ARRIVAL LOG 006

[larkers]

WHO: Everyone
WHERE: New Amsterdam
WHEN: Night of September 3 to night of September 4
WHAT: The sixth arrival
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Coercion and loss of autonomy. Further notes at end of log.

> ARRIVAL LOG #006

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 streets 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, and false, colored light, illuminating the streets in the distance will first alert your senses of being somewhere else, combined with warm air that's only cooled with the setting of the sun. The nurse moves to stand at the back, checking each passenger over one by one just before they're helped out of the vehicle, quick and methodical. He 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. Once all the passengers are out, they climb back into the vehicle and close the doors. The engine powers up again, and then the bus is gone.

You're left alone in an alley, with no idea of where you are or why you've been brought here.

Around the corner of the alley, the streets are lined with bright orange, yellow, and red ball-shaped lights cluttered together overhead. Despite seeming rather tangible in nature, the balls themselves are merely well-designed projections. These lights illuminate the streets filled with people – some of which seem indifferent to the festivities, while others move in dense clusters toward a city square filled with countless trucks and tables. They disperse as they arrive – to trucks, to stations to have faces painted, to admire the wide array of sweet confections available. Numerous bits of signage announce various additional activities – but anyone new won't be able to interact, won't know what information is there.

◉ 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.

> LANTERN FESTIVAL

The message from El – no, wait. It's Gaby this time. Otherwise, it's 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 on announcement duty this time. Bus #6, for anyone who's counting. The location? Well, the heart of the lantern festival. A short walk from the safehouse.

Like many of these festivities, the New Amsterdam Lantern Festival is an annual event, dating back decades as a means of celebrating the mish-mash of culture that influences New Amsterdam as it's seen today. Sponsored by Polarized – a known subsidiary of Pulsar – the lights go bright just as the sun begins to set late in the evening, spreading over the city, acting as a dense layer of luminescence for 24 hours. Even in the daytime hours, the lights remain, and the technology seems to make them seem just as bright – which acts as a sign that the lights themselves are not natural, projected outward by numerous devices set up throughout the city.

Most of the events are concentrated in a district square that was once known as the city's Chinatown. At the heart of this festival is a large gathering where numerous food trucks and restaurants come out to advertise their wares. Specializing in desserts and little else, these businesses flood the street every year in hopes of bolstering their business because they can't partake in the restaurant promotion throughout September. The festival concludes with a competition, with each chef revealing their unique lantern festival dessert. These are often rather impressive in nature: cake pops strung together like a dragon, ice creams that make people's mouths look like they're glowing, and large cakes, shaped and designed to celebrate New Amsterdam's arts and festival scene. Many of this year's offerings will both celebrate the year before and offer a somber reminder of the lives lost in the monster attack just months ago. Smaller, sample sizes of these desserts will be available for purchase, which also grants people access to one vote for their favorite dessert.

As the lantern festival comes to a close almost a full day later, the lights clear a path to the river, where countless people will be stretched out and looking skyward for this year's fireworks. Loud, symphonic music featuring some of New Amsterdam's most popular composers will play throughout the area, synced up with the bombastic explosions themselves.

Most of the six newcomers will have hopefully been gathered long before the fireworks go off – but anyone else is free to enjoy them and the festivities leading up to that final conclusion. The festivities vary in nature, from a place for someone to claim a lantern of their own with a wish, to using UV paint to legally cover the ground in unique symbols and lights, to joining competitions where people place chess and checkers for a wider audience. Each of these activities is monetized, so don't expect anything to be for free.

> A VISUAL DETOUR

There will be several new and persistent additions along the most likely path to the festival from the safehouse: small, man-made shrines that have appeared just hours before the dense layer of lights settled over the city. Depending upon their makeup, these shrines vary in structure, size, and design, but have several unique, persistent similarities between them.

Some of the shrines are fully formed, with candles lying underneath them, and cloth blankets acting as an overhang for the art within. At the heart of each of these shrines is an image of a person, with a large, upside down triangle projecting from their chest – blue and noticeable – with their arms spread wide. Some of these triangles project from the chest as if a piece of a 3D pop-up structure, while others are simply a part of the image itself, a flat, smooth surface. Beneath them, there will be a scene from a familiar event for anyone who's been here for a while: a car flying into a monster's mouth, a person healing someone else, bright blue eyes and fingertips, showing the artist's personal interpretation in motion. Any of the cloth is covered in geometric symbols, intersecting circles and triangles, many of them in specific and particular patterns.

Other shrines are two dimensional in nature – painted, to be more specific, on the walls themselves – both hidden bits of scenery meant to blend in with the surroundings, or large and spread out, splashing wide arrays of colors and symbols. Whoever set up many of these artistic displays had a special paint and familiarity with the lantern festival lighting, as it draws special attention to the blue light that pours out of the people featured, whether it comes from their eyes, mouths, or the traditional chests. Silver and gold geometric symbols stretch around these images, framing the scene portrayed.

These additions aren't only located near the safehouse, but that's where they're concentrated for now. Within days, they'll be elsewhere: on walls in oft-frequented public restrooms, behind popular nightclubs and bars, and just about anywhere else – popping up and coming down as people tire of their presence – or are simply bothered that they're there at all.

> 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 arrival at the safehouse 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 SEPTEMBER 7. 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 September 7 (January 14). 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 January calendar rundown for a look at things happening this month.

