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

[cyberlife]

(he's about to protest her getting to her feet, but connor remembers himself — fresh off of his own truck, he was running with a bum leg through the backstreets of new amsterdam, up and about far sooner than anyone should've been. he can't blame her. restlessness is something busy-minded people can't just shake and a trip to the kitchen isn't going to harm her.

connor mirrors her slow ascent and turns to smooth out the cot where he'd been sitting, before accompanying her down the aisles.)

I've been here two months now; I arrived with the first group of trafficking victims. It's never pleasant, being stripped of everything you know and dumped somewhere foreign, so I try to help where I can. (being there to intercept them, waiting in the safehouse to provide answers with the few details he has, or making trips to and from the city centres with supplies — which is exactly what he'd been doing before finding peggy.)

My name is Connor, by the way. (extending a hand for her to shake, forgetting himself.

the empathy bond always manages to creep up on him, with how forgetful his human mind tends to be. if she chooses to accept it, however, the emotions she'll receive in the process are very mild: a calm, quiet understanding, sympathy for her situation, and an ever-present earnestness.)

That's at-Connor-dot-Resnik on your implant, or... (uh.) just "Connor" normally. What's your name?

[revlon]

[ It's never pleasant, he tells her, as though he's experienced it more than once. It's a curious turn of phrase and mildly concerning, but she doesn't know him well enough to chase after it — at least, not yet, although she does file it away for the future. She can agree, of course; it's far from pleasant, downright violating. Peggy hasn't allowed herself the time or privacy to grapple with the full weight of what's happened to her (to any of them).

No, it's never pleasant. And it's also why she avoids taking that extended hand despite her good manners, offering an apologetic smile in lieu of it. She hopes he understands. But the empathy bond is another thing she is still grappling with and she isn't sure she ought to inflict her tumultuous emotions on anyone until she has them under control.

Not that anyone ought to be able to tell from looking at her. Ever professional. ]

Peggy Carter, [ comes her easy reply. Connor seems earnest, kind. No need for pretence here. ] It's a pleasure, Mr Resnik; despite the circumstances. I can't imagine being among the first with no welcoming party or answers. How did you manage?

[cyberlife]

(connor mirrors the smile, albeit a far warmer version of her apologetic one. he certainly does, as someone who chose to block everything sensate for his first few weeks in new amsterdam. he ducks his head instead, deferent, before straightening to an impressive height and continuing their walk.)

Peggy. (he tries it, likes it, and hopes she does too — being more familiar with people means making faster friendships. he likes friendships.) I barely managed to. In the chaos I located an assault rifle and made do, however, and was eventually led to one of the safehouses much the same as you were.

The adjustment period was the worst of it. With so much feeling, experiencing both your own and other people's...

(connor trails off. it was jarring. that first month would've been impossible without all of the help he received.)

Some of the other victims went above and beyond to help me, Peggy, so I'm going to pay that forward. I hope the club scene wasn't too disorienting for you... new trafficking victims have never been led into a place like that before. Always public, sure, but a rave...

[revlon]

[ Being more familiar with people does make faster friendships, which is perhaps why she's so careful with it — a knee-jerk reaction from the losses she suffered during and even after the war. She's getting better about it with time and the patience of the few friends she chooses to surround herself with; but New Amsterdam is utterly foreign and she is painfully aware of how alone she is in it. Finding her footing won't be easy.

But this Connor seems to know that. (Of course he would, there's no better teacher than experience.) He has an openness about him that's almost palpable, even if he hadn't said what he did about paying it forward. Some people are simply unfailingly kind, regardless of who they're helping. It's a good quality and one she notes. ]

No, [ she says after a beat, coming back to the present. Old habits of studying the human conditions combined with the bone-deep exhaustion of the day means she is more liable to wander. Focus, Carter. ] I mean, yes — yes, it certainly was... disorienting, to say the least.

[ He called it a rave. That's new. ]

I may owe an apology or two for my behaviour. [ She'd already said as much to Fitz on the threshold of the safehouse. But there were others. A beat. ] Is that what people believe we are? Trafficking victims?

