ＭＥＡＤＯＷＬＡＲＫ ＭＯＤＳ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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meadowlarklogs2018-10-07 09:30 pm
larkers) wrote in meadowlarklogs2018-10-07 09:30 pm
Entry tags:
- !arrival log,
- dc comics: jason todd,
- dc comics: stephanie brown,
- detroit become human: connor,
- detroit become human: markus,
- ffxv: noctis lucis caelum,
- injustice: damian wayne,
- legend of korra: korra,
- mcu: daisy johnson,
- mcu: leo fitz,
- the 100: clarke griffin,
- the gifted: marcos diaz,
- the man from uncle: illya kuryakin,
- the man from uncle: napoleon solo,
- voltron: keith
ARRIVAL LOG 003
WHO: Everyone
WHERE: New Amsterdam
WHEN: Night of July 18
WHAT: The third arrival
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Coercion and loss of autonomy. Further notes at end of log.
WHERE: New Amsterdam
WHEN: Night of July 18
WHAT: The third arrival
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Coercion and loss of autonomy. Further notes at end of log.
| > ARRIVAL LOG #003 |
  |
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 the gray interior of a vehicle, rows of paired seats ahead of you. There are others with 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 seats. A murmur of conversation up at the front of the vehicle, and a man in dark grey scrubs stands to look back over the rows of seats, his gaze catching yours but then passing, as if unconcerned. 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. Several guards stand at the front of the vehicle, moving down the aisle between seats, unbuckling each passenger and helping them to their feet. One comes for you, and your limbs feel wooden and heavy, slow to move. Doors at the back of the vehicle are opened, city sounds flooding in, echoing strangely. You aren't given any time to adjust. The guards carefully help each of you out. The nurses, all in the same dark gray scrubs, checking each of you over, quickly and methodically. With a nod, they and the guards climb back into the bus. One lingers for a moment, smiling at you, the expression smug and unpleasant. "Going to be great never to have to see your face again," he says. One of the others calls him to hurry up. He looks upwards, briefly, gives a mocking salute to something high behind you. Then he climbs into the bus, the doors closing behind him. The engine powers up again, and 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. There is noise, nearby. A dense wave of chatter and music, filtering largely unobstructed to you. You look up and see there is no sky, but a ceiling, some few feet above your head. The artificial lights there are visible, but dimmed, as if emulating the light of an exterior street at night. As you venture around the corner you find a long street filled with booths and stalls, a crowd milling between them all, a densely busy market scene. ◉ Though entirely capable of independent action and thought, new characters will find themselves completely, unquestioningly compliant to any verbal statement which could be taken as a command or request. |
| > THE MARKET |
The message from El comes the same as previous: insistent, not waiting for any active attempt to open it. Scrolling within your vision as if being written while you're reading it, the urgency is apparent.There's another one.Birch Street is less of a street and more of a large tunnel, part of the complex warren of underground tunnels and buildings which reach downwards into the ground beneath New Amsterdam. Treated like just another part of the city, the streets are just as busy here as above ground, though the spaces are more clearly delineated between those for foot traffic and those for vehicles. Birch Street would be one for vehicles, but tonight it's been reserved for another event. The monthly mod market is a place for people from all over the city - all over the world - with an interest in body modification to come and view the latest achievements and ventures in mod development, as well as show off their own and socialize with other modders. The space is full of booths and stalls displaying a wide variety of cybernetics, genetic alterations, as well as the latest in kinetic tattooing and electronic piercings. Some of the vendors come from well known brands, while others are independents, much more willing to push the boundaries of legality to give you the fully kicked up mod you've always wanted - for a price, of course. Crowds gather around certain booths to watch mods being done, while vendors shout for an audience at others. Music wars and clashes, booming from different stalls across the street, while neon lights flash and strobe out of booths and a few open store fronts. It's a dense, noisy gathering of people, a unique slice of New Amsterdam's culture for an outsider to navigate. An easy space for anyone to get lost in, let alone someone stumbling new and confused into this world. Not all of this crowd are friendly, and many are likely to take advantage of a vulnerable individual - and with the uniformity of their white scrubs and shorn heads, the new arrivals are sure to catch attention. |
| > THE SAFEHOUSE |
  |
Access to the safehouse is a hatch hidden behind stacks of empty storage shelves in the back of an abandoned supermarket in an outer district of the city. The immediate area is similarly abandoned, empty stores, flanked by several blocks of dive bars and clubs which cater to more niche tastes. A place where people can come and go unseen, or, if seen, not spoken of. A dark haired woman called Gaby is ready to greet the new arrivals and get them settled in, brusque and no-nonsense - perhaps more than usual, considering the large amount of people filtering into the safehouse this night. ◉ The safe house is a large open space, filled with rows of basic cots set up to sleep a large amount of people. Basic, but outfitted with everything necessary for daily life. A few doors lead to back rooms for storage, medical care and a large communal bathroom, and past the long rows of cots there is a communal kitchen, fully stocked, and an eating area. Privacy is at a minimum. |
| > FINAL OOC NOTES |
Welcome to Meadowlark, newbies! You're now free to post to the network and logs comms. To reiterate, your characters will have no IDs or inboxes, nor be allowed out of the safehouse until July 22 (October 14). At that point it's expected they'll have gotten a good idea of their new situation from their fellow characters, and will have discussed their background and job potentials with El in order for their false IDs to be set up. If you have any questions or ideas about how you'd like to get your character involved in the world, or if they'd like to join Morningstar, please head over to the plot engagement post and drop us a comment! For questions specific to this log, there is a thread below. Please check out our October calendar rundown for a look at things happening this month. As a reminder, AC for new characters will be 10 comments across 2-4 threads, while current characters will need to provide the full AC of 20 comments across 2-4 threads. AC will be posted on October 20 and close on October 27. If you do not reply to AC, you will be considered idled and dropped from the game. We will not post a warning list. |
| > NAVIGATION |
QUESTIONS.