As a reminder, AC for new characters accepted in December and January will be 10 comments across 2-4 threads, while current characters will need to provide the full AC of 20 comments across 2-4 threads. AC will be posted on January 20 and close on January 27. If you do not reply to AC, you will be considered idled and dropped from the game. We will not post a warning list.

> NAVIGATION

Comments

QUESTIONS.

[larkers]

[sumio]

What kind of items have previous NPCs left in the safehouse? Maeve will be snooping around everywhere she's allowed (she's restless and hates this safehouse!) and Sumio will likely poke around too, just a little bit less relentlessly.

[blyat]

In the event an NPC is harmed by one of the arrivals, what's the best course of action? (In this case, Hei attacked one, Cain's cleaning up his mess.)

Should Cain call the cops/paramedics and peace out before they get there? Would his call be tracked to his ID, or is there some way to remain anonymous and still get help for the dude? Or should Cain contact someone else/keep it under wraps?

[dipolar]

what happens if murder is committed, do the implants auto-911 or anything like that?

asking for a friend................

[selfimage]

Out of curiosity, are the geometric symbols on the shrines similar to those painted on the doors/around the Insomniac’s Ball?

gaby • npc • ota

[vns]

[ after the described initial frisking, talking, greeting and the rest – Gaby heads out. there are two temporary Morningstar agents that come in to watch things, at least until Gaby returns in the morning (literal morning, by the hours on the clock). these agents won't know anything. they'll give noncommittal answers and shifty-eyed shrugs. it's clear that they were called at the last second.

she comes in with a pastry on a reusable plate, one that's definitely been picked up at the festival. she looks tired, with more strands of dark hair straying loose from her pulled back hair. ]

Sorry if you were waiting for some real answers.

[ or to ask her about her ideology or how New Amsterdam is as a city or whatever else tends to go on at this stage. ]

Duty calls.

[ and she couldn't ditch work during the festival. hence: being here long enough, calling in to say she'd be late, and being temporarily replaced by glorified babysitters. ]

kaldur'ahm | young justice

[shorelined]

ARRIVAL/LANTERN FESTIVAL

[ awareness comes in blurred snatches before he settles more fully into consciousness, drugged and exhausted and restrained —and then freed, stumbling out of the vehicle and half-turning. he means to help whoever comes after him down, but a nurse is quicker and the thought slips from his mind.

it's too hot here and his eyes need a moment to adjust to the lights. the scrubs do nothing to hide the gills at kaldur's neck or the webbing between his fingers. ]

COMPLIANCE

[ the heat makes it more difficult for kaldur to focus, his toxin resistance ineffective against whatever is in his system. someone tells him to watch it and it's just a figure of speech, the "it" in question never specified, but kaldur still finds himself transfixed by lantern floating on a string, illuminating the path ahead and casting shadows and light with every turn in the wind.

he struggles, inside his mind, against the compulsion, but it is of no avail. (m'gann could help, he is sure. he would ask her to, were she here, despite the things she did to his mind when she thought he had truly changed sides.) ]

HEATSTROKE

[ atlanteans are sturdier than the average human, stronger and more solid to withstand the pressure of the ocean. there's the ability to breathe underwater, too —many things kaldur supposes one might regard as advantages.

these are balanced by the need to stay hydrated, by a weakness to high temperatures. he feels the sweat build on his brows quickly after leaving the bus and can't seem to find water —if there's a pool of it to submerge himself in or even bottled water to pour over his head, he cannot tell.

the dryness of his throat and the time he'd spent transfixed by the light do not help and he takes a step, another, and has to lean against the first solid wall he finds, breathing harder than normal, fighting to stay upright. ]

SAFEHOUSE

[ at the safehouse, kaldur settles in.

he spends perhaps too long a time in the showers, still and naked with his head tipped back toward the stream, water pouring over his body. there are tattoos on his back and neck, spiralling down his arms. at no point do they light up and glow with atlantean magic and the loss of power is something deeply disturbing to kaldur, but that worry is set aside, pushed deep inside his chest to be dealt with at a later stage. for now, hydration is the most pressing matter.

he finds a bed. if someone is near it, he will ask if it is taken —and introduce himself, demeanour calm and respectful, utterly polite, holding out a hand with webbed fingers, either unaware or uncaring of the emotional bond the skin contact will spark.

at various points, he will also be in the kitchen, looking into cabinets or preparing simple meals that he would be happy to share. ]

WILDCARD

[ anything goes! hmu @ abiosis if you want to chat. also someone pls get this boy a scarf to hide his gills?? ]

heatstroke;

[reneger]

( jason doesn't know kaldur'ahm--but he does know of jackson hyde, ex member of damian's self-built teen titans. knows his face, the shape of his nose, his build. and from a distance: this guy could be the spitting image of him. it's once he's up closer, gets a good look at the gills on the side of kaldur's neck that he realizes, while similar, they're definitely not the same fucking kid. this one's older, looks a little more sturdy.

sure of himself, even with the drug induced haze and the lack of decent fucking clothing. and jason's making his way up right behind him, fingers raising to tap a shoulder if he can get close enough. murmurs soft close to his ear: )

You lost, kid?

safehouse

[batricide]

[ As usual he's swinging around to run a headcount - or, well, check for anyone from home who matters.

