ARRIVAL LOG 002

[larkers]

WHO: Everyone
WHERE: New Amsterdam
WHEN: July 4
WHAT: The second arrival
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Coercion and loss of autonomy. Further notes at end of log.

> ARRIVAL LOG #002

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. A murmur of nearby conversation. Your eyes are heavy, hard to keep open, but in the glimpses between slow, dark blinks you see three people in black body armor seated opposite you, and next to them, a woman in dark gray scrubs. "They're coming to," one of the guards says, nodding his head towards you. The woman looks over at you, smiles gently. "Don't worry. We're almost there." You realize there are two 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 unbuckles your restraints, helping you to your feet, your limbs feeling wooden and heavy, slow to move. The back doors are opened, city sounds flooding it, daylight hurting your eyes, making them water. You aren't given any time to adjust, the guards carefully helping each of you out, the nurse looking each of you over, quickly and methodically. She gives a nod, and she and the guards climb back into the van, the doors closing behind them. The engine powers up again, and then they're gone. You're left alone in a city alley, with no idea of where you are or why you've been brought here. There is the hum of a crowd nearby, at the other end of the alley from where the van departed. Around the corner the narrow, relative quiet of the alley opens up into a large city square - filled with tarpaulin shelters, beds, and hundreds of people. ◉ 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 SHELTERS

You may be used enough to your neural implant interfaces by now to recognize an incoming message, but this one doesn't wait for you to access it. Flashing up demandingly to the left of your vision, the text spills rapidly, as if El's typing it as you watch: You're not going to believe this, but an unmarked van just stopped and dropped three more extremely confused looking people in white in the city. Right next to Overbough square. Someone should get over there, pick them up before they walk into the shelters and some concerned citizen calls the cops. Seriously. Overbough square is to the northwest of the city, surrounded by low-rise office buildings and a department store which closed its doors some months ago. It's now being used for emergency housing of those displaced from their homes by the attack on June 27. Based in the old department store, the building has been filled to capacity and the shelter has spilled out, filling the large square with beds and people. Tarp coverings have been erected to try and protect those beneath from the harsh sun, but do little to break the summer heat or the warmth of so many people grouped together. Attempts have been made to keep the space organized, but with the huge amount of people staying here, there seems little rhyme or reason. Movement and noise is a constant, with volunteers and emergency service workers carrying supplies, setting up new beds or coverings where possible. There are families looking for beds, people looking for lost friends or relatives, officials calling names over megaphones, and kids running haphazard through the mill, playing tag, shouting out to one another. An overwhelming space for someone new to this world. A difficult space to navigate for those trying to spot three specific individuals - even with the distinct white scrubs and shorn hair. Better work quick, as with this many officials already working in the area, it's only a matter of time before even this crowd can no longer disguise the unusual new arrivals.

> 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. ◉ 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. ◉ There are 23 NPC occupants of the safehouse, natives to New Amsterdam. Some are individuals, but there are several families with children of various ages. They've adjusted to sharing the safehouse with these strange outsiders, but are still somewhat cautious of answering too many questions about themselves or their situations. ◉ Morningstar agents visit the native occupants regularly, but keep their contact with player characters to a minimum. It's made clear that should they have any queries or requests, they should speak to Gaby 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 July 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 July 4 (September 13). 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 September calendar rundown for a look at things happening this month. As a reminder, AC for new characters 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 September 20 and close on September 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]

[vns]

[ once the new arrivals have settled in, changed their clothes, maybe taken a shower or three to wash off what's happened – Gaby will be there, around, a little more attentive than she might be when they first got in and were directed toward where they needed to be and what they needed to do.

she wouldn't have wanted to chat while they were compliant. not overly long, anyway. her words would be clipped. careful. distant.

but later, she'll nod. meet their eyes. maybe not verbally invite them over, but she's more prepped for the weirdness of it.

plus, there just aren't as many this time.