(no subject)
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(no subject)
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no subject
this time, she's available in two ways, then:
a) right around the beginning. after they take a change of clothes and she makes a mental markdown of whether they did that. it feels important for them to hand over the scrubs this time. Gaby doesn't volunteer that information.
b) her usual activities around the safehouse. making it clear that people can't leave. showing what they have available to them. getting a feel for their dispositions. letting them know when they can leave. stopping anyone who decides to follow someone out who can. any of these options are available. she's acclimated to this job now.
these drop offs are her responsibility. Gaby's not one to slack off. ]
safehouse
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no subject
[ Noctis is relatively quick to get his bearings, stumbling only once when he's left to fend for himself without the bracing grips of the unidentified personnel shuffling them from the vehicle, but only out of an overwhelming sense of necessity. The last he remembers he'd been ready to ship off to Altissia, now this? Waking up in foreign territory with a heaviness to his limbs completely unlike that from a magical drain or even a debilitating attack? His comrades aren't present among those dressed like him, which signals to him that he should consider himself alone.
Alone in... wherever the hell this is, with whatever these clothes are.
His first instinct? Arm himself and get to higher ground. But the second he's flexing fingers to materialize his sword is the second he's flattening that same hand against a wall to keep himself from keeling over, pain flaring up in his chest and quickening his heart rate. He can't use his magic.
That realization's enough to force him into a different kind of action altogether, namely a harried impulse to at least move away from these strangers and around the corner ahead... which only seems to amplify his problems. It's dizzyingly bright and loud to add to his already present disorientation, and his goal to go unnoticed in this outfit? Is shattered almost right away.
"Hey, come on over and take a look at the designs I've got on offer. It's even cheaper if you pick one I've got prepared for your tat, but I can work with your vision too," comes the pitch from a nearby man, his stall currently drawing less attention than the others. An easy no from him, but when his mouth opens to deny him all that comes out is: ] ... Okay.
[ And suddenly the hustle and bustle of the street isn't enough to get him to turn his head; all that matters is this booth, these designs, and hearing this man out. With no intervention this can only end badly. ]
[ THE SAFEHOUSE ]
[ The clothes suck.
The last ones sucked too, but somehow these are even itchier. Sure, there are bigger problems for him to focus on, but it's easy to multitask when you're stuck in some kind of underground bunker without a hell of a lot to stare at.
The bed holds limited appeal when he feels somehow sick of sleep despite an admittedly persistent cloud of grogginess, which chiefly leaves the bathrooms and dining area. Well. Hanging around the bathroom would be a new level of awkward and weird that he doesn't feel like reaching right now. There's enough off about this particular situation.
So here he is, peering into the fridge, looking more and more lost as the seconds pass. ]
... do you know how to cook? [ The question he finally asks aloud to the first person who happens to stop by. ]
[ WILDCARD ]
[ Hit me up at
MARKET
HELLO
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safehouse
hello hello!
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safehouse
hello there!
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safehouse
please help, Markus
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safehouse!
bless her
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{ the market }
hello!!
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safehouse
(no subject)
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safehouse
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safehouse
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market / wildcard
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{ wildcard: safehouse }
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safehouse;
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» safehouse
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safehouse (sorry for being the millionth customer 😬)
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Poe Dameron | Star Wars
[ The bustle of the Market drew Poe in. Frustration rose beneath the heavy weight lingering in his limbs and on his mind. The faces around him were unfamiliar and only the face of the man who had taunted him lingered at the forefront of his thoughts. He headed for the Market, his hands occasionally catching on other scrub-clad and barefoot individuals around him in a passing grip. Occasionally his hand would make contact with skin instead of cloth and his frustration would suddenly feel muted by a wave of emotion that felt disjointed from his own.