Kaldur'ahm - Jackson Hyde - is hard to miss. He spots him the second he walks in, and isn't sure if he feels relief or apprehension. He'd known him through the Regime's connections to Atlantis and through Ra's idiotic plan. A perfect fall man, just wanting to do what was best for the world and listening to all the wrong men. He can relate. ]

Aqualad. [ That's such a stupid codename. ] Are you alright?

maeve millay | westworld | ota

[apperceptions]

[When Maeve wakes, it's not with the van that drops the rest of her cohort of newbies in the alleyway. Rather, she's a few steps ahead: already secure and accounted for in the safehouse. Not that it helps much. The last she remembers is the chaos of the first arrival-- a deep wound in her side, the dead and injured all around her, shuffling to safety with a man injured worse than her at her elbow.]

001;
So, upon waking, she's understandably groggy, bewildered, and on high alert. Some fool's left a pair of medkit scissors beside her cot, and, in instinctive self-defense, she seizes the makeshift weapon and rears up when greeted, prepared to run, or attack, or whatever else might happen in the next few moments.]

They told me the drugs wore off. Who the fuck are you?

002;
[Thankfully, the scenario's explained to her one way or another. She's no happier about it, of course, but she's at least got some measure of context. It's no different from last time, and barely different from home, is it? She's still as trapped as she was before, simply resting within the bars of a slightly different cage. At least there were the native children around to pass the time babysitting her first go around. So she remains quiet, silently analyzing her situation and assessing the state of the safehouse. Maeve paces the area, back and forth, drifting through all the common areas and sitting alone on her cot with a hawk-like gaze. Until, of course, she's greeted.]

Quaint little place they've got here, don't they?

[She smiles coyly. The charm's on like the flip of a switch.]

Tell me about the outside some, will you? I'd like to know what I'm getting into.

003;
[Of course, no matter what she's told, she's going out there herself the moment the drugs wear off lmao.

Maeve does what any self-respecting, slightly out-of-depth gentlewoman would do at a situation like this: she's wooing rich people out of their money for free drinks and food on top of the intel, natch. Fortunately, she's willing to share the wealth (that isn't hers) with anyone she recognizes from the safehouse.]

My, my-- you haven't had a sweet yet, have you? [Yes, you. Even if you haven't met yet.] Darling, [she says, tapping the shoulder of the tall, finely-dressed woman whose arm she's hanging off of,] we've got to let them try that smoky one. Would you buy another?

[The wealthy woman hesitates. Maeve shoots her a coquettish look, and she cracks.

Congrats, Maeve's new bestie, you now have a stranger shoving a cup of gently smoking, fruit-flavored crackers into your hands.]

wildcard;
[hmu for whatever :* pms or pp to smithsyndicate are equally good!]

001

[saviorexe]

[That’s a hell of a greeting, to be sure.

Not that Markus always expects kind faces and minds without a mote of suspicion — he remembers what his arrival was like, the experience ingrained in memory. Unpleasant, to say the least, wracked with disorientation and very human sensations that ran too deep against nerve endings. A mind abuzz with more questions than he could queue up in any proper kind of order.

Still. He had a bit more patience than to go waving scissors at anyone drawing near.]

My name’s Markus. [Hands raising up in the universally placating gesture of “hey please don’t stab me”.] And I’m just here to see if you needed anything.

[A new face, one that he doesn’t recognize, having just jolted awake. He must have missed her arrival to the safehouse.]

002

[retravel]

[ As has become habit, when the arrivals come, Fitz does the rounds. Can't ditch work again, so he shows up at the safehouse at night (well, day, in the new schedule) after they've been rescued. A vague allegiance to Morningstar and a defined interested in others like him means he carries a rucksack of extra supplies, slung onto the cot beside Maeve so he can sort through it. He looks crisp and almost corporate in his button-down.

Maeve strikes him as familiar, someone seen before (from the first bus, actually), but he can't place her, instead staring for seconds too long when she questions him. ]

Yeah, okay, yeah. [ he blinks, sort of recalibrating, unsure where to start, but her smile's a good sign, right... ]

I can go big picture, but it's — [ incoherent gesturing ] — it's a lot. [ he perches on the cot opposite her. ] Did anybody walk you through the basics when they led you here?

[ the walk through the city can be the best place to explain, with examples all around them. ]

002

[strove]

It depends on what you'd like to know. [Clarke says these words in a distant way, as if she's distracted. It's not like Clarke has a photographic memory, but there's something about Maeve that strikes her as familiar. She hesitates near her, looking her over. Those early days were a haze, but they weren't so long ago that someone vaguely familiar wouldn't stand out.

Her jaw flexes, shifting ever so slightly.]

Sorry, before we get to that—do I know you? I feel like I should.

001

[selfimage]

[ she's familiar, even if they had never formally met. the return is curious, and even though he had wandered through the safehouse looking for familiar faces from his own world, he didn't expect to see one he met in New Amsterdam. honestly! (honestly, honestly!) he's only there for the barest moments before there are scissors in his face.

like any self-respecting person who spends a majority of their time running away from problems, he shoots both hands up in the air to show that he's unarmed. ]

Loki. [ he looks down at the scissors. ] Don't cut me, please. I rather like everything attached.

[deicider]

Oh! Thanks!

[Sniper's radiant smile soothes away the rest of the kind patron's uncertainty. They try a few bites with evident pleasure, positioning close to the taller woman: A friendly distance. They recognize Maeve so that, at least, is not a surprise. But as much as they appreciate the free food, there could be a couple of different things going on here, so they send over a quick message.]

Is this for kicks or do you have an angle?

hei, darker than black.

