ARRIVAL LOG 011

[larkers]

WHO: Everyone
WHERE: New Amsterdam
WHEN: November 5
WHAT: The eleventh arrival
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Coercion, loss of autonomy. Further notes at end of log.

> ARRIVAL LOG #011

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 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.

"Stay here," one of the guards barks, right before looking to the guard to their left. "You've got the honors of passing on the message from the boss?" he asks. The woman nods, and then steps just in front of him. "Now listen up, everyone! This is way warmer than I'd ever go for, but he's got a soft spot for you." She offers a twisted smile, as if she isn't keen to play messenger. "Hello, everyone. You're likely wondering how you got here." She pauses to roll her eyes at the joke – because it is a joke, albeit a bad one (in her opinion). "That's not something I can share right now. There are too many hands invested in this pie. But I need you all to stick to the festival, and not go looking for trouble. Don't hurt anyone. Don't look for a police officer. Have fun out there until it's time to process you. I don't actually know how that goes, but the ones like you? They've got it down to a science." She pauses here, looking puzzled. She's read this message in advance, but there are still aspects of it that stand out. Oh, they were warned about the others. To avoid them at all costs, because they'd be looking. "And sorry for the scrubs – I know they aren't great for a party, but they make you stand out. Have a good time. Just don't get arrested out there. I can only pull out my Beijing contacts so many times." This message is read entirely off her neural implant – not that the people dressed in scrubs in front of her would realize that.

After she's done, the last of the guards turn to 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, there are many food stalls selling foods in mason jars, as well as a stage off in the distance with people in colorful outfits moving in unison. It seems that you've arrived at some kind of festival, and believe it or not, this is low-key compared to some of the last.

◉ 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 – and that includes the lengthy message passed on from the mysterious patron.

> HARVEST FESTIVAL

The message from El comes the same as usual: insistent, not waiting for any active attempt to open it. Scrolling within your vision as if being written while you're reading it.

Well, everyone, it's time for another round of saving your newly arrived displaced kidnapees. This time they're not blending in at all. It's white scrubs all the way. Probably doesn't really go with a harvest festival – is that some corn-in-the-cob in your pocket or are you just happy to see me? Anyway, have fun out there.

The New Amsterdam Annual Harvest Festival begins with a parade bright and early in the morning. Rather than being dressed up with large holographic displays with AR functions that interact with everyone's neural implants, this parade is au naturale. The floats themselves are handmade with careful craftsmanship and designs, especially given the lack of wood available in this world. Everything is bright and colorful. Between each float, there are large dancing troupes dressed in lavish costumes full of colors. Some of the dances featured are unique to this world and its future, while others pay homage to harvest festivals of the past, hailing from regions of Japan, Korea, China, India, Nigeria and the Philippines. The garb itself is unique to these regions – relics of a previous world, celebrating the harvest and promise of what may come in the future.

Unlike many New Amsterdam events, there is very little room for technology and heavy advertisements. While numerous subsidiaries provide donations for the harvest festival, they do so with the understanding that their involvement will be obscured. The harvest festival is meant to act as a way of celebrating the natural way of the world, and of stepping away from technology for a time. That said, there is little emphasis on any artificial intelligence or mentions of the Xelkoven War – it seems as if this celebration is meant as more of a pure revelry of what the Earth used to provide, rather than what humans managed to avoid.

Once the parade is done, there is a large festival in progress. Every worker at the harvest festival is there because they believe in this celebration, and thus they volunteered to be involved. Anyone who wants to be there because they chose to volunteer can. As for the native volunteers – a large number of them will be sporting numerous tattoos of unique symbols that have been seen around the city (most notably the Insomniac's Ball and the shrines to the Displaced). They'll look at any of the Displaced that they recognize with admiration, but won't be quick to engage with them.

The harvest festival is just a one-day event, but it's jam packed full of things to do!

> HARVESTS

While the hydroponic farms around New Amsterdam are always working to keep the citizens fed, they celebrate their harvests once a year at the harvest festival. Many of these farms come together and sell their vegetables in mason jars and even create various sauces for citizens to purchase. Want some delicious spaghetti sauce that's ready to go? What about taco sauce or something to make quick tikka masala? These food stalls have everything ready to go – and they're all too eager to share what they've made. The stalls all offer discounts to anyone who buys their jars in bulk, hoping that they can happily impart their delicious and natural foods to the citizens of New Amsterdam. While hydroponic farms on a whole are "less natural" in how they grow food, these jars of food are less processed. What's in there is, for the most part, pickled or cooked down into a sauce, making it so that New Amsterdam citizens can enjoy a flavorful meal.

> CHARITY

In a continuation of the mindset during Halloween, the harvest festival doubles as a site for charitable activity around the city. Gaby will ask Morningstar's people to set up a booth to collect any clothing donations, and it'll be obvious that while this booth is not noticeably linked to Morningstar, it's set up every year in hopes of gathering these clothing donations for people in need. The Morningstar booth isn't the only of its kind, and many of the food stalls with mason jars will also have a box for people to donate goods should they want to help people in need. Unlike every other New Amsterdam festival, there are no food trucks. Instead, there is an all-day buffet that constantly rotates out food so that people who are hungry can have a full meal as the day goes on. Everything is free. However, this buffet includes no alcohol – as if to counterbalance the drunken revelry during the Halloween celebrations, there is none on the premises here.

> FERTILITY

In the past, harvest festivals have almost always been linked to fertility. While fertility is less of a concern in 2511 – thanks to the rigid population control – there is a sense of hope that Earth itself, as well as the terraforming colonies, will eventually give way to a future where these mandates aren't as necessary. For now, the harvest festival celebrates the idea of fertility, as well as allowing the Earth to replenish itself. Fertility is an aspect in that, after all. One section of the festival's stalls is dedicated to this ideal, and has a unique tradition brought over from Japan. Each of the stalls feature large phallic structures on the top, and like the parade floats, these are newly made every year from scratch. In addition, the food stalls also partake in an all-natural popsicle contest (after all, it wouldn't be a New Amsterdam festival without some kind of food contest). These popsicles come in all different flavors – from strawberry to pickle brine – and are all slender and phallic in their presentation.

> DANCING

Throughout the day, music will always be playing while some form of dancing goes on on the main stage. Most of the day, this dancing is thanks to the dance troupes that come in and perform, even though they've already done it at length on the parade routes. Many of the volunteers will be put in charge of keeping these dancers fed and hydrated so that they can keep at it – though they're always happy for the opportunity that the festival offers them. When these staged shows aren't happening, they have interludes where festival-goers can come on stage and learn more simplified versions of the different dances from the Earth's cultural history. Once it's dusk, there is a two-hour long dance contest where these troupes compete with one another, putting on a unique show that they've prepared for the event.

> WRESTLING

The other event that goes on all day is an event borrowed from Korea: ssireum. Multiple people enter this wrestling contest, and thanks to the amateur-nature of it, there is little concern about who wrestles with one another (outside of age, of course). The sport itself involves two opponents holding on to each other's red and blue band called a satba. Throughout the contest, they try to put the other person down, making it so that their upper body touches the mat. There are rules set up to ensure that no one brings any real harm to their opponent, and since it's wrestling, there is no room for any dirty tricks like punching, kicking, biting or anything similar. When it's over, the person who's wracked up the most wins throughout the day is given a sash that declares them "The Most Powerful."

> SAFEHOUSE

Located under an abandoned hover-bike garage, access to the safehouse is a hatch in the floor beside a rusted set of metal shelves that used to hold tools and supplies. The immediate area is similarly abandoned: full of rundown and dilapidated warehouses and forgotten businesses, where numerous people squat in hopes of having some stability because they can't afford a place themselves. 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 safehouse is a large space with multiple rooms for storage, with the largest of the rooms 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 is a mini-bar set up in the kitchen. The quality of the alcohol inside is akin to what someone might get from the well, but it's well-stocked.

◉ 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 NOVEMBER 09 (JUNE 17). 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 NOVEMBER 09 (JUNE 17). 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.

As a note: all new characters arrive after the parade ends.

If you have any questions or ideas about how you'd like to get your character involved in the world, 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 June calendar rundown for a look at things happening this month, as well as some additional notes from the mods.

As a note to the entirety of our playerbase, we are at 58 players, which is 2 players away from our game cap! This is very exciting for us as moderators, especially as we quickly head toward our one year anniversary! There is a very good chance that this will be our last "full" arrival log for a while, though we have plans (and ideas!) in mind for future months.

As a reminder, AC for new characters accepted in June 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 July 1 at 12 AM UTC and close on July 8 at 12 AM UTC. 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]

[forcevisions]

Regarding this: "As for the native volunteers – a large number of them will be sporting numerous tattoos of unique symbols that have been seen around the city (most notably the Insomniac's Ball and the shrines to the Displaced). They'll look at any of the Displaced that they recognize with admiration, but won't be quick to engage with them."

If the Displaced try to engage them, will they be willing or evasive?
If they are willing, will they provide any explanation about the meaning/source of their tattoos if asked?

gaby – npc – ota

[vns]

[ Gaby will be present for anyone who wants to ask her questions. most of her time will be spent stocking and putting away many, many jars of pickled vegetables and prepared sauces. there are pickled carrots, good ol' pickles, onions, as well as a lot of different sauces. there are also some fresh noodles, too – also bought from one of the stands, and specifically put into the cupboard in a meaningful way.