He shook it off each time, pressing on and into the market where he lost his focus, unaware of the eyes on his unusual garb. His own eyes remained rooted to a variety of unusual cybernetic displays, the memory of his droid tugging his mind toward action and demanding he wake from the fog of confusion. His brow remained furrowed with concentration and irritation.
Where was he? What planet? The deeper he fought to remember where he was and how he got there the more the past he could remember began to trickle back to him. With each regained memory, a renewed sense of urgency followed. The Resistance was cornered, trapped and in danger. He needed to get back.
This revelation sparked in him an urgent desperation that set him sprinting through the market barely clothed. He had to find a ship. ]
Safehouse A
[ Trapped. Trapped and isolated.
Poe's first stop in the safehouse is the bathroom. With his emotions running high and hot his first reaction to vent the rising frustrations is to slam a fist into the wall with a silent snarl. He holds his fist at the impact point, feeling the aftershocks as they spike through his hand and up his arm. He isn't thinking rationally and he is aware of it, but his actions had not been planned any more than being captured before he could find a ship and escape had been.
He drops his hand and turns to face the mirrors, staring at his own weary face. His fingers lift to trace a new scar by his hairline. He replaced his scrub on arrival, now wearing a pair of pants that had been given to him. The shirt is still hanging off the sink. He looks over his body, the image in the mirror unfamiliar and riddled with new scars and marks. He traces over the pock-like scars down his arms, slowly flexing to make them even more visible. Torture? Experimentation? Whatever the cause, his body is like a stranger's now.
Finally his focus settles on the most disconcerting of all. A hand presses very gently over his sternum and Poe's eyes lock on their mirrored version. ]
Things could be worse. [ The pilot's words echo with uncertainty in the communal space. ]
Safehouse B
[ Clothed and resolute, Poe paces back and forth beside a cot, his short hair sticks straight up from endless disturbances by Poe's fingers and the knuckles of one hand are bloodied and bruised.
He hasn't eaten, hasn't spoken since his yelling and demands were halted by a simple request from another asking him to quiet down. He had shut his mouth immediately and the reminder of his current state of suggestibility had only made the situation further maddening.
He continues to pace, his fists opening and closing at his side. Didn't they understand he had a war to get back to? ]
Safehouse A
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{ market }
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safehouse b
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safehouse a;
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safehouse b
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safehouse B
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safehouse a
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illya kuryakin (man from uncle)
[ his head aches which is not an all too unfamiliar feeling. he hasn't worked with solo that long but that man gave him an infinite amount of headaches in the short time they'd been together.
but that is, apparently, no more. illya has no idea what has happened. he blinks some blurriness out of his eyes, reaching up to feel the bristly edges of a recently shaved head.
this will not stand. anger surges through him and he lets it, shoving his way through the crowd. faces crowd his vision, voices calling for his attention but he ignores them until --
-- until someone tells him to stop and he does. he does not know why but he stops and he stares at the person who has made this happen. ]
What have you done to me?
II ➣ ➣ ➣ SAFEHOUSE
[ illya sinks down onto a cot as soon as he is able. his head pounds and he is struggling to digest all that he has been told. the world around is so devastatingly different than what he's come from and illya is convinced that this is a hallucination, a fever dream, a ploy by one of uncle's enemies to pull information from him.
he will not allow that to happen. for the most part, people stay away from him save for a glance or two and that is probably smart. he is still slightly shaken by having to obey a stranger's commands and he does not know what he will do if that happens again.
but, he knows he cannot stay and sleep. he has to get up. so, he does. he has to walk. so, he does. he has to corral the first person he can and badger them with questions. ]
What is your name?
[ ...so, he does. ]
III ➣ ➣ ➣ WILDCARD
[ feel free to get something not mentioned above rolling! i'm at
Market
Re: Market
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safehouse!
Re: safehouse!
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safehouse
Re: safehouse
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safehouse.
Re: safehouse.
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safehouse / wildcard.
Re: safehouse / wildcard.
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safehouse.
Re: safehouse.
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ii!
Re: ii!
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wildcard
Re: wildcard
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market
Re: market
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safehouse
Re: safehouse
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wildcard, maybe around july 20/oct 12?? whenever
Re: wildcard, maybe around july 20/oct 12?? whenever
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lorna dane / polaris | the gifted
Her thoughts have yet to elucidate when the first clear pitch to hit her ears draws her over to an independent modder. "Look at this," she says, so Lorna does, despite her instinct being to snap "look at this" in reference to the flock of scrubs-wearing randoms that's just shuffled out of the nest. She didn't mean to distance herself from them. One of them may have an inkling as to what the hell is happening or, if not, they could at least agree to watch each others' backs. If any of them could talk. The vendor's focus has shifted to an interested buyer, while Lorna's wanders the crowd, stopping and noting anyone in white. Many of them have been aimlessly drawn aside like she has, while others drift farther into the market.