[dipolar]

1▸ LANTERN FESTIVAL

A▹ FIREWORKS
(fireworks crack like a discharging rifle in his ear. multiple rounds, one burst. they pop and shower the city with spectacular displays, fill the air with smoke from their leavings, block the stars overhead.

but hei’s paying them no attention, save for the occasional tensing. it’s visible, running from one shoulder to the next, showing in a slight duck of the head. he’s got plans for the stock the city has set up behind one of the grandiose chinese displays that ironically make him feel right at home in this foreign land he’s been trafficked to — laughable, really, if the man knew how to take a joke. instead, he takes armfuls of the gunpowder filled mini-bombs, attempting to jerry-rig himself something lethal.

there aren’t any weapons on the streets save for a knife he picked up from one of the food trucks.

that’s why making himself up an ied or two won’t go amiss. under the light of walkway paint behind a large riverside building less populated with people, hei makes cherry bombs. quick to light, easy to deploy, stings the eyes, and confuses attackers. might not want to sneak up on him, lest one snap in your face, but a fellow scrub-wearer might be introduced to something safer than the “safehouse” he keeps hearing about.

no thanks.)

B▹ DESSERTS
(‘yeah yeah, eat up, you look unhealthy. jesus, what an animal.’

hei’s just following directions.

called in from off the street by a man luring him in with sweets and a commanding ‘get over here and try my award-winning dragon pops — ten creds for the whole batch!’ well. there’s really nothing he could’ve done about that one, now jamming stick after stick of chinese-inspired treats down his throat, stomach giving him hell when the sugar starts conflicting with whatever angry drug making him everyone on the street’s marionette.

help a bastard pay his bills or join him in a dine-and-dash, because either way he's got no id. which means no currency.)

2▸ BACK ALLEYS

(hair short, well above the brow in a bedhead sprawl over the crown of his head, there’s nothing shielding dark eyes mottled by abuse, medicated sleep, and the courses of drugs in his system. they’re haunting, threatening, unhinged — he’s dangerous and broad shoulders curve in to demonstrate it, like an animal hunching before a strike… but someone’s foggy on body language. someone can’t take the hint.

hei faces a larger man, heavy-set, at least seventy pounds thicker, who slaps at chest tattoos like an ape, who bellows his outrage at the vibrant vomit that’s covered his street art. ‘hey, wait just a second. you got nothin’ to say to me? you think fuckin’ with our art’s funny?’

fuck, what the fuck is going on? every light’s too bright, every building’s too tall. he’s been shucked out of a truck into an alley of modified freaks with no inch of unmarked skin and all he can do is stare unevenly through the cracks his fingers make when they spread down the length of a drained face. the action drags sweat from his forehead into brows that crease with frustration. it’s hot, he’s suffocating, drowning. feels so sick, he swallows around the excess bile slicking his throat from the last minute he spent upheaving dessert onto ultraviolet paint-covered asphalt.

‘can’t say i care for that asshole look you’re givin’ us. tell ya what, you wanna start somethin’ then you take the first shot, huh?’

a first shot that may be the guy’s last mistake. because that order’s like a kick to the back of the knees and it sends hei forward like a point-blank bullet from the chamber of a very unforgiving gun. the artist may be bigger, but there’s no way the beating — within an inch of his life or narrower — he’ll receive is what he expected from the plain-faced chinese man staggering like a drunk through the streets of new amsterdam.)

3▸ SAFEHOUSE

Hey, (it comes from the opposite cot, hei flagging with bloody fingers,) pass me that.

(it’s a coat hanger. it looks rusted. he nods to it like his pointing wasn’t good enough, when the obvious problem may be the fact that handing someone a tool to try stabbing the implant out of the back of their neck isn’t the best idea in the world.)

No advice, just hand it over.

three!

[merced]

[ Aranea is in the safehouse, not because she still lives here - obviously, she doesn't - but for the sake of sussing out any more familiar faces. A cast cap is hardly IC knowledge, after all. Wandering up and down the cots, searching out familiar faces, noted voices - nothing. Nothing, except a rusted hanger on one side and a young man on the other side, with her apparently as the bridge between.

Looking straight at Hei, her eyebrows lift fractionally, and then she hands him the hanger. Presently, she can't imagine what he intends to do with it, but she's perfectly prepared to incapacitate him if he tries anything weird.

And, speaking of - ]

This isn't some weird fetish thing, is it?

[ He probably doesn't want to give himself an abortion. What does that even leave? Hanging his clothes? ...What a novel concept. ]

bruce wayne | dceu

[beknight]

[ Bruce flexes his fingers. They ache a little, but they close into a fist. He's away from the van, instinct slipping unseen into shadows in the alley, heading for high ground. From the roofs, he watches the festival. The smell of food makes his stomach rumble — but wariness pricks up, insists he stay away. It's been another rude awakening. There's no stiffness from cryo that he can sense, which makes this all something else. ]

[ Great. The awareness in the back of his mind that used to indicate Diana, however near or far away, is missing. Its loss is ultimately not a huge obstacle, but annoys him — he'd become accustomed. ]

[ A few hours. He's gone before the fireworks start. ]

→ safehouse
[ Eventually, animal instincts ask for food, shelter, and clean water. As tempting as it is to enter by means other than the front door, there are people here. Shared confusion and similar predicaments — there's some measure of relief at not having to re-experience the Storm, at least. Not something he wants to do again. ]

[ A shower cleans up a lot, cold water helps clarity. ]

