss something different my way! Find me at aurajen if you’d like to do some plotting!]

option a, may we rest in pieces

[fessus]

[ Noctis has been frequenting the safehouse less and less lately in spite of his newly established (but seemingly probationary) agreement with Morningstar to handle a few of their smaller requests. Those jobs have taken him deeper into the heart of the city, shuttling something from one place to another here or following a lead there. Today, however? Nothing could keep him away, not now that Ignis has newly arrived and he has a second member of his retinue to look after. It feels... somehow right to be paying him back in small ways, actually volunteering to find him something to eat while his attendant rests.

That's what takes him to the kitchen, anyway, head pointed downward to pick a bit of lint from his sling and that's when he hears a strikingly familiar voice that immediately arrests his attention. Blue eyes lift, visibly widened when he confirms just who he's faced with. ]

Ardyn? [ Of all the people to show up next, it's him. Shorn and disheveled, but unmistakable in demeanor. It throws him, just like it always throws him to see a man whose intentions he has yet to fully ferret out. ]

... pretty sure I'd rather use it on my own. You done?

bobbi morse | mcu: aos

[covertness]

> INSOMNIACS' BALL

[ if anyone asks, bobbi will say that she got the invitation by accident. that she found it in her pocket after someone bumped into her on the street, walking too fast to make out his facial features. the truth is that she talked someone into giving it to her, that she told them they didn't want to go, anyway, that it would be loud and terrible and dirty and dangerous and that they'd be better off staying at home.

so she's in.

she's in and she's trying to fit in, hair long enough for a sleek bob of sorts now. she's wearing sunglasses (the ones she'd 'found' at the beach party people arrived at last time) on top of her head and, at times, over her eyes, and something dark and fitted to her figure.

she's here to surveil, she's here to find newbies and she's here to get information, if there's any to be gotten. to that end, it makes sense to move around, to get in contact with many people —so she'll ask anyone to dance with her, whether she knows them or not.

every once in a while, she'll take a breather, leaning against the cool(-ish) stone of the natural caves, letting her eyes wander over the crowd. ]

[retravel]

[ with some help from bobbi, fitz dresses in blacks except where the hi-jacks mandate dictates otherwise (a requirement for something cardinal, a shining signifier of the allegiance that earned him an invite in the first place, distilled in the form of the collar of his jacket, red light radiating from within). they don't arrive together, but she catches him elbowing his way through the dancefloor, a familiar touch and shot of fond empathy at his arm.

then she's asking, and he sort of glitches, head tipped back and brows arched. ]

You want to — is that really — are you sure?

[ would dancing really be helpful... ]

markus | dbh

[saviorexe]

THE INVITE

[This high up, there’s more of a breeze than what exists on ground level, but the oppressive heat of the sun isn’t any kinder.

It reflects off the rooftop's surface where Markus currently stands, making sweat bead at his brow. High, high up on a building many stories tall, jutting against the sky. Beside it stands its twin, and between the two exists proof of on-going construction, currently untended to — lattices of beams and support systems attached to sleek sides and connecting the two structures. And linking them are several long metal beams of just enough width to walk across.

If one was feeling particularly bold, at least.]

This is the last of the dares. [—he says to his companion. Someone who's shown an equal interest in being here, whether it’s to join him in nabbing their promised invite, to provide emotional support, or just to tell Markus that he’s insane for considering this. But even this far up, with the city so distantly below that it's a caricature of itself, the android’s human body doesn’t react to the height with trepidation. He stands calmly near the lip of the roof, where the beam meets the tip of his shoes, looking at the potential walk the same way one considers crossing the street.

He turns his head to meet the eyes of the other.]

Three minutes of standing on that beam. It should be easy enough to record with the implant.

[Three minutes should be nothing. One and done. Quick enough and they’ll be finished, and they can sneak back down just as easily as they crept all the way up here — having relied on timing, observation, and swiftness to avoid any wandering eyes that would label them as trespassers.]

Coming with me? It isn’t so bad — just don’t look down.

[just don’t look down this is fine]

THE BALL

[He’s arrived in street clothes, done up in dark colors and plain blacks, and utterly inconspicuous in a swath of people dressed in costumes, their faces adorned with masks. But drenched in the color of UV lights, neon hues splaying across his features as he moves along the edges of the "dance floor", Markus finds that he would rather avoid the spotlight for now. Better to carefully weave through the crowd and to observe. To sift through the noise and energy and to pinpoint new faces, to uncover answers about this hidden event — if there are any to be had.

At some point, someone’s pressed a cold bottle of water into his hand. He can already feel the perspiration from it stick to his fingertips, accentuating the heat in this place, reminding him of his body’s own need to stay hydrated. Fingers instinctively twist at its top as he spots a familiar face nearby.

Walking up to them, he’d offer a vaguely conspiratorial tone if it wouldn’t be so drowned out by music and the crowd alike. Instead, Markus makes a legitimate effort to raise a normally subdued voice, pointedly emphasizing each word. Even then he's hard to hear.]

I have some water we can split. You can tell me everything you’ve heard about this ball’s mysterious host while we share it.

[Markus’ offer is genuine, even if there’s no information to be had.]

WILDCARD

[Or something else! Again, I’m at aurajen if you wanna plot!]

invite.

[merced]

[ Aranea is definitely here because she wants an invite - what sort of party isa party without Aranea fucking Highwind! - and has, at no point, told Markus he's crazy about any of it. In fact, she's approached all dares with equal parts fearlessness and dismissal, climbing the slope of increased defiance of the dares without ever looking back. High up on the steel girders is no exception. She's got the finish line in her sights. Standing just a bit behind him, she smiles her smile, the one that's catlike, knowing and patient all at once. ]

Yeah, yeah.

[ Deft and lightfooted, she skirts around him, jumping up onto the thin beam. It looks reckless. It actually isn't, because she's incredibly careful not to jostle him or even surprise him, telegraphing her intentions every step of the way.

Rather than worry about her balance, Aranea plants on hand on top of her new hat, trying to keep it from blowing away. Her other hand rests on her hip. ]

You don't wanna hold hands, do you?

leo fitz | mcu: aos

[retravel]

PRELUDE.

[ When El’s message pings the implants, Fitz already has a job in progress — with an invite waiting at the end of it. Those involved with the underground may hear of a brewing prank war between their cleverest crews, the 66 versus the Hi-Jacks, escalating rapidly to win places at the Insomniacs’ Ball for all involved. For Fitz’s part, he takes the day off work to help hotwire 66-er hoverbikes and go for a quick spin, right under their noses. Back in no time, only gone long enough to prove they could bypass failsafes and jack them in the first place. ]

THE BALL.

[ At the ball, with his invite tucked safely within a concealed pocket and hand stamped with the welcome code, Fitz dresses more like the version of himself who works with the Hi-Jacks (seen at the fighting rings, working the bot fights and, occasionally, spotted doing mechanic work at the hover-races) than the perpetually business casual scientist and fumbling intelligence agent known to others, pushed further by Bobbi's assistance and a Hi-Jacks mandate to stay on brand. A short-sleeve crew neck, loose-fitting, black like his light jacket. The remnants of his typical style remain in the collar, upright and emanating a red glow. While the top of the jacket appears structured, netted paneling cuts in after the shoulders, over his arms and down his back — designed precisely to breathe in New Amsterdam’s sweltering summer — with the solid fabric only returning at the waist, a stripe to cut at a sharp angle. Dark trousers and shoes help him blend, otherwise. He isn't looking forward to trawling the floor for anomalies, if his set jaw and forcibly neutral features are indicative of anything. ]

A. SAVE ME.
[ As it happens, there are shocks of luminous red throughout the crowd, brilliant decals pinned to tops and skirts bathing the floor in light. Perhaps it’s a signifier of the Hi-Jacks affiliation that landed him an invite. The cardinal markers cross over occasionally, clustered at the bar, or colliding in the crowd — a hand drags across his collarbone, leaving a trail of bright cherry behind, before fingers hook through his mesh sleeve in an attempt to pull him toward a larger group. ]

I, uh. [ His mouth opens and closes. Busy recalibrating, he lets himself be tugged along. Oh no. ] Well, I’m —

B. I’M HERE TO RESCUE YOU.
— I’m looking for someone. [ called over the thudding bass, as he jerks back, not smooth in the slightest. Any flush is obscured, backlit with red as he is. That wins a chorus of “oohs” from his companions. A known entity quips, You’re always looking for someone, Leo. Take a break already. Yeah, maybe when he’s dead in two hours. Christ, this event is designed to give him a heart attack.