Lorna tucks herself beside the stall, obscured from the vendor by a rack of unfamiliar technology. There she awaits the full return of her senses, particularly her sixth, her sensitivity to magnetic waves. Distinct voices flare from the cacophonous throng, she can identify the scents making her slightly nauseous, taste the peculiar tastelessness lining her mouth, but as the outlines fill themselves in, the picture refuses to complete or unify. Don't panic. It's just exhaustion or drugs. Her brow pinched, she puts a little effort forward and groans at the resulting pain.
It's not unlike a dampening collar and it fills her head and heart with fear and anger and regret. With little regard for who might catch sight of her, she attempts again to collect magnetic force between her splayed fingers. Her quiet growl rumbles up into a cry of agonized exasperation as she goes too hard for too long, then stumbles back into a wall for support. Lorna grabs at her chest and the implant there freezes her rage into terror. No, she would have noticed if something were that amiss, but she pats her loose scrubs down over her stomach for her own peace of mind. Presumably, they didn't mess with her baby, but they definitely did something to her; she checks her arms for signs of injections and feels around her neck for scars indicating more implants beneath the skin. She finds none but there's no comfort to be had in that in wake of the proof of what she has undergone.
She can't put anything more together on her own and warily navigates into the crowd. After the third time she's pulled aside against her will, to witness the demonstration of this or hear about the advancements they've made in that, she's had enough of what back home could be referred to as a Triple Frosting. Any jagged edge of metal will do and within a minute of her resolution, she's cut and peeled the hem off her shirt, giving her one long, frayed ribbon. She severs that on the same edge, into two shorter pieces she can roll into tiny balls and shove in her ears. One may notice her ingenuity and get her attention with a nudge, or exploit the moment a makeshift earplug falls out and lay a request or command on her (limit 1, refer to permissions).
2. SAFEHOUSE
As soon as she can find a nook of privacy, she changes into her "new" clothes. The shirt is comfortably overlarge and the jeans don't fit quite right, but they don't fall down either. Before laying claim to anything else, Lorna familiarizes herself with the layout of the safehouse and with as many of the people therein, albeit from afar. Evidently the electro-chestplate isn't exclusive to her, which she's eager to bother Gaby about, but knowing intimately the position she's in, leaves it until she has less on her plate. Anyone else willing to submit to an interview with Lorna, she's going to fact check against Gaby later, though at the end of the day, doesn't have a lot of reason to trust anyone yet.
Four days is a long time for her to find so few satisfactory answers. She does whatever will keep her hands and head busy until quarantine is up, and that mostly equates to cleaning the kitchen after meals (since her cooking sucks). She takes and keeps a spoon with her, doing her best to affect it whenever she has a semi-private moment, achieving all of jack and shit. Regardless, she tries several times a day, in various locations throughout the safehouse, as the opportunity arises.
[ felt like prose but if you prefer action, I'll match! comment at my plotbox if you'd like to hash something out beforehand. ]
safehouse
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market!
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safehouse!
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safehouse - lmk if this needs any tweaks
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safehouse
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safehouse
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safehouse more or less and not like super wildcard-y
ha ha scott u emo kid
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Kate Bishop | Marvel Comics
[Kate has dealt with worse. Objectively, unequivocally, she's dealt with worse, but this feels violating in a way that no near death experience or alien invasion ever has. She keeps unconsciously reaching up to touch the ends of her brand new, utterly unasked for pixie cut, and being far too aware of how vulnerable she looks in these ridiculous scrubs.
God, she feels like a science experiment or an extra in some cheesy sci fi movie. But she's an Avenger, pretty much, almost, so she takes a deep breath and sucks it up. She doesn't have her bow, or any weapons at all, and these scrubs are not exactly baddie busting material, but she looks like an easy target as it is without letting panic get the best of her.
Kate squares her shoulders, takes a deep breath, and sucks it up. Time to do whatever it is she can to help, which starts with the people around her. She turns to one of her fellow scrub wearing companions.]
Hey, are you okay?
ii - safehouse
[If the market was overwhelming, the safehouse is... concerning. Kate alternates between creeping on the network as much as she can while trying to pretend her fancy new brain implant doesn't creep her the hell out, bothering everyone around her, and pacing. The pacing doesn't help much.
