LOG 001: INTRO

[shiftmods]

WELCOME TO STATION RED.

You wake up in your bed.

Not your bed back home, of course, but the bunk that's been assigned to you. Your new bed for the next foreseeable future. You’ve been dressed in what is the basic uniform around here. (OOC note; your newly issued equipment is detailed here.)

Your own clothing, of course (the clothing you came in wearing, that is) is folded neatly, and all of your other belongings are present and accounted for nearby, and near them will be a piece of paper, a thin carbon copy of your bill. Of course the word ‘bill’ is the only word in your native tongue on the paper, the rest in a completely indecipherable alien language. That and the number, of course.

1,000,000,000

The room is sparsely furnished, small, and some would say cramped; someone with a less negative outlook might call it utilitarian, or hey, why not even cozy. The bed is just soft enough to be comfortable, but not luxurious, although it probably feels like you slept on a slab of concrete after what you’ve been through.

And what have you been through? Your memories preceding your awakening may be hazy at best, and you certainly won’t remember any of your arrival here. Characters who were present at the Interim will remember it. You might have a headache, light-headedness, nausea, strange lights or shapes in your vision, or sounds in your ear, although any life threatening injuries you may have had just before waking up here will be gone.

Characters will be free to explore their location, STATION RED, although at the moment, much of it will be unavailable, corridors shuttered off, gates closed, with no obvious means of access. It’s a sparse, almost military type of place, high ceilinged and warehouse-like in the big areas, with more cramped feeling interior rooms and hallways. There seems to be a significant level disrepair here, with exposed wiring, and chipped or scratched finishes common sights. This is closer to an old bunker than a five star hotel. There will be no windows anyway, making it impossible to tell where you are.

If there’s one thing that’s consistent, whether in your room, or a hallway, or anywhere else, video screens, seem crammed in unlikely places, and are ubiquitous. They’re all black at the moment, and some are cracked, looking like they might never come on.

The only place that really seems lively, and as if anyone’s been occupying it in recent times, is an area that looks something like a bar.

Its not quite this populated yet.

The bar-like area is decorated in an odd assortment of paper decorations and streamers, a small banner that reads ‘Happy New Year!’ strung near one of the tables, which is piled with the only available food. There’s cake, a variety of snacks, shrimp cocktail, an ample supply of  glasses of champagne. And almost all of them taste wrong. Some items might taste exactly as you’d expect them, others taste distinctly like something they should not, and those shrimp have the notable taste of absolutely nothing. Something is definitely not right here.

When the screens come on, there’s an audible electronic popping noise, and a woman’s face appears on the screen. The image has some static, but there’s something strange about the woman as well; something...insubstantial.


“Welcome, everyone, to Station Red! I hope you like what we’ve prepared for you here...I apologize, it’s something of a work in progress. We are working with limited resources here and your arrival was somewhat….unexpected. It’s been a long time since we’ve had dealings with anyone from your particular coordinates.” She smiles broadly. “I almost forgot, my name is Solan Re. I’m the Senior Case worker for, ah...well for you. On your behalf.

Take your time and enjoy the refreshments we've provided you - they're as culturally accurate as we could manage with our somewhat limited resources, informational or otherwise. In the meantime, I am here to answer your questions as, I'm sure you have many. I will answer them to the absolute BEST of my ability!"

Comments

QUESTIONS

[shiftmods]

Any questions pertaining to the log, please feel free to ask here! (or PM if you'd rather)

[valr]

Just to be clear: does the mention of the Interim mean that characters who were in the test drive remember it, or am I misreading?

SOLAN RE | NPC

[scw_solanre]

[Solan Re will be available to speak with for the duration of the event via any monitor in the bar, central or more tucked away for a more private conversation.]

[valr]

[Once the transmission is over, Kara grabs the nearest screen and messes with it for a while until she works out how to use it properly.

Eventually:]

You did a shit job with the food.

[Just for the record.]

Where are we?

[leanandgreen]

[Beast Boy is literally standing in front of the monitor and raising his hand like he's in school or something.]

Um, yeah. Miss, uh... Re? That's your name right? Yeah, I have a question?

