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

[perroquet]

[ London... if it rings a bell, he makes no comment on it. May have heard it mentioned in a song once or twice. But then, even he doesn't know where half the songs in his head have come from. Most bards don't. A byproduct of their magic, or perhaps their connection to the greater universe through music...

...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. ]

[diamondhack]

[Her lips quirk into a smile. Music is appreciated, much more than most other things.]

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.

[perroquet]

[ Gildor pauses in wiping the bow clean on his sleeve, listening and... trying very hard not to react. Never know... as a bard he does know when his skills need to be sharp. Always. Any bard worth their salt would know that, and he is not just any bard. But he hasn't mentioned what he is, or really who, and has to remind himself to not hold it against her and to keep his ego in check. Especially for first impressions... it would do him no good to go on about his credentials, and anyway he's not drunk enough to bother.

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. ]