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]

[The pain is delayed- a half-second too long after she starts grinding her thumb into his metacarpals, squeezing and irritating all the tendons and small muscles against the bony protrusions. But after the short time it takes for his nerves to activate, for the pain to register, he grimaces slightly, lips drawing back and trying to tug his hand back towards himself to no avail.

And to deny him coffee, on top of that. But it does give some idea as to why his head has been aching, that tension flaring up from his jaws to his temples to behind his eyes. (Though surely the eyestrain and the dim lighting haven't been helping.]

You say that as though you're jealous. [But he's not sure of what. The coffee? The chocobo that has his glasses?] Don't be. You can have some coffee too.

[He's not sure if he can feel the faint tension from her racing heart in the glowing connection between them or the contact at their hands and wrists or if it's just in his own swimming head and imagination, the concept extrapolated by her faint outward physical signs- the glisten of sweat in the small notch between her clavicles, the rate of breathing. Because it's entirely too hot in this place, racing by too quickly, the entire room a blue and a swarm, leaving them on this desolated island of a filthy couch, trapped far underground in a place neither of them recognize.

There's nothing clear to fight, despite her suggestion- and maybe that's frustrating, too. There's no direction, no outlet for the off-balanced sense of wrong that come with their arrival here, drugged and shoved out of a car and let loose into the lion's den.

But maybe that's for the best It's not as though battle or conflict would solve anything or add to anything. And here, alone, on this island amidst the hurricane of lights and flashes and sensations, at least, everything is still and calm and orderly-- he can feel her through the connection of their skin and hearts, has that basic reassurance of another person.

While Aranea sprawls out across the couch, he draws his legs up under him, half-kneeling on the cushion to move in, still near-obsessively watching the way nebulas turn in her pupils, the reflection of lights and strobes and the glow of their chests making a beautifully splotched pattern in the mirrors of her corneas.

When he comes back in his mind, he'll hate this- hate how blurred and crossed all his senses are, how he sees things that don't exist, draws connections that aren't there, completely lacking inhibition or sense or rationale. But at the moment, everything is fascinating and wondrous, and it's something he and Aranea are exploring and discovering together, each new sensation a mind-blowing experience and mystery, something not confined by the laws of the universe.

Even the pain of his hand being torqued and pressed is something shimmering and unique- a sort of iridescent, bitter sensation tingling along the nerves of his wrist, up into his elbow. So he'll bring the other bare hand over, clasping it over where she grabs him.]

It doesn't have to be a fight. You dislike this all too. Everyone is discomfited.

[merced]

Not me. I'm not everyone.

[ It's important to make that clear.

Euphoria is beginning to kick in, thankfully. It's spelled out in pinks and purples and reds entangling themselves where they're not otherwise found - in rocks, in water, in skin. Warm colours, pretty colours. It leaves her feeling like she's floating, like nothing could ever be wrong, like the world makes sense and she has everything she wants.

Even the way he's grabbing her hand doesn't bother her so much. Her hand eases up on his, no longer digging her thumb in so violently. His hands are warm, solid - ridged like a tree, telling a story of consistent work, weapon usage, life. Feeling a little at his calluses, barely there beneath the consistent application of lotion, the omnipresent gloves (all things left behind on Eos). It's better that his hands aren't soft. It makes him real. Touching his hand, she tastes the colours that make him up: peaches and beiges, cream, whites, greys, blacks, and they leave a smoky sensation in her mouth, the smell of wax and spices and clean wood. It's so unlike her.

Aranea tries to push through her growing euphoria, willing it to overpower his confusion, his self-confessed discomfit, even the toil his vanity has likely taken. They can share it, it's fine. They're already sharing this couch, after all.

Tilting her head back a little, her eyes widen. ]

Hey, Ignis. [ It might be the first time she's ever addressed him by name. ] Look at all the stars. Pretty, right?

[ There aren't actually any stars, not really. Just the spread of rock in uneven bumps and turns, and a rather uninteresting sight besides. What Aranea sees, though, is a spread of the night sky in odd, changing colours, but classifies it as night and stars nonetheless.

She lifts their joined hands, directing upward. ]

See that? Everything natural comes from that. But it's years away, right? We're not seeing it as it is, but as it was, way back before... before.

[ She leans back further into the couch. ]

...'s pretty cool, yeah.

[cheffeur]

[There's something warming about sharing their emotions back and forth. That careful back and forth of discomfort and reassuring euphoria, the manic pleasure at every sensation tempered by the caution and confusion, edged by sheer wonder and amazement, all ringing each other in layers and layers.

It helps his shoulders relax, tension filtering from them and his mind both, and he looks down at their hands for a brief moment- both of them shaped by their lives, fighting and scrapping and writing long into the night and clawing her way up to her position, each of them demanding and earning respect in completely different and yet similar ways.

Both her hands and her gruff affection and her confidence and assurance and aloof disinterest-- all of it. It's all impressive and wonderful and unique. Nothing like her existed in the structure of the Citadel and Crownsguard, so isolated and insular and, these days, dead and ruined.

But then they're looking up at the false stars, and he squints.]

...They're not right, though. [His opposite hand raises, pointing up at the depths of darkness above them, the way the odd reflection of light casts off a damp bit of stone where condensation has built, or an errant flash of strobe glistens.] Where's Atomos? Or Cagnazzo?

[His head is still tipped back against the back of the couch, but the lifted hand falls limply back down to his side. The lights above keep shifting and moving and pulsating, changing their shape and form, dipping down closer to them. And the more he watches, the more her explanation makes sense. They're not seeing the now. They're seeing into the past. The way light takes time to travel, the sheer distance between stars. Nothing they view is accurate or true as it is, all of it bent and distorted by time.