(hint hint, says gaby: this is easy to make and no one needs to almost break the microwave. probably.)

if anyone joins her, she'll raise her eyebrows. ]

Want to help?

[ a beat. a smile. ]

Unless you're here for me and not the pickles. I promise the pickles are better.

[athousandwords]

[Not expecting someone to be hanging around, Eiji startles and pauses when he comes in. And then he looks politely apologetic, like he thinks he interrupted.

But it smooths into a tiny smile in return for her own. He relaxes, shoulders lowering. His dark eyes glance between her and the jars and noodles.]

I'll help. [He lifts up something of his own; a four ounce jar of pickle slices and onions.] Can I add this?

rey | ota

[forcevisions]

[ Rey only catches glimpses of the parade from her spot at Morningstar's donation booth, but she spends the whole time climbing on top of a chair to try and get a better look, eager and straining. When it's over, she slumps down into the seat and hunches her shoulders.

This early, it's still cold. She's going to need a better jacket, but it's not cold enough yet to justify a snow jacket like she'd worn in New Tokyo, and she's trying to wait it out and get a sense for Earth's climate first. The humidity makes it worse instead of better somehow--at least until the peak of the day, lately, when it gets over 70. The dampness of the air clings, making the coolness linger.

As people come by to talk about where the donations will be going, her teeth are chattering through her spiel about helping people in need. Occasionally, she gets distracted, dropping her attention to the food they're carrying with them and -- ]

Where did you get that? [ Her eyes are round as saucers as if debating slipping out of the booth and foregoing charity entirely to go track it down. ]

[dragonwarder]

Hungry?

[Daenerys rescues the poor sap that Rey happens to be talking to. She can hear something in the other woman's tone that suggests she might vault herself over the table to snatch the plate of fresh and colorful fruit they happened to be carrying. Fortunately, she is also carrying a plate of her own.

There isn't much there -- but everything that is there was obviously carefully selected by someone who knows when fruit is ripest. There are two plums, an assortment of grapes, and some other more bland vegetables.

Without waiting for an answer, she sets the plate down for Rey, along with a jar of some kind of savory sauce. Dany looks considerably better than she had when they first met -- she is obviously still working on her hair, but she is at least dressed in a stylish hi-low black wrap dress, embroidered and smocked with sequins to mirror scales near her shoulders and at her hips.]

jyn erso ✧ open

[realists]

ｈａｒｖｅｓｔｓ ✧

[ jyn wanders around the whole festival, watching the dancing and wrestling and only avoiding the popsicles in general, but she is really here for a reason.

grocery shopping.

the thing with living in a house with more food insecure people than not is that they tend to stock up on long lasting staples and the harvest festival is made for pantry stocking. which finds jyn hefting bags and crates of veggies back to the apartment before going back to make another trip and then another. it's a sure case of overcompensation but she is getting a discount for all this bulk buying so at least she is saving money! it's weird to be able to just buy food and bring it back to her home, but here she is, living the life of the rich and famous. still carrying her own groceries.

she stops when she sees new people in white scrubs and asks if they need help, but for the most part she is a woman on a mission, heavy crate cradled in her arms and not super willing to have to go around people. ]

Hey. Could you move? [ at least she is asking, not demanding. ]

ｃｈａｒｉｔｙ ✧

[ not having much doesn't stop jyn from making a donation, it just means she is donating the clothes she and cassian were given when they first arrived. she's gotten her own clothes since then and these were just taking up space in her closet that could be filled with more useful things like food.

after that, feeling like she's Done Her Part, jyn will be mainlining that buffet. it doesn't say all you can eat jyn just assumes that is implied? which is why she's going up for at least seconds every time the food is swapped out for something else. ]

You should try the cob corn, [ she says to literally anyone nearby. corn on the cob, whatever. ]

ｗｉｌｄｃａｒｄ ✧

( do yo thang. hit me up @ baleinette#3692 for something specific. )

harvests

[heliophilous]

I could but I don't think I'm gonna.

[ it's a rare thing these days to hear the undercurrent of laughter in his words but it's there because he's not really planning on just standing in her way especially when she's laden down with...a lot of food. ]

You having some kind of party?

[ what other reason was there for so much food? ]

marcos diaz | ota

[heliophilous]

001: HARVEST

[ there's a lot of food. for awhile, marcos just walks around, never really buying anything though. he probably doesn't need it as badly as other people so he looks around mostly. sometimes, he stops and picks up a jar of something or other, sometimes the vendor tries to persuade him into buying just one or just two but he begs off each time.

it's not that he wouldn't like to buy but he's still living in the safehouse and there's new people coming in so might as well leave it for those that need to stock the food pantries. that's not his job. not anymore. ]

You want this!

[ marcos doesn't even get a chance to answer before there's a stall attendant pressing a huge container of pickles into his hands and patting him on the shoulder. he's so surprised that he doesn't immediately know what to do but stand there and hold the container. ]

Uh. [ but the vendor says it's on the house and then moves onto other customers. so, now he's the owner of some pickles. great. ]

002: DANCING

[ eventually, he ditches the pickles and finds himself sitting near the main stage, watching the dancing. it's relaxing, actually. an easy way to block out everything else that's going on in new amsterdam and act like he's at some show. there were shows like this in colombia and, every so often, before things had gone to hell, his father had taken him down to the local theatres to watch.

that...seems like so long ago. his mother's dead, his father's dead and he's here.

blowing out a breath, marcos watches as the dancers exit the stage for a break. it's not five minutes later, one of those dancers comes down from the stage and invites him up to try and learn the dance. he, once again, tries to beg off but no one in this city will take no for an answer so yeah, now he's onstage, trying to learn a dance with someone who's much, much more talented than he is.

he is going to step on some feet, he knows it.

thankfully, the dancer's break is short and he's escaping the stage and his dance lessons quickly enough. ]

003: SAFEHOUSE

[ there's a teddy bear at his feet.

it's late, marcos is tired, ready to fall into any spare bed or chair and there's a teddy bear at his feet, instantly transporting him elsewhere. to another time, another place. to a small child in his arms while he poured light over her. to white walls and a bassinet that looked comfortable but not cozy.

he takes a shuddery breath and reaches down to pick up the bear. it's old, battered. there aren't many children around here so he can only guess it might have been stowed away during one of these arrivals. crouching down, marcos picks up the bear and looks around, trying to find the owner.

there's no one around who looks the type to carry a bear so he just...puts it on the first counter he sees before swiping at his eyes and turning to go. there was nothing to be gained by thinking about this.

she was gone.

and so was he. ]

004: WILDCARD

[ feel free to choose your own adventure. hit me up at spoonishly for plotting. ]

001.

[evasives]

[ there's just... so much food. it's nice to see, obviously, but it just throws him as someone who mostly lived on rations. ]

[ he's already holding his own jar of free pickles when the vendor manages to pull a fast one on another man, and cassian holds the jar up like he's going to toast it. free pickles commiseration. do they even taste good? who knows! ]

Would you have preferred a different vegetable? Or is it just the free part that startles you?

[ since it's a later hour, he's wearing his Jacket™, one that might looks very familiar to marcos, only it fits cassian much better. ]

eiji okumura | ota

[athousandwords]

.001 festival

a. (arrival) [The vehicle spits him out with the help of strange guards, and Eiji raises an arm to shield his squinting eyes from the slight change in light.

It looks like New York... sort of.

His head aches distantly, and he finds he feels so strangely complacent and lulled until they're all left to their own devices. He wonders if he's dreaming; the fuzz in his brain has lingered, and that's what it feels like. A dream. Rubbing the back of his head, there's rivulets of indention beneath the short hair. Odd.] Are you... okay? [is asked to the person shuffling along beside him toward the end of the alley.]

We can... walk together if you want.

b. [Honestly, Eiji never expected to be stuck 2511 years deep, clothed in white scrubs at a Kanamara Matsuri-looking festival, but here he is, two popsicles in hand. One is something which tastes vaguely like watermelon. The other is solid, creamy white--coconut flavored.]

Excuse me...

[Sorry, random passer-byer. He tries not to look as embarrassed as he feels, but it's hard with both hands full of... yeah. He holds both popsicles out a bit.] Sorry, um. Would you mind... taking one? [It's fine. This is fine. Just--plenty of people in the world are men and have...?] I can't eat two.

[They're phallic, but it's food? He doesn't want to waste it...]

.002 safehouse

[On one of the few cots claimed, for now, as his own, Eiji sits with a four ounce jar of pickled cucumbers slices and onions held between his knees. He's turning it slowly around and around, motions idle. His eyes are distant, dark and staring at the floor.

It's still hard to differentiate, to not get distracted.

So the next person who comes or goes by to leave, Eiji lifts his head and looks up. His smile is weakly uncertain, but there, a greeting.] Hi. [On second thought, he raises the little jar into view.]

Do you know if it's okay to leave this in the kitchen?