[ There's no need for the empathy bond when the distaste (and distant horror) in her voice is abundantly present. ]

[cyberlife]

Well, looking at the facts, we were taken from one place to another and heavily drugged for what appears to be weeks, maybe months. (lost time, as an android he's experienced it before — great gaps he spent in stasis, waiting to be activated for a case, waiting to be used.) Retrofit with new technology, some believe we're testing experimental weaponry. Guinea pigs, of sorts.

(that's enough cause for him to label them trafficking victims.)

I know people don't like the words "victim" or "victims", but I hesitate to use softer terms. Everyone needs to know exactly what's happening and what others believe happened. (connor then turns to peggy when they reach the kitchen and its small square-footage, expression quieter while the corner of his mouth twists into a hopeful smile.) I don't want us to drift into pockets of people... keeping things from one another. I'd very much like to work with all of you.

[revlon]

[ It makes sense and she happens to agree that they need to come to terms with what's been done to them. But she's barely been aware for 24 hours so that decision isn't hers to claim yet. She needs to sleep on all of this, on the answers she's already received, this new narrative she's forced to swallow. Victims, prisoners, experiments. None of it sits well with her.

She surveys the modest kitchen and says nothing for a stretch of time, feeling a sort of hollow despair settle in the pit of her stomach. It's hard to mirror Connor's enthusiasm and earnestness now, as much as she can appreciate that he's willing to cooperate with everyone for the sake of the big picture. Maybe tomorrow.

Right now, of all things, it's the foreignness of something as basic as a kitchen that's bringing her down. ]

Teamwork will come with time and trust, [ she says eventually. Maybe it's an empty reassurance. (It won't be in a few days.) ] But you can't rush people in how they process... all of this. It's — [ It's so much. She presses her lips into a line, then changes tack. ] So about that tea?

[cyberlife]

I wouldn't. (a quirk of a brow before turning away, reaching up to where they keep the cups in a stock on makeshift shelves.

two mugs are procured, set down on the counter before he's bustling here and there to get the proper tea staples.)

I'm well aware of the stipulations and struggles where teamwork is concerned. Different people take different measures of time to cope with traumatizing situations. —there's a tea I've never heard before, but I think it's black. There's also a green. I think. Do you have a preferance?

[revlon]

[ She settles at the empty table, watching him as he works. She still feels tired; not enough to impede her tea-making abilities, but in a kitchen as futuristic as this one (despite their humble surroundings), she thinks it's best to observe first so she can manage later. ]

Oh, [ she says after a moment, blinking back out of her thoughts. She leans forward a little to peer at the tea on offer, frowns when she can't find her usual. ] I'm not partial to herbal, but if that's all we have...

[ Later she'll learn that is the only tea available here. Later she'll learn commodities like true black tea leaves, coffee, chocolate, are all rare and expensive. But for now, she'll settle for chamomile. ]

Thank you. I appreciate you doing this.

[cyberlife]

It's my pleasure, Peggy. (said with an air of contentment, praise obviously something that's very effective on him.

honest in his actions and emotions to a fault.)

Other teas aren't common, though I imagine the upper echelons of this society collect them to display their wealth and power. The environment is teetering on the edge of a very deep precipice, which is why things grown easily just outside of the walls of the city are — (well, connor shakes the tea bag that dangles on its string, watching it bounce and swing with a small rotation, before plunking it into the mug.) — common.

(speaking of common...)

This place is very green. Its products and its energy.

We have a little extra, given to us by our mysterious benefactors. (the term obviously used in mockery of whoever brought them here, eyebrows high to express how unimpressed with that he is.) We can generate our own, in a sense. Has anyone told you about your new skill?

[revlon]

[ Whatever surprise flits across her expression is tempered by something more thoughtful as she files that information away for later. The neural implant is still foreign to her but she'll be flicking through the information available at her fingertips in no time just trying to catch up to New Amsterdam's way of life and its history — including all Connor has just said. Green products, green energy. New to a woman of her time. Old hat to this one.

Then he loses her again. ]

I'm not sure I follow, [ she says. He can't mean the empathy bond; clearly she knows about it since she avoided a handshake. ] Is there more, besides the obvious?

