ARRIVAL LOG 001

[larkers]

WHO: Everyone
WHERE: New Amsterdam
WHEN: June 21
WHAT: The first arrival
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Gun violence, injury, death, coercion and loss of autonomy. Further notes at end of log.

> ARRIVAL LOG #001

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 that slows to a stop, waits, then continues with a turn to the right. Your eyes are heavy, hard to keep open, but in the glimpses between slow, dark blinks you put together a gray interior with orderly seats in split rows of three facing forward. The occupants all in white scrubs, hair recently cut but at various stages of growth, restrained by straps across their arms and chests, a single tube carrying a pale yellow liquid into their left arm. The view is blocked. A man walks down between the seats, stopping at yours. His scrubs are a dark gray, and he shows no signs of having been restrained or drugged. He peers into your face, checks your restraints, the tube running into your arm, and leans over to do the same to the person next to you. Methodical and brusque. He sees your eyes are open. You try to open your mouth, to speak, but it's as if your tongue is coated in tar; you manage nothing more than a parting of lips that tells you that they are chapped and cracked. The man watches. He pats your cheek condescendingly, then he turns to check the next row. The woman walking behind him in black body armor has a gun strapped across her chest and another holstered at her hip. She doesn't look at your face at all. If there's anything more, it's lost. In a split second any grasp you'd managed to maintain on what's happening around you is ripped through to splinters. There's a roaring sound, and then the crash of impact. The sudden crack of pain as you're slammed into your seat, against your restraints, wrenched around like a rag doll as the whole vehicle jerks, rolls, then smashes hard against something on the other side and spins to a final stop. Your ears ring. Your whole body aches. Head swimming from impact and shock as much as the sedative. In the haze of the aftermath there's the smell of smoke, the drip of fluids – blood, maybe, or a broken IV line – on your face. The sound, muted and dulled, of shouting, someone screaming. The crack of gunfire. Two guards, neither faces you recognize, clamber over the wreckage which had been the seats in front of you, bloody across their faces, one with her arm hanging wrongly from the shoulder. They have their guns raised as they move past you, towards the back of the vehicle. Towards the sound of gunfire. They don't notice the restraint on your right arm is broken.

> THE CRASH

Your character's arrival has been rough, to say the least. Unfortunately there's no time to consider any of the pressing questions they likely have, or adjust to their surroundings. With the nurses and guards – those left alive – distracted, this may be their only chance to get free. ◉ Damage to the bus has caused many of the restraints to break, allowing some characters to break free from their seats by their own power. Others may still be held firmly strapped in, or worse, pinned and trapped by wreckage. They'll need some help, if you'd spend the time to stop and assist them. ◉ Because they were not strapped in as securely, many of the nurses and guards are now dead. Some passengers are as well, though none you recognize. Others – including yourself – may be injured, and need some immediate attention or help moving. Players are free to use their discretion on how hurt their character may be, but no injuries should be life threatening. ◉ Getting outside of the vehicle reveals it to be something resembling a bus, lacking any identifying markings, armored enough to imply that the contents were important and needed to be to shielded from outside eyes. It wasn't enough to protect the vehicle from the impact of another, far more heavily armored vehicle nearby, the front damaged and carrying streaks of paint matching the bus you've climbed out of. The street is evidently a back street with low traffic, and the buildings surrounding you hold no main doors or storefronts. Putting the pieces together clearly illustrates that the crash was intentional. ◉ The exchange of gunfire continues throughout. Focused between the guards, nurses, and whoever has staged this attack – people in all-black armor with full masks over their heads which make your eyes hurt when you try to look at them. You may not be the target, but this doesn't mean you can't still get caught in the crossfire. Maybe you'd even prefer to pick up a dropped gun and get involved – though it might be difficult to decide who you should be shooting at. ◉ Characters may be free of the restraints and IVs, but they aren't free of the effects of whatever they were being drugged with. Though entirely capable of independent action and thought, they will find themselves completely, unquestioningly compliant to any verbal statement which could be taken as a command or request. This could come from another character, or, more dangerously, from one of the surviving nurses or guards, who seem very aware that they have this power over characters. It may be safer to steer clear of them, or hope a bullet from the attackers takes them out. Anyone stopped by an order will have the sense that they've been compliant in this way before, though the memory of where and how will remain firmly out of reach.