.003 wildcard

[I'm always down for starters from others! He'll be around the festival for a bit and then the safehouse from there on out. Hit me up if you want to plan something! moetan | astralfire#9286]

002

[blyat]

[Exhausted from a day of physical exertion, Cain's here to look in at the new faces as he'd failed to do during the festival. They all wound up in the same place inevitably, so he'd left others to hunt around and corral them. When he's stopped on his way across from the bar -- cold drink in hand, whatever they had on the shelves -- Cain surveys the stranger in a glance.

Surreal each time, to know he was once there on the edge of a cot, alone and disoriented and angry at his surroundings.]

You keeping it for yourself or sharing with the public? 'Cause someone's probably gonna take it if you leave it there.

alex benedetto | open

[windowsills]

↳LET'S PRETEND WE’RE AT COSTCO

[ by this point Alex is use to Gaby’s scrolling message, it took her an embarrassingly long time to clue in that this was the heralding of a new wave, but technology wasn’t really her thing to begin with.

white scrubs

Where had she heard that before? It would be highly inconspicuous to try and get them to the safe house without drawing attention. But the small mason jars filled with delicious (and real) looking food sparks an idea. She quickly buys a few and cradles them in her arms.

She has a plan. When she stumbles on a new displaced she'll hand them over and explain they are now undercover sales people.

After all, don’t chefs wear white? It might be a solid enough cover, she hopes. ]

↳ EVERYTHING IS PHALLIC

[ Well, that certainly is a penis. Alex is watching the parade go by while eating some sort of grilled food on a stick and really wishing she had bought something different . Her expression is… not impressed and chewing rather mechanically. Not exactly what she wanted to see during this stressful but also exciting time (because this is her day off and that counts for something.) ]

Really? There’s children here.

[ a slip in her usual mild manner. Maybe Alex has more underlaying sour thoughts than she usually lets on. Especially since yet another person offers her one of those popsicles. It’s going to be a long day. ]

costco

[athousandwords]

[At first, Eiji thinks the woman might be mistaken. (He takes the jar anyway, not knowing what else to do.) It's possible to believe he's someone else, though he's not sure when he's in white scrubs and clearly wandering.

Then it dawns on him she must be pick-up, and undercover instructions are accepted without disagreement. He wouldn't disagree regardless, but he especially won't disagree now.]

Okay. [Doctor Chef and his miraculous pickled jars.] Are you...?

[Look, he has to be sure he's not being kidnapped for the second or third time.]

Ren Amamiya | Open

[variate]

001: ARRIVAL

[ with a stumble, he's out in the world again, but not his own. this isn't Tokyo, not home, and not the Metaverse. the world is bright, and he squints down the dim alleyway, trying to make sense of the light and noise at the end of it. last he remembers, he was starting a roadtrip, but there's a gap between then and ... getting here. despite the confusion, his own nausea, and the sinking feeling that he can't act against anything that was just told to him, he makes his way toward the end of the ally.

this doesn't feel right. ]

( A ) [ Ren quickly realizes, through his blurred senses, that he's sticking out like a sore thumb. at first he notices his clothing is not his clothing at all, but a pair of scrubs; after that, he notices that his signature black locks are short, growing in at odd angles like it's been shaved. there's half an awkward stumble in his step as he makes his way to one of the clothing donation booths. ] Hey. [ his voice is a little strained, but not distressed. ] I think I need some clothes.

( B ) [ being drugged does a number on the appetite, so Ren can't stay that he's hungry, just that his stomach is empty. there's no telling where his next meal will come from, so he gets in line for the free food. there are looks in his direction from both his attire and his choice of hairstyle. with no glasses and short hair, there's a distinct intensity on his face that people seem to physically move away from.

when he gets to the food he's polite, waits his turn, and begins to pick a few things: bread, butter spread, fruit and roasted vegetables. the bread gets pocketed, but he helps himself to a bowl of rice with some pickled vegetables. he finds a spot against the wall to eat, watching the people as they pass by. ]

( C ) [ there's a phallic popsicle in his hand and he doesn't seem to know where it came from. ]

002: SAFEHOUSE

[ it takes a while to get used to everything. not just his situation, but the environment, and even despite that, he adapts quickly. there are questions that he has, but for now, he stuck. the thought to break out takes him briefly, but the situation is out of left field enough to keep him in one place. at least, for now. it's hard to fathom that his friends aren't here, that he's no longer in Tokyo, that Morgana is gone, and that Akechi is alive. he tries to keep himself busy. ]

( A ) [ the kitchen is stocked, and per normal habits, he begins to go through the refrigerator and cupboards to check the stock. he finds rice, an apple, and some spices, and while it wouldn't be up to Sojiro's standards, it's enough to make curry. to pass the time, he puts himself to work: boiling water, grating the apple, and softening the vegetables. there's no meat or stock, but there's rice. soon, there's the smell of curry coming from the kitchen, and a Very Focused teenage boy trying to make the magic happen. ]

( B ) [ after a short shower and collecting some threadbare clothing, he settles on a cot. the implant in his head is like a phone, and he begins to navigate the apps, staring off at the ceiling like it holds all the answers to the questions that he's asking himself. moreso, he keeps a tab on the conversations that are going on around him, sometimes turning slightly to eavesdrop on what people are saying. ]

003: JOKER

[ have something different in mind? surprise me, or hit me up at veronica#1133 or hadal. ]

Closed to Akechi.

[variate]

[ vision blurs when he's on the bus, making him feel like the ride is less smooth than it is. when he looks up at the nurses, there's double vision. he tries to focus on the others that are in the bus with him. he looks for Ryuji, or Ann—maybe Yusuke? there's no bag at his feet with Morgana. maybe Morgana wasn't caught. was he caught? his thought process halts as the bus does, and in the backward motion he catches the sight of a familiar face.

it's not possible.

then they're pushed off the bus and into the alleyway, and his better instincts grate against the power of the complacency drug. the unfamiliar people in scrubs mingle around him, and one of the nurses is talking about something. processing him? police? that incites some anxiety in him. they know how they got here, but they're not telling. there are other things he should be doing, but first—but first—he has to find him. as they're released he begins to push through shoulders and gaps to find him. when he does, he reaches out to grab Akechi's wrist. ]

Akech—

[ a mess of concern swallows them up, touched with anxiety and the dulled frustration and anger will being drugged again. caged again. Ren hates feeling trapped, but there's the swell of hope, as if he's not quite believing what he's seeing. ]

goro akechi | persona | ota

[impede]

a. the festival

[After his "greeting" with Ren, Akechi will be swift to take in his surroundings. The food stalls. The dancing people. He doesn't recognize all of the dances themselves, but some are familiar. The flying cars, hovering overhead, leading to different destinations around the city. The fact that aspects of it do and don't remind him of home. Buildings that scale so high are difficult to ignore.

And in all of that, a cluster of harvesting and peace. Fascinating.

As it is, he can't go anywhere until he's collected and processed. Whatever that means. He keeps calm, but slows his steps when it looks like someone spots him.]

Is it possible that you're looking for someone like me?

[When he's not doing that, Akechi will remark about how the popsicles are evidence of some low brow humor and indicate that the fertility aspect is right from home—which is Japan for him. He'll gladly eat a plate of food in hopes that by supplementing whatever's in his system, he'll be able to push out whatever's influencing him.

And finally, he will stop to watch the wrestling, hand coming to his chin.] Do you believe that this, too, is linked to the fertility of it all? Or am I simply making a tenuous link? Haha, I know I told someone the popsicles weren't very impressive as a reference, but I believe I'm falling into it myself.

b. the safehouse

[Once they're back in the safehouse, he takes to changing his clothing quickly. He's tracked what he could along the way back, and he's glad to be in something more familiar: a button-up white shirt that's seen better days, along with a pair of brown trousers. The trousers are too long, and currently folded over at the ends, and the shirt is snug against his chest, with the sleeves being slightly too small. It'll do for now, especially since he's chosen to roll up the sleeves to conceal that fact.

Far from concerned about how he otherwise looks, he takes to the kitchen to check out what food is there, pulling out one of the things of pickles to eat a few. Should someone join him, he'll look over in surprise, eyes widening.] Oh! I didn't hear you come in. This is all very secret agent of us, isn't it? [As if he doesn't appreciate the necessity of a safehouse given their situation.

He does. He just has to brush it off. He's only eighteen, after all.

Later, after not being able to find acceptable reading material—because there is none and that sucks—he stretches out on his bed with his arms behind his head. When someone else goes to return to their cot, he'll speak up:] I haven't lived with anyone for a while. Is there a polite way to keep someone from snoring? Aside from recommending medical attention.

c. wildcard!

[Hit me with your best shot!]

a)

[selfimage]

[ it's always good to get a look at the newcomers. occasionally their faces are recognizable, and Loki would rather know of it rather than have an unpleasant surprise later. his motives are to take inventory, and be just a little helpful if necessary.

sometimes the events are fun, and this one has phallic popsicles, so he can't say that he isn't intrigued. this is more well-suited to some of the festivals that come from his own culture, rather than ones mish-mashed together into something else. the popsicle is blue, and the slight hint of a casual smile on his face makes him look more devious than normal. ]

Low brow, perhaps, but still amusing. I'll take phallic-shaped desserts over stifling sexual repression any day. This one's a lot more fun.