The live nature of the operation means he goes onward, however. While Fitz only drinks from his own flask, the silver metal glinting in the erratic light, he’ll buy for anyone who looks as if they’re willing to talk, is ballsy enough to ask him, or who appears new, dressed in the tell-tale hospital attire that means he makes one, obedience-bolstered request. ]

Give me a minute of your time. [ hands up in surrender, eyes bright in earnest. ] Just one minute to explain. That’s all I ask. Promise.

[ A command surely as frightening as any other, yet time-locked, the escape in sight. ]

C. TAG TEAM.
[ Familiar faces, too, warrant his attention. Fitz slides beside any at the bar or catches an elbow on his way through the dancefloor with a lilt of their name. Maybe it's a save from a proposition or being plied with some substance or other, Fitz's hands gently steering on a friend's shoulder. Regardless of how they catch each other, he can ensure they stay safe together. And there’s something to be said for wandering this heaving affair with a partner. ]

Tell me you’re here for business. [ Please. ]

[ He hates this place, thanks. ]

c.

[batricide]

[ Have you ever seen Hafid al Ghul be charming? No? Well, you're going to. Damian's slipped into a persona that clearly isn't his, aiming to wine and dine anyone who speaks to him for information (even if it's clear that he has no idea what to do when they ask him to dance, as this dancing is completely foreign to him, so he'll just pass and keep drinking water thanks) up until Fitz settles in the seat the girl he was flirting with just vacated in favor of finding someone who will dance with her.

Then he's right back to business. ]

Why else would I be?

aranea highwind | ffxv

[merced]

» safehouse.

[ The barracks are almost military style, Aranea notes, but as someone who didn't rise up through the ranks so much as appeared one day and was placed surreptitiously near the top - a true "upjumped merc", in someone's words - she's never had much use for such things. She's spent a half of her life in relative luxury, circumventing a rather impoverished childhood with reasonable displays of comfort, the occasional needless purchase, silk sheets and a new television set every year.

So, this? Definitely a step down. Aranea would be merely annoyed, if they hadn't also drugged her and performed invasive surgery on her. Her anger runs hot and quick, brief bursts that wear themselves out quickly, blue light, not red - but whatever happens to be in their field of destruction is liable to lose, like, an arm or a leg or a torso.

So, when the very natural occurence of bumping into someone, uh, occurs, she whirls around, fire in her eyes. Her usual husky voice sounds mad enough to spit. ]

Hey, watch it!

[ She won't bite anyone...

Probably. ]

» safehouse 2: choose your own boogaloo.

[ Conversely, Aranea can be found—

● Accidentally ("accidentally") preparing too much food and splitting it up for whoever happens to be in the kitchens with her. It's nothing fancy, an omelet with cheese and some fried tomatoes. "Eat up," she says, sitting down uninvited; "you look like you need some meat on your bones." (She's rather unused to being without her men.)
● On the toilet. Seriously, why would you open the stall door? Prepare to have a hastily balled up wad of toilet paper thrown at your face as she's demanding you get out.
● Stealing someone else's pillow. She will just pluck it right off their bed and strut proudly over to hers to put it down. Feel free to call her out on this. ]

» closed to prompto.

[ By the time she makes it out of the safehouse and begins interacting with the world proper, she's picked up one (1) accessory, for obvious reasons. Adjustment happens through narrowed eyes and a careful, withdrawn mouth - there's a lot she needs to learn, and in a short time period, if she wants to reclaim the standard of living to which she'd become accustomed on Eos. Making it to the Insomniac's Ball seems like a natural extension of her goals, and it only takes about fourteen hours of effort before an invitation ends up in her hands.

That had been almost a day ago. Emerging from a darkened corner, she re-adjusts her jostled shirt, smoothing down any wrinkles that may or may not be there. Catching sight of a familiar face - a familiar smattering of freckles across a bony nose, above thin, jutting lips - feels so (statistically) unlikely, she immediately makes a beeline over to him.

At some point, a cold bottle of water ends up in her hands. She greets Prompto by sidling up behind him and pressing the bottle to the back of his neck. ]

» wildcard - the ball version.

( Any manner of sin you can dream of! Aranea is down for dancing, drinking, ingesting... anything! )

safehouse 2!

[ofobedience]

[He doesn't intend to spend much time here, as little as he can get away with in fact because sharing close quarters with so many others isn't something he knows how to cope with. Even back there, the small cell of a room he occupied within Mother's facility was 'his own' in as much as he wasn't required to share the space. And whilst he's never been given to sleeping (his head filled up with too much red to make it truly restful), he can't imagine getting any at all for as long as he remains here. For reasons that run older and deeper than having to share with untrustworthy strangers.

He's here for now, however. And when he wanders into the kitchen it's only in search of their tight-rationed water-- the heat and the light of this place, for an underground creature such as himself it's more than a little hard to bear.

Instead there's some woman offering him food and - taken aback - he laughs.]

Should I be insulted?

[I mean his physique...he'd politely call himself svelte, but some might say skinny]

Ignis Scientia | FFXV

[cheffeur]

THE INSOMNIACS BALL

• Arrival - panic [ota]

He can't think straight. Thoughts blurry and muddled and distracted, body acting slowly and clumsily, following the commands given without argument. And there's a layer of horror underneath that drugged laziness, a slow-dawning realization of his loss of control and his own lack of understanding. Stamped and set out into the reverberating chambers, the flashing strobes of alternating black-light and sharp luminescence give the crowd an ethereal, stop-motion effect when their silhouettes become visible.

It's nauseating.

It doesn't take long before he stumbles, shoulder meeting a cavern wall, breaths coming uneven and fast as he struggles to catch up with what's happening here. Insomniac's Ball? No-- this wasn't Insomnia. The geography of Cavaugh didn't lend itself to vast caves or structures of this sort. Farther out westward, maybe, outside the wall. And then the manner of arrival- black hoods and secrecy and a terrifying ease of compliance as he was shepherded along... Capture, maybe? But why let him loose among the crowd?

He's bumped from behind and, keyed up as he is, instinctively reaches for his daggers- clutching at air, trying to will them out from the magical space. He comes up short, met only by a burning sharp pain in his chest, sinking into his insides, grasping at his nerves. Hands move to clutch at his sternum with a wheeze-- and he immediately tries again, the pain only feeding into the growing panic of uncertainty. Again, it keys up that overwhelming pain in his chest, and he stumbles, sliding down the wall, likely looking like any of the revelers who've had too much and danced their way too exhaustion- eyes wide, breath fast, clutching at his chest with one arm and desperately at the air with another, almost pitiful looking with the shorn, buzzed hair barely masking freshly knitted scars at the back of his skull, and the standards white scrubs of new arrivals, each smudge of dust and damp from the carnivale-esque cavern a messy gray smear on the otherwise sterile clothes.

Not ten minutes in, and he hates everything happening.

• Found some chill (some) - shots shots shots [ota and to aranea, git in here gurl]

Eventually, Ignis's thoughts have cleared, somewhat. Enough to calm down from how overwhelmed he was initially. The environment, though, is still rather overwhelming- a constant assault on the senses of thumping bass and echoing music and the occasional low moan from down a smaller branch of the tunnels, and the overwhelming clangor of people talking and shouting and reveling.

He's finally accepted that he doesn't seem to be in immediate danger, but the growing headache from the massive amounts of stimulation and the edging drugs still floating through his system definitely don't make it easier. Especially with how they seem to make his body act before his mind can catch up, mindlessly moving in any direction indicated before he can think otherwise. Which is how he's ended up closer to the the middle of the fray, after a woman(?) in an ornate outfit and a concealing mask had taken his wrist and demanded he, as others around, 'get over here for shots'.

The drinks fluoresce under the UV light, there's something off-puttingly milky about them, and yet everyone around takes one of the ring of short glasses- and near-automatically, he can't help but comply at the suggestion, picking one up himself and knocking back the fluid. (It's entirely too sweet, it burns in the back of his throat, and there's an odd aftertaste that's almost smokey. He decides he doesn't want to know what it might have been. Absently, his brain helpfully tries to remind him that he's still under the effect of some other unknown drug, and that mingling the two is likely a bad idea, but the thought doesn't manage to persuade the rest of him to be able to buck against the suggestions given.)

"If that's all-" It's an attempt at polite retreat and the words are careful, his accent lilting a bit more through the cotton-mouthed feeling of dehydration and medication, but the woman with the tray doesn't seem to hear, loudly announcing that there are still some drinks left, that people need to finish them off before she fetches the next round.