anyone else – they can feel free to pester her, too. it'll be more of the usual, but maybe someone wants answers. this is different. she knows it's different, too. ]

[ ooc: your friendly (?) neighborhood npc is here for whatever. she's warming up to you pesky kids. ]

[saviorexe]

SHELTER;

[He was given no mode of preparation, all of them spilling out of the van in a confused and methodical way, the whole world a haze of noise — but it wouldn’t have mattered. There was no amount of readiness that could've made any of this make sense. Nothing that would stem the influx of voices and motion and the press and heat of too many bodies, the way the entire crowd thrummed like it was a thing alive; Markus bumps shoulders with someone more than once. Nearly stumbles forward as the crowd sometimes presses into his back. Hears the plastic fluttering of a tarp protest under the harsh, radiating heat of the sun, feels it. Feels too much. The whole lurch of the world shifting on its axis, and Markus— well. Markus just feels nauseous.

Something’s wrong, everything was wrong. Scans not blooming up to the forefront of his vision, the feel of his own body like something slower, something softly put-together, sweat on his brow. Heat, raucous noise, the rustle of white scrubs scraping against his skin with every footstep. A group of people hurry by, loudly calling out the name of what must be a missing friend or family member, and Markus turns his head, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth against it — too much. Like a lance in the side of his brain.

That’s all it takes for a misstep. A collision into another entourage of individuals carrying a crate of medical supplies, enough to upturn everyone’s balance and send the container crashing to the ground. The items within spill out and slide-roll along the ground, some landing at Markus’ feet like dead creatures.

One of the men, annoyed, tells him to watch where the hell he’s going, and is he going to pick this mess up, or what?

And something clenches along the lines of Markus’ bones, as if the suggestion itself were a command applied to the once-coding of his core. And though his spirit protests, his body does not. He crouches down, picks them up one by one, the alarm in the back of his mind doing nothing to quell what he cannot fight against as one, two, three items become balanced in the crook of his arm.]

SAFEHOUSE;

[He’s been graced with explanations that still aren’t good enough, perspectives that still leave his mind (too slow, still feels too slow and raw) reeling. A body that isn’t his, and the true amount of panic required for such a revelation is somehow stemmed via his stubbornness alone. Each bit of information, leading to shallow understanding, compartmentalized away — at least, he’d like to think so. Results are varied, sometimes the flood of confusion still hammers at his doorstep, but Markus ignores it in favor of distraction born of necessity. A handful of things that need seeing to, and he can be found at various points in time tending to them.

Later, after a shower and a change into questionably matching clothes, the communal kitchen is a necessary stop, his stomach protesting with hunger and his head beginning to pound due to the lack of food a human body requires. (Pain. An invisible pressure squeezing at his sinuses.) Markus can easily be found scrounging around for something edible, moving with uncanny purpose, until he reaches the eating area with his meal — sitting down and pausing with sudden hesitation as he scrutinizes his food.

Not long after, Markus claims a bed, choosing at random. The cot sinks under his weight as he sits, and he lifts a single hand to rub at his face — tired, that’s also new — turning over the events of the day in his head.

In his periphery, he catches the sight of someone stopping in front of him. Eyes flick upwards, his hand dropping.]

Sorry, did you already claim this spot?

WILDCARD;

[Orrrrr something else. I'm easy. Feel free to plot with me over at aurajen if you want!]

johnson, daisy — fcuk dot exe

[evite]

» shelters / closed.