[ Bruce can be found in the kitchen, because cooking is not that hard, but is taking him a lot longer than he thought. Or looking at some of the old clothes and other items strewn around, examining them curiously. Or having staked his claim on a bed that sees most of the room, entertaining himself with a game of chess. ]

→ wildcard
[ ooc: feel free to make something up or let's work something out! ]

safehouse;

[reneger]

( he goes through this with every round of new arrivals: follows the announcement, looks around for any faces he recognizes (found kaldur that way, this time) and stalks his way back to the safehouse after to look for any he missed outside. jason's--careful about how he makes his way around the safehouse, keeps to the outskirts, tries to stay out of view in case any unsavory individuals know his face.

but he doesn't stumble across anyone like that. instead, he sees a vaguely familiar frame: wide-stance, a little taller than he's used to, but the way he holds himself is all too familiar. eyes focused down on whatever the hell he's trying to make in the kitchen. jason--pauses in the doorway, considers how he wants to fucking try this because god,

dealing with dick was hard enough, they're still figuring shit out even if they're a little better, now. and this bruce definitely isn't his, if it even is bruce wayne at all. )

Hey, fresh meat.

( nailed it. )

Jake Muller, RE6

[probiotic]

[A. Chess - Festival]

[ The facts are easy to lay end to end in a mind hilariously overaccustomed to insane disasters and ready to acclimate to another before puzzling out its source. He's been dropped off in a foreign city. His hair, even as short as it is, is still longer than he's worn it in years, meaning an indeterminate amount of time has passed. He feels drugged, nauseated, but his body's apparently handling it a hell of a lot better than his compatriots dressed in equally blinding scrubs.

It takes him approximately five minutes after emerging from the alley -- choosing to take a little extra time hiding there to get his bearings -- to locate a man approximately his shape and size and lure him back towards that same alley to incapacitate him and steal his clothes. That's one problem taken care of.

But his new t-shirt advertising a band he doesn't know and slightly too-loose jeans don't help with his next problem: the full effects of that drug that have him confusedly but willingly following an invitation by a passing woman to check out the chess matches. Well. Looks like he's stuck in the line, inconspicuously dressed or not, and he's next up to play. With no money. ]

[B. Mugging - Festival]

[ His ploy to get clothing? More successful than expected. So much so, in fact, that the appeal of repeating it is a little too great to resist. Sure, it requires refinement and care in order for him to avoid getting stuck in a situation that involves even the slightest command from another person -- seriously, what the hell -- but nothing ventured, nothing gained. Besides, who would think twice about a man with a few tears at the bottom of his shirt, or look closely enough at his ears to notice where the makeshift ear plugs have been inserted? ]

Hey! Hey, sorry, I need your help -- it's my daughter. Quick, she's right over here...

[ Jake Muller is not, by specific trade, an overly deceptive person. He prefers to go in guns blazing, the honest old-fashioned way. That doesn't mean that desperate times don't call for desperate measures, and right now he's at a real fuckin' low point. Which is why after leading this poor Samaritan into the nearest alley, away from prying eyes and just around the corner, he's gesturing for them to move closer to get a better look around a dumpster... before producing a lengthy shard of glass, holding it to the back of their neck. ]

Hey. Hands flat against the wall, let's make this easy for both of us.

[C. Picnic - Festival]

[ Drugs in his system or not, nausea or not, Jake isn't stupid enough to not realize his own need for food. The pity, of course, is in not having any money with which to purchase said food.

Luckily, food stands and quick fingers mix well.

He's worked up to a considerable stash, mostly desserts but a savory bun or two as well, by the time he retreats to the river to enjoy it. Hard-earned spoils aren't easily shared, however, and he keeps his eye on any passersby that linger. ]

... hey, you need something?

[D. Drugs - Safehouse]

[ The safehouse isn't the worst he's seen.

Easy to navigate, everything in a sensible place, relatively clean... but after thirty minutes of rummaging around in the medical storage area, he has some questions. ]

Yo. You got any steroids or boosters on you? [ Namely this one. ]

[E. Alcohol - Safehouse]

[ Following his foray into the med storage? He's in the kitchen, head stuffed first in the fridge before he's rooting through the cupboards. Now he has a new question. ]

You seen any booze in this place or do I need to get my eyes checked? Hell of a day, a shot or twenty would really even the hell out of it.

[F. WILDCARD]

B FOR BASIC

[dipolar]

(hei's managed to find clothes of his own — the big man he managed to take down, whether before or after the interference of another trafficking victim, left little in the way of options once his friends scattered. so the oversized tank top that hangs off of scarred shoulders is all he's got and it'll do, even if it clashes with dirtied white slacks. for now.

his next challenge? figuring out where the hell to go and what to do with himself.

he doesn't gravitate toward the crowds, the food, or the shops that've managed to stay open to sell festival souvenirs, no, that'd be uncharacteristic and foolish of him as drugged as he is. an alley is far better suited to his needs and he's turning down the first one he can manage to dart into unseen, shrouded only in the light of the digital lanterns hanging high in the sky that pours between buildings and through the glass of windows. it throws fractals where he steps, eyes black in the dimness, ears pricking at a quiet commotion to the end.

a collection of dumpsters, recycling and garbage. a man threatening another with something sharp. hei figures this is his best chance, two ahead of him and thousands behind — does he continue on and keep his head down? speak up with his intent to avoid the situation? take them both out before they can get a word in edgewise?)

Hey. (voice soft, it may be lost on jake with those earplugs... which is really too bad, intent to "help" falling flat.) Knock him out; he's going to call the cops.