The truth of it is, she's never been in a situation like this before. In every other terrible, high stakes disaster she's found herself in, she's had options. She's had weapons, or a way out, or a team to back her up, but here, there's... nothing. Nothing but endless rows of cots and people who won't let her out. She can gather information, sure, but she's not even entirely sure what she's looking for. The lack of a discernible thing to do is driving her crazy, so she does the only thing she can think of. Namely, interrogate her fellow captives.]
Excuse me. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?
Safehouse
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it's a walking, talking wildcard
blows kisses
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safehouse
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safehouse
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safehouse.
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ii
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safehouse
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safehouse but slight wildcard ig
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sort of mostly ii!!! ft. me creeping on ur other threads
omg I'M HONORED
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wildcard
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d-doubletaps bc marvels club
KISSES FITZ
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safehouse, sorry I am *late as hell*
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damian wayne | injustice
[ The last thing he remembers is his father triumphantly fucking everything up again. His arm was broken, the sanctuary was burned, and his sister either dead or dying. It would not have been the first time he'd passed out after a life threatening battle and found himself being put back together by a trained team of mad scientists. It's old hat, almost comforting.
But this isn't anywhere familiar. The faces aren't known. The more aware he is, the more panicked he is - but he follows their every order without question. His arm isn't broken anymore and that alone is enough to send off warning bells - something is wrong here but there's nothing he can do but obey.
Then a city explodes to life around him - equally unfamiliar, almost alien. There's a snarl working it's way onto his face. This has to be something Bruce did. Maybe it's not real, maybe it's simulated, or maybe he's made an entirely new fucked up system of dealing with people he doesn't like.
He has to get out of here and regroup. Now. Right now. Because none of this is adding up and he's lacking any weapon or understanding of where he is or what the hell is going on. There's a time and place to be compliant and that was well before this point. He doesn't trust the people around him, but they look equally lost and confused, and while that fills him with contempt it's not for them. Maybe should stay with them... maybe should leave them and get his bearings. Come back with something he can use to bludgeon someone.
But someone's watching him as he looks around. He's slow to notice, nothing feels right. It's an appraising look. One that he immediately doesn't like and doesn't want any part of - like a butcher sizing up an animal.
You there, come over here a second, someone is saying, and where he should tell them where to go and precisely how to fucking get there, the thought fails to cross his mind. He only turns and walks forward like a good boy. ]
safehouse
[ He's not getting on that bed. If he goes to sleep here, he's vulnerable. And he doesn't trust these mysterious strangers to have his best interest in mind any more than the other ones did. Damian stays as far away from the other new arrivals as he can, arms folded and scowl firmly in place.
But there's no solving this mystery on his own. Even he, in all his infinite inherited stubbornness, knows that much. He doesn't remember getting from point A to point B. He just remembers the smell of charred flesh and his father bringing yet another idiot into his inner circle.
He's been modified and there's no way around it. They say the compliance will wear off soon -- but then where does that leave him? His allies are all in jail (otherwise he'd contact Victor, immediately) and he somehow doubts that Ra's would have the power to get him if he was taken in the first place.
So instead he poses a question to the open room. ]
... Does anyone remember being taken?
wildcard
[ throw anything you want at me! you can reach me at minimoffs @ plurk or CHAOS THEATRE # 7869 on discord/ damian will be annoyed, uneasy, and brimming with 'if you touch me i will deck you' energy. ]
safehouse
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market
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market.
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safehouse.
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kara zor-el | dc comics
The Safehouse ▸
Wildcard ▸
marketplace
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safehouse
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the safehouse
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safehouse / hearteyes
♥ ^ ♥
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Jughead Jones | Open
[ this has got to be a dream. a horrible, loss-of-anatomy dream that has him wandering through Bladerunner without any sign of Harrison Ford. the first shock is running his hand along his head, which leaves him at a loss for two points of familiarity: his signature beanie and the full head of hair. both are gone. with the drugs still coursing through his system, the disorientation and the loss of anything vaguely grounding, he tries not to panic.
he tells himself it's a dream again.
the bright lights hurt his eyes, and the chatter of people on the street feels like a roar in his ears. while Jughead never frequented the nicer parts of Riverdale, this hits rough to a new extreme. it's enough to send all of his senses wild. it's hard enough to focus through the panic, but the sensory overload is pushing it a little too far.
someone bumps into him, gives him a hearty shove, and Jughead takes the hint to retreat around the closest corner and into an alleyway before he can be caught. there's a little part of him that screams to shove back, but it's smooshed by his own set of survival instincts. it takes some time to adjust, to work his way out of that mind space where this isn't where he's supposed to be and he's more than just a little overwhelmed. luckily for him, he's used to dealing with some rough customers. being a Southside Serpent meant wrangling all snakes, even older, grizzlier ones. he doesn't look like much in his scrubs, but the next person who shoves him gets a push back.
the "rough customer" (body mods and all) turns to face him. ]
Look—I'm just passing through. Got a problem with that?