[ the sun is bright, light harsh in her eyes as daisy blinks, squinting as she tries to will her mind into focus. the world is large, her body is small; standing in the alley, white scrubs and pale skin that hasn't seen light in days serve as stark contrast to the grime and grit on the walls, and this sudden triad of equally unsure newborns only emphasizes just how wrong this all feels. they aren't meant to be here, daisy knows that much.

where here is, where they are meant to be, and where they've come from? well, those are questions she doesn't have the answers to, but she sure as hell wants to find out. if only by pure instinct, she approaches a stranger — which earns her only a somewhat frightened reaction, the other woman's eyes going big as saucers as they take in daisy's appearance. which, come to think of it, what's wrong with it? a hand comes up to touch at her face — still the same, no scarring she can find — and then skim over her hair, only to stop about a foot too short against her scalp instead. where is her hair? a harsh swallow in her throat, and daisy opens her mouth to ask a question of the woman, any question, but she's cut off. "go away," the other woman blurts out, "you're scaring my daughter." it's as if daisy has no choice, her own feet backing up and trudging her along even as every fiber of her body wills her to stay in place.

(softly: what the fuck.)

to the next person, she starts small. the city square, filled to the brim with everything from beds to tents to piles and piles of boxes, seems a safer option. ] Hello, [ and a pause, hesitant. her eyes skim over the paperwork a woman holds on a clipboard. new amsterdam, she reads. where the hell is new amsterdam? ] Is there a bathroom I could use?

[ maybe there she can catch her breath. get her bearings. look herself in the eyes. something. ]

» safe house / open.

[ she's encouraged to visit the storage rooms first, before they run out of things in her size. is it only you this time, a woman asks upon arrival, curiosity lifting syllables into a question even as hands levy a threadbare assortment of grey and black and splotchy creamy white into daisy's waiting arms. she doesn't know how to answer, so she doesn't. she simply takes the clothes. what else can she do?

at least in the kitchens, there are more choices and fewer awkward questions. daisy doesn't shy away from pocketing things that might keep well — whether its her pockets or the convenient surface of a carry tray, every available space is filled to capacity with anything remotely appealing. she has a particular fondness for red apples; on one day, early in the morning before most of the residents of the safe house have stirred, she can be found filling a small box with the shiniest ones she can find. should anyone ask, at any time of day, she'll raise a brow at the inquisitor and shrug. ]

I don't like going hungry.

[ which is true, if not particularly eloquent. strangers don't need a life story, especially not a life that seemingly ended without connection to whatever version this one is. until daisy can determine if this is real or not — if this is a reboot of the framework, more miserable and more traumatizing for sure — she'll withhold what she doesn't need to share.

and speaking of not sharing, there are beds to claim. like the one in a dimly lit corner of the room, where daisy can rest her eyes at most hours of the day, willing herself calm in a closed eyes variation of meditation she learned from another woman once upon a time. when it works, she could pass for asleep... well enough that those lingering nearby might not think anything of discussing sensitive or private information. should her ears pick up on anything particularly interesting, she might just peek an eye open, or even drop a sudden, ]

What'd you say?

[ don't be too spooked. ]

» wildcard.

[ y'all know how this works. feel free to pm me / semicolons if desired. ]

[saviorexe]

[“Settled in” is a rather liberal use of the term.

That is to say, Markus feels utterly uprooted, not settled. From Detroit, from Jericho, from the faces of comrades and an all-encompassing purpose to… this. A new situation impossible to quantify, like a waking fever dream — but all too real, too raw, the whole of him set on a paper-thin edge in a body he's ready to disassociate himself from in record time.

Yet to his credit, he approaches looking composed enough. Even in ill-fitting and mismatched clothes, he’s quick to make eye-contact, quick to carry himself like a man who definitely is in possession of a question or two.

A breath of a moment, and then-]

Gaby? I was told to speak with you.

shelters

[forcevisions]

[ Navigating her way through Overbough Square doesn't come easily to Rey. She has several false starts. The city is enormous and crowded and busy in ways that she's not used to. She's never lived in a city before. She'd never seen so many people in one place, and all of them loud and all of them moving. Without a clear monster fight to focus on and the adrenaline of fight-or-flight instincts to support her, she's overwhelmed.