• What happens at the Insomniac Rave... [ota, wildcard]

Noise and flashing lights and a massive anonymous underground party. It's easy to get lost in the twisting labyrinth of tunnels and halls. He'll be trying to seek a quiet area for the most part to sit and wrap his head around this all, and still occasionally being an idiot and trying to reach out for his canon powers, only to be struck by the pain of attempting again, only to try once more when it wears off, as though that would help him understand why or how it's happening. But as any suggestion will get an unnatural sort of compliance, it's only so long that such reprieves can last.

[A NOTE: Being actively rescued from the Ball will be closed to NOCTIS. all other interactions are 100% A-OK tho. :] ]

THE SAFEHOUSE

• Morning After - the crankiest bitch [ota]

Ignis's head is throbbing. He's not sure if it's the eyestrain from his lack of glasses, or the lack of caffeine, or residual effects of the drugs or alcohol or whatever else he may have ingested at the ball, or maybe a side-effect from whatever invasive procedure occurred before he was thrust out into a gods-damned rave of all things, or perhaps a touch of all of the above--

But his head is throbbing and he's not even on Eos anymore, and he's in an absolutely foul mood because of it. That, combined with the necessary close proximity to the others within the safehouse, of course sets the stage for sparks and scathing comments- especially if communal areas are left in a disarray or completely trashed. It's a stupid coping mechanism, really- when faced with a completely lack of control over circumstance and situation, he's going to grasp onto the small things he does have power over. Some sort of small, basic action to confirm his own agency. And if that means aggressively scrubbing at old mineral rings in the kitchen sink with a scouring pad, or making another person's bed while they're in the shower, or bitching at them for leaving the laundry laying about, then so be it.

More often, though, he's sitting at the kitchen table, staring intently at the blank surface and moving his empty hand across it as though writing. He doesn't so much as look up when other's walk in, seemingly focused on his invisible note-taking and whatever words and articles he has scrolling across his vision thanks to the neural implant.

Not having paper is a pain, but at least he's making do with what he has here.

• Anything else? [ota, wildcard]

For the days he's stuck in the safehouse, characters are welcome to run into him in any manner of their choosing. From trying to prepare some sort of decent meal with what supplies are available (and damn, is he a good cook, even when prepared with locusts and cricket flour,) to pouring over the network and the internet and consuming every bit of information he can, or even just laying down on his own cot with a cold pack over his eyes to dull the headache.

try and bitch him out

[mercurio]

[noctis had messaged prompto as much: ignis is here. there was fear in his heart, panic at any subsequent messages showing utter shock and confusion at his appearance--at his being blind. but minutes passed and no such thing came through. amidst the familiar face that he hates has appeared among the sea of newcomers, somehow heading down to the safehouse to seek out ignis frightens him.]

[when he first arrived, he had nothing with him. everything was and felt intrusive, and physical contact came at a cost too uncomfortable. it still is all those things but at a lesser intensity; once you're used to it, it becomes like a droned out noise in the background.]

[stepping inside, he stands stupidly by the door, looking around but afraid to see too much. he wants to avoid ardyn as much as possible, so he sticks to the wall, glancing around at unfamiliar faces--until he spots someone making a bed with precision that spells out 'scientia' so clearly.]

[prompto moves forward towards him, then, holding in his hands a pair of gloves; dark and more rugged than what ignis is definitely used to, but it's the best he could scrounge up in such short notice. and yet he pauses, a few steps behind the other. what did ignis look like, before altissia? faded out memories that he clicked away from too quickly on his camera. the ignis that he last knew -- no. this is better.]

[somehow, prompto finds his voice:] Iggy?

illya kuryakin (tmfu)

[kgbs]

I ➣ ➣ ➣ THE BALL

[ his knuckles are still healing. they are scraped up and bruised, stiff and a painful though you would not be able to tell that from the way illya looks. and, if asked, he would say that it had been worth it. he'd gotten wind of this ball through overheard conversations and curiosity, as it often does, got the best of him.

ignoring the whole thing and staying at home would have been far easier but he is not going to just sit back and let the world happen around him. he wants out of here and to do that, he has to be proactive.

so, he'd been given a series of tasks, of dares and he'd done them all easily and quickly. the last one, however, had given him pause. allow someone to drop a brick onto his hand without flinching, without pulling away. to demonstrate your bravery and commitment, they had said. and he'd done it, of course, but his hand had paid the price.

he was fine and he was in. that was the important part. does he look out of place? probably, but he does have experience blending in so his clothing is black, his hair mussed and his posture slack (for him).

he avoids substances but does, eventually, partake in alcohol. there's a glass hanging from his fingers now as he leans against a wall, watching a display of gyrating bodies and writhing masses. it's all so demonstrative and loud but he watches like it might unlock the keys to this place.

eventually, he pushes away from the wall and heads into a smaller, quieter space where he finishes his drink and takes a few breaths, trying to get his head on straight. behind him, someone asks him to dance and he shakes his head briskly. no, he will not be doing that. ]

II ➣ ➣ ➣ WILDCARD

[ feel free to toss something else at me or hit me up at spoonishly to plot. ]

[mechanisch]

[ Gaby's been feeling similarly cooped up and restless, not necessarily a result of her new living accommodations but those certainly aren't helping the situation, and over the last few days she's found more and more excuses to be out exploring, navigating her own way around the city — which might be a reckless move, but she doesn't care. She's not going to get any answers within the four walls of the room that used to be Solo's and she's still trying to find any concrete evidence that points to a way out, not just for herself but for her partner.

Maybe it's the air that she gives off, daring and a little defiant, that leads someone to direct her toward a series of escalating challenges in order to secure an invite to this ball everyone keeps talking about, culminating in her being required to hotwire a hoverbike belonging to some notorious gangster and taking it for a quick ride before disposing of it (mostly) in one piece for it to be retrieved later.

She's still riding high on her success when the invite finally comes, and that headrush of pulling off something more than a little dangerous is reflected not just in the makeup she applies to her face but the dress she finds to wear, low-cut and clinging to every curve as though it's been painted on. She doesn't strike an imposing figure like some here considering her height disadvantage but she isn't afraid of standing out tonight, dark gaze scanning the press of bodies and swirling lights.

And then a voice turns down an offer to dance and her shoulders sag visibly, because she knows that baritone, and she takes a gulp from the drink in her hand. ]

I didn't think this was your type of party. [ She hasn't turned around yet. ]

Wrench | ota

[wrenchinald]

[A. PARTY PARTY PARTY]

[Wrench has messed around with quite a few ARGs in his day, but who wants to sit around solving puzzles all day when he can just do Dangerous Things instead? So he's climbed things, jumped off of things, stole things, and people just shook their heads because he's proven himself to be a weirdo to begin with. Very on brand for that weird engineer dude with the mask.

And now he's here, and it rules. It's like any hacker party, Swelter Skelter, and every weird rave he's ever been to all rolled up into one, turned up to eleven. Yeah, yeah, they're supposed to be at the party to find the newbies, but nobody said he couldn't party and find the newbies, eventually.

So that's what he's doing. He's got a different drink in each hand, a pocket of mysterious substances, and he's wearing the most partyish shit he could come up with. Lot of holes and spikes and whatnot. It rules.

If someone wants him to dance, though, or go somewhere else, he'll take a moment before following along.]

Hold on, lemme drink these.

[And then both straws go up under his mask.]

[B. BOAST BOAST BOAST]

Yeah, yeah, that's me.

[Someone with a similar fashion sense's recognized him from some of his more publicized tasks, and he's glad to brag about his fun time getting here.]

Almost got my ass kicked, but so fucking worth it.

[And if someone happens to get close, he'll gesture over to them.]

Hey, hey, come hang out with us!

[C. LOOK LOOK LOOK (for newbies)]

[Ahhhh, this person certainly doesn't look like they belong at the party. So Wrench is just gonna go up to them with one of those bottles of water, holding it out all helpful-like. See, he's not all party.]

Hey, nice outfit.

[D. WILDCARD]

[it's party time and wrench is gonna be running around having a ball so feel free to run into him doing anything! he's seriously up for messing around with anything at this party place it's fucking wild LET'S GO. or feel free to plot with me here or at agentkaz!]

c! newbie.

[merced]

[ Aranea is more than a little addled. Drink in hand, eyes squinting against the flashing lights, the thumping bass reverberating a bit too snugly through her skull. Wrench, at first, looks a bit demonic, a bit otherwordly. It takes a few blinks before she can successfully realise he's just a dude in a mask, not unlike the colours (people) swirling in and out of the crowd.

She sets down her drink and takes the bottle he's offering. ]

Yeah, thanks.

...You too.