[twobastards]

Liz is glaring at the screen. She'd rather be talking to an actual person (or person like thing), but when she'd tried to approach that side of the bar her nose started hurting so bad her eyes started to water. She's been around enough discordant things to know she didn't want to fuck with that. Which, left her with talking to the lady through the screen.

"So, I'm sure you've gotten this already, but where the hell are we? How long do we have to stay here?"

Getting a whiff of something from the food tables, she added, "And please tell me that's not the only thing you're feeding us."

Vevilan | NPC

[jcw_vevilan]

In the corner of the bar stands a woman (or, at least, a woman like object). She's not quite in the shadows, and not quite not in the shadows, but even so, it's hard to get a good look at her. Although, once you can get a decent look, she looks normal. Young, maybe, but. Normal.

She stands, serene, her arms tucked neatly behind her back as she awaits for you to notice her.

"Greetings and Solutions, newcomers. I am Vevilan, the minor for Solan Re--Ah, sorry, junior to Solan Re. I am here to answer any questions you might have if you would feel more comfortable asking them in person."

She smiles.

[likethelight]

[ Allen's re-dressed himself back in his uniform—his old black and red one, not the new one he found himself dressed in—by the time he enters the bar, a fluttering yellow-gold golem trailing along just over one shoulder. Far more composed now than his original outburst at thinking his master had hit him over the head and run off and left him with yet another bill, his mannerism now is very cautious.

Certainly the broadcast would be sobering enough even without his instincts beginning to itch. Noah?

Which is why, miss, you'll have to excuse him if his manners are a more terse polite than usual. It's all a little creepy and offsetting—and he's skeptical that he can't quite see her clearly. Or that she's the only one smiling. ]

Where are we? [ It's a little clipped. And faintly British. ]

[perroquet]

"Solutions to you as well! I am Gildor."

It's said while sliding one of the complimentary glasses of champagne across the bar counter to her. He thinks he's extremely clever for that. Hopefully it doesn't taste like horseradish, because it definitely smelled like it when he'd picked up another couple of glasses.

"I certainly would like some answers from a not disembodied voice. Please tell me, what is the name of this tavern and were you present when I drank a million-million gold's worth of alcohol last night? Because I rightfully don't remember, nor understand how I've survived it."

Whether or not he really believes that's where his bill came from, it's not stopping him from draining his own horseradish champagne.

"Also, were you the one who undressed me? Because if so, we need to have a chat about consent."

[leanandgreen]

"Solutions?" There's a confused frown on the green kid's face. "Hold up, isn't the correct word, like, salu-lations or something?"

Re: Vevilan | NPC

[murdercat]

"Excuse me."

[He walks past a minimum of three view screens (with the pre-recorded motion pictures), to the only person in the bar who doesn't seem to be bewildered. He will get answers, or by god, someone will suffer!]

"I assume you're the one to see about this?!"

[He holds out the flimsy piece of paper as if it's a weapon in its own right, or as if it has the power to give someone a life sentence (which may not be entirely untrue!).]

GILDOR HELYANWE | OTA

[perroquet]

♪
[ So Gildor wakes up with a throb in his head, lying on a cot he doesn't recognize, feeling like washed up garbage. What else is new? The bard has no reason to believe anything else is different from before he last blacked out... Well, except for the static humming coming from all around. And the fact that the walls are made up of cold metal and thick strings instead of cut stone. And that the disembodied voice of a woman is not a drunken thought coming from inside his head.

Alright, so things are different. Perhaps he's been shanghai'd and placed in some sort of hold. Worse things have happened. Though perhaps not worse than realizing someone had apparently undressed and re-dressed him in his sleep, and even worse than that, into some kind of utilitarian onesie pajama. He's not sure, but it can't possibly be presentably showman like.

His usual clothes are accounted for, and the rest of his few belongings - even the contents of his spell component bag down to the last bat hair. If this were a press-ganging, his captors should have been smart enough not to leave him with his things. Not that anyone could keep him from his instrument, and taking his staff would just be rude. And there's something new as well, a piece of paper, but that does fuckall for Gildor and he lets it flutter to the floor.

