videodrome | LOG 001: INTRO

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!"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

He immediately turns his head to aim an ear in the voice's direction, listening and taking in the three-legged step that follows along with it, till it stops just shy of his door. If he seemed alarmed upon realizing he wasn't alone alone, it quickly fades behind a faint friendly smile.

"Whatever this scent, I'll take it over shit and vomit."

He rolls his staff between his hands, tilts his head thoughtfully.

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with bunkers. That what this is place then?"

Not quite sure he likes the sound of this new word yet. Sounds as compact and tight as the little bedroom he just came out of is.

Liz's eyebrows rose. "Dunno what kinda inns you've been staying in, but remind me never to go there."

Shifting, she moved to lean against the wall, taking some of the weight off her leg. Between the hunt and running through that desert, her leg was fit to murder her.

Breathing deep (the bruises on her side smarting only slightly), she continued, "A bunker is like an armoured building below ground. Usually military in nature. This place," she said, jerking a chin at their surroundings, "looks like one."

"Does it now?"

He raps the side of the wall she's leaning on loudly with a knuckle, then places his palm flat against it, fingers spread. Patchy old pieces of metal reverberate up and down and across and back, for as far and wide as he can tell. No windows, and the only detectable doors lead to more cramped living units.

"Feels sort've like a dungeon, only made with metal instead of stone."

How impractical. Metal could rust and erode away much faster than stone. More importantly, Bunkers&Dragons is a terrible name.

But the layout and impracticality of the architecture isn't the only thing Gildor can feel against the walls. For a brief moment he can also feel the woman leaning in front of him, the somewhat pained position she's holding herself in, and that measured breath isn't going undetected by his listen check either.

"Excuse me but... are you hurt?"

Liz watched as he pressed his hand to the wall after tapping it. Some sort of ability to see, she was guessing, somehow using the vibrations like that girl from the cartoon her and her son loved (she felt a pang, thinking of her son, and quickly buried it. no time for that here, not now).

"That sounds about right. Probably made to withstand a lot of punishment." Most of the bunkers she was familiar with were either cold war monstrosities or those creepy hermetically sealed concrete rooms buried in people's back yards.

Taking another breath, she was startled when he asked, air rushing out in a laugh. "Uh, yeah, but don't worry about it. Just one helluva bruise on my side from daring to get in a bull-seal's way. Didn't even crack any ribs." In case he needs the reassurance, she tells him what she always says. "I'll survive."

"A bull seal? That's either very impressive or very reckless. You should probably keep off their beach next time."

Replace reckless with stupid and you have his actual thought process, but first impressions... he'll keep it civil.

"I am a healer of sorts, if you'd like that patched up."

"Eh, well, believe me, I would, but sometimes you just need to relocate a girl out of an abusive situation, even if her father happens to be three and a half tons if he's a pound." Glamorous, her job ain't.

When he offered his services, she shifted against the wall. "You a healer by vow, or just as a side job?" Not to judge, but she can see the point to his ears, and she hasn't gotten as far as she has by accidentally getting herself into situations with costs she can't see (once was by far enough). While she's fairly certain she's not in the Fae or the Below, better safe than sorry. Right now, she has nothing she's willing to trade just to make her life a little easier, and she knows she's not the only one to wake up with a bill to be paid.

His brow furrows under his lenses. He's not usually this slow on the uptake... must be the lingering headache. This has to be one of the longest lasting hangovers he's had in a while.

"Oh! Not an actual seal. Metaphor for a good deed. Well done on both accounts."

He shifts his staff from hand to hand, considering the seemingly selfless act that got her in such bad shape and listening. Is that a hint of suspicion he's detecting? Over what, he's not sure.

"I'm no cleric or paladin, I've taken no vows. I am a bard, and while music is my focus, healing comes with territory. So... side job."

A lot of odd magic comes with the territory, but it's not a conversation for now. Bard magic is a long, convoluted conversation better suited over drinks and a warm fire. Besides, if she wants those bruises to feel better they can't stand in the halls prattling on, not unless she wants to.

Liz laughed. "Ah, no," she said, rubbing her nose. "Actual seal. Or rather, seal-like thing. Selkies." She shrugged. Her life, what even was it. "But thanks. Marc and I happened to be in the area, so we got tapped."

Pulling herself up straighter (and wincing just a tad), she decided to be blunt. "Sorry, I wouldn't have anything to pay for the service. But thank you for the offer." It really would be nice to not have to worry about her side as well as figure out wherever the fuck they were, but she has reason to be cautious. "How does healing come with the territory of singing?" She knew some people who used music as a focus, but they wouldn't really call themselves bards.

Shifting again to pull the weight off her leg, she couldn't stop the grimace. "Actually, hold that thought. You mind if we move this conversation elsewhere? My leg isn't really happy with me for dragging a bunch of crap with me across the desert." IE a robot dog and a bitchy concussed cat person. That last one was worse.

"Selkies? Ah..." He's a little lost, but he'll leave it at that. A rare creature of his world, better known to sailors if encountered at all, and while he lived up and down the coasts almost all his life, he'd never been a fan of sea travel.

At the request to move along he straightens up, extends the end of his staff out on the floor in front of him and replies, "Of course. Aren't you the selfless fighter? I could probably relieve that ache too, you know." Speaking of selfless, he hadn't asked for money. Left the slip of paper that was his bill lying on the floor unread, or else he would have thought to...

However, if she expects to continue the conversation until after they've reached their new destination, she's wrong. Because he's not going to wait for her to start leading the way to answer- "Music is naturally healing, isn't it? Not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually... even economically. It is powerful in many aspects, and healing is certainly an important one of them-"

He'll follow as soon as he hears her move, but he probably won't stop rambling.

LOG 001: INTRO

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