[ She pops off the cap and drinks almost a third of the bottle in long, unbroken swigs. ]

peggy carter | mcu

[revlon]

i. let us go in together (the ball)

[ It's disorienting, all of it, and she knows only a fraction of that is due to the drugs in her system. This place, wherever they are, is dizzying and foreign with its deafening music and cramped, labyrinthine caves crowded with writhing bodies; the lights are too bright, the bass beating through her bones, and the sensory input from whatever's been done to her mind (and body, God, she aches) is equally overwhelming — she can’t understand it, the visuals leaping at her from the peripheries— and while she does her best to pay attention to their surroundings, what others are saying, it's a struggle even for her.

But she manages with an iron will, because that's what Peggy Carter bloody well does. She wants to believe she’s been in tighter spots during the war, but as far as tight spots go, this is one hell of a squeeze — with no telling what’s up or down.

They're scattered almost immediately, no hope of sticking together as the party-goers push them apart. The UV lights make their white scrubs glow, sore thumbs in an unknown place — so Peggy makes quick work of weaving through the crowd lifting unattended pieces of clothing to better blend in. She's an expert, light-fingered, but she's still shaking off the last of the sedatives so she may be caught in the act. In which case, she'll beg off with a charming excuse.

Eventually, she does manage to pull together a disguise. And while first priority is finding an escape from this hellhole, she's also seeking information on it. Where they are, who these people are, who's running the operation, why. She downs a bottle of water in one long pull to wash out the cotton-wool feeling of her mouth and grabs another two as bargaining chips into other conversations. What she soon discovers, however, is that she has less control over these interactions than she thought. Uncharacteristically so.

Someone requests a dance, a drink, a moment of her time — she can't turn them down. Wait here until I get back, another says, smearing glowing paint across her cheek in a caress, and she's rooted to the spot. What the bloody, bloody hell. ]

So, [ she'll say to the nearest passerby, flashing a smile that looks more genuine than it is, ] where might I find the host? I'd love to thank them for their generous invitation.

[ Invitation, kidnapping. Same thing. Help the lady out. ]

ii. and still your fingers on your lips, i pray (closed to fitz)

[ She can't mark the passage of time in here but she knows it's been well over an hour or two since being unceremoniously dumped in the thick of it — and it's starting to get to her. Peggy prides herself on being unflappable under pressure, keeping a cool head when the bullets are whizzing centimeters past it, and she's done a fine job of it this entire time. But the oppressive heat radiating from the cavern walls and the sweating bodies, the nausea left in the wake of foreign drugs, and the sheer raw emotion (she won't say panic, she does not panic, she shores walls up around it and holds them fast) thrumming just under her skin has built to a point and triggers the basest of survival instincts: leave.

This isn't Trafalgar Square on V-E Day (which was the last time she was shoved into a crowd so tightly packed), but the reminder is there; along with the same edge to her nerves. Grief over the fresh losses, yes, but the hyperawareness triggered by the roaring planes, fireworks, pops of champagne like gunfire. It was too much then and the echo is too much now. She's learned what she could (not nearly enough). But she needs — craves — fresh air, space, peace and quiet, a place to regroup and piece together what she knows. She needs to find her way out of here and back home.

Peggy fights her way through the throng towards what she can only assume is an exit, but maybe it's just the mouth to one of those secluded chambers. She all but barrels into a man, neatly side-stepping him at the last minute before a serious collision happens or drinks are spilled, but the white scrubs flash out from beneath her disguise with the effort. ]

Sorry, [ she's saying, releasing his jacket, already moving, ] how clumsy of me.

iii. the time is out of joint (safehouse)

[ At the safehouse, she keeps to herself despite the burning need to ask more questions, get answers. First things first: she locates the bathroom to wash off the party and the antiseptic smell clinging to her skin and hair — as well as chase away the sweltering heat of the day. She's warned that water rationing is in effect but years in the military mean her shower is efficient down to the minute. (She uses the time to check herself for more evidence of experimentation, swallows back the numb horror when she finds it in bruises, needle marks, a fresh scar at the nape of her neck and the hole through her abdomen fully healed when it shouldn’t be.) Once out and changed into a faded t-shirt and drawstring sweatpants a size too big, she picks the cot in the corner of the vast room and drops herself down into it, back to the wall and damp hair hanging loose around her face. (It's shorter than she remembers. Christ. How much time has she lost?)

She has to think. This can't be Whitney Frost's doing and yet that's the last thing she remembers no matter how much she tries to block out the world and retrace her steps. Peggy drops her head into her hands, closing her eyes to focus: the bomb, the rift, the desert. A stand-off. The sharp, blinding pain of the butt of a rifle to the back of her skull and then — nothing. The bus, the other prisoners, that fever dream of a party. This city. And no familiar faces, friend or foe, except a Scotsman who knew her on sight — and she can’t even begin to unpack that. Won’t. Not now. Fitz has told her what he could. Correction — he’s told her as much as she could process before leaving the rest for another day, which is a small but necessary mercy. ]

Yes? [ she says abruptly, lifting her head at someone's approach. She wonders if they thought she was crying. Then, with only a mildly exasperated edge to her voice, ] Don’t tell me I missed some sort of sign-in sheet for the beds.

[ But eventually she finds herself in the kitchen where she whips together something out of a can of what looks like luncheon “meat” (just like 1944 all over again) and takes it to the eating area to wolf down. Without her characteristically impeccable curls and makeup, there’s no reason to be entirely baffled by her lack of table manners and how at odds it is with her elegant appearance; feel free to join her. ]

iv. wildcard!

[ What it says on the tin. Jump into any of the above or roll in here with something new! Come find me at dossier or PM if you’ve got questions! ]

ii why isn't there a kiss with that title huh

[retravel]

[ It's an accidentally-on-purpose bump, the one spy trick that Fitz has mastered, with his non-threatening stature and slight scruff. Perhaps the red backlighting of his collar ruins that look about him, almost otherworldly in its glow. Regardless, he knows what tells to look for now, eyes roving a heady crowd with laser focus, catching white snatches of clothing illuminated by the UV lights. It leads to a great deal of false starts, but this time, the precious one in fifty, the flash of scrubs confirms — got her.

Fitz catches her arm, effortlessly hooking his finders at her elbow, first firm enough to stop her and then loose. Their point of connection exposes any anxieties rattling in her bones, and offers her his steady calm in return. ]

No, no, please, [ the other hand flies to his chest, fanned out where she can see it and know that it won't sneak up on her. ] I'm sorry. [ Scottish, definitely, from the roll of the r's. Then, quickly, with a faux air of recognition, head tilting — ] Do I know you?

[ Despite the fact that he has seen her face in textbooks, hung up on the walls of the Academy and at the bloody Smithsonian, moving in training videos, hell, even in person at a graduation or two, a couple high-ranking funerals; he doesn't feel the tug of familiarity just yet. Fitz only seeks to buy time (or a clue). ]

shiro | vld

[igf]

I. ARRIVAL ( closed to keith )

[ he should be panicking. somewhere, in the back of his mind, shiro realizes this. he knows that, once this whatever it is that's in his system starts to ebb, he's going to be caught and pulled into the undertow. for now, though, it's like he's not really there. not anchored in this new body. like he's watching from the outside as he's shoved out of a bus. (a bus? how did he get back to earth?) the bass thrumming through him keeps him grounded enough that he doesn't wander into memory. doesn't mistake this for a galra prison or a march to the gladiator ring. they never sounded or felt like this.

his mind returns to him, just a little, as he's stopped in front of the door to an underground club. it's just enough for his heart rate to pick up. for him to know that he can't go in there. he can't, he can't, he can't. but he has to stay calm. if he's getting out of this--and he is getting out of this--he has to be smart about how he slinks away. how he fades to the back of the group and waits for the woman at the door to be distracted stamping someone else's hand before he walks off.

though he's got no idea, really, how he got here, he knows the direction they were walked in to get to the door. it's a start. he hugs the wall of the tunnel as he sneaks (stumbles) his way back, eyes wide, heart pounding, sweat beading at his temples, breath coming a little faster the further out he gets. a loose bit of concrete trips him up. he reaches out for the wall to steady himself but--he falls. shoulder slamming into the concrete because there's nothing there to catch him, his arm's gone, he's away from his team and he's been drugged and he can't think straight and his palm stings as its scraped against the wall and he can't do this again and he should've checked if any of his people were around first and everything is so loud even if the bass has faded dramatically during his walk and everything is pressing around him and he can't breathe can't think can't balance--

shiro's knees hit the ground just as his stomach turns and he dry heaves. gags and spits out nothing more than stomach acid. part of him wants to stay there. wants to let his shaking limbs give out and rest. but he can't. he has to get somewhere safe. somewhere no one can find him or capture him again. but he can't--can't really move right. he manages to pull himself up. to stumble almost drunkenly into an alcove. but that's all he manages before his legs give out and he curls into himself, shaking and panting quietly, mind still working in overdrive. ]

II. SAFE HOUSE

[ while he understands why he can't leave the safe house for a few days, that understanding doesn't do much to help shiro's, well. everything. he fluctuates between two modes--the helpful shiro who looks in on other new arrivals, quietly talking with them and making sure they're alright, (it's easier to focus on someone else than it is to focus on the way he's always tense, always bracing for someone trying to get him) and the shiro who keeps to himself. when the memories press in, when the tension gets too much to push away, shiro finds places away from everyone else to be.

he works out as best he can. sit ups. one-armed push-ups. the exertion helps keep his mind away from darker places. helps keep his lone hand from shaking. he doesn't sleep until he absolutely has to, and it's a fitful sleep when he does. nothing loud. nothing overly obvious. but he wakes up a few times with quiet gasps. he sleeps curled into as small a target as he can make himself, back pressed against the wall. it doesn't take long for dark circles to start showing up under his eyes. but he ignores them. tries to focus on things other than the fact that he can't get out. ]

Hey. [ in one of his better moments, he gets some tea from the kitchen and offers a nod to whoever else is in there. ] How's it going?