So he takes up his staff and gets to exploring the chambers with tapping, listening, and touching, (yes, even the cameras, if they're within reach) and within a few minutes he has a good map of the interior. The tiniest living chamber, for three. It's connected to a hallway, which he pokes out to explore next. No kitchen, so his best guess of the place is... ]

This is the most compact inn I've ever visited.

[ And then after a couple of light sniffs, he adds offhandedly, and to no one in particular- ]

Best smellin' though.


♪♪
[ Nothing kills a hangover like more booze. It may take him a little more time to find the bar, but he finds it, and the champagne table. And oh, he hasn't had champagne since he was young and preforming in Esterport! He doesn't remember it tasting like anchovies, but that makes it even better.

This certainly isn't the last bar he blacked out in. It smells clean, the crowd is sparse, and it's too damn quiet. So after knocking back the fizzy, fishy drink, he's settling in a corner of the bar and busting his violin out from the case over his shoulder. Leaves it open on the floor, just in case, (he understands he has some bill to pay? Probably nothing that can't be made back by busking) and tests the strings with a couple of strokes. ]

Any requests?

[ If he doesn't get an answer soon, he's resolved to start playing Pachelbel's goddamn canon in 5, 4, 3, 2... ]


♪♪♪
[ Wildcard option! Feel free to PM me here to plot something, or ping me on plurk! bunnylike ]

ay roomie

[diamondhack]

If you consider an inn a permanent state of residence, then yes, it is the most compact inn.

[Isha's irritated, not because of the cramped space, though that is in no small part an irritation, but because she's knee deep in this crap again. And now, she has a mechanical greyhound that will hardly fit, but at least it's not a real dog. It doesn't need sleep or need to eat.]

Third's yours, Q-11, for now. And don't rip the walls, I don't like it either, but don't find us a way out yet.

[Because the bill on her bed is already enormous and she doesn't want to be charged for more.]

It doesn't smell like death, I'll give it that.

♪♪

[manyvoiced]

[Breq has taken only the most tentative sniff of a small sandwich she'd found, a glass of the off-tasting drink in the other. She might be too suspicious to bother with the food so conveniently laid out for them if she wasn't starving. It was likely that all said and done it had been a couple days since she'd eaten properly.]

What's your favourite?

[She was sure any request she could make would be unknown to this person. But she loved hearing new songs, so that wasn't a problem in the least.]

♪

[twobastards]

Limping her way down the hall, Liz watched as a man popped out of one of the rooms, looking like he was exploring.

"I don't think this is an inn," she said, stopping across the hall from him, leaning heavily on her cane. "It looks more like a bunker. And it smells like someone went overboard with the all natural cleanser." By which she meant that the halls reeked of Lavender. And Citrus. A terrible combination.

♪♪

[leanandgreen]

Yeah, can you play "Who Let the Dogs Out?"

[Heads up Gildor. There's a weird green kid sitting on top of the next nearest table, knees up, hands on his feet, grinning like a loon.]

Allen Walker | unit 04 | OTA

[likethelight]

Ow...

[ Still not quite aware of his surroundings, a young white-haired boy in Unit 04 begins to wake up in his bunk, sitting up and rubbing at the side of his throbbing head. Ah... what hit him? At headquarters—did Link clout him again for trying to run off?

No, the gate... ]

Timcanpy. [ Said (a little more coherently) as more of a statement then a question, along with a slightly surprised blink as a yellow-gold orb with wings flutters up from the belongings at his bedside and hovers in front of him. It's with relief as well. Oh, Tim. Then...

His eyes fall on his uniform (familiar) by the bedside (totally not familiar. kind of weird. is the rest of the new headquarters this run down?)—and the piece of paper next to it. ]

Oh. [ Said a little offhand, reaching for the paper. Not to anyone in particular, or maybe to the odd floating machine (animal?) looking now with him as well. As for anyone else in the room—he hasn't noticed yet, seeing this first and it being so drab and quiet. ] Did Link leave a—

[ ... ]

...letter? [ But he can't read it at all. It's full of letters he doesn't recognize.

Except for "bill". (Oh, does he recognize that.)

"1,000,000,000".

Which is why you can then hear him echoing down the halls so clearly. ]

EEEHHHHHH?!?!

