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redshiftlogs2019-06-30 09:07 pm
modblob) wrote in redshiftlogs2019-06-30 09:07 pm
Entry tags:
- !mod post: intro mingle,
- dragon age: cole,
- expanse: alex kamal,
- far cry 5: staci pratt,
- hunger games: annie cresta,
- hunger games: finnick odair,
- izombie: drake holloway,
- mcu: peter parker,
- mortal kombat: kabal,
- original: cho takahashi,
- poison: poison,
- umbrella academy: ben hargreeves,
- umbrella academy: diego hargreeves,
- umbrella academy: eudora patch,
- umbrella academy: klaus hargreeves,
- warm bodies: julie grigio
july 2019. welcome to the void.
Who: Everyone in Anchor.
What: First Introductory Mingle
When: The Month of July 2019
Where: Around and outside the city.
Warnings: Please add any warnings in the subject lines.
A few hours after the first arrivals, odd noises start to filter up from the pavilion and park at the base of the city. Limp whistles, the gunfire pop of small fireworks, and music from what sounds like a broken kazoo. It seems as though the still-functioning robots of Anchor are trying to welcome their new human overlords, based on programming that hasn't been exercised in... uh, shall we say "a while"?
Three of them have formed a tiny off-key band playing unfamiliar tunes from crackling speakers. One of the three punctuates the music at odd moments by smashing together a pair of cymbals that seem to have been constructed from a flattened pot and a trash can lid. Two others man the refreshments table. Some of the food looks downright inedible, but there are piles of wild berries from the upper floors. Raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, strawberries. Apples and cherries. Fruits that shouldn't be in season together but somehow still are. There's a strange and vaguely triangular pastry that tastes like hot cinnamon candy. There are piles of vegetables, too, though the only preparation they've had is to be washed and dumped in baskets.
One of the chef bots has put some work in, though, and there are a couple of stews and soups available for the adventurous. All of them are made with the raw ingredients available to eat on the tables. One of them even has meat in it, though that's best consumed by people with very hardy stomachs.
At the end of the refreshment table is a cluster of fresh-pressed juices and unlabeled alcohol bottles, with uneven stacks of cups stationed around them. (Careful, some of the cups are cracked.) Even the good old bar bot is doing his part, pouring out glasses of orange juice and straight shots of tequila. A very generous compromise in place of his usual tequila sunrises. Right? Right.
The most conspicuous robot is the one setting off fireworks. It’s already blown off one six-fingered hand, but by god that hasn’t stopped it. With every small cluster of colorful explosives, the thing throws back its chunky head and gives a sound that can only be described as a metallic cackle.
Might want to watch that guy.
In the wee hours of the morning after the robots' attempted welcome, the impacts against the dome overhead start. Meteorites, some of them as large as a person's head, bombard the shield and the area around for miles. The alarms that start throughout the colony are enough to wake anyone up, if the thunderous noise of the cosmic storm wasn't enough to do it.
And the alarms aren't for the meteorites. The red shift is rising up around the colony, that phenomenon that no one from the past had the foresight to give more than vague warnings about. New residents who have done some digging will know exactly what’s going on, but for those who’ve avoided even thinking about what’s happened to them, well. It could be a nasty surprise.
Anyone sensible would stay inside with all of that going on, but there's something else: life signs. The communication devices given to residents on arrival light up, indicating the presence of no less than five flecks of life out there in the wastes. Odds are good that at least a few of them are monsters from other worlds, or twisted radioactive creatures warped by the planet itself. But one of them is very human, and has been here for a very long time.
Should residents venture out to investigate these life signs, they’ll find the farthest one to be a man in protective gear, flickering like a badly received signal. As the red shift starts to fade, he solidifies, and as the shift finally dies away, he wrenches off his helmet with one hand and falls to his knees. He's as twisted as the creatures the planet has corrupted, one eye socket nothing but a depression sealed by flesh. His lips on that side curves sharply upward, barely hiding teeth too sharp and long for a human mouth. It's clear now while he pulled off his helmet with one hand--the other is a wreck, a blackened stony mass sealed to the cuff of his radiation suit.
He can hear you coming, if you're brave enough to approach. He can hear you coming, and will turn his one orange-irised eye to watch you until you speak.
Welcome to Anchor, where sometimes you're the only thing between you and the catastrophic failure of life support systems. After the red shift ends, the radioactivity warning alarms will at least fall silent. The cosmic storm has passed, and for a little while there's quiet under the dome.