[ Loki's simply but neatly dressed, in a button-up black shirt and a dark green hoodie. he takes pride in looking good, even out of the office. he gestures with the popsicle between dark nails, tiling his head in Akechi's direction.

he knows exactly who you are, friend. ]

Ianto Jones | OTA

[torchwoodteaboy]

001. ARRIVAL
[Have a good time, she had said.

Ianto stands, watching the bus drive away, reaching a hand up to run through his hair -- or where his hair once was, he supposes -- and tries to parse some sense out of this whole scenario. He's been kidnapped, he has to have been kidnapped. And they've shaved his head?

The why becomes clear, if not precisely, at the metal knob he finds at the base of his skull.

Right. He has no idea where he is or why, and he hasn't a thing on him but the scrubs that he's wearing. But sure. Why not attend a festival.]

Makes perfect sense. [He comments, to no one in particular.]

002. FESTIVAL
[The festival is, Ianto will admit, rather charming. Even if he feels as though he sticks out in the crowd like a sore thumb. If they're meant to be blending in, they could have at least dressed them less conspicuously than escaped hospital patients. Even if he's starting to feel as though that's something along the lines as what they are.

With no money to spend, he steers clear of the jarred goods and finds himself milling about the buffet. Which seems to be a free-for-all, emphasis on the free. Bonus for him, especially given that he can't remember the last time he's had anything to eat or drink. He can't remember the last much of anything at all, for that matter, a fact that he's trying desperately hard not to think about. For some reason, not thinking about it really isn't that hard, just now. (Have a good time, she had said.)

Will they notice if he goes back for a second helping, he wonders? Glancing around to see if anyone is watching and catching sight of someone suggestively going to town on a -- popsicle? He hopes that's a popsicle.]

Jesus...

003. SAFEHOUSE
[Ianto's fairly certain that what he's drinking is alcohol. At least that's what it's supposed to be. It's got enough of a kick to it that he frankly isn't certain that he cares.

He sits perched on the edge of his cot in the safehouse. He's getting the feeling that there's more to all of this than meets the eye. He's also getting the feeling that, with a safehouse and an established protocol for "new arrivals", as they've been calling them, this is looking more and more like a long-term predicament that he's found himself in.

(He's not going to suggest permanent. He's trying not to even let himself think it. That's part of what the alcohol is for.)

He takes another swig of the swill, making a face at the taste of it before sitting back on the cot.]

At least we've got a roof, I suppose.

[He really hates camping.]

004. WILDCARD
((ooc: if there's anything else you'd like to thread with ianto, feel free to send me a PM or hit me up at lycanthropy101!!))

Arrival

[kgbs]

You're wrong. It makes no sense at all.

[ the voice doesn't sound comforting ot reassuring or even kind. it's just very matter of fact and belongs to someone who can't always suss out sarcasm in a statement. he is getting better but there is still work to do.

soviet russian had not exactly allowed for much of a sense of humor in illya's time. ]

You're new. [ it's the scrubs that gives it away which means he has to be careful to not give direct orders since he is probably drugged as well. ]

elizabeth weir | a lil closed, a lil ota

[justbeginning]

arrival; closed.

[ Elizabeth sticks to the festival. She doesn't go looking for trouble. She doesn't hurt anyone. She doesn't look for a police officer. The fun she has is... there.

She doesn't really think about it. And the fact that she doesn't think about it should concern her, but there's a lot happening suddenly, and it's safe to say she's not living at 100% just yet. It's only after she's wandered, stiff-limbed, out into the festivities as directed that she hones back in on just how many others like her there were. That she didn't stop to check on any of them, corroborate if they could. She's just been riding a really uncharacteristic wave of impulsively doing and agreeing to festival-related things.

It's a great time to be scared, confused, and angry, with no responsible parties to grill about it and having lost track of literally anyone else in the same position that she might be able to focus on helping. Or corroborating with. Either/or.

She finally gets back into that sweet spot between people inadvertently bossing her around, though. And this is about when she takes a moment to stop and start getting a real survey of this wild cyberpunk future mega city, which is about where her general life trajectory starts to settle in, which is. About when she steps backwards directly into somebody. F. ]

Sorry. [ Some kind of music starts up down the street, so she raises her voice a little. ] Are you all right?

[ Look, she can work her way up to "I don't know what's happening and honestly like the seven fertility celebration stalls I walked past earlier have only contributed to that." ]


safehouse; OTA.

[ Thanks! She hates it! But Elizabeth hates the entirety of this life situation she's found herself in, and she gets the feeling she's not alone in that. (Hopefully not because of being a couple of newbies who forgot the empathy thing would happen if they shook hands.)

It's a lot, is all. A lot of a lot. She's scared of this in a fairly even split between just plain not knowing the bigger picture or how it ends with her back in Atlants, and a very real fear that this is somehow "nanites hacked into her brain and she's going to live months in this super real-seeming life, but she's actually dying in a coma 2: electric boogaloo," and she has no way to prove if that's the case or not.

Elizabeth tries to keep to herself as much as she can for those first few hours, since she kinda got the drug warning on the ground floor, but the nature of communal living doesn't exactly lend itself to solitude. She does get a nap in, though. Somewhere.

Beyond that, she is definitely... here. With the same sort of air as anybody who doesn't mesh well with getting restricted, because she's normally sort of an authority figure for a bunch of other people as her day job. And who hasn't been in the room-sharing economy for a good long while. Don't worry. She's tidy.

She'll be trying to ask a lot of questions, mainly, or trying to hang with anyone who gets brought in after she does, to maybe help answer some of their questions that she has gotten the answers to. She goes out of her way to try to learn names, introduce herself, maybe make an attempt at a tension-breaking joke that falls flat? It's a mystery. Get in here.

When in doubt, and confused, and terrified on a very deep and familiar level... pull yourself together and focus on literally anybody else with all the steel left in your resolve. It is not a bad amount of steel to work with.

She's always got her eyes peeled for any of the people that she's already used to focusing on from minute one of safehouse living, of course. Trouble in Atlantis travels in packs from time to time. If she's honest, she hasn't gone into this particularly hopefully.

(if anybody would like to hash out a wildcard or something a little more specific i can throw their way, feel free to hit me up about it! i'm happy to spitball some stuff, write another closed starter, etc.!) ]

a lil closed

[realists]

[ truth be told, jyn is kind of a shitty person. she can do great good things when pressed but most of the time she is living her life and she is kind of a dick in her everyday life. you don't survive her life by not thinking about yourself. so when she got smacked by a chair the first time she tried to help a newcomer, jyn decided she wasn't going to do that anymore.

and she stuck by that!

it just happened that the newcomers were at the same festival as her and she can't ignore them when they're right in front of her. she's a jerk, not a monster.

her bag of mason jars clinks and clanks as she turns around and takes stock of the situation. white scrubs just like the message. damn it. ]

Yeah, I'm fine. Are you alright?

clarke griffin | the 100 | ota

[strove]

a. general festival prompt

[Aspects of this remind her of home, and in a weird way. And not her home, exactly—the home made by the grounders. They were always uneasy about technology, never wanting it close. Clarke had few opportunities to see any of the grounder villages, as they weren't typically the site of diplomatic discussions and arrangements. Naturally, she knows of their farms, as well as the damage Pike tried to bring to them. That was a prevalent part of things right before Lexa died. Right as Lexa died, for that matter.

Yet even so, the vegetables grown in hydroponic arenas are familiar for other reasons, for Monty Green-related reasons. That, too, draws her attention. It's not moonshine and revelry, with Clarke smiling and at ease. She's more withdrawn at this occasion, off to the side and in some shade, armed with her sketchbook. She's in the middle of drawing one of the dancers who's icing her ankle, down on the ground at a distance. If anyone draws close and is one of the Displaced, she'll look up, offering them a smile.]

It's pretty calm over here, if you'd like to join me.

b. we're going shrine hunting

[Partway through the festival, Clarke eventually leaves. She doesn't return home or head to the safehouse. Instead, she heads off on foot, sticking her sketchbook in a bag so that she can look for a specific thing: the shrines. She took a few images of the tattooed people with her neural implant, spoke to one of them, and then headed off.

Her first stop? A shrine she hit months ago, standing alongside Eugenides while they spoke about the existence of god. Or gods, as it may be. It's not far from the river, and there are parts of it still there. But the recent rain has washed it away, and it hasn't been set up anew.

Sometime later, she comes near the old safehouse location—the grocery store, that is, rather than the very, very first one. The shrines there seem to be actively cleaned out from what she can tell, pulled away.]

Huh. Apparently they got the memo.

[That they did is very concerning.]

c. wildcard

[Assume she does things like "eats food" and "watches dancers" at the festival, too! There's just a lot of sketching, too.]

A

[resleeves]

[ a fuckin' harvest festival isn't exactly his scene but it's better than staying inside and staring at the walls. this, at least, gets him outside and puts him in the middle of things so if some shit happens, he's there and able to get involved.

it's happenstance that sends him by the dancers and while he initially rolls his eyes, he does pull to a stop when he spots someone familiar bent over a sketchbook. ]

Calm's boring.