III. WILDCARD

[ feel free to hit me up with something else if you've got ideas! or ping me on plurk (chanterie) if you want to plot out something specific!! ]

[secondnature]

[It's only when Keith spots Shiro that he realizes that he hadn't worked diligently enough to get there. Yes, it's within the first twenty four hours, and yes, he worked his butt off to get all the information he needed with Jughead to prove worthy, and yet—here he is, watching Shiro in an alcove from across the room.

The flash of white isn't what alerts him. In fact, he barely had enough time with Shiro with that particular look for it to linger in his mind. But now it will. He won't forget it. No, it's the lack of arm, the stature, and the look in his eyes that tells Keith who it is, and the fact that he's too late. There was no way for Keith to be early. He recognizes as much, but he would never ask Shiro to relive this experience again.

It was bad once ... twice ... now a third. Keith hopes it's only three. Come to think of it, just as he has the thought, it's likely four.

There are too many people between him and Shiro. Lights strobe overhead, and Keith can almost feel the stamp on the back of his neck, complete with the hairs around it sticking up. He shoves through, lifting an arm to push one guy out of his way with strength that doesn't belong in a body like this, and then pushing someone else down. He doesn't care. A few people spit profanities at him, but Keith is like someone slipping through a tunnel looking for a very, very specific light.

And then he finds it.

Keith drops to his knees before his friend, reaching out to check his temperature, to see how much his heart is racing.]

Before you ask—it's really me. I promise. How much can you walk?

[Keith's confident that he can manage Shiro's weight to get him out of there. Even if he couldn't normally, he would now. But it wouldn't hurt to have some help.

And this time, the Black Lion won't be grabbing them up at the last minute. Keith wrote off that solution ages ago.]

daisy johnson, aos / mcu.

[evite]

0A: THE PUZZLE

[ opportunity strikes as it is wont to do, a QR code popping up as now-ancient technology in the middle of an online stream's ad break, the promise of possibility tucked in the brief millisecond overlay. for once, daisy's so last century technological know-how comes in handy, giving her a half-second's head start on the puzzle's first step.

it leads her to a website offering a jumbled puzzle of photo pieces; once assembled, it offers a vantage point of a rooftop garden. the photo's garbled square offers the opportunity for further discovery, and without missing a beat, daisy knows what this is: a treasure hunt, geocache style, a combination of e-know how and boots on the ground.

she's out the door in two minutes flat, sending messages to anyone and everyone she can think of in the next two: ]

meet me in five
golden tickets await

[ there's a gps pin included in the text — and the more the merrier, obviously, are welcome to join. she won't turn down company, especially not when more minds are better than one. ]

1B: THE BALL
CW: DRUG USE / ALCOHOL

[ the insomniacs' ball is promised to be many things: hedonistic, experimental, a playground of dreams. el's message is good reason to go, but daisy would have sought out an invitation regardless, the promise of possibility too enticing to pass up. if anyone asks, she'll brush off her intentions as intel-gathering or her get-up as blending in, but in honesty, her intentions are little more than selfish tonight.

she plans for the event to play up the aesthetic of the invitation itself — gunmetal gray and smoke black, intricate geometric patterns sprawling across the card — and standing underneath the strobing lights, daisy looks quite the part. her sleeveless dress is short, almost scandalously so, the fabric clinging to her skin; all along the black, slim led lights weave hexagonal patterns, blinking as if in time with the thumping bass. in the center of her chest, a blue circle of tinted mesh seems to glow. to the unaware, it appears to be a particularly neat-looking piece of apparel tech; to those that share the affliction, it may be a particularly brazen display of what sets them apart.

regardless of the time of night (or day), daisy is all too happy to make the most of her time in this playground. catch her:
 — accepting a tab of questionable content from a fellow party-goer, eyes bright with mischief or closed to better enjoy the rush
 — letting go of one dance partner to turn to a prospective next, imploring participation if necessary
 — sidling up to the bartop, face flushed with exertion, a now-empty bottle of water still clutched in her hand
 — or anything else you like!

she's here to have a good time first and find their newest fellows second. the sky's the limit. ]

2C: THE WILDCARD

[ y'all know how this works by now. ]

the ball - bar

[kgbs]

[ he has yet to dance and he's determined to keep it that way. for one, he does not dance well and for two, he just does not wish to take himself into the middle of a writhing mass of people. he doesn't want to be bumped and jostled and pushed around while people call it dancing. so, he's leaning back against the bar when daisy ambles up, looking the exact opposite of him.

he doesn't say anything at first, letting her order herself a drink (if that is her aim) or just letting her settle a bit before looking over. ]

You look like you're enjoying yourself.

kara zor-el | dc comics

[crisised]

You have all made it to the dance —

[ technically, she's here to work. at least at first. and kara does, she really does. keeps an eye out for newbies and if there's no one else escorting them to the safe house, she's ready to step in and do the right thing. but--it's a party. and kara has been through a lot in the past little bit. she just wants to move and lose herself in the music.

so she does. and she goes back to the ball more than once. never in costume, but definitely not in clothes she'd just wear out and about by themselves either. lots of skin showing means less fabric to get soaked with sweat and grossly sticky. but she does have a couple of whatever the futuristic version of glow sticks are, wrapped around wrists, biceps, and her neck. and, if you look closely, they seem to flash in time with flicks of her wrists and the thump of the bass. may as well get some practice with her powers when she's got a nice opportunity.

most of her time is spent on the dance floor, flitting from partner to partner and generally having a hell of a good time. but she also hits up the bar once or twice a night, usually ordering something fruity with a surprising punch. ducking into one of the quiet rooms for a break is something she'll do if someone wants to snag her for a rest and quick conversation, but for the most part? she's in the thick of things and having the time of her life. ]

Wildcard —

[ feel free to hit me up with whatever! if you want to plot something specific, i'm on plurk (chanterie) and super open. ]

DANCE

[kgbs]

[ it's during one of her excursions to the bar that illya spots her. though parties are generally not the type of place he will spend large amounts of time, he hasn't yet left this one. it's loud and crowded but he's dealt with worse conditions in the name of trying to get information. ]

Taking a break?

[ he recognizes her from the safehouse during his first few days here and then from around the city after that. ]

That is a very bright drink.

heine rammsteiner | dogs: bullets & carnage | ota

[whitehair]

i. insomniacs' ball

► a. would you like my heart upon a stake or platter

[ his head hurts.

it's been a series of hazy instances that he can't quite remember; hard flickering lights, some bitter stinging smell of antiseptic, the clinical white that sends some needleprick sensation of panic down from the collar straight to his gut. there are others besides him, but he doesn't bother to look around - they're all the same, being ushered in like sheep, like animals to slaughter. the bump of wheels on uneven road, screeching of brakes, and here they are. it's not much better. the lights are blinding, harsh strobe lights flashing across the crowded space, illuminating faces, eyes and teeth shine in the dark - laughing, screaming, ready to tear and bite and rip. it's frankly nauseating to no small degree, and Heine stumbles away, backing away until the wall touches his back, hard rough concrete against his elbows, and even then he can't quite catch his breath.

this is complete bullshit. what the fuck is going on?

the last thing he remembers is-

I'll kill that woman.

unbidden, unconscious, a wild sort of sound tears itself free from his throat, not quite a laugh but for the ugly way his lips twist, teeth bared into a smirk, a frown, a snarl. ]

Great. Just fucking great.