But she knows what she's looking for. People in white. Confused. Just like they were. Scrubs and short hair. Rey has a cream-colored hood pulled up, her hands stuffed in her pockets, and her sunglasses tucked into the front of her collar. They're too blue, they obscure the colors, and she needs to find white scr—

Aha.

Her hands slip out of her pockets and she hastens to the organizer that's currently managing a human woman with short hair and white scrubs on. Rey puts her hands on Daisy's arm. ]

Stop talking. [ Please, R'iia, let this woman be on the same drug cocktail that the rest of them had been on. Rey doesn't have the Force to back that command up anymore, but she doesn't feel bad taking advantage of the drug. She turns to the organizer and says, ] Thank you. We got separated. I'll help her find a bathroom. [ The organizer looks confused to say the least, but she's got plenty to do. She redirects her attention elsewhere. That's one thing Rey can say for the city: everyone is preoccupied with minding their own business. ]

safehouse — kitchen

[warfares]

Just as well you got here early, [ the remark is casual, as if unperturbed by the sight, as Kylo Ren pushes into the kitchen and makes a beeline for one of the cabinets, in search of coffee. his ear has been giving him trouble tonight: a low, persistent throb he's struggled to push aside and, while there are painkillers on offer (Clarke had made good on her promise, delivering several into his hands shortly before the monster attack) he is reluctant to rely on them more than necessary.

pain is something familiar, something he understands.

he sets down a chipped mug on the counter. ]

Thor will wake soon and then you'll be sore-pressed to find anything but dried insects at least until morning.

shelter... be nice 2 markus... :(

[cyberlife]

(message received, connor's one of the first morningstar recruits on the scene — and what he spots from a few cots over is distasteful to say the least. with tensions as high as they are and skepticism as ingrained as it is, both volunteers and government officials have made it clear that there's no room for error when it comes to tending the fearful citizens of new amsterdam. even if one of those errors is a result of markus' disoriented shouldering through the crowd.

medical stock falls to the ground with a clatter, catching connor's attention immediately, but all he can focus on in that moment is the friend who emancipated him doing a disdainful human's chores. like it wasn't an accident. like he's meant to do what they say.

it grates.)

Excuse me!

(a hand raises a few cots over, waving an eye-catching dismissal.

meeting others and fitting in here hasn't been the easiest task, but he made a point of remembering his crowd control training. what cyberlife had programmed him to understand. he remembers how to keep people away from certain positions and draw them to others to optimize negotiations, bringing him to stand directly between markus and the man ordering him to clean up. he remembers how "the ends justify the means" clearance he was given to manipulate both humans and his own kind into providing him with an optimal result, which gives him the strong presence and commanding voice he uses now.

the men look away from markus, over at him, and balk at his staunch defence of the scrub-wearing unknown.)

Sorry to interrupt, (connor begins unapologetically, stooping to pluck a roll of gauze from the floor to dunk into the crate of supplies.) but is there some kind of misunderstanding here that I can clear up? I'll take care of these things, so one of the refugees we're here to assist doesn't have to.

—Markus, are you alright?

{ safehouse }

[frostedplum]

[ Mei stands awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot with a toothbrush and small tube of toothpaste in one hand. Like him, her hair has recently been shorn with only a few months growth back and she's squinting slightly out of habit because she's currently without her glasses. ]

Yes, but it's all right. I don't mind moving someplace else.

[ She's more than happy to give the spot up to someone who looks so exhausted. ]

My things are under the cot. If you want to stay, I'll just move them.

safehouse, beds

[cyberlife]

(spooked, NAH, he's just getting started. and talking way too much.)

—had no legs, slithering after me quickly. Thankfully, I was—

(connor blinks, interrupted and addressed by someone else. his audience, mortified by his story enough to slink away when given the first chance to, is gone and only daisy is left behind for him to talk to. which is more than alright, the prying question turned to and nodding at with a gesture.)

I'm sorry, did I wake you?