[ Jughead drops his voice and stands his ground, looking small in comparison. he's going to get whomped. someone please save this kid. ]
CHAPTER TWO: SAFE AT THE SAFEHOUSE
[ nothing's going away and he's not waking up. it's when he sits his butt in a spare bed with a mismatched cover that he realizes that he is one-hundred percent awake, and he hasn't walked out of a short horror story. it still takes a bit to sink in: the loss of control, the being somewhere else, and the sudden reflection of loss on everything that he has back home. ]
Hey, have you ever heard of a place called Riverdale?
[ it's said to whoever's in listening range, the bunk beside him, or someone who's just walked up. he has to start somewhere, and this seems as good of a place as any. ]
WILDCARD
[ note: let me know if you'd like something else! hit me up in PMs or at![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
hadal ]
you're supposed to wake up, not get beat up.
all he does is get beat up
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chapter three: wildcard style
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2.
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chapter one: jughead no
thugging it up
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jason todd, dc ( rebirth )
SAFEHOUSE
WILDCARD
safehouse
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safehouse-ish
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safehouse.
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Korra | Open
Korra takes a step in the direction of the retreating vehicle, but her legs nearly buckle under her. She grabs the nearby wall of the alley they’d been left in and watches as it leaves. She reaches her hand out, like she’s trying to grab something, but whatever it is slips between her fingers. Her eyes are wide and she leans against the wall, forcing her eyes shut to get a sense of things. Despite the lack of sleeves, Korra isn’t very cold. She grew up in snow and ice, so it takes a lot to make her shiver. She feels groggy, but she has a sense that she can’t just lay down here. She’d tried getting out of the restraints, but there had been nothing to work with and that on top of feeling so weak.
She opens her eyes and squints at her bare arms in the dim light of the alley, her hands tracing over the marks there. Something feels...wrong. Her hands trails up to her much shorter hair -- she’d been keeping it in a short bob, but now it was more like a recently shaved Air acolytes...and a scar? Now Korra does shudder, but it isn’t from the night air.
Korra notices movement out of the corner of her eye and turns. Some of the others have started to walk off...towards the noise and the light. Korra swallows. She wonders if her voice will work now, when she hadn’t been able to say anything earlier. “Hey….wait,” she finally manages, stepping forward into the light. Now that she’s found her voice, she is able to focus a little more, gaining confidence, even if she still sounds unsure and scared, “We...we should stay together don’t you think?” Her mind reels with questions and fear, but surely it won’t be all bad as long as she isn’t alone. She hasn’t been alone in a long time.
[Market]
Whether she’s traveling with another of the white scrubbed individuals or not, for whatever reason Korra cannot resist the siren call of the various booths and people of the mod market. Everyone seems to be calling her in a different direction.
“ARE YOU INTERESTED IN CYBER IMPLANTS? WE GOTCHA COVERED! EVERYTHING FROM HEAD TO TOE DONE HERE!”
“BEST INDY TATTS HERE! COME CHECK OUT THIS GLOW! WE’VE GOT 50 DIFFERENT COLORS”
“TWO PIERCINGS FOR THE PRICE OF ONE! LIMITED TIME OFFER PEOPLE!”
So many booths and things that Korra doesn’t understand. If she wasn’t already wearing bright white scrubs and sporting a shorn head, she’d probably stand out for the deer-in-headlights look that is her current facial expression. It’s so overwhelming. In some ways it’s like any festival or market from her world and yet the things they are selling, the things they are doing to people’s bodies...how can she do anything BUT stare? And, even if some are horrifying, it’s like the voices shouting out from the stalls to attract a crowd pull at her. It’s really too much.
Korra stumbles and knocks into someone. The bulky man scowls and barks, “Move outta the way!”
Korra immediately moves to the right, though she’d much rather yell back. He moves past her without much more confrontation and Korra finds herself in the middle of a crowd watching several people get kinetic tattoos from inside the tent. Seriously, what is going on? Korra rubs at her temple, even as one of the vendors takes notice of her -- again it’s easy to stand out in the bright white scrubs.
[Safehouse]
It’s nice to be out of the chaos, but at the same time she’s not in much better of a state. She sits on the floor in front of her chosen cot. She feels so out of sorts and even though there doesn’t seem to be any privacy, Korra is determined to make the most of it. She just wants a few minutes to rest her eyes. She never thought she’d miss meditation, but right now she desperately craves it. Maybe...maybe even if her bending is gone she can access Raava. She could use a familiar voice, even if technically Raava is part of her own voice.