► b. would you hit me just to hear me call you bitch then master

[ the next best option on hand? probably something better than these white clothes they've put them in; even in this space they stick out like sore thumb, and with his half-grown shock of white hair, he is like a damn beacon in here.

over the course of the night you might come across Heine just ... being his helpful samaritan self and relieving some drunk unconscious people of their outerwear. wait, is he holding that guy's hair back so they can throw up better or is he taking off their clothes? is that consensual? ]

ii. safehouse

► cannot kill what you did not create

[ really, all he wants to do is just get the hell out of here. and he doesn't mean just this safehouse, of course - it's this whole fucking place. it's not like he has much choices for that at the moment though - they're all stuck here for a while, like it or not, so better not tear each other's throat out for now.

the first day he wakes up fully lucid, there's something different. he can't quite put his finger on just what exactly feels so wrong - his body feels sluggish, not quite moving as fast as he is used to, as it should, but it could just be the lingering effect of whatever the hell they shot him up with - and it takes him nearly the whole morning before Heine realises just what it is. it's quiet. or rather, it's like suddenly the volume is turned down, dialled down low enough so that it blends in with the rest of the background noise. he doesn't bother thinking too much past that point, really, or about what it would (could) potentially mean.

there are several ways we could take this. using all this free time he will use it to:

> sit around in his little bunk bed and be antisocial
> in the kitchen, idly opening the fridge to check out the contents
> rocking the hillbilly overalls look that he's been provided with, the loot from the insomniacs' ball notwithstanding
> anything else of your choice, let's go for it! ]

i. b

[blyat]

[It takes several hours, but eventually Cain crashes from the drugs pushed on him by other attendees. He's gone through a few bottles of water in the process, and he's sweat through the flimsy white scrubs given to them. It's not that surprising he decides to shed the upper shirt for blessed cool air on his skin.

At some point, as agitation begins to build upon exhaustion, he comes across another fellow white-dressed individual... in the process of undressing an extremely inebriated man.

Cain stands there, staring, hands planted on his hips. At least he can think clearly again.]

... What are you doing?

cain | starfighter

[blyat]

1: arrival

[Time bridges one moment to the next, immediate in unconscious slumber. Cain is bleeding his life out across the Reliant's fighter controls, a bright screen against the dimness at the edges of his vision -- Cain is struggling to open the heavy weight of his eyelids, body strapped down in immobility while faceless figures loom above. His first thought is, I'm dead. Then he inhales, and it becomes, they fucking got us. How did they get us? After that it's just Abel. Abel, Abel, Abel.

Once they're off loaded and the instructions come, Cain's battled the beast of anxiety through a mountain of fog in his head that won't seem to clear. Only veiled aggression remains, like an impulse that sits on the bed of his fingernails, a fleshy sting. Trained and always ready, but he can't obey it. He follows the instructions with cowed submission. Cain's hand is heavy on the white-scrub shoulder in front of him, grip painfully tight, digging in to bruise.

Quiet, they'd said. Not silent.

In small and inevitable rebellion, he leans forward to whoever is in front of him with a rasp that sounds dry and weak out of his throat:]

What the fuck is going on?

2: ball
cw: drugs/alcohol use

[The rhythmic bass matches the steady drum of his heart hitched high in his throat, loud like it's sitting on his tongue. Cain's almost forgotten the outside world. He's lost sense of how long it's been since they were marched inside and stamped on the back of the hand like tagged luggage. Time's taken on a separate dimension in his reality -- whether this is the Alliance or the afterlife, his thoughts can't keep a forward track and only continue to unravel.

Someone gives him a drink, tells him to drink it, so he does. Someone gives him another drink. Someone gives him a bottle of water, and then something else: a bright red paper-thin cartoon heart to replace the real one on his tongue.

Time stretches like an elastic band and colors crystallize, clear and magnetically bright, as the drug digests in his system. Most intense of all is the rush of euphoria. Disorientation is replaced with a feeling of happiness and certainty. Gone are thoughts of the Alliance, the bullet in his gut, the fire hot on their tail, the word treason in the back of his mind, far blacker fate than any hole on New Volga could offer. Gone, even, is Abel's face and the words he'd said to tear apart the thin, flimsy fragment of whatever they'd had.

Eventually dancing alone isn't good enough. Cain casts a look around -- dark eyes hunting, pupils blown wide -- and he'll reach out for the body of someone else to steer alongside him. Whether they're already dancing, or whether they're at the perimeter of the room, Cain isn't shy about his approach. He puts his hands on their hips and pulls them right into the next song, wild in his abandon.]

3: safehouse
a)

[There are shadows at the creases of his eyelids from an awful, sleepless night. Cain glowers at anyone who turns their head in his direction, teeth bared in moody temperament. He's claimed a cot in the corner of the room, disliking the exposure of open space.

While in the showers, Cain will be shamelessly naked and inspecting himself in one of the mirrors. He drags a hand through short-cropped, wild and untamed hair with a scowl permanently affixed to his face. There's a healing scar on his belly, maybe two months old -- an obvious gun wound. If he sees anyone glancing in his direction, his response is immediate:] What are you looking at, asshole?

[YOU WANNA GO. He'll fight you.]

b)

@anonymous
abel. where the fuck are you

ball

[kometes]

[ Of all the people in the room, Cain, you've picked this hulk of a man to dance with?

Achilles had seen him approaching with intent in his eyes, not quite realizing what he was about to do until it happened -- hands drop to his tapered waist, framing his hips and pulling him close.

He's pliant, if only because he's entertained by the display. Cain attempts to steer him into the dance floor, and Achilles, heavy as he is, swiftly steps in the opposite direction and resists his attempt. ]

What are you doing? Are you trying to dance? [ There's a mocking lilt to his voice, amusement evident. ]

Achilles | Fate/Apocrypha

[kometes]

The Bus: Closed to Newbies

[ For Achilles, there is little to no recollection of what had happened before he was shepherded by the guards onto the bus. Coming to, he finds himself already seated by someone else, head leaning up against the glass of the window overlooking the passing buildings. Thoughts are foggy, and he can't begin to piece together the situation. All he is aware of is the throbbing sensation inside his head and the heaviness of his limbs as he tries to lift both of his hands.

His body is weak, which can be easily explained by the fact that he has no connection to a Master. Does this mean he's fading?

A switch goes off his in head; this is a matter of his own survival and he's not going to sit passively and wait for his fate to be decided by the gods. ]

Move over. [ He mutters low, not quite looking over to meet the eyes of the person next to him. If they don't move fast enough for his liking, he will begin shifting closer in an attempt to force them out of the seat. ]

The Ball: A

[ He's up on his feet finally, and though his mind is still hazy, he has a lot more energy than he had before. Getting the opportunity to stretch his stiff legs and explore the cave has revitalized his spirits and softened his previous sour mood. He happily wanders through the caves with no particular destination in mind.

Despite his shock of green, stubby hair and the white scrubs he's wearing that are definitely a size too small, he doesn't stand out in the crowd. Everyone seems caught up in their own little worlds, swaying feverishly to the heavy bass of the music.

This is reminiscent of rituals of hedonism in his time, dedicated to Dionysus. He wouldn't be surprised if he ended up walking in on an orgy in the further he ventures into the network of caves.

Though familiar, however, the style of music and dancing is completely lost on him. He watches in equal parts confusion and amusement. ]

Is this supposed to be dancing? [ He cocks his head, asking no one in particular. ] There is no rhyme or reason to any of it. A colony of ants would do a better job of moving in unison and making it look beautiful.

I quite like the music, though. It's unique, isn't it? And you can feel it in your body.

The Ball: B (cw: glass in skin, blood etc.) - closed to the first person who responds to the prompt so as to avoid continuity confusion

[ There is a trail of blood on the ground, which won't be easily seen under the feet of the crowd and in the dim lighting. One might be curious enough to even look down as they feel glass crunch beneath their shoe and spot the splatter of red over the fragments of a bottle that had probably been dropped by a sloppy, drunk dancer.

Achilles happens to be the one who ended up stepping on the broken glass, barefoot. Currently, he's leaning up against one of the cave walls, lifting his foot with a hand to inspect the damage. It looks positively mangled, bits of glass sticking to the dirty sole of his foot and larger pieces lodged into the skin.

Grunting, he begins attempting to pluck them out, one by one.

Wasn't he supposed to be impervious to this kind of thing? What's going on? ]

The Safehouse

A)The Showers

[ Whether you're a man or woman, Achilles will notice that someone else is in the locker room, getting undressed.

Already naked, he stands behind them, hands on hips like he's trying to advertise what he's got in between his legs. ]

Are you going in? Great! I'll join you then.

B) The Kitchen

[ Achilles has placed a can of beans directly on top of the element and has pressed every button and turned every knob on the stove trying to figure out how to get the heat going.