[ but his heart's not really into the sentiment. it's more being contrary because he can. ]

takeshi kovacs. ota

[resleeves]

01. CHARITY

[ the last of these things that kovacs had come to, he'd gotten into several fights and nearly had his neck fucking ripped open so he wasn't real confident about how this one would go. for once, he doesn't show up with violence on his mind but the aggression's there, always simmering.

the allure of free food draws him in even if the lack of alcohol is a fucking gyp. but whatever, he'll survive. he'll lower himself down to the levels of everyone else and drink water. some might say that's even better for him but he's died several times already. a little alcohol isn't going to do any further damage.

he piles his plate high with food and then finds a seat away from most everyone else to avoid any inane chit chat. he might be willing to come out to these but he doesn't want to socialize about the weather or jobs or any other fucking thing.

boring. ]

02. WRESTLING

[ he gets wind of some sort of fighting exhibition going which, naturally, means he's going to show up and take a look. what he finds is a little different than he expects. it's fighting, sure, but it's not the kind he's used to. it looks...boring. kovacs isn't stupid enough to say that in the middle of a bunch of people who seem to take it seriously but there's nothing to this that makes it look exciting or adrenaline fueled.

it's a punch of pulling and pushing and kovacs just stands there, arms crossed over his chest, looking unimpressed. ]

It's a fuckin' game of tug of war.

[ revere his opinion for surely you haven't heard something as intelligent as it before. despite not being too entertained, he doesn't walk away. maybe someone will spice things up and make this actually entertaining. ]

03. WILDCARD

[ feel free to choose your own adventure. hit me up at spoonishly for plotting. ]

02

[blyat]

[Taking a break from his last victory match, Cain is shirtless and damp with sweat, but at least he's caught his breath by the time he notices Kovacs and hears the comment. With a snort, he paces closer -- still wearing the provided belt fastened around his own waist.]

Yeah, but you still gotta take 'em down. Some of these assholes aren't pushovers.

[And he's competitive, so he wants to win... whatever it is you win from this tournament.]

But you look like you'd fight better when someone's getting bloody.

KD6-3.7 | OTA

[replicant]

i. FESTIVAL

The thing is, K should be better at disappearing into the crowd than this. He wasn't made to stand out—from his average height and build (most combat models tend to be Big), to his sort of inoffensively hangdog face and subdued demeanor—but all of this is baffling enough that he can't help staring wide-eyed at, specifically... the food.

Hell of a thing to get so easily caught up on, considering the weirdness of everything else going on, but.

While he hasn't had a long lifetime, even in his fabricated memories he ate only Wallace Corporation synthesized product, grubs from the protein farms that had saved Earth's population from starvation and things like re-hydrated noodles and rice. Sustenance, the necessary nutrients without frivolities such as flavor (the LAPD didn't pay enough for those sorts of luxuries.)

Which is a long way to say that he's one of the idiots who gets suckered into trying a pickle brine popsicle. It even gets him to make an entire expression the first time he puts it in his mouth, and though he manages to finish it anyway with an almost hauntingly grim determination... he does hesitate when he makes his way over to the buffets, lesson apparently learned.

He casts about for literally anyone who seems like they're more familiar with the food choices on display, gesturing towards the tables with his empty plate and asking, "Got any suggestions for what's good?" He's hoping he sounds less like he's never seen 90% of this stuff and more that he's any other indecisive yokel. It'd probably be a better effort at blending if he weren't wearing the weird white scrubs.

ii. SAFEHOUSE

At the safehouse, K mostly just... exists. He'll do what's asked of him long after sleeping the drug's effects off, with a sort of blankness that's probably kind of worrying to behold if one isn't used to working with robot/robot-adjacent folks. He collects a few of the worn pants and plain shirts in muted colors from the charitable donations, seems momentarily baffled at the length of shower one can take in the communal bathroom, and otherwise spends most of his time studying the Network as unobtrusively as possible.

It's only on the third day that he finally musters up his first complaint, which is sighed into a cup of the meager alcohol on offer: "Really wish I had a cigarette."

All in all... underwhelming.

iii. ETC

[Want a different starter? PM/PP me at relatable to plot! (Also permissions post for K's memory reading ability is here!)]

i

[saviorexe]

Though Markus didn't need to eat until he arrived in New Amsterdam, it was necessary for a caretaker model to be familiar with an assortment of food — how to pick the right ingredients, how to tell when something’s gone off, how to know when fruit’s ripe enough by how resistant it is to a firm touch. Back home, he was more familiar with Carl’s kitchen than the man himself — the older artist would’ve subsisted on frozen meals, if anyone had let him — and while the android winds through various stalls with glittering mason jars on display, he relies on these ingrained instincts to pick out one in particular.

It’s a large, glittering jar of strawberries. Sugar-sweet and an almost unbelievable shade of red, Markus carries it with him like he’s obtained some kind of prize, held close to his chest while he navigates the crowd after he’s made his purchase.

Along the way, it isn’t hard to spot a man dressed in scrubs, and the android’s objective (from pick-out-something-nice-in-a-jar to help-this-new-Displaced-ASAP) aligns itself accordingly. Impossible to catch the face he makes when he bites right into a briny pickle, too, something that would be comical if being stolen from one’s world was ever a laughing matter.

When Markus approaches, a steady step, he’s met with a question. It seems to him as if he’s come literally bearing the answer.

“Do you like canned strawberries?”

hope mikaelson ; ota

[tribridfreakshow]

arrival;

[after being rather unceremoniously dumped off in the alley, Hope spends a good amount of time lingering in the darkness, watching the people pass by and trying to decide how, exactly, to deal with this. they said to have fun, and she wants to comply for whatever reason, but she has no idea where she is or how she got here and nothing any of them were saying did any help at all.

she feels like something's missing.

finally, though she moves out into the festival, keeping her head down and simply watching things as they happen around her while doing her best not to run into anyone in the crowd. she feels exposed and vulnerable, something she positively hates, and it's easy to see she's on edge by the tension in her shoulders.]

safehouse;

[she's no less tense after arriving at the safehouse, which is filled with people she's never seen before. she's heard they're all in the same predicament, that they're dealing with this together, but she's pretty sure it's just because they have no other options.

working together out of necessity isn't something she's foreign to, but it doesn't exactly fill her with reassurance.

she spends most of her time sitting on the cot that's been given to her, alone, and she can be seen making strange hand gestures from time to time, muttering things under her breath. each time she does so, she flinches, curling into her chest briefly before she grits her teeth in frustration.]

closed to caroline forbes;

[after a quick network conversation, hope abandons her cot and heads for the kitchen. she's both starving and sick to her stomach at the same time, but she'll use the food excuse to meet up with the headmistress of her school.

maybe she'll have answers that are better than the ones in the guide or given to her by the other displaced. even if she doesn't, at least she's not totally alone.

she walks into the kitchen, looking around for her signature blonde hair.]

[gasping]

[ the blonde hair hasn't changed. in fact, physically, not much is different about this caroline forbes versus the one that occupies the headmistress position in the former salvatore boarding house.

it's just literally everything else — emotionally, mentally, historically — that's different. does headmistress caroline forbes hum under her breath as she stirs spaghetti in a pot? does she rock dark skinny jeans and boots and leather jackets? who knows. life is a mystery dot mp3.

but she does still have that all-too-useful set of enhanced vampire senses, and so when hope darkens the metaphorical doorway of the kitchen, caroline's all too eager to greet the mystery girl with a smile. ]

Hey! [ free hand gestures her closer. #casual ] Hope, right?

[ absolutely zero flicker of recognition in those blue-green eyes. ]

eugenides / ota

[kleptocratic]

THE FEΣTIVAL

A | charity

[ While Eugenides does have some older, well-worn grubby clothes to donate— castoffs from his first week or so in the safehouse— he also brings some suspiciously lightly-worn garments to the booth. These items are much nicer than the clothes he is wearing and importantly, none of them are black. He's taken them from various places over the past week or two, some from unwatched coatracks and some from storefronts themselves. Only a few would fit him, so into the pile they go.

There aren't any shrines to his gods, here, and this is the closest thing he has to an offering. ]


B | food & dance

[ Free food is good food, as far as he's concerned, so you might run into him at the festival buffet. He might ask if you can cut his food up for him, actually. Eugenides can provide a knife.

He doesn't dance. But he does watch the professional troupes, and it startles a memory from him, unexpectedly. Abruptly, he stands up, and pushes his way out, using his small size and his elbows to twist through the crowd. He steps on someone's foot by accident. ]

Sorry.

[ But it's a half-mumbled half-apology. He's not really sorry, not for that, and continues pressing onward— unless the injured party chases after him. ]

THE SAFEHOUΣE

[ Eugenides doesn't live in the safehouse anymore, but he's still poor and still cannot cook, so he's still in the safehouse fairly often. He takes things habitually, so if he steals your comb or soap it's not personal, and he'll probably even give it back if asked.

Mostly, though, he's in the kitchen, gunning for leftovers. It's not an unfamiliar indignity, to be honest, though he thought his kitchen boy days were over. If there's someone who seems like they know what they are doing, he asks them an important question. ]

Do you know how to make pancakes?


WILDCARΔ

[ I'm available through PMs or at lightfellows for plotting! ]

festival (b)

[strove]

[It's worry that pushes her after Eugenides. Yes, he stepped on her foot, sending a shooting pain right through to her ankle, but she doesn't mind. Like with many things, Clarke has experienced worse. She recovers quickly either way, pushing through the crowd to move after him.