Korra closes her eyes, legs crossed, as she tries to meditate. And, while she does relax a little, there is only silence in her own head, mixing with a billion other thoughts. She tries a few minutes longer, but then her chest starts to burn and she gives up. It’s been an exhausting day and Korra can’t hold it together much longer.
She never thought she’d feel this alone and powerless again. Losing her bending to Amon had been bad, losing her ability to walk had somehow been worse, and losing her connection to her past lives had certainly nearly broken her...but each time she’d had someone there to pull her back. She breaks her meditation position on the floor and pulls her knees up to her chest instead. Now...now she really doesn’t know what to do. Korra feels water trail down her cheeks and when she hears footsteps, as that was inevitable, she swipes at them and attempts to stand up. After all, she’s sitting in the middle of the floor and is probably blocking access to the cot near her.
“Sorry, I was just trying to meditate.”
market.
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safe-house;
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safehouse
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Casey
[Casey stumbles along, his bare feet unaccustomed to feeling the ground beneath them. There's too many people here, too much noise. It's crowded beyond anything he has known and he keeps his head down, shell-shocked eyes rooted to the road beneath his feet.
He bumps into people, sluggish and muttered apologies offered each time his shoulder or arm bumps into another human. He pulls away from the market, trying to duck toward somewhere less crowded with warm bodies and oppressive heat. There is no snow, no frozen air biting his lungs or ash clogging his airways and the overwhelming flow of stimulus and unfamiliar sensations and surroundings leaves Casey's breathing ragged and his hands shaking. He speaks, but his words are hushed and hold an unsteady tremble that sound almost like a plea.]
You're dreaming. This is a dream. Wake up.
Safehouse Kitchen
[In ill-fitting clothing Casey looks even thinner than usual. His body is gaunt, mostly bone and muscle with little in between. He feels naked in only one layer of clothing but the warmth in the safe house compared to what he is used to is causing sweat to bead on his forehead. He stands staring at the dry food stock in one with glistening eyes. Gingerly he removes a box of some king of food intended to be re-hydrated and cooked and pours a small amount into his hand, eating it dry without so much as a grimace. He still isn't wearing shoes, but at least he has socks on in the kitchen.]
arrival
safe-house kitchen;
eugenides / queen's thief
[ Eugenides would blame the drugs for making him slow and distractible— whatever they'd put in him had made was worse than lethium, something he wouldn't have thought possible. The real trouble though, is that he's surrounded by things he wouldn't think possible, glittering like stars on strings. It's all a little much to someone used to torchlight.
Still, once he realizes what they are selling here, his focus narrows. They're selling prosthetics.
He can feel it, suddenly, the open air on the stump where his right hand used to be, naked and exposed. You might catch him staring at a mechanical arm in a display, moving by itself, heat rising to his face, desperately in need of distraction.
Or you might catch him darting away as the seller marks him in the crowd, with the bright white scrubs and hungry looks, and calls down to him in an attempt to make a sale. Gen turns away immediately, pushing into the crowd. Maybe pushing graceless into another person in white scrubs. ]
Come on. We're leaving.
Safehouse
[ Well, Eugenides has had worse.
He's been to jail before, which might be observable from the pale echoes of chains around his ankles and wrists that the baggy clothes he's picked out that do not quite fit. Much more alarming, though, is that someone's left a small children's toy at the safehouse. A small, brightly colored ball, made of vulcanized rubber or plastic or some other wondrous modern material Gen has never seen or heard of. When thrown against a hard flat surface it bounces a lot.
This is fascinating.
He makes a game out of throwing the ball against the wall and catching it, throwing it back, and catching it. It's a remarkable display of agility for someone with one hand but it's also remarkably annoying, a seemingly endless drone of thumping noises as the ball hits the wall and returns again.
If he feels someone glaring at him, he'll turn their way and say: ] Come on, this isn't the worst thing that's happened to you lately.
[ But he won't stop throwing the ball until someone takes it away from him. ]
Wildcard
[ Choose your own adventure. I'm at
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the market.
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market!
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Safehouse
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stephanie brown | dc comics (new earth)
2. SAFEHOUSE
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Safehouse, Day 1
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finn | star wars
[ how did you think finn was taking this? if you thought "not great," you'd be right. it's not the first time he's woken up completely disoriented in a medical setting, but it is by far the worst time. maybe the worst part was not being completely in control of his own actions? the ella enchanted treatment … otherwise known as his worst nightmare.
his current strategy is playing it Cool. as cool as one can play it while walking around in scrubs looking like they escaped a medical facility. everyone's shopping cybernetics and he's just like "man it'd be nice if someone would just conveniently give me their jacket again." maybe he can find ??clothes?? that's the mission as he's snooping through the various booths. you'll never believe it, but none of these are clothes. at some point, he catches the attention of a vendor who actually wants to talk to him. he has to pretend that he definitely came in with the intent to check out some cybernetics. ]
What? No, I'm not — I was just … looking for someone.