(it's no hollow concern, actually frowning a bit at his own behaviour. but if she wants a story, she'll get one.)

I was discussing one of my encounters earlier in the week, when one of the creatures that attacked the city found me. Someone managed to step in before it landed a killing blow on me. I think the majority of them are dead now, but I'd never seen anything like it.

...

Are you new? I haven't seen you here before. (the android usually remembers these things.)

marcos diaz / ota

[claro]

SHELTERS

[ By the time the light stings his eyes and the fog in his head makes way for the shouting of megaphones and restless kids, a few things are starting to make an awful kind of sense: the scrubs, the van, the strangers that he's already managed to lose track of. Marcos ducks around the corner of a makeshift tent — which is roughly as effective as a cat hiding under a blanket with its ass hanging out, but he's hardly the main attraction in this chaos, anyway — and there's an anxious urgency to the way he drags back his sleeves to check for marks, pressing his thumbs against the insides of his wrists like he doesn't quite trust his sight.

There's nothing. That tracks. He's still him, still thinking clearly. It's the situation that isn't clear. He drops his sleeves, dragging a hand through too-short hair and making a face that's somewhere between surprise and irritation. ]

What the hell.

[ Not quiet, but that doesn't really matter. This place is a mess of noise, and the small gaggle of kids running by are doing more than enough yelling to draw focus.

Previous arrivals might spot the tell-tale scrubs in the crowd. If they don't, chance will still have him catching their lower arm lightly to stop them as they pass by, offering a crooked smile and an apologetic, friendly tone that's fake as hell (but sort of convincing, to his credit). If their forearm is bare, the empathy link will supply something more authentic on the tail-end of his question: fury, fear, confusion. ]

Hey— got a second?

[ Did he single them out because they don't look like a local? Not remotely. They're just by themselves and not hysterical about it or frantically heckling the "authorities", so that makes them an easy target. ]

SAFEHOUSE

[ He's used to being on the other end of this. It's bigger than the bank had been, maybe a little more efficient. Same intake routines. There's something pettily jarring about being the newbie, but even the low-key buzz of disoriented hostility isn't enough to make him ungracious. That said, shutting up is as good as it gets; an honest "thank you" would take more self-control than he's got.

He takes the charity clothes and gets cleaned up, spends a few very serious and very grumpy seconds debating the merits of finding the most isolated cot he can manage. Sounds nice, yes; strategic or helpful, not even a little. He ends up picking an empty cot next to one that's clearly occupied. As in currently occupied, though he's polite enough to make sure they're also currently awake. ]

This one taken?

[ He's aiming for amicable, but what he hits is tired and not overtly hostile. Close enough. ]

WILDCARD & NOTE

[ Whatever!! Interrupt at any point during these starters, do something else, or PM/hit me up at awarewolf if you want to make plans. Also, Marcos' power has the potential to encourage honesty in other characters. It's entirely opt-in and pretty passive, so feel free to ignore it or find more info here. ]

[evite]

Yes.

[ as in, she is new.

for a brief moment, daisy wonders if maybe she should have just gone for the actually falling asleep option. does she really want to hear about whatever goes bump in the night (or day) here? (want? no. need? probably.)

doesn't matter, though. she's already outed herself as awake and capable of holding a conversation, so she might as well own up to it; after a little raise of her brow, daisy pulls herself upright, legs dragged up onto the bed in order to settle in a relaxed version of a butterfly pose, knees resting against the sheets so her hands can fall flat against them. so very zen. ask her about the benefits of green tea. ]

Can you tell me about the creatures? [ nobody's mentioned an attack on the city thus far, so information is news to her. ] You said they had no legs?

[evite]

[ at the sound of conversation, daisy stills. her hand hovers over another piece of fruit for a considering second or two, her gaze shifting to get a better look at the man whose voice sounds so nonplussed by the current state of affairs. for what it's worth, he seems more interested in finding some caffeine than stopping a potential theft.

does it count as theft if it's technically community property? daisy doesn't know, and she can't exactly consult karl marx on the subject right now, so fuck it.

she's still taking that apple, though. ]

Can you grab me a cup? [ she's not much for coffee, it's a better alternative than nothing. a beat, and then, ] Is Thor your dog?

