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

never too late!

[ofobedience]

[A blur is correct-- he should be immune to all poisons and pathogens, the Spine rendering them as harmless as water in the event they enter his system and yet he'd been as drugged-up and susceptible to suggestion as all the rest of them. That suggestibility had led to the consumption of other, just as nefarious substances at the Insomniac's Ball, the 'friendly' suggestions that he 'try some of this' turned into something impossible to turn down by whatever their captors had dosed them with.

As such, his disorientation in the face of their situation had only been magnified, turned bigger and stranger until the effects had finally sloughed from him like shed skin. What he's left with now is an enduring sense of fear that sinks right down to the bones of him, echoing hollow in his ribs and up along the suspiciously silent Spine.

He's more afraid here than he'd ever been back there, because whilst he hails from a place full of horror and pain, at least they were horrors he understood.

When he slinks into the kitchen he's sunk deep inside his own sharp-edged thoughts, isn't expecting to be addressed, but though her greeting comes as a small surprise to him, he glances up and smiles his crooked smile regardless. Smooth and ready as you like. He has little experience with discerning accents, given that - until now - he's never left the city of his creation, but his own, should she know it, is distinctly Germanic.]

A fair point. One I hadn't given much consideration.

[Subterranean thing that he is, the reality of night and day has never been much of a concern to him.]

But have my daily salutations in return.

bless u

[revlon]

[ She's only given it thought because there's not much else to do down here except think; or explore the tech now interwoven with their minds, a concept that hasn't stopped feeling unsettling with time, or poke around the safehouse and try to make a home out of it. Does one say morning when the sun is setting, evening when it rises? Do the schedules mandate that or you just carry on as you must? Irrelevant in the long run, but something to consider when there's little else to consider. (There is plenty, but the weight of it is too much for casual conversation.)

Peggy picks up her spatula and plates up the slices luncheon 'meat' she'd been frying up in a pan. It isn't Spam as she knows it, it's likely some meat-flavoured substitute, but it's what she found in the cupboards along with a container of dried eggs. God, it's like she's back in 1943. ]

Did you want any? [ She points to the eggs in question with her spatula while wiping down the pan with a reusable paper towel (which isn't really paper) for the scrambling process. Waste not. ] I could make you a plate. Although I should warn you, even with rationed ingredients, I'm not the best cook.

<3!!

[ofobedience]

[Plenty indeed, too much even, and yes the weight is too much to bear, not something he wants to draw any attention to for fear that if he does he'll drown in his own bone-quaking fears. All of this-- it's too far beyond his own comprehension and as such he tries to push it away and stamp it down, keep his thoughts as small and quiet as he can and focus instead on immediate concerns-- the poor quality of the clothes they've been given, the tedium of being trapped in one place, trying to go without sleep because sharing a space with his dear brother after all this time is a danger to the both of them.

And then this-- offers of food. Zollner's words to him ring in his head then, how the man had said that synthetic lifeforms such as himself technically don't need to eat, but can, and should. How it will help them feel more connected to the world, more like something 'real'.

He's never had need to test it. Down there, in the Below, mealtimes had been set and perfunctory things, bland indiscernible food, the eating of which done for the sake of ritual and schedule rather than the enjoyment of it.

If they eggs are dried, if the meat is a substitute, he is unlikely to know the difference.]

All right. I'm game.

[He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. Vaguely, distantly curious.]

[revlon]

[ That said and done, she turns back to the stove. The eggs need to be reconstituted, an interesting task with the water rationing on, but for one batch she supposes it's all right. Whisked with a fork in a bowl and tipped into the waiting pan, it shouldn't take more than a minute for it all to come together. ]

Some people called these ersatz eggs where I come from, [ she comments idly, watching the pan rather than the man who's joined her. ] Five hundred years and I'm sure they taste exactly the same.

[ Which is to say, passable. Not bad, not good, either. Just — food. But soon it's cooked and plated up with two slices of not-spam and even some potato bread slathered with a dairy-free spread that reminds her of margarine. Yes, altogether not unlike wartime rationing. ]

Better in here than out there at that party, though. [ As she takes a seat, handing him a fork and knife, ] For now, anyway.

[ofobedience]

Ersatz. Is that so.

[His voice is a slow sardonic drawl because to him it's quietly funny, ersatz eggs for an ersatz being. How fitting, how very droll.

Regardless, he pulls up a chair and slides into it with smooth fluid movements as he watches her finish off the food, all easy mundane tasks perhaps, but ones that hold a distant kind of curiosity for him purely due to the fact that he's never seen it done before. He has never given any consideration as to who prepares the food they're given in the Below; it never really mattered at the time, but he considers it briefly now.

If there are specifically designated cooks down there, he's never seen them.

His thoughts slide back to the present, though, when she hands him the knife and fork and, taking them, he glances up at her, lip slightly curled in an expression of discernible distaste.]

Oh, certainly. I can't say it was my idea of a good time.

[revlon]

[ Peggy huffs out a breath as she tears her bread roll in half, speaking just before popping a piece into her mouth. ]

Nor I. I found my way out eventually, [ with help ] but the hours before were — harrowing, to say the least. [ She eats her bread, still warm from the toaster oven, and carries on speaking as she chews. ] And you?

[ofobedience]

[He laughs then, a quick clatter of sound, fork poised above his plate but remaining motionless for as long as he's caught up in his answer.]

Harrowing. It's a good choice of word.

[Because that's what it had been for him, the lights the sounds the drugs in his system the abject confusion that pulsed through his veins, a barbed-wire tangle up behind his eyes and running right down to the core of him because nothing he's ever experienced before, none of the ugly horrors, had ever quite prepared him for being ripped away from everything he knew and hurled into a new world.

It scares him more than that place ever has.]

It was quite the baptism by fire.

[revlon]

[ Her gaze flickers over him, curious by his own turn of phrase. She agrees, naturally, but she doubts they all had the exact same experience or length of time caught up in that network of caves. ]

Any trial in particular that makes you say so?

[ofobedience]

Quite frankly, all of it.

[Not one part of it had been bearable for him, too far removed from everything he's ever known to cause anything other than bone-deep panic and the sort of fear that lingers in him even now, bright and hot and ugly.

He never has been good with the concept of change, with challenging the status quo. Not even knowing the status quo in question would lead, ultimately, to his own annihilation.

But if he had to pick one thing, one worst thing, then--]

The drugs were a surprise. Both the ones affecting me upon gaining consciousness and those later pushed upon me.

[The surprise being that they shouldn't have impacted him at all.]

[revlon]

Oh, dear.

[ Her lips press into a grimace, her sympathy genuine and her alarm palpable. Bloody hell, not all of them were so lucky in that cavern, were they? She got out within a few hours and somehow narrowly escaped being plied with the goods on offer. But it stands to reason not all of them would get through so unscathed. ]

I'm sorry. How are you now?

[ofobedience]

[There comes the sharp shrug of his shoulders as he stabs at his plate of artificial eggs (hahah, the joke of it still gets him).]

More or less recovered.

[Physically at least he feels better, marginally more like himself, but the shock of it, the strangeness-- those things linger deep in his blood, not so easily shaken free of.]