[ Glowing chests. Hard to miss, that. (And yet she did in the caves, lost as it was in the UV glow of her white scrubs under the blacklight.) ]

[cyberlife]

(so no one's explained it yet, one of the most important things she'll come to learn. connor will take up the duty, make sure she can utilize whatever it is to her advantage — whether that's to fight, to protect, or something far more passive. like his.)

When I say "skill", I mean "power". (a tug at the corner of his mouth; he knows how funny it sounds.) Our chests also emit the same glow a handshake might, but when activation of an ability takes place. We've all been given one, or retrofitted with one. We're not too sure why, but one theory is that we're guinea pigs.

(pot of water on the stovetop to boil, it's quicker to heat than any twenty-first century burner.)

Testing experimental weaponry.

[revlon]

[ Her brows immediately draw together, expression altogether sharp, calculating, puzzled. He says skill, he says power, he rounds it out by calling it an ability and names the displaced as lab rats fitted with something she can only half comprehend. The language reminds her of Project Rebirth, although she can't possibly know now how closely the similarities overlap. ]

There's no doubt we've all been — altered in some way, [ she says after a moment. ] But you'll have to spell it out for me. What sort of abilities? [ Human? Superhuman? Not human at all? ] Rapid cellular regeneration or... "super-strength"? [ She can't give away the depth of her knowledge in this area so she dresses it up a little for him: ] The stuff of comic books?

[ She can't even fathom it would be anything more fantastical than what Steve Rogers could do after Erskine's serum was given to him. ]

[cyberlife]

That's right. Comic books. (connor always forgets that it's a reference he can use, so sure he'll run into someone who has no idea what they are.

it makes this far easier to explain.)

I've been given the ability to store emotions or sensations, for example, allowing me to stop pain, fear, sadness, whatever I'd like. Others have more aggressive versions, like, as you say... super strength.

[revlon]

[ That's — alarming, to say the least. Physiological enhancement, she can understand. Hell, after what happened to Dr Wilkes and Whitney Frost when they came into contact with Zero Matter, she should be able to believe in anything, but absorbing an alien substance is still a fathomable yet strange sort of science out of a dime store paperback. Not to mention the items she confiscated from HYDRA bases during the war.

She's part of the Strategic Scientific Reserve. This is in their wheelhouse. But she's never heard of anything like emotional manipulation or compartmentalisation. There were HYDRA scientists fascinated with gifted individuals, tried to understand how they came to be, but this is... different.

Unconsciously, Peggy's hands curl into fists where they rest on her thighs under the table. She doesn't like the implications of what this means for her, what could have been done to her while under sedation with no memory of the past few months. (Years?) Jesus Christ. ]

And the working theory is that we're weapons, [ she says evenly, her expression betraying none of her inner disquiet. Perhaps he can't hear how hard her heart is pounding. ] To what end?

[cyberlife]

My guess is to further their military prowess. They have a large faction to compete against, whoever these kidnappers are; Morningstar has collectives all over the globe.

(connor's affiliation with morningstar goes as deep as wanting to help out the people who gave them safe haven, but if a better option came along...? if the people who did this to them offered to get them back home? well. he has markus to consider. getting him home is his first and only priority.

everything else is filler.)

We could be standing in the middle of a feud, each arm caught and pulled by opposing teams. (flatly:) And my arms are starting to hurt.

[revlon]

[ Her lips press together in a line, wry and equally unamused. ]

Not to mention my head.

[ It's a lot to process. It had been from the start, even more overwhelming when Fitz laid it all out for her with blow after blow of what's new, what's real, what's true. She's still reeling from the idea that this is the future; being kidnapped is, unfortunately, not a new occurrence but being experimented on is.

She can feel the rising horror, the way her skin is crawling with it, like this body isn't her own anymore because of the sheer violation of it all — but she swallows it back, brows knitting and eyes closing for a heartbeat as she tries to centre herself in her new present. Later. Later, later, later.

(She's already had her cry in the shower, trying to ease the knot in her heart, but there's nothing for it. She must simply soldier on.) She takes a slow, deep breath then opens her eyes again and looks to Connor, expression softening. ]

I imagine your ability makes this easier to process. [ She's not so lucky. And she isn't sure she wants to be. But still: ] I suppose tea will have to do for me.