[ because she might be from earth and she might be tangentially related to the avengers back home (granted, in the same kind of way that the postman is tangentially related to the president) but she's not immediately ready to assume that the actual thor is here in this same cyberpunk hellscape. plus, thor would be a cute dog name. she'd have considered it herself if she had ever had opportunity to actually have a dog. ]

[warfares]

[ a second is removed, and he glances inside it — unsure what exactly he expects to find but pleased that despite the state they had found the safe house in, the previous occupants at least washed up after themselves — before answering, ] No, [ the cup is set down, followed shortly by a foil packet with its edge folded over and pegged closed, ] he's a large blonde.

Pleasant enough, [ he allows, as close to a compliment as he's ever given, ] but voracious. I think they might have had to adjust their supply runs to accommodate him.

[evite]

[ with rey's arrival and immediate command, whatever syllables might have waited on her tongue are swallowed down without complaint — or, more specifically, without any verbal complaint, since daisy's been so adamantly told not to speak. it's frustrating, and only grows more so as the other woman proceeds to lead her away from the organizer and into the fray of people milling outside the shelters. back out into the square she'd just managed to get away from, apparently.

she has so many questions. why are they leaving? where are they going? why can't she fight back if she's told to do something? what the fuck is this ella enchanted bullshit, and who can she dm on twitter to get it to stop? daisy's over it, and it's not even noon yet.

she can't speak because she's been told to not, but that doesn't mean she can't try to communicate her displeasure with the entire operation in other ways. agitated sounds that don't quite form words at first, and when they turn a corner and rey's grip on her arm goes a little too tight for comfort, a hand reaches out to smack it away.

what the fuck: the title of today's adventures. ]

[evite]

[ she's still on the fence, strictly speaking, but the concept of a literal thunderbolts and lightning god just hanging out in a safe house and ruining their anonymous benefactor's quarterly budget is just ridiculous enough for daisy to temporarily say fuck it to her denial and dive right in. when in rome or whatever. ]

Sounds like a hell of a guy. I feel like I should ask him if he brought a brother along. [ she eyes the foil packet for a moment, unsure. ] Coffee, right?

[ it could be something else. this place may have apples, but maybe they drink dirt tea or something here instead of the good stuff. she doesn't know, and she's not exactly in a position to start trusting her stomach to the unknown. ]

safehouse.

[retravel]

[ fitz catches her as she's eyeing the bed. it takes a moment for him to recall the earlier announcement of new arrivals, like himself and the other former captives. even with the short hair, he recognises her profile. hope spikes before he can stop it. it might not be her, he reminds himself, even as he winds around two other refugees to reach her corner. could be an alternate universe version (god, he hates that being a valid theory), an LMD, or even simply a daisy from a separate point in spacetime. perhaps she's from the past, like bobbi. selfishly, he'd rather she be a copy than the old daisy 'cause he has no idea how he'd explain the framework work to her. it'd been easier with bobbi and hunter because they hadn't been there, y'know>

daisy had — had seen him shoot agnes — had heard him talking like he thought inhumans were less than human, had been tortured — stop. stop thinking. ]

Daisy. [ he manages, her name ticking up at the end, given his uncertainty over what he'll hear in reply. if he gets a my name is skye shot back, he may very well deflate. he raises a hand to touch her shoulder but thinks better of it, letting it hang in the air instead. hovering. ]

[ for his part, he's tidied up beyond the scruffy beard, with plain clothes that almost fit, just a tad too big. his eyes are wide (bug-like, to be honest), searching for recognition in daisy's features and any sign of injury on her person. ]

sorry but that's impossible

[saviorexe]

[He hears a voice, a tempo of footsteps approaching, sees the shadow of a new presence cast across the medical stock strewn about the ground. Wants to look up, can’t — his body a treacherous thing right now, treating a flippant request as an iron-clad demand, giving himself no choice. His nerves rake with indignity through the alarm, all of this running a frightening parallel, hitting too close to home, but even that doesn’t seem to matter.