[perroquet]

[ Two units up. That's at least how far the cry travels through the halls, and it's genuine distress piques the interest of one of the neighbors. Interest though, not sympathy.

It's a few minutes later that Gildor knocks from outside the door, rapping a knuckle against the steel and calling inward, for he's sure the cry came from this spot- ]

These walls're metal, you know. Noise reverberates off 'em, makes it seem louder. Now if you're going to be a noisemaker, try to make it enjoyable for everyone to listen to.

[ That's his plan for getting away with practice later, anyway. ]

Roomies!

[twobastards]

Liz had woken up with a wicked fucking headache in a bed that wasn't hers and in clothes that weren't hers. There was another shape in one of the other bunks, but he'd seemed down for the count when she'd poked him.

When he finally regained the land of the living, Liz had taken some excedrin, changed out of the uniform provided back into her (somewhat grimy, and definitely still a little bloody) clothes, and was inspecting Carnwenhau.

Lifting the blade closer to her eyes, she drawled, "I guess you saw the 'bill'."

Kara Styrdoyttir » Original

[valr]

The first thought that Kara has upon waking is that she’s hung-over, which happens occasionally enough that she doesn’t feel too concerned about either her unfamiliar surroundings or the roiling in her stomach. She had no plans to get drunk, but it’s possibly she ran into someone toting around brews strong enough to affect her, and there’s no way she would have turned it down.

It takes her a while to fully wake up, not being used to feeling quite so spectacularly hung-over (the light headedness is new), but slowly memories of sand and metal come to the surface of her thoughts, and that’s all it takes to get her to her feet.

The sudden movement nearly results in her losing the contents of her stomach on the metal floor, but she manages to fight down the wave of nausea as she reaches for the familiar sight of her bag. Finding her sword is the first priority, and she calms down instantly as soon as her fingers curl around the hilt; she can deal with most things, but her sword is one of her last connections to home. It also means that whoever dragged her here is either an idiot, or not her enemy, since only one of those two would leave her so well armed.

(She should probably look at the piece of paper, but it’s already fallen off the table in her eagerness to get her sword, and is promptly forgotten.)

They did, apparently, undress her, which probably puts them firmly in the ‘idiot’ category, though she isn’t as concerned about propriety as some people are, it’s just annoying that she has to get changed. The uniform is stripped off and left on the bed, replaced by Kara’s raggedy jeans and tank top, both of which have seen better days. Her boots and jacket are in better shape, with the latter is just big enough to hide the holster and gun she’s decided to put on. More obviously, her sword hangs from its scabbard on her hip, a slight anachronism amongst her modern clothing.

It should probably look odd, a young woman wandering the corridors as if she’s just arrived from a Sex Pistols concert, carrying a sword, but she wears the weapon like she was born to.

Arriving in the bar takes her a little while, after she’s spent some time exploring all the empty hallways and closed off doors. It’s unsettling, not being able to see outside, especially when the thought comes that she might be underground. Kara isn’t claustrophobic, but not being able to fly if she needs to makes her skin itch. It makes ‘find an exit’ even more of a priority, but it becomes clear to her that it isn’t happening any time soon, which is why she ends up in the bar.

At least there’s booze.

Booze that she takes a sip of, then promptly spits out when it tastes more like tires than champagne.

“The fuck is this?”

Apparently they can’t even get alcohol right, leaving Kara flopped on a couch smoking a cigarette, ignoring whatever social rules there might be about smoking in indoor settings. If someone has a problem with it, they can tell her, if only because it might be an excuse to get into a fight. She could use a good punch up right about now.

Once the screens come on, she’s probably going to want to punch those.

[twobastards]

Making it to the bar, Liz took in the decorations and food with an extremely raised brow. Picking up what looked like pizza dip, she gave it a cautious sniff before putting it right the fuck back down. It smelled like cabbage. And salmon. No, thank you.

Backing away from the table, she made her way to the only other person in the bar. It was the girl from the centre console; Kara, or whatever.

"Oh hey, looks like you're here, too."