But those exploring the upper reaches of the city might hear new alarms, much softer and less insistent than the radiation alarms. They're coming from one of the survey rooms near the garage and the exits to the surface. It might take a little doing to pull up the screens triggering the alarms, but you'll be glad you put in the work. It turns out, those meteorites damaged several of the exterior sensors and one of the major radiation and light transfer panels that help keep anchor supplied with energy--and help keep the shield dome in good working order.
While the damage is easy to see and isn't too hard to fix for those with some technical know-how, there are life signs moving slowly closer to the colony. It's quite possible to fix the damage and get back inside before those life signs arrive, but there's also the risk of being caught in the open and facing down some of the planet's native creatures.
In this case, they're large, furry millipede-like creatures no less than seven feet long. They're perfectly harmless, if you don't count the fact that they seem intent on trying to eat the protective gear and tools you've brought out onto the surface with you. It's not their fault that your arms are inside those delicious radiation suits.
A few days of genuine quiet follow the fixing of the exterior damage. Time to explore, to get lost, to drink more than your doctor might recommend at the colony's only serviceable bar. Enough time to feel the weight of Anchor's emptiness.
The next time you walk into the bar, there's a see-through stranger at the pool table, smiling warmly in welcome. "Want a game?"
Get too close, and he disappears. But he was there--he was clearly there. The cue he was holding clatters to the ground and rolls over to rest at your feet.
Down in the pavilion, there are children playing in the park. Throwing balls, playing tag, their laughs echoing somehow in the open air. Invisible parents call for them to be careful or slow down. Now and then one of them will vanish midstep, only to appear again back where they were ten minutes ago and start their run through the park all over again. They can see you. One or two might even invite you to join their games, taking your hand in their own, leading you toward their fellows. And when they do, you can hear their parents' voices exclaiming in shock. A rush of shadows scoop up these phantom children and whisk them away into some invisible world where you can't follow, only hear the children crying in fear.
All around the colony, shades appear and vanish, some solid enough to touch, some just barely visible. Some are inexplicably aggressive, attacking anyone who tries to talk to them or get too close. Just as many run screaming or sobbing at the sight of you.
But there are others, too, who seem to recognize you. One of these is a young woman holding a gun like she has no idea how to use it. When approached, she almost starts to cry. "Oh, thank god. We have to get the kids to quarantine. We have to get them into lockdown. Those bastards-- Those sons of bitches-- The kids should at least have a chance."
She starts to turn, and a laser blast rips through her, lancing across the wall right where a deep score mark still exists, not in the least ghostly or unreal. If you touch it now, it feels warm.
What: First Introductory Mingle
When: The Month of July 2019
Where: Around and outside the city.
Warnings: Please add any warnings in the subject lines.
Redshift: Welcome to the v͖͕̺̲̘̱̜͎o̴̦̣̠̦̘̹͞i̯̖d̛̪̬͈̱̦̝͍̕.
Click here to read what characters will experience when arriving in Anchor.
a. bot party.
A few hours after the first arrivals, odd noises start to filter up from the pavilion and park at the base of the city. Limp whistles, the gunfire pop of small fireworks, and music from what sounds like a broken kazoo. It seems as though the still-functioning robots of Anchor are trying to welcome their new human overlords, based on programming that hasn't been exercised in... uh, shall we say "a while"? Three of them have formed a tiny off-key band playing unfamiliar tunes from crackling speakers. One of the three punctuates the music at odd moments by smashing together a pair of cymbals that seem to have been constructed from a flattened pot and a trash can lid. Two others man the refreshments table. Some of the food looks downright inedible, but there are piles of wild berries from the upper floors. Raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, strawberries. Apples and cherries. Fruits that shouldn't be in season together but somehow still are. There's a strange and vaguely triangular pastry that tastes like hot cinnamon candy. There are piles of vegetables, too, though the only preparation they've had is to be washed and dumped in baskets.
One of the chef bots has put some work in, though, and there are a couple of stews and soups available for the adventurous. All of them are made with the raw ingredients available to eat on the tables. One of them even has meat in it, though that's best consumed by people with very hardy stomachs.
At the end of the refreshment table is a cluster of fresh-pressed juices and unlabeled alcohol bottles, with uneven stacks of cups stationed around them. (Careful, some of the cups are cracked.) Even the good old bar bot is doing his part, pouring out glasses of orange juice and straight shots of tequila. A very generous compromise in place of his usual tequila sunrises. Right? Right.
The most conspicuous robot is the one setting off fireworks. It’s already blown off one six-fingered hand, but by god that hasn’t stopped it. With every small cluster of colorful explosives, the thing throws back its chunky head and gives a sound that can only be described as a metallic cackle.
Might want to watch that guy.
b. life signs in the wasteland.