(because now he just looks like a shadowy liability — a concerned citizen, maybe, unconcerned expression difficult to make out in the dark —, standing near the wall of the alley not a dozen metres from the mugging.)

Implant, back of the neck.

keith | voltron | ota!

[secondnature]

a. sharing is caring

[Thanks to the potential liability of being unable to see clearly when the city is covered in lights like this, Keith takes the night off. It's not that he doesn't think he'll manage—he's certain he'd be fine—but he doesn't want to risk anyone else being ill-equipped for the occasion. Maybe that's him being judgmental. No, it probably is, but he knows that might be another reason to stay off the "road," so to speak.

So, he's enjoying the festivities. Right at this moment, he has two different baked goods in his hands. Once he sees a familiar face—or someone close to it—he nods, and offers one to them.

... Or, in the event that he's run out of them, he'll say,] Want one? It's not bad. None of them are bad.

[He hasn't gotten started on the ice cream just yet.]

b. judging!

[Speaking of being judgmental—except in this case, it's because Keith paid for the opportunity. Although he gets just one vote, he means to take it seriously.

Right now, he's looking between a donut meant to celebrate the lives of the people who were lost, and a cake. One is far less showy than the other, but as far as he's concerned, it tasted a lot better.

He just ... doesn't know if taste should be a factor. His arms cross as he looks between the options. It's not clear that he's making up his mind about this particular thing. Rather, he looks like he's deep in thought about the meaning of ... baked goods.

Should someone disrupt him, he'll startle and look at them with furrowed eyebrows.]

What is it? I was just about to make up my mind.

c. fireworks!

[Keith would never tell anyone this first hand, but he's always thought fireworks were pretty cool. The big splash of color, the explosions to match—it's just a neat display. They can be enjoyed alone, too. Away from everyone. While he grew up in a place without a whole lot of firework shows, he's been to enough to know that having a good vantage point is key to enjoying the show.]

Come on. I think the show is starting soon. How likely do you think we can get up to one of those places to watch?

[It's asked with the sense that Keith has every intention of making it happening.]

d. wildcard

[Anything else! Hit me up on discord, plurk, or in PMs if you want a personalized prompt.]

a but slightly altered bc keith prob won't give him food again

[blyat]

[Amid the festivities, Cain is overwhelmed, unused to the crowds and bright lights and chaos of activity. Most prominent in his attention are the foodstalls - pleasant, yeasty bakery items as far as the eye can see (and nose can smell). He weaves through, hands shoved into pockets as he elbows a path clear.

... Then stops, spying a familiar face. What was the guy's name? He's holding food items in both hands. Does he go around trying to feed people all the time? Weirdo.

Still, Cain approaches and points at the treats. He's in a far better mood than their first encounter, as though that could potentially dilute the grudge seeded by his last treatment of Keith.] So what are those? Any good?

clarke griffin | the 100 | ota

[strove]

a. make a wish

Do you think there's any power to this? [Clarke asks a familiar face as they pass her by the booth where all the "wish-granting" is happening.

Back on the Ark, religion and feelings of fancy were often lost to the past: lost to a world that could believe in such things, could hope and believe in miracles. Seeing and hearing that their world burned was all but evidence that they would need to move forward and embrace a different doctrine. For the many people who came together to form the Ark, that became a doctrine of survival.

God wasn't completely absent from people's words or thoughts. But the concept of a deity was more like a distant, judging entity. It didn't often come into play.

And Clarke herself never heard many whimsical things growing up. That's why this moment—these lanterns—actually remind her of a cool night with a boy she'll never be able to forget. It had been their first and only time together. She tries not to think of Finn much these days, but it's Finn who's on her mind as she observes the lanterns.

Inherently, she knows that wishes can't be granted—especially if you have to pay to make the wish. But perhaps it's the act of voicing it that has power.]

b. shrinage

[On the way back, Clarke spots some of the shrines. First it's the painting that catches her eye. The art itself is quite nice, and she assumes—at first—that it's somehow linked to the festival itself. That perhaps someone had been paid. Closer inspection of the figure depicted told her otherwise. The bright blue light that is shown "shining" is telling. All too telling.

It's not the first time that she's seen an object of ... worship? At least one like this. The chamber where the Flamekeepers kept the reminders of Becca Pramheda was a much larger version of this, with paintings on the wall to remind everyone of how she came down and gave her people hope and a vision for the future. Just as it was strange for Clarke to accept the inherently spiritual nature of the Flame and the Commander to the Grounders, it's difficult for her to see ...

Well.

Herself at the heart of it. People like her.

(There was, at one point, something to be said about the legend of Wanheda. But that felt less like reverence and worship. Far less.)

And then there are the designs around these paintings.

Clarke stops at a final shrine and bends down before it. There are many candles here spread out, lit and illuminating the image behind them. She looks up at the cloth, once again taking note of the patterns. With her neural implant, she takes pictures of everything she sees, just as she has with the paintings.

When she hears someone behind her, she looks up.]

I've seen these symbols before. At least—I think I have.

c. checking in

[Somewhat shaken by all the ... worship ... Clarke returns to the safehouse with the intention of putting herself to work. If anyone's nursing any recent injuries, or wants her to take their vitals, or to even be checked to see if the drug in their system is the same as the drug in everyone else's system, she's around, and offering any assistance. Clarke will hover near the first aid room to offer anything she can at this time.]

d. wildcard

[Anything! Hit me up on discord, plurk, or PMs if you want something more personalized or want to plan something specific.