[wethrinaer]

a. unit 05
[of course it wasn't his bed. Or a bed he'd picked to be his for the night, or hell, even one of his lovely lady companions' - which was only an entertaining thought and nothing more, because one would set him on fire before he could even express the thought aloud, another would likely torture him, and he isn't sure the last one would even pick up on the innuendo. It's that last thought that makes him groan audibly; not the headache, or his strange, new surroundings.

Sitting up, he notes the change of clothing with another, exasperated sound. Of course, uniforms and other conformities, he assumed, why should he even be surprised. Reaching over, he snatches his gloves from his pile of clothing and pulls them on. The rest of his clothes can wait until later, he figures, and the gloves serve a greater purpose as it is. He's about to get up and explore when he spots the "bill", the furrow in his brows deepening. Then disappearing entirely as both eyebrows shoot up.

And then he laughs. Laughs until it's less of a laugh and more of a wheezing noise.

Hello, Unit 05. Sorry this is your introduction to your new roommate]

b. the bar
[later, and once the hilarity of his situation has lost most of its amusement, Maias finds himself at the bar - a welcome sight, truly, and one he predicts he will be seeing very, very often. He has no clue what "Happy New Year" is supposed to mean - a holiday, perhaps, to celebrate the turning of the season, maybe? Does this place even have seasons? - but as soon as he sees the champagne he finds himself not caring about the answer.

The glass is halfway to his lips when the screens come on, and despite his time in more modern places, he still jumps at the pop of static and turns, eyes wide and betraying any coolness he may have (thought he was) giving off. Smooth as ever.

At the woman's words he turns to look at the table again, eyebrows raised, before furrowing in a mock pout]

I see nothing culturally accurate about this at all.

[trust Maias to be insulted by the lack of decent ale.

Eventually, he'll find a place to sit to drink his odd-tasting champagne, and to take in what's going on - and of course, people watch. He wondered just how many poor bastards were in the same situation]

c. wildcard

[maybe you run into him in the hallway, or even later when he finally decides to explore. Or heck, maybe you have an entirely different scenario! Your choice ♥]

B

[diamondhack]

[Isha never found anything particularly amusing, not with the fact that she's been through a ridiculous amount of galaxy trotting.

She still finds it hard to believe she's back in this game, after all this time, in this state of hers. She's still not even used to the displays literally in her eyes, rendering her sunglasses only half-inert. Isha doesn't like it, not one bit. The arm, well. She could deal with the arm.

The other implants? It's not as if she could tear it out of her own face, now could she? So, Isha does what she always does.

Adapt.

But at the sight of Maias... this is no dream. Q-11 follows at her heels as she settles next to him primly.]

Of all the gin joints in all the world.

[She taps the bar top twice with her mechanical fingers. Her jumpsuit is already looking fashionable: rolled up sleeves and undone just enough to reveal the top of the shirt underneath.]

Lewa | OTA (will match format)

[spiritlift]

I. UNIT 01

Lewa groaned, trying to roll onto his side on the small berth. He was rewarded with smacking his head into a shelf, a loud metallic thunk rining through the cramped space as his mask made contact. He cursed under his breath, flopping back over and smacking his elbow on the opposite wall, which dominoed into an increasingly flustered scramble as he tried to get up in the small space. Even someone standing outside could hear the racket he was making.

His head was pounding worse than before when he finally managed to get into a sitting position on the bed. Opening his eyes, the first thing he saw was the bright glow of a lightstone, sitting next to his swords. Lewa leapt up to grab them and felt the fabric pulling around him, snagging on his armor. How did his swords get over there? Where was he? What in Mata Nui was this thing he was covered in? He started pulling at the garmet with evident confusion, trying to figure out how to get it off.

"Mata Nui, what is going on?"

II. STATION RED

Well, have lightstone, will explore. Lewa happily left the small room behind him, wandering the halls. Originally he had sort of thought he was still in Metru Nui, but this place managed to be even more dark and depressing than the ruined city. Not to mention he hadn't seen any of his fellow toa around. He glanced up at the monitors uncertainly, wondering what they were for.

The bright glowing crystal in his hand cast a strong light around him, it's glow would be easy to see in the gloom by anyone walking near.