In the wee hours of the morning after the robots' attempted welcome, the impacts against the dome overhead start. Meteorites, some of them as large as a person's head, bombard the shield and the area around for miles. The alarms that start throughout the colony are enough to wake anyone up, if the thunderous noise of the cosmic storm wasn't enough to do it. And the alarms aren't for the meteorites. The red shift is rising up around the colony, that phenomenon that no one from the past had the foresight to give more than vague warnings about. New residents who have done some digging will know exactly what’s going on, but for those who’ve avoided even thinking about what’s happened to them, well. It could be a nasty surprise.
Anyone sensible would stay inside with all of that going on, but there's something else: life signs. The communication devices given to residents on arrival light up, indicating the presence of no less than five flecks of life out there in the wastes. Odds are good that at least a few of them are monsters from other worlds, or twisted radioactive creatures warped by the planet itself. But one of them is very human, and has been here for a very long time.
Should residents venture out to investigate these life signs, they’ll find the farthest one to be a man in protective gear, flickering like a badly received signal. As the red shift starts to fade, he solidifies, and as the shift finally dies away, he wrenches off his helmet with one hand and falls to his knees. He's as twisted as the creatures the planet has corrupted, one eye socket nothing but a depression sealed by flesh. His lips on that side curves sharply upward, barely hiding teeth too sharp and long for a human mouth. It's clear now while he pulled off his helmet with one hand--the other is a wreck, a blackened stony mass sealed to the cuff of his radiation suit.
He can hear you coming, if you're brave enough to approach. He can hear you coming, and will turn his one orange-irised eye to watch you until you speak.
c. hairy repairs.
Welcome to Anchor, where sometimes you're the only thing between you and the catastrophic failure of life support systems. After the red shift ends, the radioactivity warning alarms will at least fall silent. The cosmic storm has passed, and for a little while there's quiet under the dome. But those exploring the upper reaches of the city might hear new alarms, much softer and less insistent than the radiation alarms. They're coming from one of the survey rooms near the garage and the exits to the surface. It might take a little doing to pull up the screens triggering the alarms, but you'll be glad you put in the work. It turns out, those meteorites damaged several of the exterior sensors and one of the major radiation and light transfer panels that help keep anchor supplied with energy--and help keep the shield dome in good working order.
While the damage is easy to see and isn't too hard to fix for those with some technical know-how, there are life signs moving slowly closer to the colony. It's quite possible to fix the damage and get back inside before those life signs arrive, but there's also the risk of being caught in the open and facing down some of the planet's native creatures.
In this case, they're large, furry millipede-like creatures no less than seven feet long. They're perfectly harmless, if you don't count the fact that they seem intent on trying to eat the protective gear and tools you've brought out onto the surface with you. It's not their fault that your arms are inside those delicious radiation suits.
d. shadows of the past.
A few days of genuine quiet follow the fixing of the exterior damage. Time to explore, to get lost, to drink more than your doctor might recommend at the colony's only serviceable bar. Enough time to feel the weight of Anchor's emptiness. The next time you walk into the bar, there's a see-through stranger at the pool table, smiling warmly in welcome. "Want a game?"
Get too close, and he disappears. But he was there--he was clearly there. The cue he was holding clatters to the ground and rolls over to rest at your feet.
Down in the pavilion, there are children playing in the park. Throwing balls, playing tag, their laughs echoing somehow in the open air. Invisible parents call for them to be careful or slow down. Now and then one of them will vanish midstep, only to appear again back where they were ten minutes ago and start their run through the park all over again. They can see you. One or two might even invite you to join their games, taking your hand in their own, leading you toward their fellows. And when they do, you can hear their parents' voices exclaiming in shock. A rush of shadows scoop up these phantom children and whisk them away into some invisible world where you can't follow, only hear the children crying in fear.
All around the colony, shades appear and vanish, some solid enough to touch, some just barely visible. Some are inexplicably aggressive, attacking anyone who tries to talk to them or get too close. Just as many run screaming or sobbing at the sight of you.
But there are others, too, who seem to recognize you. One of these is a young woman holding a gun like she has no idea how to use it. When approached, she almost starts to cry. "Oh, thank god. We have to get the kids to quarantine. We have to get them into lockdown. Those bastards-- Those sons of bitches-- The kids should at least have a chance."
She starts to turn, and a laser blast rips through her, lancing across the wall right where a deep score mark still exists, not in the least ghostly or unreal. If you touch it now, it feels warm.
e. ping from the rubble.