Markus’ emotions cry foul a thousand times over, but his hand reaches for another roll of gauze on the ground. Connor snatches it up before he can, and his hand stills, before simply reaching over for the next closest item that he can stack up in his arms.

Tensions run high, but at least these men seem to possess enough good sense to not start a real fight due to some spilled supplies. There was too much work to do, better efforts to be expended elsewhere. A few exchanged glances between the group, before one of them just waves a dismissive, annoyed hand, coupled with a, Forget it. We’ll take care of it, just tell your friend to be more careful.

(Friend? The man who’s stepped in defusing the situation had called him by his name, but Markus’ memory can’t match a voice with a face. Can’t even see his face, his body still inclined to reach over and pick up something else, the command still instilled in him. Lifts it up, goes for another—)

Hey, you can stop, comes another clipped statement. It’s enough — Markus stops with something of a shock, a man freed from invisible confines, dropping everything. His mind reels from the yo-yoing transition of heeding commands to not, still steeped in confusion.

No, Connor, Markus is not all right.]

[evite]

[ she's given her name out like candy today, in lieu of a business card or shield badge bearing her identity, so hearing it called out alone isn't strange. what is strange, though, is the recognition the voice calling it sparks in her mind even from far away. that accent, the crisp bite against the syllables — treacherous hope blooms in her chest before she can even stomp it down, and when she turns to put a face to the sound, there's no questioning her own eagerness.

she might want it to be him, but there's no part of her logical mind that thinks there's any real likelihood of it. so far, she hasn't encountered anything like home, so why start now? to be proven right (or is it wrong? she doesn't know) is so surprising, it's practically a punch to the gut.

there's a beat of silence, one in which daisy's eyes screw closed and then jolt back open again, as if expecting the shape of him to be a mirage in the desert that disappears as quickly as it has come — and then there's everything at once: the sound of her voice calling his name, ]

Fitz? [ her body, practically leaping forward to envelop him in a hug so tight it squeezes both their ribs; ] Fitz. [ her choked back, disbelieving laughter, even as she clings to him in an embrace she's not quite ready to let go of yet. ] God, what hellscape are we in now?

[ a hell planet? a fake digital world run by a jealous bitch of a robot? doesn't matter, though. they can handle it together. that's a fact in any universe. ]

safehouse

[timemachine]

[At the eating area, Akane is eating an apple. May not seem like the kind of food one would eat in a general area like this, but she's polite and sitting in the kitchen itself isn't the best idea. Even if she's done it before out of exasperation when she first arrived. However, it's nice to see new faces?

Maybe?

Honestly, it just worries her a little more that there are people like them that have likely been drugged, sedated, and experimented on. So when one of the new arrivals comes into the dining area with his food, she can't help but stare for a couple of seconds before she decides to move seats and sit near him.

A giant smile appears on her face, welcoming and maybe too kind for this place.]

The food here is kind of different, huh? Apparently, they like bugs a lot. I don't think I could ever go for that, even if I was really hungry.

[There's a gentle chuckle from her.]

My name's Akane. While I can't say 'I hope you enjoy your stay', I hope we can get along!

[saviorexe]

[She’s squinting down at him in such a way, and it would be almost comical how Markus, on some strange reflective instinct, almost feels the need to mirror the expression back — but due to the heaviness of exhaustion that is prevalent in his bones, he manages only an even, somewhat apologetic stare.]

...No, I’m not going to make you move.

[That she would offer to move all of her things on his account is thoughtful, but despite the events of the day (all confusion and worried tension, the bite of frustration), Markus is more concerned with not being thoughtless.]