The fact that he seems as if he's fleeing is what concerns Clarke most—that he's trying to find new surroundings, trying to get away from what's happening. Her legs aren't too terribly short compared to his, but she is still shorter. By time she catches up, she shoots forward to grab the back of his shirt to try to hold him in place.]

Gen!

John Sheppard | Stargate: Atlantis | OTA

[impavid]

> HARVEST FESTIVAL

HARVESTS;

He's been drugged. John knows what being drugged feels like, and for that matter he knows what it feels like to wake up from an operation too. Mixed with the scrubs, the whole situation fills John with a kind of white-noise panic. He's been drugged, operated on, put in a moving vehicle and all John can think is what is it, what do they want?

They did -- something, something that involves stitches along the base of his skull and that is not where John wants to be operated on. Whoever sold him out -- and the options are endless -- clearly did so with some sort of plan.

The thing is -- nobody has asked him for information. Not that he remembers.

Unless they didn't need to.

Unless whatever they did when they operated on him was part of that.

Since he's been set free he loosely assumes that tracking is part of it, and they've busted out tracker devices before so -- so maybe he can that again. If he can find anyone to do it. If he can find anyone who can do it. Maybe it's easy. Maybe not. He needs to find out.

The words Have a good time and Just don't get arrested out there echo through his head and despite the frantic spinning of his mind, John finds himself stumbling out into the festival and looking for something to do, legs and limbs slowly starting to work.

That's unnerving too. He knows he's being compliant. He doesn't want to be compliant, but for some reason he can't fight it. Have fun is burnt into his mind as an instruction, and he has no idea how he's supposed to be blending in dressed like this but what the hell maybe scrubs are fashionable now.

Rubbing at his face to try and quell another wave of panic John stumbles again, flails out a hand and feels himself bump into someone else. He feels a little nauseous, but luckily he doubts there's anything in his stomach.


CHARITY & FERTILITY;

Wherever there is free food, John is there.

He's still on edge, uncomfortable, but the screaming white noise in his head has settled down and now he's trying to analyse instead -- to focus on absorbing as much information as he can. Eating... something seems a good idea, something easy and bland so his stomach doesn't just bring it back up. The food is free, after all, and John doesn't fully have a handle on how things work around here so taking whatever is free seems most sensible. Maybe more sensible than yelling hey I've been kidnapped in case he does so to the wrong person.

Which all culminates in John Sheppard carefully eating some bland food from the buffet and eyeing a stand where the... Popsicle competition is currently going on, face scrunched in a mixture of distaste and curiosity.

"I have a lot of questions," he finally says in a drawling American accent to the person nearest to him, "and I'm not really sure I want the answers to them."

Everything he can think of feels like it would just turn into a verbal trap, one he'd end up backing out of filled with regret. So maybe it's just better not to?


DANCING;

It's the dancing that really gets to John.

He doesn't expect it to be, didn't even think much of it and he hasn't even got a lot of interest in dancing conceptually as a thing you could watch.

Yet as he's passing by John distantly overhears the announcement, and then he's just stuck there. It's not that he's interested in the show itself -- it really could be good or bad, he wouldn't care. It's the --

It's the announcements he's paying attention to, the dances and where they're from.

They're familiar, and the familiarity fills John with a slowly building sense of dread.

He's staring, though, and after a long time he realises he's conspicuously staring while dressed in scrubs and he probably looks like he broke out of a hospital and needs to be taken back. So John catches the eye of someone watching him and offers a wincing smile.

"You not going up? I would, but think that'd be more a comedy routine than a dance routine."

There, a deflection. Something to detract him his own awkward transfixtion.


> SAFEHOUSE

The chance to clean up and get a change of clothes is at least something.

John feels overwhelmed by the number of questions he has. Solar Flares, he knows, can redirect a Stargate through time. When that had happened, though, it had at least been still within Atlantis and --

Rodney had planned for it, Rodney had helped him fix it, so --

So really, John hadn't had to worry too much about the science of it himself.

Now --

Now, here, this far into the future John isn't sure how he can... know if it's the same universe as his own. How he can even safely find out if Stargate Command is still a thing, explain his situation without sounding insane and get them to send him back. If they even would.

Dropping to sit on a spare cot he downs some of the alcohol with a wince, glances over at the person on the next occupied one questioningly.

"You mind?"

The cot doesn't seem taken, but maybe the owner is just extremely tidy.


[ ooc; I default to prose but I'll match brackets if that's what you prefer! ]

Panic! At the Harvest Festival

[doubledoctornocitrus]

The worst part—the absolute worst part—is the soul-sucking, fatalistic little voice in the back of Rodney's mind that says, "what is it this time," almost as soon as lucid thought returns. Not that he can really call himself lucid, not entirely, as he sways in what he (in a horror-movie-slow dawning realization) realizes is a vehicle full of 1) guards and 2) a nurse and 3) others who look like they've escaped from a mad scientist's lair 4) complete with scrubs and shaved heads and thousand-yard drugged stares 5) just like he's wearing 6) oh god oh god oh god (repeat ad nauseam).

So that's not optimal.

He's disgorged into disorienting light and noise after a shitty pep-talk that leaves him with more questions than answers. And he can't even demand any, because the bus packs up and leaves. It's the mixture of suggestion ('stick to the festival') and his woozy terror that sends him first bolting away from the other be-scrubbed refugees toward the mouth of the alley and the festival itself, then causes him to stop, stalk-still, and start patting furiously at his head to start the body-check that he desperately needs to do, what with all of the indications that he's been put under and then operated upon.

His fingers are on his skull for all of half a second, though, before someone stumbles into him. He starts to curse, gets half of an expletive out, before the alarmingly-shaven man suddenly registers as John.

Rodney doesn't even think. He makes a swipe to clutch at John, wobbles and misses, and flails again, this time attempting to catch at John's sleeve before either of them tips into another passerby. Panic and a deep memory of dire moments leave Rodney wide-eyed and as clingy as his uncoordinated limbs can manage, like John will disappear if Rodney blinks—or if John moves more than two inches in any direction that's not toward's Rodney.

The only thing he can manage out loud is, "Oh my god."

james holden | ota

[hoss]

001. ARRIVAL / FESTIVAL

[ Maybe I've lost my mind.

That sentiment passes through Holden's head. His mouth is dry. He thinks nonsensically of simulations and drills, of hazing back when he was serving instead of hiding on the Cant or drifting from one disaster to another. He thinks: This is a bad dream.

He thinks of contamination even as he starts moving forward, their captor's message like a string hooked under his skin. (Have a good time. Don't go looking for trouble.) Miller's nowhere to be seen, if he was ever even in Holden's room in the first place, and where he's found himself is now is bewildering. How long has it been since he was planetside? How can he even be planetside? It's impossible.

Just as impossible as seeing a dead man crop up in your quarters, so maybe Holden should stop expecting anything that comes his way to make sense. ]

Great, [ Holden says finally, one hand plucking absently at the scrubs. Not his. His uniform is...? ] This is just goddamn great.

[ Irritation is muted. Have a good time is an imperative. It pushes him forward, joining the crowd as it passes.

He drifts, conspicuous in all white, towards the sound of music. His gaze skips quickly, incredulously, over the food stands. Definitely not on a station with a spread like this... ]

002. SAFEHOUSE

[ Pick a bed, someone had said. Holden should have paid more attention, knows it rude that he hadn't, but he barely remembers the person who'd given the instruction.

So he picks a bed. He washes his face. He puts on clothes that don't quite fit. He contemplates a nap, but gives up on the idea pretty quickly. After that, he can be found:

in the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets as if taking stock.

raiding the mini-bar

assessing the medical supplies

Bump into him at your leisure, no formal introductions required. ]

003. WILDCARD

[ both the top options are basically open for whatever your heart desires, but if there's a mystery third option, go ahead and drop it on me. feel free to snag me on plurk @ pogonophile if you have any questions. ]

002

[strove]

[Clarke would say that she never forgets a patient, but that's in part because she hasn't had that many. She's not a doctor—not yet, anyway, and that's some time away from now just the same—and there is a distinct difference between someone being a patient and someone being like her. Like all of them. Displaced. Glowing, complete with her doing what she can to help a wound.

Jim had been a particularly stubborn patient. Determined to throw himself back into the line of fire, knowing that he felt he needed to do that. Clarke recalls their conversation, and seeing him here—again—stalls her in her tracks. Least of all because he's walking around like he doesn't know this place, which ... technically he shouldn't. But she's heard about the others—Marcos and Gaby—so it happening to Jim too isn't a surprise.

But still, she raises a hand toward him in greeting, dropping it after a moment awkwardly.]

Hey, Jim. I'm Clarke. We should probably talk. [Just in case he wasn't given that particular lesson? She's here to provide.]

Rodney McKay | Stargate: Atlantis | OTA

[doubledoctornocitrus]

None of the instructions Rodney was given came in any form of 'don't panic' or 'stay calm.' He did have 'have fun' and 'have a good time,' but Rodney is an excellent multitasker in the face of existential crises and senses of overwhelming doom. He can both seek out this mythical fun/good time after being kidnapped and operated upon while also having a full systematic meltdown.