> THE ESCAPE

The shouting and gunfire cease, an abrupt break in the constant noise. They leave in their wake an eerie, aching quiet over the street. As you venture out from wherever you may have been sheltering or taking cover, the scene expands as an ugly tableau: the wrecked bus left creaking, the other vehicle open and empty, and strewn across the street between them the dead bodies of both the attackers and the nurses and guards who were holding you captive. Standing together in the aftermath of an attack you have no real understanding of, you are left as the only survivors, alone without any knowledge of why or how you came to be here, or even where here is. The cry of distant sirens drifts to you, piercing the quiet. Movement breaks the stillness of the street: a single figure crumpled down against the wall of a building, pushing the dead weight of another body away. One of the attackers, badly injured, lifting a hand to remove their mask, revealing the face of a young black man. "Help me," he pleads, and in the quiet there is no way to escape the request. "They had you tied up in there, didn't they? They'll be coming for you. Help me and I can get you somewhere safe." Blood spilling between the fingers clutched over his gut, eyes wide with desperation, he doesn't realize his bargaining isn't necessary. You and your fellow passengers, wills still bending under the unknown drugs in your system, are already moving to comply. The path he guides you along through the city is winding, dodging any sounds of traffic, music or crowds by cutting through side alleys and more dark, empty back streets. Though fear of being caught may make it feel like an agonizingly long journey, you reach your destination within five minutes – and thankfully before the man passes out completely from his injuries. The safe place he has led you to is an abandoned warehouse. In a back room off the open, empty main floor, behind a bank of rusting lockers, he points you to a staircase hidden under a disguised hatch. Inside is dark, but his instructions are clear, and any caution you feel is overridden by the compliance still weighing heavily on your faculties. You climb down the stairs, and as the last of you reach the bottom, the hatch slams shut above you, the first in an echoing chain of noises which conjure to mind bolts being thrown, shutters rolling into place, locks being turned. One solitary viciously bright light illuminates the space where you stand at the bottom of the stairs. Something flickers over your vision, spits pixels and numbers, too fast to read. Then, text, present and demanding in an interface to the left: Who the hell are you? ◉ From this point characters will have rudimentary access to the network. They will be able to make posts and reply to them, but their IDs have not been created yet (enjoy the anonymity while you have it!) and they will not have individual inboxes. ◉ Characters uninterested in responding to El's question – or able to multitask – can attempt to explore their surroundings. The hatch above them will remain closed and secure. The one spotlight at the bottom of the stairs will remain the only light, but those venturing outside of the limited area it illuminates will find a large open space kitted out with multiple rows of basic cots, set up to sleep a large number of people – and many of them showing signs of having been used recently.

> THE SAFEHOUSE

Before characters can get too far in their conversation or exploration, the hatch above groans as it's opened again. An armed woman climbs down the stairs, immediately demanding characters stay where they are and give up any weapons they're carrying. Once everyone is disarmed, she calls an all-clear. Lights come up throughout the rest of the space, and people – slowly, clearly afraid – begin to emerge from various safe-rooms hidden in the walls and floor. It's obvious that this place has been serving as a safehouse for dozens of people for quite some time, but that your arrival is just as unexpected – and unusual – as you are likely finding it. Regardless of the fearful glances being sent your way, and the general atmosphere of unease at your presence, you do seem to now be in some measure of safety. After what you've just been through, relaxing might be too much to expect, but you have the time to take a breath and begin to adjust to your new reality. This is your new home, for now. ◉ The safe house is basic, but outfitted with everything necessary for daily life. The larger space seems to be about the size of the entire warehouse above, with only two thirds of it being utilized and the rest standing empty. 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. ◉ Characters will be told to pick their beds, and provided with a change of (second-hand, mismatched and somewhat threadbare) clothes and basic toiletries. ◉ The woman will identify herself as Gaby, and the injured attacker who led characters here as Casper. She will have him taken to one of the back rooms and placed into the medi-unit there for emergency treatment. ◉ All of the other people appear to be here because they are in need of protection. Some are here alone, but there are several families with children of various ages. Though some will help her, and clearly have taken on jobs in the safehouse, they all look to Gaby as someone in charge, and are evidently not active agents like she, Casper and El are. All of them will view player characters with a high level of suspicion and wariness, and though they will be politely helpful if needed, they will also be evasive when pressed with any deeper questions. The children, however, are a little more excited to see new faces, and will be eager to answer questions as long as they can ask a few themselves. ◉ Characters will have it made clear to them that they cannot leave without clearance. They're incredibly impromptu guests, and while they are being offered protection and care, their presence puts the safehouse at risk – one that would only be larger if they were allowed to come and go as they please. Of course, the more paranoid may feel that this means they've just escaped one mysterious imprisonment for another. ◉ General connections to any neural implants within the safehouse are also being jammed in order to protect the occupants from being tracked or found. Unfortunately this means no internet – any news from the outside has to come via Gaby or El. ◉ The drugs making 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 they say to each other – or what the other occupants of the safehouse may say to them. ◉ Gaby and El will make it known that they are the responsible for player characters in this immediate time, and will be on round the clock duty in getting them settled and dealing with any issues. Gaby will be grumpy and unhappy about it, but this clearly isn't the first she's taken on similar duties for this safehouse, as she has a good rapport with the families that are already present. Whether this makes her and El guards or caretakers is for player characters to decide.

> FINAL OOC NOTES

Welcome to Meadowlark! The game is now officially open, and players are free to make posts to both the network and logs communities. We'll be making a calendar post tomorrow with a rundown for the month, but just want to reiterate for the moment that characters cannot currently leave the safehouse and do not have network IDs set up yet, so can't use their individual inboxes. They will have these limitations lifted ASAP, there's just a few things that need to happen first... On that topic, we'd like to apologize for how railroady elements of this opening log were! We promise this has only been necessary in order to get the basic game mechanics established, and definitely isn't a theme that will continue in game. We've called Meadowlark an open-world, sandbox structured game, and that is still absolutely what we're planning to deliver. Just please bear with us while we get the sand and the box in place! If you have any questions specific to this log, a questions comment has been posted below, and we are as always open to any other questions either at the FAQ or direct to the MOD CONTACT page.

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