[
it's rey; just kidding it was the only excuse that came to mind. help him. ]safehouse
[ WELL that was what the kids would call mr. toad's wild ride. he's not feeling BETTER. he's sort of the pacing, restless type. like, he found a squeaky bed to call his own, he's not wearing scrubs anymore, he ate a lunchable. the next thing that would make him feel better is the subject of his latest (questionable) science experiment. ]
Quick, tell me to do something.
[ DON'T JUST DO THAT AT STRANGERS FINN. but it's fine, he's 99% sure he's not on the compliance juice anymore. hence the science experiment. ]
wildcard
[ if u wanna do other things just hmu! ]
arrival
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Detective Joe Miller | The Expanse ( spoilers in narration )
The last thing Miller remembers is Eros, rolling around a nuclear bomb and holding hands with a dead girl in their last moments as he tried to convince her to redirect their collision course from Earth to Venus. He turned off communication with the Rocinante moments before finding her, before finally finding Julie. He searched for her with everything he had, leaving the only home he'd ever known for a woman he'd never met. And when he finally got there, it was too late for both of them. There's probably some sort of poetry to that.
He keeps to himself around the Marketplace, cataloging his surroundings and trying to work out how this is possible. The Protomolecule makes everything possible, as he'd learned. Maybe he's subsisting off of it the way Julie had, her consciousness alive although her body was long dead. Miller reaches into scrub pockets, but her necklace isn't there. There's no hat to keep the Sun off his head, and that's another thing he's having trouble with: the Sun. The horizon. Is this Earth? And if so, why isn't he being crushed by the gravitational force bearing down on him? The air does feel heavier here than on Ceres, but he's still able to stand tall, though with his hair cropped short and the scrubs opening his neck to the elements, the place where his vertebrae fused together at the base of his skull in childhood is apparently prominent. Even if it looks like Earth, the people here look and behave like Belters. Paranoid, tatted up; real freaks by his estimation. He keeps to the shadows and tries to keep track of everyone in the white scrubs. For better or for worse, they're all in this together, aren't they? How sweet.
He notices the people here all reacting to something at the same time, like a broadcast. The people who came out of the van with him don't pause in their steps like they're reading something in the air. Miller walks up to the first person he meets without a shaved head and white scrubs, taking a stab in the dark as he asks, "What's it say?"
He doesn't bother changing out of the scrubs, though he takes whatever clothes are offered and drops them unceremoniously on a bed at the far edges of the room. Somewhere he can track the comings and goings of everyone without putting himself in the center of the action. It reminds him of staying on the Roci, though he had his own bunk there, it was still a communal space. This feels more like a work camp or what he imagines traveling with the OPA might be like. Miller runs a hand over his hair and watches the way people mill around the room or sit on their beds. It's not unlike the first day of prison, he'd imagine. Everyone confused and scared, the more extroverted types trying to forge alliances already.
Instead, Miller is focused on observing. He watches people eat, he watches them in the main area, and when he ducks into the bathroom he keeps both his eyes open there as well. He rinses off his face and throat, feeling hot in a way he never has before. He's lived in temperature control his whole life and this is a weird adjustment on top of everything else. There's something different about his body, as yet unidentified, but it's better inside than out, where there's no horizon to try and learn how to focus on without going blind. After a few moments at the sink, he finds himself racing for a stall and not even managing to get the door closed before upturning his stomach. It feels empty and sure enough, it's mostly bile and water that comes back up.
Throughout the first day he'll be in and out of there to vomit before eventually making his way to the kitchen for water. His head feels heavy and he's sore all over, but he's looking for the water level before realizing it's just an open tap. He fills a glass halfway up and stares at it like it's novel before chugging it down too fast again. He has to rest back against the counter with his eyes closed for a moment, the flat of his palm pressed against his tummy as he works through the nausea and lets the water settle. He repeats the process and looks down into the liquid while people move around him.
"Water is good," he murmurs to himself, a small, private smile twitching up the corners of his lips. No air filters, no water rationing, no artificial atmosphere. The rest of the horrifying mystery aside of how he got here and what happened to him between Eros and now seems to almost completely subside, that is until he drops his cup and races for the bathroom again. His physiology still has a long way to go before catching up with Earth, but throwing up a few times is exponentially better than gravity torture anyway.
[ feel free to run into him anywhere in the marketplace or the safehouse. i will not be doing anything with the drugging/coercion portion of this log so please keep all mention of that to a minimum. i will match styles, brackets are also fine! pm for any questions or if you want to plot - i also have a meadowlark plotbox over here. ]
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safehouse, so i guess this is throwing up
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safehouse
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