That said, someone should also play her at chess. She'll be doing that, too.]

b.

[kleptocratic]

Have you?

[ He hasn't. He understands that they're shrines, understands the superstition and drives men to worship. Eugenides has given at the temples since he was very small. It was what was done. And it was his chosen policy to court the favor of as many gods as possible.

Maybe not these ones, though. ]

Do you know what to offer, then?

alucard | castlevania

[memoriams]

one — dessert

[He’s caught in a disarray of light, of the glowing bulbs of virtual lanterns beginning a lazy drift upwards to hang with the rest of their kin. Faux things as they are, they pass through him on their ascent, nothing more than illusion — it must be, it has to be — as Alucard spins on a heel, wracked with surprise, in an attempt to push them away with a forearm via instinct alone.

They might as well be ghosts, so unaffected they are by his startled attempts. His body feels sluggish and a foot has to lurch back to catch his balance, moving with now-stilted grace but still quick enough to halt himself from falling unceremoniously on his ass. But not graceful enough to avoid knocking some poor food vendor’s tray of sample desserts, scattering them in a messy display as most of them land wastefully on the pavement.

Save for one, a pudding that almost seems oddly phosphorescent, which arcs smoothly in the air, wobbling like a delicate piece of art, and lands—

—squarely on some poor passerby. Maybe it’s you.

In the meanwhile, eyes remain locked towards the sky, past the lanterns, towards the monstrous buildings that make up the far skyline; his mind so doused in confusion, in nauseating shock, that the protests of anyone nearby don’t quite register.]

two — art

[Paint something with us! comes the remark, and even if it is couched in joviality — originating from a crowd of artists adorning the sidewalk in varied symbols — it’s a command all the same. One that has Alucard stopping where he stands, has his body moving against all conscious attempts otherwise, and soon he’s just a scrub-wearing artist amongst the others, crouched down and with a sleek spray can of UV paint that’s been offered to him but moments later. A half-second of figuring out how it works, and then he’s lost fully to the order.

Later, he’ll wonder at the meaning of the symbols haphazardly painted on the ground while under drug-induced coercion; with his mind decrying every arcing movement of his arm, what does it say for the creativity that manages to eke through? He paints stars, he paints a crescent moon. He even paints nothing more than splatters and straight lines, for whatever that might represent.

But now? Now there’s nothing more than the sting of anxious frustration, forced to continue until someone tells him otherwise.]

three — safehouse

[He’s claimed a seat at the edge of a cot, carding fingers through hair shorn too short, the rest of his body language hunching forward as he presses an elbow into a knee. Rubs a free hand across his face, fingers splaying as his brow creases.

White teeth flash in a grimace that comes more from nausea, from the feeling of weighted limbs and a dry mouth, than actual pain. Fangs glint in the light as he speaks — not bothering to truly look up at the person crossing nearby.]

Is everyone in this place human?

wildcard

[Wildcard option! Hit me with anything!]

safehouse.

[merced]

[ Aranea hasn't lived in the safehouse since the first few days she could leave it, but "newbie day" (for lack of a better term) is a good enough reason to come back. She doesn't know if anyone else from Eos is going to suddenly show up, doesn't know whether it's likely or unlikely, but not checking is just wasting opportunities handed. She's sympathetic to the poor shape a lot of these people are in. After all, that had been her, scant weeks ago - sleeping off drugs and dehydration, freshly surgically altered without her consent.

It's a weird question, and not a familiar face, that gets her to stop. ]

Dunno. Never stopped to ask. I assume so, at least.

[ Like, what else could they be? MTs living human lives — that's just another form of a human, isn't it? Four chocochicks in a cunningly built mechanical human suit? ...Well, maybe that explains Ignis's implacable accent. ]

Does it matter?

yalena "dutch" yardeen | killjoys

[motivation]

lantern festival »

[ dutch goes with johnny —because of course he wants to help the new arrivals, because she still remembers the anger and humiliation of the drug in her system, taking away her autonomy and her freedom to choose. it's pretty and there's food and drinks. it reminds her of leith, of the bazaar.

it's nice and all, but dutch isn't overly inclined to appreciate anything in this place. ] What's the point of all this? [ at least the question is more curious than it is angry. she lacks the cultural frame of reference to make sense of it. ]

shrines »

[ the shrines are odd. dutch hasn't been around for long, but two weeks is long enough to make sure she's got a solid idea of what's going on, especially given that johnny's been here longer and has filled her in.

it doesn't take much guesswork to figure out what the shrines are referring to, given all that. ]

Great. [ that's it. that's her sarcastic comment when she spots the first one. oh good, there's more is what she says when she sees the next. ]

Loki | Open

[selfimage]

1. Shrines

[ the display of shrines and their accompany imagery brings Loki back to a place that he hadn't been since the day he arrived. while his body still retained the physical characteristics of the Aesir, he was still lacking some of the fundamentals that were linked to his own divinity. carefully he steps through the shrines for better looks at the images that are scrawled within, the eerie light of the blue glow that casts across the asphalt. the symbols are eye-catching, and keep his gaze lingering over the shapes and lines painted into the artwork.

it's an unnerving feeling that tugs at his insides. it's sacred but not, built on deeds that must feel powerful to the people of this world, if they had made such an impact. shrines were once erected to him and his brethren for worship, and now they were reduced. here they were non-existent, but this was a compromise that he hadn't been expecting. there's a pang inside of him that feels the loss—he misses the prayer. hearing them, and answering them. ]

I really shouldn't be surprised. [ he says to himself, or someone else, perhaps. ] But it does seem like they haven't seen anything like us before. How encouraging.