He's placing his hand on an empty element, assessing how fast it's getting hot.

Please help him. ]

B!

[deicider]

[Achilles's bad luck is Sniper's good luck: the blood trail is easier for Sniper to follow than trying to see over the press of bodies. It's only out of curiosity at first, but when they break through the crowd, they can see the pure white of the scrubs. The newbie will have to stop soon with that limp; Sniper slows down to a sedate pass so they don't spook him.

So it's a leisurely approach: a slight, dark-clothed figure dropping down on their heels to get a better look at the damage before turning up to look at Achilles with a smile.]

Need some help?

x'rhun tia | ffxiv

[verflair]

A ♦ the insomniacs' ball

[ X'rhun has been through rather a lot in his life. Just when he thinks he cannot possibly come across anything new, anything more distressing and disorienting than what he's already been experienced, the universe turns right around and takes the rug out from under him all over again.

Twelve, but he wishes it would give him a break.

However, party though this may be, it is not the time for breaks. Once the heavy feeling has left his limbs and the fog cleared, he takes to the party proper. He's still very much in his white scrubs, something to mark him as a newcomer – though he's still wearing them for lack of another outfit and not because he knows it paints a proverbial target on his back.

But... he's also wearing a top hat.

With his hair shorn so (his poor hair), people kept asking him what happened to his ears, his “real” ones. True enough, his feline ears are quite obvious, but so is his lack of human ears. So, he bartered himself a hat from some other partygoer, a tall black thing with a white feather poking out of the florescent green ribbon tied just above the hat's brim. Not his first fashion choice by far, but when needs must. (His tail is still quite obvious, but people tend to think it's a part of his “costume” at least.)

So, here is this oddly-dressed fellow sidling up to the bar, turning to whoever happens to be next to him to... oddly cheerily remark, ]

No wonder this is a ball for insomniacs. I can scarce hear myself think with this music blaring so, but I suppose that's a part of the charm, is it not?

[ “““Music.””” ]

B ♦ safehouse

[ This is a far cry better than that godsawful party. He's managed to scrounge up some clothes, but it's quite obvious these are not clothes tailored for a Miqo'te. Figuring out what to do with his tail had been an... adventure. But with that all settled and his gaudy top hat still situated on his head, and looking a lot nicer than the rest of his outfit to boot, he's giving himself a tour.

Not that there's much to see, but still.

He pokes his head into the kitchen, top hat listing forward a bit with the motion. When he finds the place occupied, he steps inside. ]

Pardon the intrusion. I was just thinking it's about time for lunch. Am I free to help myself?

[ He seems in good spirits if nothing else. ]

CLOSED TO ARDYN ♦ safehouse

[ X'rhun is a master at putting on a brave face. He's survived the invasion of his homeland, the destruction of his order, the supposed obliteration of his world, and he has even come back from death. All that sitting upon his shoulders and he still smiles, still sees hope in the darkness, and moves ever forward.

But that is not to say that he is not weary.

Privacy is hard to come by in the safehouse, but in the wee hours of the night, he finds a moment to steal into the mess area. He finds a darkened corner all his own to sit and to simply allow himself a moment to feel tired, to wonder what has become of the rest of his family, such as it is.

But a moment is all he gets, ears pricking forward with the sound of the door. He glances up from the hat sitting in his lap to... to...

It can't be. It can't be, but it is. He looks quite different, but then, so does X'rhun, thanks to their new haircuts. Still, he'd recognize this man anywhere. ]

Ardyn?

[ It's offered cautiously, because he knows by now not to get his hopes up. ]

WILDCARD ♦ obligatory “other” option

[ Hit me with whatever you like. I'm available at exposition if you want something specific! (Yes, X'rhun will absolutely keep wearing that stupid top hat until he finds a better option.) ]

the ball

[strove]

[Rather than the scrubs, it's the hat that catches Clarke's attention from her vantage point. Once X'rhun is beside her, she turns her head up, catching a glimpse of the hat itself just before she shakes her head with a smile. It's true that no one could dream of sleeping here, but she supposes that's part of the appeal. Going so long that you don't have any inclination to stop. Or having an excuse to fall into that in the first place.]

To tell you the truth, I can't help but wonder if half the appeal is appreciating silence when this is all over. [She catches the eye of a bartender and asks for a bottle of water just before she turns toward X'rhun more fully, about to ask a question—

—only for the rest of her observational skills to settle in, taking in the scrubs with the hat. She doesn't take a guess as to why the hat is there (Clarke doesn't tend to assume the presence of animal-like ears), but she's pleasantly surprised that he seems to be taking it well.

That's good. That's something.]

This is going to be a very strange follow up, but I'm guessing you don't remember much of your time before you ended up here? [She glances around at the merrymaking, indicating it as what she means.

If she's wrong, then maybe scrubs are in style.

That would be a big problem.]

keith | voltron | mostly ota!

[secondnature]

i. puzzle quest (and daring deeds) | closed to jughead jones

[There are two things that should be said right at the start: that Keith is utterly unprepared for what lies ahead, and he doesn't even know who's waiting for him. His urgency is less palpable as a result, but he still feels the need to throw himself into this. There are people who are in need, and he wants to help them.

He just ... really, really wishes, for the first time in a while, that he could walk in, claim that he's a paladin of Voltron, and get the door to open. So to speak. It's not even an ego thing. It's just—

Well, where he and Jughead find themselves is at a mural on a wall outside of one of the pharmacies that isn't located too far from the safehouse. Keith's arms are crossed as he looks at the art, and his eyebrows furrow.]

I knew I should've gotten some kind of ... notepad. Thing. [A beat.] For the implant. I mean for the implant. [It's hard to sketch out without one of those, uh, air. Stylus. Things.]

ii. parties suck | ota

[Here's another two things about Keith: he doesn't want to be here, and while he isn't the type of person who's completely opposed to Fun, this isn't his scene. In fact, this is worse than the wild strip club next door that Ciri had placed their last meeting at. That is, it's worse for him, because the moment he ducks inside, he's assaulted by the numerous people, sights, and sounds, and he doesn't know what to do.

For a while, anyway.

But once he gets his bearings, he sets out to start an investigation. Again, he doesn't know who's there—

—or it's a little while after, and he's returned, and he still hates it, but he wants to find out who would leave the "newcomers" (so to speak) at a party like that. He reaches out for the arm of a familiar face, and tugs them close. He doesn't want to be close close, but—well. Talking. And it's loud.]

Have you seen anyone here who, I dunno—looks shady?

[A vague question.

And a poor one.]

iii. bringing people together (with store bought goods) | safehouse | ota

[When Keith isn't haphazardly investigating the ball—or driving people home from it, as he still has his day-night job—he comes to the safehouse to drop off some baked goods. That he bought. Most of them are sweet, but some are savory, with crushed bugs mixed well with the various other products so they aren't visible. They were purchased at a grocery store, so they aren't special ... but they aren't bad, either.

While he's setting them up on a plate—which is, for the record, opening the boxes and dumping them onto the plate—he looks up toward whoever's entered the room to offer them a nod.]

These are for everyone. They've been my breakfast lately. [And lunch. And dinner. He's been busy so they make it easy to not think.] They aren't bad.

[Food brings people together, and he's tried the pep talk and support game.

And it's blown up on his face.

So ... he'll stick with food for now. Hunk always has the right idea.]

iv. wildcard

[If none of these prompts work, let me know or hit me up in PMs!]

ii.

[evite]

[ later in the evening, by the time her ill-gotten gains have faded out of her bloodstream, daisy's left fairly clear-headed. well enough, in any case, to not take keith's sudden clasp of her arm as anything but familiarity and good intentions. ]

Shady? [ the laugh isn't mocking, just a soft rumble under her breath. ] I mean, it's a hacker rave on steroids, everybody here's pretty shady.

