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videodrome2016-01-07 04:37 am
shiftmods) wrote in videodrome2016-01-07 04:37 am
Entry tags:
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!"
no subject
"Yes, but that doesn't mean I can't appreciate or understand general information about my surroundings. Jus' means you might need to get a little more creative about it.
For example, my description for this Station Red so far would be... open and sparse, and it's halls are sprawling, winding, twisting, but not organically like a branch. It's more... mechanical, I guess. I also have the impression of being underground, as I have felt no sunlight nor anything on the walls besides patchy metal and humming glass. And much like this drink, it seems as if it is trying to be something it is not."
He twirls the neck of the champagne glass between slender fingers for a beat, swirling the few remaining bubbles inside.
"Homey and welcoming."
Though he quickly adds in an understanding tone, perhaps to avoid any more offense-
"But it is trying. So why don't you?"
no subject
"Many pardons, you are the first others I have interacted with. I did not mean to cause offence. If you would like to file a complaint, I can facilitate that.
"Your descriptions seem accurate; I will try to keep such parameters in mind for the future. Most of Station Red is below ground for protection and shelter. This is too the reason for it's...lacking nature. Do you have any suggestions for where we went wrong? I can not promise to fix these, but I will file it for the future."
She does not, however, specify for whose protection and shelter.
no subject
Like her stillness her quiet distress is noted, and Gildor folds his arms across the old bar top casually, comfortably. He is, and has been for most of this time, smiling. He'd rather everyone be at ease.
"As far as suggestions... perhaps some music would help make the space more welcoming-" because ninety-nine percent of the time, the answer to any problem with him is music, "and I may be able to help with that."
"But first, please tell me - what exactly is this underground place protecting us from? Are we below the Wylds?"
Us. Because so far, he has no reason to believe those operating this establishment would not want to protect them. They are inside after all, and have received housing, clothes, sustenance, and a bill... and if that bill is to ever be paid back, they probably should be kept alive, protected from whatever it is beyond these walls.
no subject
"Station Red is protecting you from our world. Regretfully, the nature of our planet is such that were you to step outside into it, you would most certainty perish. We have done our best to ensure your continued survival within these walls, however."
no subject
That smile fades now, and his brows knot under his lenses. So far he's understood that he is, that most everyone here is, indeed not where they should be, and that they're all quite different from each other. But he thought they were all foreigners trapped below the Wylds at least, not somewhere... out in the cosmos...
Those hands that were folded so contentedly seconds ago twitch as he laces his fingers together. Then unlaces them, folds them one way, then the other.
"Are we not on the good Maker's world of Meridian?"
no subject
"I'm sorry, I do not know what that means."
no subject
Mildly panicked thoughts remain choked back in his throat, because if he said them right away they would not have come out right. They would be ill composed, and he never composed anything poorly. So instead, Gildor mutters a quick, "excuse me," as he picks up his staff from where it was leaning against the bar top, and wanders away from his seat.
But he does wander right back, just a few minutes later. And it's with no less than three champagne glasses in his free hand, and the rest of an open bottle tucked into his arm. He sets two of them down, but the contents of the third pour straight down his throat and hit the counter empty. He moves the bottle to his other hand once his staff is placed aside again, briefly holding it under his nose.
"Must've been an int'restin' year for those grapes."
...if they have grapes here. Do they? Is that really something he wants to be asking? Maybe. Anything to quiet the stress building behind his brows. Forgetting the other two glasses, he tips back and drinks, ungracefully gulps directly from the greeniish bottle. When he comes back the edge of his mouth is wiped on his sleeve and he places the bottle back down, but keeps a firm grip on the neck.
"I don't know how it's been done, but someone managed to make your champagne taste like bubbled pickle juice and tar. Not the best combination, but impressive on an artistic level..."
His tone is back to it's mildly cheerful self, even if his composure is a little forced.
"My compliments to the brewer. Now, if you please... Vevilan. Tell me everything you can about this place. How was I brought here? Will I... be able to go back?"
no subject
"I will pass your words along. I myself cannot process any of the food provided, so I cannot provide any personal feedback."
"You were brought here by accident. We hope that you will be able to go back; we certainly have no intention of keeping you here."
no subject
"Accident? Magical in nature? I've had a few of those in my time..."
Oh, the stories of the natural one's he's rolled... they could be here all night.
"I certainly hope we will be able to go back too. Where will you place us, if you have no intention of keepin' us here and the outside is uninhabitable?"
no subject
"You will be placed here, in Station Red. I only meant that we have no intention of keeping you here indefinitely; that would be untenable."
no subject
His patience is running thin, something that usually only happens around entire parties of fighters with collectively low WIS scores. He might've wondered what her ability scores are, if not for the champagne going straight to his head. Hopefully after finishing the glasses and bottle, he'll remember what was even said between them.
"Where else will we be placed, if not here? And how long do you estimate we have?"
Down goes another glass. Licorice and stale perfume flavor this time.