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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!"
ay roomie
[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.
no subject
Permanent eh? Nuffing is truly permanent in the universe. But what makes you think that, friend?
[ He turns back inwards, an ear trained in her direction now, listening intently. Though a second later his head tilts to one side, and he lets their agreement of the smell of the place drop, because what she says before it makes no bloody sense. ]
I'm sorry... queue eleven?
[ He only feels two auras in the room now that he's aware of another presence, and has no reason to believe such a pair of words could form a name. And he won't be ripping no walls... attempting to shatter them later, maybe, but for now they're safe from being ripped. ]
no subject
[Though it does take some effort for her to refer to it as a thing, given her newfound propensity for mild attachment.]
Bodyguard extraordinaire, and terrible thing to cross, almost worse than me.
[Q-11 barks in assertion.]
And I think that because there's a bill and I never have bills.
no subject
Mechanical dog beast... very nice. I'll do my best to remember.
[ To remember about not crossing it or her, he doesn't clarify. Instead he walks back into the room, staff sliding lightly across the flooring. ]
Bill hm? That what that was-?
[ The end of the staff keeps scraping, making a soft metallic sound till it runs over the paper he tossed moments ago, and when it does he bends down to retrieve it. It still does nothing for him; there is no written language he knows. ]
Prob'ly from drinking last night then. What's the damage?
[ He holds it out in her direction, and it sure is upside-down and backwards-facing. ]
no subject
A brow rises. Same as hers, it seems. Way too much, in her opinion, but her opinion became mostly unwanted since the CDC.
Mostly.]
Well you certainly drank more than your fair share. Impressive that you're still alive. [She clicks her tongue. The real question as to how this number was chosen will forever nag her, and perhaps she'd get that answer in her own time, but that's nothing she'll figure out on day one.] You have an iron liver, congratulations. Do you want to know the real number?
no subject
Well, not anymore. ]
Not the first time I've heard as much. And yes, the real number now, if you please.
[ The staff he's carrying is rolled between his hands idly, waiting. ]
no subject
[It even hurts a little saying it, because that's one hell of a bill.]
But of what is a mystery. I would assume credits, but I have no idea what the currency is here, nor the exchange rate to your local currency. So.
[She sighs shortly.]
The point is, you and I owe a lot for this paper-thin excuse of a wall and a bed.
no subject
...
BILLION?!
Whatever semblance of a smile that was on his face before is wiped clear. He stands completely still, trying, and failing, to process that number. ]
It's not nice to joke about something like that to people who can't read.
[ The statement is more a lie to himself than anything else, a wishful grasp at understanding that isn't there. He senses no ill motive in her voice, hears no insincerity in her sighs. Really, she sounds as lost as he suddenly feels. ]
...you're being serious, aren't you?
[ And there's something else... currency? Is it not in copper and silver and gold? ]
I'm sorry, are we not 'round Davenshire?
[ That's the last place he remembers wandering through... maybe. He's not sure where he's been wandering at all any more. ]
no subject
[She scrubs her face with her left hand, stopping at her mouth, staring distantly at the sheet. Horrible to think that she'd rather take a billion amount of whatever as a bill than the fate of a planet.
It's the small things in life.
When he asks for Davenshire, she cocks her head. This all over, never-ending.]
No, love, most likely we're very far from Davenshire. Where in the universe we are, I don't know, but it's not my home, and nor is it yours I believe.
no subject
But for right now, to keep the beating in his chest from rising any higher, he slowly... sits down. The smallish countertop he chooses probably isn't meant to be a seat, but it is now. Besides, it's right within reach of his violin case, and after a moment of quiet he's reaching to bust it out. Needs something to keep his hands from twitching. ]
Where're you from then?
[ Idle chatter, another distraction to latch onto. His voice is calm, casual, but perhaps flatter than before. ]
If it turns out we're stuck here, better get to know each other. I'm Gildor.
no subject
[She does note the flatness, but says nothing. She doesn't blame him. She was no better than him the first time around.
But why this again, for her, is the question she wants answered. There was something to be said for experience, which makes her feel uncomfortable. Experience in the business of destruction? Or simply her work as a hacker and a thief? Or someone who knew how to work with the law as well as bend it to her will?
Questions, too many, and not enough answers. So it goes.]
Isha Devan, at your service.
[Once, it would've been just a mere courtesy, but it's become a mostly true statement in the past few months of her life.]
And as I've mentioned, that's Q-11 who barks on occasion. It's quiet for the most part, unless I tell it to be loud and growly.
no subject
...the greater universe in which he is now stuck in. But he hasn't taken her words too literally, hasn't fully accepted them yet. Thinks maybe they're out in the Wylds, someplace no one would think to look for a secret underground prison dungeon. That's one of the theories buzzing around his crowded thoughts anyway. And more than a drink, he needs something to listen to in order to calm those thoughts. ]
Sorry I can't promise to be as quiet as your beastie. I practice regularly.
[ He's pulling out his violin as he explains. It's an unremarkable and old wooden one, though polished and clearly well cared for. The bow is left in the case. For now, his weathered fingers delicately pluck out a soft and slow tune on the strings as though it were the tiniest and most precious of guitars. ]
Promise to make it enjoyable, or at least enjoyable as I can.
[ The plucked out song he's picked might be a little on the sadder side. Not the most optimistic of sounds, but he has a compelling need to get it out there. ]
no subject
Don't worry, love, I work better with noise anyway. I should only expect that your music is far superior to the buzz of drones and street life.
{The violin is weathered and worn, likely some kind of heirloom or something with deep sentimental value. Blind he may be, but he knows his instrument well enough to care for it. It couldn't be something he found one day, not that she could think. The violin, she muses, has been with him for a while.]
It's good to practice. You'll never know when you need to stay sharp in your skills.
no subject
So instead of answering her in words, he settles into position and plays. If they are to share this space, she'll need to become used to his playing soon. Fully absorbed and posessed by the sound, he is difficult to draw out of it's once begun.
Eventually though, the song ends. He stops and perhaps a bit awkwardly takes his leave to wander the halls, muttering about finding somewhere with better acoustics as he recollects his cane and goes. ]