2. Safehouse

[ it's like routine now: when new people are found, brought to the safe house, and left there until their ID clears, Loki takes some time to make the rounds. he lingers at the edge of the safehouse, along the walls to get a good look at the faces of those who've just arrived. it looks like he's looking for something, or someone, for that matter.

unlike those who've arrived and are now in threadbare clothing, Loki's in a black-button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, black pants and a pair of boots. he doesn't look quite like he belongs—and in a way he doesn't, he doesn't like the safehouse, nor does he like the obligation he feels to check it like this. ]

Ah, so the new blood is here, hm ...

while the look on his face is curious, he's still stuck on scheming expression 24/7. ]

3. Wildcard

[ hit me up! ]

oonnnneeee

[ofmyth]

[It's unsettling, but almost everything about this place has been unsettling in one way or another. It's something else that reminds him of what he is not and does not have.]

Surely they have their own gods. [Or... their own god-killer? Thor puts his concern to the side. It will do no good dwelling on what he cannot deal with in the moment.]

damian wayne | injustice

[batricide]

festival.

[ It's loud. It's bright. And he hates it.

Moreover, he hates how close these lanterns are to the safehouse. How tightly they're clustered. Maybe it's an overeager morningstar agent, or maybe it's the enemy pointing something out. We know where you are. Either way, he doesn't like it.

Don't mind him reaching out to try ruin one with the heel of his boot. ]

... It's like they're mocking us.

after meeting bruce

[ He makes a scene in the safehouse. Shouting, kicking, threatening - but he doesn't really give a damn. His father is a bastard and him being here redefines how he can exist here - if not in reality, then in his own mind.

He's furious. Sweating profusely underneath the layers of flame resistant fabric he always wears, rage flaring every time he thinks about him. He's not above shoving people aside with a snarled ] Stay out of my way. [ Or simply brushing passed without any acknowledgement. ]

heine rammsteiner | dogs: bullets & carnage

[whitehair]

1. FESTIVAL

► a. NIGHT - early;

[ being around large groups of people really isn't his thing.

it's just one of many things that Heine doesn't like and steer clear of as much as he can, but there are limits to how far he can travel just using the back end of the streets; eventually, he has to emerge and mingle with the crowd of residents out enjoying the festival, and aimlessly following the flow of the people, he end up in the square. the sky has been lit up for hours in a multitude of colours - red, yellow, orange, each of the lanterns glowing softly and pulsing with light that Heine could recognise as being some unnatural thing. he would have known that even without seeing how they seem to pass clear through people and other hanging objects overhead - mere projections, and certainly no technology that he himself is familiar with.

it makes his head hurt, frankly.

they never really had anything like this where he come from. the people too busy trying to survive. the gangs out on their usual turf wars. the kids busy getting kidnapped. they don't have room for festivals.

he moves away from the main street as soon as he could, cutting away from the crowd and ducking into one of the many little alleyways veering away from the square. the lights are still there, but blocked out by the buildings surrounding him, it's less glaring. here, he could breathe a bit better.

hearing footsteps, Heine jerks his head up, eyes narrowing as he stare at the direction of the noise. it could just be coincidence, not everyone enjoy the festivities going on, but Heine is all alertness and teeth, bristling like a beast backed into a corner. ]

Who's there?

► NIGHT - stalls;

[ okay, bugs aside? the food at these stalls weren't too bad an option as a whole... but depending on what you picked, of course. call it what you will, but it's with a sort of begrudging curiosity that he tries a sampler from a stall selling donut holes - there's some kind of sweet-sour filling inside, like jam but not quite, and Heine makes a face. ]

--The hell is in this thing?

[ the stallholder cheerfully informs him that it's a special mix of crushed fire ants. ]

Yeah, no.

[ Heine turns around, shoving the rest of the tray at the person nearest him - which is you. ]

Take it, I don't want this thing.

ii. WILDCARD

► get out of jail free

[ hit me up with whatever! ]

a.

[ofobedience]

[Here exists one of those instances where the gulf of differences separating them lean together and converge, creating something akin to shared experience. Because all of this-- it's too much for Giovanni. The bright unnatural lantern lights leave him feeling uneasy and on edge as there's nothing about the way they function that is recognisable to him. The deep plunge of the city into darkness that comes as night falls down upon it is usually a small relief for him, the clustering shadows and obscuration of the wide empty blue sky is enough to make him almost (almost) feel more at home, the relative quiet of the nighttime streets a balm for ragged nerves.

Not so when the city is lit up bright as an explosion, when the streets are thronging with too many bodies pushing in too close.

And so he does his best to slip around the backstreets and winding alleyways, to evade the worst of the brightness, the push and pull of vapid human life. It's what brings him here, down along this particular side alley at this particular moment in time, for once their oncoming rendezvous not something he's sought, or planned.

Hence the lack of any attempt to hide his approach as he ducks into the relative darkness and keeps moving, eyes down and expression fixed into something smooth and blank and cold that hides the fierce clatter of jangled nerves underneath. He looks up though, on hearing the familiar voice. And just like that he slips on the mask, lips curving in a carved-pumpkin smile.]

Come, now. Having a guess would have been much more fun.

[As though he intended this all along.]