videodrome | LOG 001: INTRO

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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!"

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

[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.]

Edited 2016-01-14 04:58 (UTC)

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.

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?

Yes, characters who were in the test drive will remember everything that happened there!

cool cool cool

♪
[ 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 ]

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?!?!

Edited 2016-01-14 09:12 (UTC)

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.

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 ♥]

[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.]

[the smile he gives her is far more genuine than what he'd give anyone else, albeit smaller than the fake mask he usually plasters on. A gloved hand immediately seeks out the top of her strange, mechanical companion's head, though, as if it were as real as he and Isha]

Does a gin joint differ from a tavern, or does it mean the same thing? [it's a half-serious question, old habits spurring him into rambling on the topic she's presented to him] Or do these gin joints specialize in only serving gin?

[he gives a considering pause, the glass in hand swirling the liquid] I remember having gin. It was quite good.

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.

[So she has a prosthetic and he has a gloved hand.

And so they continue to be a hell of a pair.]

It means the same thing love. Whiskey, on the rocks.

[The bartender nods curtly and leaves to make her drink.]

It's from a movie, a very old one. [She glances over to him.] Casablanca. Back when movies were new to color. [Isha purses her lips. Just like old times, as if nothing's ever changed. A rare moment, this one, one that lends itself to her dropping her head onto his shoulder.]

We're at this again, love.

[the hand patting their third wheel immediately lifts up to thread his fingers through her hair as best it can, fingers fumbling and twitching oddly for a moment, stiffly. But that's the only give that there may be a reason why he opted to keep his gloves on]

Movies had no color? I am still amazed they exist in the first place.

[his tone is a little lighter, quieter so it's just between them]

And so we are. Our luck is amazingly bad, it would seem.

[ 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. ]

[Q-11 doesn't mind at all being ignored. It lays down onto its stomach, content as any machine could be with itself.

She does noticed, though, his odd movements. Isha chooses not to comment on it, not now.]

So it is.

[She lifts her prosthetic arm up, flexing her fingers. The metal and the gold shine in the lights.]

It's been one bad thing after the other, Maias.

[ 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. ]

[ An answer he hadn't anticipated directs his attention back inside the small unit. Apparently in his eagerness to explore, he missed that he wasn't alone. She must've been very still, this woman, or his tired mind is foggier than he's fully realized. But if he's still groggy, he hides it behind a cheery tone- ]

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. ]

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?"

Edited 2016-01-15 05:53 (UTC)

Q-11, my beast, my mechanical dog, my... thing, if you will.

[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.

[ HE DOESN'T MEAN TO BE A BOTHER SO SOON. JUST, OF ALL THINGS. HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE GETTING PAST THIS. OF ALL THINGS MASTER, NOT AGAI— ]

Sorry...

[ To his credit, Allen's (sheepishly) composed himself by the time Gildor knocks, rubbing a bit at his tousled hair. Not that he can see that or Timcanpy hovering just behind, though Gildor might hear what sounds like a robin's wings swishing lightly. ]

Ah— [ hesitant pause, blinking and taking in Gildor's appearance ]

..are you the innkeep? [ maybe? ~~what a weird place~~ ]

Edited 2016-01-15 05:18 (UTC)

[ 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. ]

Ah...

[ A couple shards of plate drop from Allen's white gloves. (He changed.)

Urge to invoke is great. Urge to invoke is great. Urge to invoke or blow his own exit out of here is great... ]

...'toa-heroes'? [ Ahem.

THE PROPER THING TO DO IS SMILE AND NOT SQUASH THE ROBOT-THING FLAT OR BOLT FOR THE NEAREST EXIT BEFORE IT TRIES TO MURDER HIM LIKE ALL THE REST, BUT IT'S REALLY, REALLY HARD NOT TO... ]

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Page 1 of 10

LOG 001: INTRO

QUESTIONS

SOLAN RE | NPC

Vevilan | NPC

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GILDOR HELYANWE | OTA

Allen Walker | unit 04 | OTA

EEEHHHHHH?!?!

Kara Styrdoyttir » Original

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B

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ay roomie

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Lewa | OTA (will match format)

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