Too much trouble when I could just take the neighboring cot. [He gestures over to it, a vague motion of a hand.]

Unless you already have a neighbor?

safehouse;

[covertness]

[ bobbi is on her way out. at least that's what she tells herself: she isn't staying here, even if she isn't cutting ties with morningstar because who knows when or how that connection will be useful. she isn't cutting ties, but she needs to do something more than sit in a safehouse. she's pretty sure she'll get a job offer soon and she's looked at a small apartment already.

she's on her way out, but she's going to keep one foot in the door. because morningstar might be useful, but also because there are those that, like her and those that woke up on the bus with her, that come from different worlds. some of them might have skills that are helpful. some of them might be pieces of a puzzle she needs to solve. some might need protection.

at any rate, she figures they're better off together, sharing information, trying to solve the problem of how to get home and the mystery of what's happened to them as a team. (there's no contradiction in her mind between that and the fact that she's lying to all of them about who she is; that's a precaution not against them but against whoever did this to them.)

so she's on her way out, but she's intending to keep the connection open. that involves those that have only just woken up here, too. which is why she sits down in front of a stranger with the oatmeal she's just made herself. ] Just got here? [ she asks, sympathy in her tone. it's more than an educated guess. ]

safehouse.

[covertness]

[ bobbi wanders into the kitchen to find some food — and to see whether she can spot any of the three individuals el mentioned in her message, but that's not obvious and she likes to keep it that way.

she doesn't expect to find a familiar face. she doesn't expect to see skye- no, daisy. that's what fitz said her family named her, that's what she's going by now. she swallows part of her smile so it isn't quite as bright as it would ordinarily be. nothing to see here, really, if anyone's watching. ]

Hi. [ she steps up behind daisy and continues immediately without waiting for an answer or a reaction. ] Daisy, right? I'm a friend of Fitz's. Katelin.

[ and she sticks out her hand. best to establish right away that she's using a cover, here. if whoever did this to them doesn't yet know what she's capable of, she wants to keep it as a surprise. ]

shelter.

[covertness]

[ el's sent a message and of course, bobbi's gone looking. with how many people there are in the shelter spilling out onto the square, she's not actually sure she'll find anyone, but it seems she gets lucky: there's someone with an equally shaven head, wearing similar scrubs to the ones she'd been in when she'd woken up.

(her hair is growing out, but it's a slow process: just a little more fuzz on her head than there is on his right now, almost enough to call it a short cut. almost enough to make it look deliberate.)

he catches her arm before she can say anything and the empathy link kicks in. fury, fear and confusion from his side. determination and understanding from hers. ]

Yeah, of course.

[ she offers a smile and her tone is casual. ]

[saviorexe]

[Markus has his own apple, gleaming red on his tray, sitting next to a plain bowl of oatmeal. A mundane sight, in all the reality-upending strangeness that's taken place in just the last few hours. Almost comfortingly "regular", if not for the fact that his body dictates that he eat it, thus rocketing him back into the category of uncertainty -- if only because it'll be the first time he's ever done so.

Not that eating, in general, is a foreign concept to him. Nor is food preparation; years of being a caretaker had made him more than familiar with meal prep, with what appeared appetizing and what didn't. The food in front of him isn't so much alien as it is just... him trying to figure out just the best way to approach it.

But all of that is interrupted when a girl takes the seat across from, smile beaming wide, and Markus blinks, looking up at her. Met with gentle, energetic words, and an introduction. Markus swallows thickly, mind still feeling too slow to properly process anything, but replies easily enough.]

I didn't go for the bugs. I know I'm not in any position to be picky, but-

[But his experiences back in Detroit dictated that bugs aren't your average side dish, and such inclinations aren't so easily forgotten.]

I can live with the oatmeal. [A beat, and he offers an introduction in turn.] I'm Markus.