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

[cheffeur]

Perhaps they thought it would have a better chance as a garment. Stripes aren't always the most fetching, but they're a classic pattern. Perhaps it suits you better than it did a settee.

[The injected attempts at normalcy and conversation help keep the underlying horror of understanding at bay. It presses back at the idea that they're all lost and listless and trapped. Caged and ignorant. That whatever they are now is at the whims or an unknown Other.

So clinging to any projection or normalcy, really, is all they can do to stave it off.

There's a neutral hum at Giovanni's frown, at the minute discomfort there.]

Well, being a society, I'm certain that there's some sort of economy. Whether they wish for currency or chocobos in exchange, though, I'm not sure. [There's only so many ways it can function, though. The exchange of goods or labor or funds, all in a circle to keep people rewarded. Most likely, it would mean trying to find employment.. once their promised identification and documents were in order, at least.

And assuming they worked.]

It's that or make do with next to nothing.

[ofobedience]

Whilst I can pull of stripes with flair, somehow I think this particular case is a lost cause.

[His voice is wry, his smile sharp, and this time he manages to maintain it even in the face of his larger concerns. He's spent enough time skulking about the Underground to be well aware of how those from more usual backgrounds than his own go about their lives, but for such a thing to apply to him, it seems too wide a crevasse to navigate.

It's as She's always said-- there's no place for something like him out there. Out here. The renewed thought that he is now somewhere beyond the Below, the Underground, even the Above of the city within which he's always dwelt, it sends cold fingers down the length of his Spine, leaves him with the feeling of metal bands snapping tight around his chest. This isn't right. It isn't.

And so he won't think about it now. Instead, once again, he shifts the focus onto one small detail, something his drug-addled mind finds more manageable--]

And what, pray tell, are chocobos?

[cheffeur]

[Giovanni isn't wrong- it's an awful shirt, and there's little to nothing redeeming about it. But it seems to be the only selection he has-- and the group that had taken them in and offered shelter doesn't seem to be able or willing to let them sort through a larger supply of garments.

But the question catches him, brows creasing in the middle, as though he doesn't quite understand the question. It was a basic animal, found nearly everywhere across Eos, and--

Like a jolt, Noct's initial warning comes back to him. 'We're not on Eos.'

But no one here, bedraggled and lost and awaiting the identification forgeries to allow them to try and move out and on was truly from here, correct? There's no reason he shouldn't be able to answer it.]

You're... not familiar? [A pause, and he nods.] Large beasts of burden- though they're more commonly used in shows and races within the last century. Flightless birds, perhaps two and a half meters tall. I don't think anyone really trades their livestock for goods these days, but it's always a possibility.

[ofobedience]

[Not familiar-- it's an understatement. Even the description leaves him cold and there's the slight yet discernibly canine tilt of his head as he tries to picture what's being described. The fact is, he's never seen a real, living bird-- a creature like that doesn't lend itself to the city's dark and sordid depths, and during his one and only sojourn to the Above he likely wouldn't have noticed had there been any to see, his mind set on other, darker things. But in a world plunged perpetually into winter, would such things have survived, besides?

Whatever the case, he doesn't know. Understands birds only theoretically, from books. And even then he's never heard them described as large beasts of burden, something applied instead to the likes of horses, yet another animal he's never seen with his own eyes.

It turns something over in him, thinking about this. More of that hardboiled dread. This isn't the world he knows.]

I...see. I can't say I've ever heard of such a thing. Sounds a little unwieldy to use as currency. Hahah.

oh my god i'm so slow due to holidays PLZ FORGIVE....

[cheffeur]

Oh, to be sure. [He has no idea how to mention that it had been a lame attempt at a joke- and so he just... doesn't.] But I suppose in the pasrt if you raised animals and your neighbor could construct goods, it would have been easier to just trade, if needed.

[That uncertainty is almost palpable, radiating out. And really, they're both completely lost, thrust out into a new and unimaginable world. Which makes it a little hard to make small talk. And so he looks back down to where he'd been sorting through the meager possessions he'd been given by Morningstar, as though to take inventory. The garish shirt, mismatched socks, a pair of shoes with the sole on the left only half-attached.]

Though it's a pain to start from nothing, it seems as though those who have arrived before us have been relatively successful at acclimating- so perhaps it's not something to be too terribly concerned about.

[Finally, he glances over again, one hand moving to his hip.] And as for the shirt, perhaps someone will take pity and donate a less visually-distressing item for you.

SAME no worries, it's a slow time

[ofobedience]

[Poor Ignis, jokes only work when the participants have a shared understanding of the context. As things stand Giovanni doesn't get it at all and only feels a continuation of that cold consternation caused by the lack of said shared understanding. He suspects he'd feel much the same attempting to converse with anyone outside of the Below for a prolonged period, but this is worse than that, runs deeper.

As for acclimating-- well. It's not something he believes himself capable of, never mind that he's been able to shape himself to the Below as a matter of survival, that when one lives among wolves one must become a wolf oneself or risk being torn apart. Could he do it again? Change the substance of the mask he wears in order to fit somewhere into a new place with new rules and new norms, an entirely separate way of being?

Does he want to?

It's too much to think about right now. Too much to consider, and as such his attention returns once again to the threadbare shirt, to something small and relatively comprehensible.]

One can only hope. It's one thing to be removed from one's own world and surgically tampered with against one's knowledge. Quite another to be forced to wear ugly clothing.

[And he flashes his sharp-edged smile.]

[cheffeur]

Well, if you're quite strongly against it, I'm sure you could just forgo the shirt entirely. A comrade of mine back home practically had an allergy to his chest being covered.

[It's not really a serious suggestion-- but given the sheer heat of the city at the moment, one could hardly be blamed for seriously considering it. The safehouse as been a comfortable enough temperature, but the brief period outside between being taken from the ball and arriving here was muggy and stifling.

And, really, it was still a few days before they were allowed to leave and face society, anyway.]

Or perhaps cobble together supplies and make a new one out of your bedsheets.

[Giovanni's smiles are sharp and unnerving-- but so is this entire situation, really, so Ignis will take it in stride. Besides, who knows the purpose or history of the metal bolted into his neck. It's easy to assume the man hasn't had an easy life. So sure, a few carnivorous and unsettled grins can be taken as a matter of course.]

I have some friends who had arrived here before myself. Perhaps I can put in a word and ask if they have any spares.

[ofobedience]

I fear I don't quite have the physique to pull off that look, alas.

[Slender and pale as he is, though his response is coloured with a wry humour that denotes his own lack of seriousness. Still, it's not something he has any intention of doing, not even as a way to mediate the intensity of the heat outside, something he'd experienced only briefly on his walk to the safehouse

It had been more than enough, more than he wanted.

As for the rest-- well. He looks up, head slightly tilted.]

And perhaps, if you would. Though I have nothing with which to repay such a favour.