Well, slightly less of a meltdown than he otherwise might be having just at the moment because he's not the only one in this metaphorical boat, and he's going to remain within screaming-like-he's-dying range of John, but...

Have fun? For fuck's sake. He resents everything about this situation, of course, but the sheer inanity of that particular instruction to which he's compelled to adhere rankles most of all.

So. Fine. Fun.

He can do that.

.001—Comfort(?) Food
The string of samples (try one!)(here, you look like you could use it!)(if you like farm fresh, you should definitely have one of these!) that Rodney has had shoved in his face while praying that he's not horribly allergic to anything inside of them has led him to a buffet where at least the 'eat as much as you want!' is nonspecific enough that he can be a bit more careful about his culinary choices, pace himself, and maybe get himself back to some sort of equilibrium through evening out his blood sugar. And, honestly, nibbling on an array of this and that is familiar enough that it counts toward enjoying the festival.

He plants himself at a table and eyes the nearest individual with suspicion. His paranoia has ratcheted up pretty high and, food or no, he's feeling tetchy. He can't quite help but demand, "Can I help you?"

.002—Demanding Answers
Trying not to get arrested covers a very broad swath of behavior, as Rodney is well aware, and this festival is full of people who are also full of information. Average, everyday citizens of whereverthehell he is. It's a simple matter of accosting them and blurting out whatever question seems most pressing once he's gotten their attention. So far he's garnered several startled looks, the name of the festival, a handful of new swearwords, and a label of 'high on something' by the surrounding festival-goers. When demanding the name of the planet gets him a 'get the hell away from me' and enough commotion that security might be an issue if he's not careful, Rodney complies and skulks into the crowd toward a new sector of the festival flush with new victims for his interrogatory rampage.

Newly armed with a dick-popsicle and hopefully slightly less crazy-eyed, Rodney approaches a new prospective font of information.

(Those wearing no scrubs get a demand and waggled popsicle:) "What city is this?"
(Those wearing scrubs get a contemplative slurp and a speculative look:)"You have any better luck than I have figuring out what's going on?"

.003—Cricked Back
Beggers might not be able to be choosers, but they sure as hell can be complainers. The cots are atrocious for Rodney's back, and he is not reluctant to let everyone in his general vicinity know that he is uncomfortable and displeased. He grumbles his way through the beginning of his day, irritated and half-on-edge, letting the minor discomfort of what is clearly the best these people can do under the circumstances be something to focus on besides the much larger 'discomfort' of having been sliced open and deposited, drugged, into some baffling here and now. There are too many people and not enough things to do and now that Rodney's done with showering and feeding himself he's flopped back down on his cot with an annoyed, "Ugh, I've slept in tents more comfortable than this cot."

Pushing himself back up, he eyes the nearest person and asks, "If yours was any better, I'll trade you."

.004—Wildcard!

—

I'll match brackets or prose! Let me know if you want a custom starter.

001

[kgbs]

"You cannot help me."

These festivals are always difficult. He is not a fan of large crowds and even less of a fan of large parties so to be out in them, being jostled left and right by inconsiderate and rude people makes it a challenge to hold onto his anger. He'd grabbed something to eat the first moment he'd had and taken a seat.

When the other man had seated himself nearby, looking harried and uncomfortable, Illya guesses that he must be one of the new ones. It seems to happen every month like clockwork.

"I didn't ask for your help anyway."

poe dameron | ota

[followhim]

food

[ first of all, poe is getting ready for rey's birthday several months from now and grocery shopping. (okay, maybe for himself, too.) after 10+ in the military eating exciting different lunchables rations more often than not, he's learning a whole new skill. he will become a gourmet chef, damn it. or at least, he'll learn to make a garden salad. ]

What's this one? [ he holds up a mystery jar to the next passerby (you) ] You think it's any good?

wrestling

[ he heard there was FIGHTING and his angry combative heart got excited. (he still feels a phantom tinge of pain in his knuckles even after the medical pod, but he's trying his best to ignore it.)

you can see his eyes move back and forth while he tries to suss out exactly what's happening here, fighting-style-wise. his expression lands somewhere south of baffled? this is wild as hell. and, from the sound of it, perhaps the wildest thing of all is ]

All the winner gets is a sash?

[ his escape room maze was worth more credits than that, just saying. ]

wildcard

[ anything else you can think of! just let me know 💚 ]

wrestling

[998]

[jon pulls a bit of a face, sidles up next to poe with a plate of sliced fruit.]

None of the fighting here is any good.

[he's just mad because he can't use the sword on his back--the white wolf head poking through to the collar of his black jacket, cleverly incorporated into sansa's design.]

octavia blake | ota

[ex_dictator317]

I. HARVEST.

[ They're easy targets.

It's Octavia's first thought, witnessing the blinding, sterile white among the crowd. Clothing that marks them as different, taken, not belonging. At her side, her fingers clench and unclench with the reminder of the girl she had been — out of place among the Ark, helpless against its guards, condemned for existing.

Most allow her a wide berth. Whether it's due to the sight of her clothing or the sight of her expression — tense, defensive, a cagey animal preparing to lash out at the first hand in the proximity of its maw — is anyone's guess, but not everyone is deterred. The stranger that approaches takes to her with a familiarity that borders on recklessly foolish, trailing a finger over the curving line of Octavia's tattoo, and then looks to her with a question in her eyes. ]

I'm not one of you.

[ Trikru is here, Lincoln had once insisted, consoling. It doesn't quite feel true when she doesn't belong anywhere. Not without Trikru. Not without Wonkru. Not even without Bellamy. Something thick lodges in her throat, but she presses through it. ]

Who do you belong to?

[ It has to be similar, Octavia thinks, to the Grounders' way of life and identity. But the girl is already off, disappearing into the crowd with a shy tilt to her mouth and a shake of her head, while Octavia watches her go with furrowed eyebrows. ]

II. CHARITY.

[ She's had enough with a target on her back.

Paranoid and irritated in equal measure, Octavia rifles through the charity donation box without hesitation. Blending in allows her an advantage she wouldn't otherwise have, she tells herself; appearing weak and lost only leaves her vulnerable and defenseless.

One of the workers makes an attempt to interrupt, but Octavia's already plucked her way through the box. The leather of the nearest jacket in reach is worn, the jeans ripped and riddled with holes, but to a woman used to diminishing resources and the practicality of using what's available — it'll do. ]

You wanted to help people in need. I'm in need, so back off.

[ Octavia points out, a hard edge that implies it's an outright (and belligerent) accusation. The worker, at a loss, agrees and backs off just in time for Octavia to kick off her dingy shoes and yank down her scrub pants with little fanfare, perfunctory and uncaring if passerbys are startled by it. Modesty, in the apocalypse, is virtually an unknown. Unnecessary. ]

Hand me those.

[ Her head jerks to the side, toward the pants she's laid out when the next person comes around. ]

III. SAFEHOUSE.

[ Panic sets in the moment they're ushered into the safehouse. With it, the descent brings unpleasant memories — the prison the bunker had become, that spot for her beneath the floorboards as a child hidden away from society — and heavier breaths, nails digging into her palms in a poor attempt to ground herself. To find distraction in the sharp, stinging pain of it.

It doesn't work. An invisible weight seems to press on her chest, exacerbated by the individuals that block her at the door. It's only the command of don't leave that has her feet halting, and the grip of hands on her arms that keeps her from struggling. Whatever they've done to her, she can't bring herself to work past it to harm them, to sweep them out of her way.

She strikes the wall instead until her knuckles bleed.

It leaves a nasty smear behind and a few hours of immobilization before the drug works its way through her system. After that, Octavia can be found in the corner of the communal kitchen, a bottle of watered down vodka in hand as it pours along the mottled and sliced skin. Blood washes away with it, bringing a sharp sting that has her hissing and shaking her hand out. ]

IV. WILDCARD OPTION.

[ If nothing catches your fancy, feel free to throw whatever at me or hit me up via romanoff and we'll figure it out! ]

ii-ish

[strove]

[It's not Octavia that she sees at first—it's Octavia that she hears. Clarke's head is down, as she's busy sketching something and in the middle of solidifying some of the lines. When she hears the harsh edge of Octavia's voice, she brushes it off. Tells herself that she's imagining it. But then she looks up, out at the crowd of people. Spots the white scrubs, the charity table, the short hair.

Her movements are swift and automatic. Put away the sketchbook, stand up, across the way. If Bellamy were here, he'd do the same. There wouldn't be any hesitation in reaching out to his sister. (Funny how untrue that is depending on the Bellamy in question.)

Her hand rests on Octavia's shoulder (against cloth, careful not to touch skin), pressing down and pulling her in a way to make her turn. She knows Octavia's been like a wounded animal for a while, all since Lincoln's death. Since before that—always on edge, always making demands of her. She knows the two of them have been on shaky grounds.