As though the presence of past residents sets it off, a persistent signal begins to broadcast from the collapsed library. It turns out there's a section not buried quite as deeply as the rest. A row of broken terminals, ending with the one sending the signal. A warning signal about the structural integrity of the library complex and the need to back up crucial data. Too little, too late, but with time and patience some of the partial files on the terminal could be reconstructed....
For those less versed in computers, there's a mysterious door just past the terminals, partially blocked off by rubble. If that can be cleared, the door leads into a dusty room with more broken terminals, but beyond that, there's a small library of real hardcover and paperback books, with comfortable chairs (some of them needing TLC), low tables, and lights (currently broken). The books are in a variety of languages, both Earth-based and alien. A flickering "skylight" at the top of the room shows a blue sky flanked by swaying trees, or a thunderstorm, or other, stranger but still friendly skies. It blinks off, sometimes, but seems determined to keep playing its peaceful scenes for those below. With some cleaning up, this could be a good retreat from the sometimes oppressive emptiness of Anchor.
For those less versed in computers, there's a mysterious door just past the terminals, partially blocked off by rubble. If that can be cleared, the door leads into a dusty room with more broken terminals, but beyond that, there's a small library of real hardcover and paperback books, with comfortable chairs (some of them needing TLC), low tables, and lights (currently broken). The books are in a variety of languages, both Earth-based and alien. A flickering "skylight" at the top of the room shows a blue sky flanked by swaying trees, or a thunderstorm, or other, stranger but still friendly skies. It blinks off, sometimes, but seems determined to keep playing its peaceful scenes for those below. With some cleaning up, this could be a good retreat from the sometimes oppressive emptiness of Anchor.
no subject
It's a tremendously creepy statement, but Cole doesn't understand that. He says things he has experiences them and names are one of those things. Krem blazed bright, a name fought for. The Iron Bull's was loud, and inside it was the name he was given, but it wasn't really his.
Objects have names too after a while. Silk has a name, one of his knives. She's old and the story on her says that she was forged from spider silk to slip between any crack in any armour.
"Cole. You can call me Cole. I'm more Cole than anything else usually. This way, this door, she's past here."
no subject
Finnick assumes everyone knows his name. He's been a national celebrity since he was 14, when everybody watched him survive for weeks in the arena, and they've watched it on repeats ever since, seen him every year in the Capitol to mentor, followed his life in the Capitol's media. He hadn't expected Cole's answer, but he doesn't comment on that fact, just gives a little frown to himself.
"Thanks, Cole. I appreciate you helping."
But more important than thanks is Annie. Cole says she's up ahead, so Finnick runs, runs for the door he points out, shouting as loud as he can.
"ANNIE! ANNIE, I'M HERE!"
exit stage right...
He can already feel the surging of their emotions and so he steps back and whispers to the still air.
"Forget."
He doesn't know if he can still make people forget him. But he's pretty sure that in this moment, they will anyway.
cw: torture-related trauma
She's been sitting in a corner ever since, arms crossed and fingers gripped tight around her trouser belt. How present she's been is... debatable.
But there's one voice she knows, and one voice who can always call her back if she's able to be brought back by anyone.
(And Cole had said-)
"Finnick?"
And there he is, running towards her. She gets up, or tries to. Her legs are stiff, suddenly painful as the blood tries to get through previously unmoving areas. She stumbles, and staggers, but all her movement is forwards.
no subject
He's shouting as he reaches the door, shouting as it opens, shouting as he runs into the room and sees her, immediately. She staggers as she gets to her feet, but it doesn't matter, because he's running, and he's running fast, and he reaches for her, lifts her up into his arms as though it had been weeks rather than hours at most since he'd seen her last.
"Annie, Annie, it's okay." He wraps his arms around her as she jumps towards him, holding her up against his body as they cling together. His trident falls, forgotten, to the floor, but the rifle's still strapped awkwardly to his chest.
Not that it matters. What matters is holding Annie.
no subject
Who cares about the rifle. Who cares.
Except after she's held Finnick close, close as she can, and rested her head against his just to make sure he's here, he's here, one of her hands does fall to the rifle strap. There's a vague thought about moving it, but that requires too much coordination.
"Finnick." It's a statement more than anything else, an affirmation that he's here. "I couldn't, I couldn't do it, I got yanked here and I could go through, through the room. But you're here? He said you'd come. Probably. And I knew you would."
no subject
He'd been so frightened, so ready to tear everything apart until he could find her, so terrified of going through the same loss and despair and helpless futility that had been so much of the past few months in District Thirteen. The thought that she could be taken from him again had been too much to bear, but then he'd been told she was here, that he could find her, that she needed his help. He hadn't truly been able to believe it until he saw her, still fearing somewhere in the back of his mind that it had been a trick, that their happiness of the past weeks had been too much to last. But here she is, and wherever and whatever this is, they're together.