[ who knows what they all had to do to gain invitations. daisy's might have been gained by skill, but there are rumors. death-defying stunts, acts of questionable morality, outright bribery... ]

I haven't seen any wannabe kidnappers, though, if that's what you're asking.

jason todd ( dc: rebirth )

[reneger]

INSOMNIACS

( jason had heard rumors about the party long before the call went out to get in to it. it's a challenge he takes on for the thrill. for the information he can get out of it. he slips in and out of it all week, changes clothes, tries to blend in to the shadowy background of the caverns while still maintaining the look of someone who had just come to party. it suits him well: dark hair fussed and a messy, snarky grin spread across his lips as he chats with one native to another with ease, as if he doesn't have a fucking care in the world. slips out onto the dance floor every once in a while, even. makes his presence known without being loud about it.

but he's looking for something, too. eyes search out into the crowd, stop on a few faces he's familiar with but never quite finds exactly what he's looking for, who he's trying to find.

but he can be grabbed onto at numerous points:

a) on the dance floor itself, even if jason never quite starts dancing. he'll slip behind anyone familiar, too. wrap an arm around their hips and lean in close to their ear, wait for signs they're not going to jump out of their skin before whispering close--
b) negging on some random server at the bar into giving him a couple free drinks.
c) standing off in the corner pressed against a cavern wall to keep an eye out for any stray white scrubs, arms crossed over his chest.
d) stumbling into one of the more quiet caverns, but the movements are a bit. dramatized. like he's stumbling for show, waiting for someone to follow after. )

OUTSIDE

( it's easy to find him on the streets, too. wearing a faux leather jacket, he keeps purposefully close to the safehouse in between visits to the ball, stays close to the exit door and watches all the fresh meat waltz around inside. there's a six pack of beer at his feet, one bottle in his hand that he raises to his lips.

a few familiar faces have come and gone, and he's watching to make sure that there isn't anyone he's missing. a stray face he might have recognized from back home, but his body language is open enough, too; arms down, foot pressed against the wall, alcohol at his feet--he's not going to bitch at every joe and jill who try and come up to him, but not looking to start a good old conversation, either. )

WILDCARD

( you do you, boo. )

insomniacs!

[fledges]

[Kate does startle a bit when Jason wraps an arm around her, but she settles as soon as she sees it's him. There are a lot of creeps here, okay?

She grins at him, eyebrows raised, leaning closer so she can be heard over the music.]

Look at you. Not dancing?

damian wayne / injustice

[batricide]

THE BALL.

[ It should be noted that Damian Wayne hates being fake above all else. He'd seen too much of it from his old man, loathed the playboy persona coming out to toy mercilessly with the hearts of socialites and debutantes alike. But he gets the need for it, always has, just... wanted to avoid it where possible.

Unfortunately, it's not always possible.

So while Damian Wayne is a prickly pear of a person, Hafid al Ghul is downright charming. He's liberal with smiles (refusing dances and drinks, he'd rather not run the risk) but he has no trouble socializing and getting to know the other party goers, trying to glean what information he can from them. He's dressed to the nines even if this isn't that kind of party.

When he's not engaging with anyone socially, he's retreated into the shadows to watch or to the bar to get something nonalcholic to chug. Scowling if any of his fellow displacees approach, but offering a short nod of acknowledgement. ]

SAFEHOUSE.

[ Well. He's Fine for the time being. Outside of the ball he's gone back to wearing his layers. He's checking for any sign of injuries on the new arrivals, any indicator they might need help. ]

I imagine you have questions. [ he'll step out of their personal space and fold his arms. ] Ask. I'll do what I can to answer.

the ball!

[fledges]

[Damian has taken the "ball" part of this whole thing very seriously, apparently—Kate's surprised to see him so dressed up, and surprised to see how handsome he looks in it. She's gone the other way, in a clingy metallic minidress that catches the pulsing lights. It's purple, of course.

He scowls and she just grins in response, pushing through the last of the crowd to join him.]

Hey. You look nice.

kate bishop | ota

[fledges]

the dare

[Kate hears about the ball and instantly knows she has to go. Completing a few dares seems like an easy way to snag one of those invitations, so of course, that's what she does. You might run into her in the middle of a crowded restaurant, belting out a song on a tabletop, or taking a selfie with the most famous person she can find, which takes some doing. If she spots anyone watching her, she'll just wink.]

Want to help?

the ball

[So, ticket acquired, Kate makes her way to the ball. She's good at this sort of thing—at schmoozing—and despite the cacophony of music and lights and people, she doesn't look particularly overwhelmed. She fits in relatively well in a clingy, short black skirt and a sparkly purple crop top. It's easy to flirt and chat and dance, and while she accepts drinks, the observant might notices that she'll simply carry them around for a bit before abandoning each one, untouched, on a bar or table.

While she's mostly here to gather intel, she's not against having fun, and she lights up every time she sees someone she knows, making an instant beeline for them. She'll loop an arm through theirs or wrap an arm around their waist as though they're best friends, even if they've only met once.

For the new kids—the painfully new kids, still trapped in scrubs—Kate is less exuberant, pulling them aside with a gentle hey and trying to get them into a quiet corner, where they can freak or pepper her with questions in relative privacy.]

[selfimage]

[ you know who's good at clubbing? Loki. do you know who throws extravagant parties? definitely also Loki. who's sore that they didn't think of this first? one guess. he's walking through one of the cavern ways when she finds him, glammed up like he's ready to go on stage. full-length fingerless gloves and glitter smeared in the shape of a cat eye, it's almost a shame he spent last New Years Eve party sulking like a guilt-ridden misfit.

speaking of that: ]

This could be better.

[ he's gotta say it. ]

Loki | Open

[selfimage]

i. The Insomniac's Ball, this time with more glitter

[ in every sense of the word, Loki was always willing to crash a party that didn't think outright invite him.

while Loki could bank on luck, his own puzzle solving abilities, and his nerve at death defyingly stupid stunts, he was never one to conform to explicit instructions to get from point A to point B—he hated playing along. so, true his nature, he does what he does best: he steals the invite in a no-good, calculated fashion. see, the thing with the dares was that it was obvious when someone was following the direction. the puzzle-seekers were low to the ground, and the random invitees harder to seek out, but the daredevils? well, spotting them was easy if you knew where to look. he follows one loud, well-dressed fellow for three days, watches him both humiliate and accuse himself. when it's all over, when he has his prize, lifts it to the sky, kisses it and puts it in his back pocket, Loki passes him from behind, switches it with a piece of scrap and hums Queen under his breath. the poor rich kid will never get the irony.

the rest works like clockwork. the wardrobe for the evening is fairly simple: a sleeveless black shirt, faux leather pants and long, fingerless gloves. there's glitter streaking beneath his eyes, slanted up to his hairline, because every party needs a little extra glam. he's been scoping out the caves, so a little zig-and-zag that was in order is as expected. then there's a door, and when he sees it, he gets a self-satisfied sense of victory.

(a) a dark nailed finger traces along the sigil, then there's a huff of air that comes out with a breezy looking smile. he hasn't had fun at a party like this since—well, the one that he ended up sulking at. ] Not to shabby. Perhaps a little too showy, honestly. [ it means he's impressed, and he's a bit chagrinned for it. regardless, he opens the door and breathes in the familiar air of sweat and smoke. ah, he's missed this. ]

( b ) [ he's out on the floor, dancing in the crowd among the blinding flashing lights. it might take him a moment to snap out of it if he's called. (he tries to forget that he used to have sorcery and better perceptions to make him more aware, because it feels like someone's rubbing salt into a wound.) ]

( c ) [ there are nooks here and there in rooms that drown out the echoes of the music to steady thrums. the anonymous dancing thing is kinda nice, but even the great partier Loki Odinson needs a breather on occasion. there's a drink in his hand, and he twists it idly. ] Hm, it's curious ... [ he begins, but trails off. ]

( d—for new characters only ) [ those in scrubs who pass him may find unfamiliar fingers on their clothed shoulders, trying to turn them from the dancefloor, the room, or whichever room they're gracing. ] Try not to take anything from strangers, trust me. This way, please. [ it's not quite a command, but it could be taken as one. ]

ii. The Safehouse

[ when the party life dies down and the newcomers are all gathered and lead to the safehouse, Loki heads down to take a look at the new round of displaced arrivals. no longer in his flashy club attire, he's not wearing anything close to the threadbare clothing that Morningstar gives them.

staying close to the walls, he surveys them with bright eyes, most likely searching for familiar faces (either to greet or run from, most likely—"prepare for" might be a better term for it. if he recognizes someone or not, he may slip up to them for a closer look. he tactlessly gives an eyerake, a finger to his chin, before declaring. ]

No, I suppose you're not it.

[ then looks like he may walk away. rude, Loki. ]

[ Notes: if something doesn't work, hit me up and I can write a starter! either in PMs or at hadal xoxo ]

ball.

[crisised]

[ kara doesn't recognize him--they've only talked once, and that was over the network. she dances relatively close to loki in the crowd of people for a while before her temporary partner leaves and she spins out on her own, ending up moving just close enough that her glow stick-clad arm brushes his. it wouldn't be a big deal, but her chest starts to faintly glow and she knows that the almost high the adrenaline has coursing through her veins is sure to get transmitted.

and the glow is sure to catch some eyes if she's not careful. ]

Sorry! [ she yells it over the music as she twists away with a rueful grin, still moving her hips to the beat. ]