But Octavia is her people. So she's here. Reaching out.] Octavia, it's me. I can help get you some clothes. [She nods toward the woman working the table.] Keep what you have. I have something for her.

cassian andor | ota

[evasives]

( a ) HARVEST

[ listen. it's only practical to buy in bulk! that's why cassian is doing it! it's a good deal and a lot of food, and he has disposable income now, so catch him stocking up on mason jars full of veggies in a crate he's been carrying around. he almost looks like a hoarder. there's pickles, tomatoes, ghost peppers - he wants a variety. ]

[ it may be his second or third stock up. when he says he's buying in bulk, it is not a game. when food is accessible, you buy it! and he knows for a fact that jyn is off doing the same, so the barbie dream house is gonna be well stocked. when he's not stockpiling mason jars, cassian is browsing the sauces. he's much more interested in those, taking up free samples when they're offered. if someone comes by beside him, he gestures at one of the sauces. ]

It is called chutney. What is this one? Mango? [ the vendor nods, offering a taste to this new potential customer too! ]

( b ) DANCING

[ cassian is not dancing. he's just watching, listening to the music and observing the people who are very much into the aforementioned dancing. he's trying to see if there are familiar faces, wondering how many of them might have tattoos. ]

[ he can't dance, he's holding a plateful of free food from the buffet, and he's taking his precious time. there's a lot he doesn't know about earth and he's curious. ]

( c ) SAFEHOUSE

[ cassian has been around for three drop offs, but each one has involved a different safe house. so when he moves through this one under the garage, it's another new experience for him too. he's been before just to check it out, but today he comes bearing mason jars. ]

[ he really did buy a lot of mason jars. ]

[ he's piling them in cabinets and in the fridge as necessary, and he'll respond to anyone who might approach him - especially since he doesn't look like he lives here. his clothes are newer, he doesn't look frazzled, maybe you even saw him enter the building in the first place. ]

Take a jar, please. There are plenty. [ you should see what he has at home. ]

[ or maybe he was caught with his hand at the coffee pot. ] Drink the caf while you can. It is much harder to find outside.

[ is he as bitter as the bitter coffee he drinks? yes. he runs on coffee, this is the worst. it's wrong to steal from the safehouse, but it's very tempting. ]

( d ) WILDCARD!

[ throw something at me! alter a prompt! or hit me up on discord @ romanitas#5368 ! ]

b. i told you this would happen

[evite]

[ cassian may not be dancing, but the plate of food in his hands that he uses to brush off one or two more easily dissuaded revelers is a cheap excuse. daisy's not buying it, not when it's so easy to tug said plate away and hand it off to the nearest friendly face — try the chutney, it's good, she encourages — in order to clasp his now-empty hands in her own. ]

Come on, [ cajoling, friendly, open in a way that daisy so easily is with friends, a smile warm and bright stretched across her face as she twists to the music. ] Dance with me.

[ somewhere in the vicinity is a tall russian man scowling at those she'd roped into dancing before, but he looks marginally less perturbed at a Trusted Friend doing the dance partnering. ]

If I dance with any more strangers, he's gonna have a stroke.

[ pleeeeeeeease ]

Alec McDowell | Dark Angel | OTA

[jampony]

FERTILITY █ NATURAL SELECTIONS

[Whatever wise-ass had the idea for a parade that sported nothing but phallic representation or innuendo had to be the spokesperson for ED because it was all a little too on the nose for Alec, who despite his own needs and libido never was so overtly cocksure that it needed celebration. The floats slide by only with mild amusement and interest on his face, the rest is a little too much to take in. Alec hasn't been so hungry yet that he's willing to barter with the natives or the locals for their trade. Mostly, he's spent time eavesdropping and pinched what he could off of total strangers.

This was earth, that much he was sure of, but it didn't look totally torn apart like he was used to. This wasn't New Seattle and it was a lot more put together than the rest of America back home for him. Instead of really bothering to socialize, Alec scales the foundation of something relatively sturdy for a bird's eye view. It takes longer than it would normally, and it's met with some discomfort. It's not something he regrets, really, because above the crowd he can see just how many people are out here witnessing this parade of insecurity and it hits him that this is the first time he's ever seen so many people standing one place at once.]

Strawberry dick pop?

[Alec might not be participating but that doesn't mean he wasn't mildly interested the minute he heard that someone managed to shape flavored ice into genitals, he's always been vaguely interested in the assinine. The popsicle he's offering has been barely touched, and just the tip of it is poking through the wrapping. Just the tip.]

SAFEHOUSE █ FREAKS COME OUT AT NIGHT

[He's seen this one before, it's a tired overused plot that's supposed to build suspense. Strangers wake up in a strange place, a new environment, and they're supposed to have their heart hammering in their chest. The panic is supposed to sit in when they realize that this isn't home and this isn't anyplace they've ever been before. That doesn't happen for Alec. His whole life had been one situation like this after another, it takes no time for him to realize he's been dosed and placated and instead of acting like a fool he goes for the alternative route and pushes his back into one of the safehouse walls and watches the interactions between people in the same situation with mild disinterest.

It must be nice to be secure enough to think that any one of these people weren't a plant or ploy. Alec isn't convinced yet. Whoever is pulling the strings clearly hasn't made an appearance yet, and everyone else that just somehow managed to show up here is wandering around like they have the Thorazine shuffle. Not his modus operandi. He already chose his bed, grabbed the things that were allotted to him and is now just taking a headcount and questioning the lay of the land. Better to have all your corners covered. Panic wasn't part of his genetic sequence.]

No thanks.

[Regardless of similar circumstance, Alec isn't really a social butterfly, thank you for trying - next contestant. He hasn't budged an inch since claiming his bed and getting his provisions, he's been perched, statue still with his arms folded across his chest and his back still planted firmly into the brick. Alec more than understands, on a psychological level that people find grounding in similar situations, whatever- that's an excuse. What keeps him grounded is knowing what the fuck is going on.]]

Try the rest of the peanut gallery, I'm not interested.

[A dismissive wave of his hand punctuates the steadily growing clarity he's dealing with. He hasn't seen the light of day yet, and he feels like he's on sensory overload. Somebody needs to keep watch, in his experience, the normals aren't too good with abduction scenarios. Chaos is the last thing he wants to be a part of, better to play the odds.]

natural selections

[revvedup]

[ max hasn't been doing much participating in the festival aside from working at the morningstar booth, accepting and packaging donated goods and helping newcomers blend in by donating a jacket or shirt to cover the scrubs. she's about to leave the festival for the evening and head back to the safehouse when another newcomer walks by, and maybe they would have gone ignored and left for someone else to handle if not for the glimpse she'd caught of him as he was walking away. even without the view of his face, his form would be familiar enough for her to wonder if she'd met him before if the sight of his barcode didn't confirm it for her.

she snatches a jacket that looks like it might fit from a box that hasn't been sealed for transport yet, then starts moving through the crowd with it tucked under her arm, making sure not to lose sight of him. luck is on her side for once; she finds him stopped by where the phallic popsicles are being distributed, offering a red one to someone nearby. the person it's being offered to shakes their head, holding up a purple one of their own before walking away, and max takes the opportunity to approach, plucking the offered popsicle out of his hand, careful that her hand is only touching the wrapper and not his skin. ]

Love one, thanks.

[ well, that was one way to get his attention. ]

[deicider]

Festival - Dancing

[Sniper jumps at the opportunity learn any partner dances. The stage gives a better view of the crowd and any potential newbies but it's also a good way to pass the time. Sniper is a quick study and a light-footed, confident partner; they pass a good while letting the professionals whirl them across the stage.

If they spot white scrubs in the crowd, they will quickly make their excuses and sprint off in pursuit. If it's a face they recognize, they'll beckon them over to the stage, grinning.]


Safehouse

[Back at the safehouse, Sniper makes for a particularly domestic scene. On the stove is a warm pot of vegetable tikka masala, the scent wafting through the safehouse. Sniper themself is sitting at the counter stitching holes in some of the donated clothes while they read the news on their implant. Growing up with similar to the implant (though far less invasive) makes it easy to divide their attention, and they look up as soon as someone enters, smiling in greeting.]

Hello. If you're hungry, help yourself.

kylo ren - ota.

[warfares]

» FESTIVAL.

( the city seems to have and abundance of festivals. so many, in fact, that he struggles to keep track of them all, relying on his co-workers' marking down the days to their next long weekend to act as his guide.

the lack of technology, though. that’s different. memorable. he asks after this as he purchases a mason jar of apple butter, and the volunteer is pleased enough to enlighten him, explaining that this is less a celebration of a specific event than it is a reminder to slow things down occasionally.

a pleasant sentiment, but it hardly explains the abundance of phalli. )


» FERTILITY.

I'm not sure what an eating contest has to do with fertility. ( it's remarked absently, lips cresting over a lemon-raspberry cockhead with the kind of off-hand obscenity that belies his own inexperience.

still, the contest itself is fairly entertaining ㅡ more so than the wrestling had been, though that might be a matter of taste. he's used to more blood in his sport. )


» FREE-FOR-ALL.

( otherwise known as wildcard. Feel free to throw something my way or hit me up via resurrectionist for plotting! )

[realists]

[ haggling with a vendor that she doesn't want to eat the popsicle, she is specifically buying it for daisy and so won't he please wrap it so it doesn't melt, jyn glances over at the tall man when he speaks. ]

You are literally sucking a frozen cock, that might be it.

[ the vendor snorts a laugh and starts packaging the popsicle for jyn as she'd asked. ]