III. THE BAR

Lewa eventually stumbled on the bar, and was disappointed to find not a single matoran or toa, or any other type of creature he recognized. Whatever these things were, they looked very fragile. They weren't even wearing armor! Even with other people milling about, he still had not found his teammates.

He walked up to the nearest person, silently hoping they would be able to answer him.

"Greetings, friend. Any slight-chance you've spotted other toa-heroes like me in this dark-place?"

||| 1/2

[likethelight]

[ If Lewa is worried he might be staring...

Normally, being the one generally stared at, Allen isn't one to repeat the same sort. Really, he's generally pretty accepting of all things Strange. It's not fair to stare at others for not appearing like everyone else. But.

Um. ] ...

-crack- [ Does Allen drop his plate at the sight of Lewa? No.

Tighten his grip so suddenly as to break it? Yes. ]

[pachintoki]

1 -- if they sent the prison bill to the guy in prison it would never get paid

[Waking up had been . . . uneventful, to say the least. His eyes opened as slowly as ever, he wanted to get out of bed just as much as he ever did - not a whole hell of a lot, generally - but when he finally focuses on his surroundings, his head pops right off that pillow.

A pillow much less comfortable than his own at home. If anything, that was one of the real crimes here.

A least, he'll think that way until he spots the piece of paper. After staring at it blearily for a bit wondering what it could be, he'll stretch out his hand and pluck it up, staring at it with with all the intensity of a dead-fish.

He'll keep staring at it. What was this? Is this what he thought it was? What exactly was he paying for? His hand shakes a little in panic. Sure, he'd owed people money but . . . this amount?

And. . .1,000,000 . . . what exactly? 1,000,000 yen, or maybe dollars, 1,000,000 gold, 1,000,000 sticks of gum, 1,000,000 hours of training in the Room of Spirit and Time, 1,000,000 souls of magical girls. . . .

So. . . 1,000,000 what?

He'll crumple up the paper, giving a groan of frustration as he tosses it in the direction of the door, rolling over and burying himself in his blankets. It'll be awhile before he's up. Since he has to pay for this bed and all.

. . . well, where the hell was he anyway? ]

2 -- don't go into a cantina if you owe somebody money

[After some time in bed, and exploring his living space, he'd managed to make it out to the bar area. He figured he could spend some more time exploring later since he was more than happy to see some cake and something to drink. He'll take a glass of champagne, and then he'll put no less than 3 pieces of cake on his plate, moseying over to where he can sit down by himself. Despite the situation, the look on his face is one of pure happiness as he shoves a big bite of cake into his mouth. Sweet cake, sweet sugar. It would never betray hi--

BUT GASP. Unfortunately though, when you gasp with your mouth full, it just leads to choking. Gintoki starts to choke, coughing like he's trying to expel his soul from his body.

Somebody try the Heimlich.]

3 -- there's nothing like the bond between a man and his dog sweets

[Once he's recovered, he's gonna sit and stew. Every so often, he'll look at the cake on his plate, eyes a little more hopeful than before as he reaches . . . hesitates . . . reaches again. . . stills his hand . . . no . . . but again . . . reaches. . . that wistful, nostalgic expression on his face . . . and he snatches a bit of the cake again. He'll look hard at it, willing it back into it's original, innocent, heavenly sweet form before swiftly putting it into his mouth.

Only to shudder, teeth clenched with a quietly pained whine, before hanging his head. It still tasted like --

-- like natto.

Yeah, he's gonna do that a few times. Someone might want to take the cake away from him, or maybe just watch for their own personal amusement.

After awhile though, he'll walk up to where the food is, set a hand on whatever tray or plate the cake was on, and simply slide it onto the floor, watching that moist and delicious looking nightmare fall apart with a few solemn words.]

There, there. I've put us both out of misery. I didn't want it to end this way. . . I saw a long, bright, glittering future for us both, in that house by the lake I know you dreamed about . . .

[Are there tears in his eyes? Calm down, buddy.]

II -- I'm sure this is how you make friends.