Hand still grasping hers, there's just a wave of awe and wonder at her impressive insight as he shifts up onto the side of his hip to face her.]

I think you're right... We can't even see things as they are, because we're not right there. [A nod in fervent agreement.] You're so bloody smart. The empire never deserved you.

[merced]

[ Aranea Highwind has been called a great many things in her day - some complimentary, some not - most, if not all, with a self-serving foundation to them - and smart? It's so painfully, sharply new. It leaves the hairs on her arms upraised, tips tinged with the false, fake lights of their shared high, the greens and oranges and reds that don't actually exist in this room. Her heart picks up its frenetic pace again, hammering and clawing against the constricting cage her ribs make, and she can't tell whether it's from the high or his words. She hopes it's from the high. There's no person in the world she'd accept words to make her heart flinch from. No man, no woman, no one.

And yet, his face multiplies in her vision. Countless of him spin, not unlike light refracted into a dozen different colours. Inexplicably, she yearns to reach out and touch one of the faces, one of the many, but she doesn't know which one is real and is faintly apprehensive that touching the wrong one will make the whole thing - the whole man - disappear.

There's a lot here to drive her to distraction. The thrumming of the drums, the bass shaking through the walls and erupting into the floor, passing its vibration to the seams of the couch their on, and further down - down to her marrow, threatening to leave her inside out with noise and (dammit) bliss. The heady, lingering buzz of the drinks she's had. The chemical imbalance.

His cheekbones, which now endure her gently wandering fingers.

There's a lot here that, later, she won't be able to figure out the logical progression of events for. When did she hike her hips up to settle into his, legs wrapping around as they can? When did she stop focusing so hard on the sky her brain's rewired synapses are fabricating, hands growing greedy, eyes wandering? One moment, they're talking. The next moment, they very assuredly aren't and Aranea has no idea who breaches that distance first, who pulls and who answers, who kisses and who is the one being kissed. Not even their new position can tell her much, not when she can't figure out where his hands are.

Despite her intoxication, being kissed by Aranea is not an inelegant act. Her mouth begins soft on his, not quite leaving him breathless, but then her tongue begs a gentle entrance across the seam of his lips.

She's lost something, probably. Air, or - or something. It's hidden away at the back of his throat, along with his reserve of charming compliments. ]

[cheffeur]

[Her fingers splay on his cheekbones again- so similar to when she'd pressed her palm into his face earlier, but more exploratory, in a way. Her fingerpads skirt carefully over the faintly-marked skin of his cheeks, over the occasional beautymark underneath an eye. Each sensation is a fluttering warmth, and it's as though he can feel her pulse in her fingertips, gently beating in a cadence off-beat to his own. Dull thumps in a steady rhythm, not quite fitting the music exactly, but a tempo all their own.

And it practically envelops him as the contact accelerates, thighs on either side of his own, lips pressing together. His hands are at her waist and shoulderblades, curling into the fabric of the scrubs she'd been dressed in, and he's pressing back with absolutely no coherent thought.

It just feels correct, one action leading to another, a logical progression of events. Talking, connecting on a strange emotional level, the calm and bliss and curiosity and wonder and headaches and everything sliding between them.

He's not as elegant as she is, but is certainly no less enthused- especially with the feedback loop between them. One's interest transmitted to the other, picked up, sent back, all of it feeding on itself. His shoulders roll back slightly as he tilts up his head with the way she's moved over him, lips pressing against her's in a half-clumsy hunger. Her tongue on his lips is like static electricity- sharp and sudden and warm and jolting and puts the small hairs at the back of his neck on end. And so the response is near automatic as he parts his lips to allow her tongue entrance, meeting it with his own.

Breathing doesn't seem like as much of a priority- besides, why does he even need his lungs, frogs breathe through their skin and he's been one of those a time or two before. It wouldn't be anything too new, and he much prefers the taste of her saliva, warm and bland and basic and lingering with the slight bitter tinge of the dissolved blot-paper and hallucinogenic and whatever had been in those terrible drinks they'd had that started this all.

A pause and he finally breaks for a breath, managing to gasp in a breath and manage out:]

Have you ever been a frog?

[It made sense in his head.]

[merced]

Shh.

[ It's a harsh little hiss, one that's followed up by a monosyllabic almost-chuckle - a faint, singular hum of amusement that's oddly scattered, owing to her very intoxicated state.

Her hands wander a bit. His jaw, his neck, his collarbone, his shoulders. All are explored with probing, puzzled curiosity, like she's never had a man underneath her before, like the human body is a bizarre object of mystery rather than the commonplace vessel of variance it actually is. Her hands don't really go any lower, fortunately, because at that same moment her body sinks, seemingly of its own accord, and she's resting more finely against him. Chest to chest, thighs clamping close.

She thinks she hears something, but - no, it's only colour - it's gone now.

It isn't gone. She'll be chasing it eventually.

And - oh, right - Ignis. ]

My tongue isn't -

[ that long, she means to say, in answer to his question from moments ago. The last few words don't come. Maybe she forgets them. Maybe she's distracted. He's closer now and his eyes are still changing colour, matching the beat of the music with every key change. It takes all her willpower not to touch them, and even then she's only distracted by another little laugh, a frenetic and unfettered sort of laugh; buoyant, atypical of someone her age and mannerisms.

She kisses him again, this time without easing him into it so much. When she pulls apart, she says, ]

You get it now?

[ ... get what? Nothing you said made any logical sense, Aranea. ]