[murdercat]

[He peers over with astonishment and disgust at first, but the stranger settles in at the bar, and begins to shovel the bounty of cake as quickly as possible. After receiving that mockery of a bill, most rational people would turn their nose up at the mysterious display set out for them. However, even the barest inspection of the spread should kick in the basest self-preservation instincts besides the fact! Once the man begins to choke, Mordecai breaks into an imperceptible smirk, and leans over to offer 'advice'.]

"It would take only the most stout individuals to weather the alcohol! It seems like whatever hasn't done us for in the desert is making another, more subtle attempt... in the dessert!"

[He was so damn clever. After the stranger coughs a few times, he scoffs inwardly. Some people couldn't understand a good joke.]

"I would avoid the cake, though. I could swear it almost smelled like vinegar. Oh!"

[He pretends to notice the mans plate, and raises his eyebrows in mock surprise.]

"Well, that's most unfortunate, isn't it!"

[murdercat]

I -- Welcome “Home”!

There was still the headache. there was still disorientation. This was miserable. A distant dream would be to lie back down and keep sleeping until he woke, but the walk through the desert, the breakers in the basement, the whispers in the dark: they were too vivid. This was it. He was dead. Every deplorable act he did in life, every unforgivable act? Well, someone wanted to collect. The concussion wasn't as bad, but nausea was overruling, and with no small amount of difficulty, he swung his feet around the cubby, and tried to take stock of this new reality.

Someone had put him in an ill-fitting uniform. Most of his belongings were within arms reach, but the BAR (What did she call it? Bordeaux? Badeaux?) was missing. The damnable thing was empty, anyway. His clothes were there. His other weapons were there. Another…. jumpsuit was there? and a note. It wasn’t in in english, it wasn’t in german, it wasn’t even in latin. It was indecipherable, and the only way he could tell it was supposed to be read was in the layout. Someone was using it for record keeping, or retain some manner of legitimacy.. the only thing recognisable was the english word “bill” at the top, and arabic numerals where a sum would be stated. 1,000,000,000. One Billion. There was a squiggle of some sort after the number which was NOTHING he had ever seen before, but could be assumed to be currency. That was rather sobering. No amount of head trauma could eclipse such a fee. Even if it were in….. in rubles, in marks, or even in sand dollars, that was not a number to scoff at. Someone believed Mordecai owed them a billion of whatever, and hadn’t made their stake clear. There were shelves, rusted metal through port-holes, and an overall dismal atmosphere, which compounded with the concept of someone expecting a due for unknown services… Well, confusion and ire were mounting in equal parts. It wasn’t a very large domicile, and within a six-foot radius, there were another two occupied bunks.

The walls pressed in, and his breath grew short. No. NO! He would NOT be destitute again! No force in the world, NO entity could punish him like this! His hand drifted through the slit in his jumpsuits chest; the last few hours had conditioned him to check his wound with embarrassing regularity. He started when his fingers reached his skin, and pulled back his lapels to be certain he wasn’t misunderstanding his own senses. Where there had been fresh, angry cuts, there were only keloid scars. How long had he been out? If it had been months, why was his head still pulsing?

II -- Stomping Grounds

“Storming” would be applicable. Someone had the gall to indenture him, and whatever he didn’t have enough information to solve just added to his vexation. He stomped to what seemed to be the most inhabited area and found…. a bar? It seemed the central hub to whatever this floor was, but they had anniversary and New Year decorations. Wasn’t it October? Wait… there were BIGGER questions that needed answered. Is that a chip-dish on the table with old wet leaves set in the middle of bits of tree bark? Was that next to a multi-tiered cake with a forest of paper drink umbrellas stuck through the top? He stalks around the room for a bit, hoping to accost the most likely candidate.

“What is the meaning of this?!”

III -- Whatever else

I can’t imagine any of us have a bevy of personal space right now! Whatever tags I have going, or if you would like to do anything else, please let me know!

II

[perroquet]

Well, way to pick the least likely candidate there fluffy. Not that Gildor can tell the one suddenly accosting him by the hors d'oeuvres table is covered in a soft layer of fur, not yet anyway. At this moment he's busy being startled, and quickly focuses an ear in the direction of the yelling and stomping. He heard it coming, but he wasn't expecting it to come for him!

"Sorry, you'll need to be a tad more specific."