You can do that together, words whisper into his memory, but he doesn't quite remember the context, what else had been said, except that it's important that he be here to help her.
"We can go together. Nobody can hurt you when I'm here."
His hand goes to hers on the rifle, a silent assurance that if anybody tries, he can fight them. He's had a taste of freedom from the Capitol's manipulations; he's not prepared to go back to them.
no subject
"Stab 'em, will you?"
She believes it. He's always been talented with spears.
The weight of his hand on hers is reassuring, solid, here and real with a promise almost more real than anything that they'd said for Plutarch's propo wedding. They know the cost of a promise like that.
"Can. Can we just, um, stay here a moment? Before we go in? I need to... I need to get my bearings. Get my legs working again."
They are still protesting all that time locked still.
no subject
"Course. I've got Beetee's trident."
He can feel safer with that. He's spent so long unable to fight to protect himself against the worst dangers in his life, but now he's armed, and he'll fight anybody who tries to hurt her.
He tips his head forward a little, just enough to press his lips against her forehead.
"We can stay as long as you need. I'm not going anywhere without you."
no subject
She needs to find her bearings. Cole has.... Cole has gone, she realised, and she doesn't know when. She can't remember, but this time, this forgetfulness doesn't bother her. He's gone, and Finnick's here and she can do anything with Finnick. She can. She can slip down to the ground, stand on her own two feet, take his hand, and move forwards.
She can.
She can take off her clothes for the decontamination process, let them be taken away to be assessed or whatever it is, and she'll be fine. With Finnick here, she doesn't panic. Much. The fear is still there, twisting her up, tight around her lungs, but it's okay. She's not alone. She's not arrested. She's not being stripped for humiliation, even if standing there naked makes tears spring back to her eyes and she has to hold Finnick's hand, hard. She can do this.
And if her hands are trembling when her things are returned to her, and she's having trouble with her laces, well. It's Finnick. He isn't going to laugh.
no subject
(He'd know anyway; he's seen enough of what she can and can't do since she was rescued from the Capitol.)
He dresses quickly when they bring his things back, and he does it with half his attention on the task and half on his wife. He rests a hand gently on her shoulder while her fingers fumble at her laces, and he's the first of the two of them to get up, holding his trident ready to protect them if anyone who runs this place shows up.
Nobody does; when the door opens and lets them out, there's nobody there at all. It's only then that they can see something more of the type of place they're in. It's ...
Completely unlike District Thirteen, except for apparently being underground. There's a wide, open walkway with a view down through the ... city? Tower? Facility? Whatever the best thing to call it is, towards a park with a lake in the middle of it on what seems to be the bottom level, and a view up towards an open sky.
"Where are we?" he finds himself asking, his voice one of hushed awe. It looks like it was once far grander than anything the Capitol deigns to build for the districts, though there's obvious deterioration evident.
That much is like the districts.
no subject
She doesn't need to, it seems, and while Finnick looks one way, she looks the other. Nothing immediately dangerous, just an open walkway with overgrown grass.
Grass.
"The, the vid said Anchor, I think." Her tone is hesitant, doubtful. She'd been panicking at the time, and anyway, the answer doesn't make much sense.
no subject
"Look at these plants," he says. There are parks in the Capitol, of course, where plants are used for their beauty, and there was the communal area in District Thirteen, but there are trees and grass lining the walkway, as well as the big park he'd seen at the bottom of the city.
No. He needs to pay attention. Look around, check for dangers, work out what's going on here, if there are any other people like the boy who'd helped them, work out if they're a threat, if this is some sort of arena or punishment, or what they're being told it is, some sort of underground city like District Thirteen.
"We need to work out what's going on," he says, his voice low, and reaches for his wife's hand again.
no subject
"This... Um. This wasn't built quickly. Or cheaply. Look at it."
There are stories and stories here, with that huge space between it all. It looks sturdy, established: it looks like a city.
"Did the people be, before build this? How? How would you make the machinery needed?"
This looked like the type of place someone would build if they were sure they weren't leaving.
no subject
"The vid showed forests and farms, too. And lots of inventors. Guess they worked out how to do it? If Beetee were here he'd probably be able to come up with an answer." But neither Finnick nor Annie is an engineer.
Beetee, after all, had created the incredible trident Finnick is holding, that comes back to him after he throws it.
"It's like if you could see how big Thirteen is all at once."
no subject
Annie gestures with her spare hand, taking in the whole city and everything in it with one quick, confused gesture. There's so much space here. So many things. Levels and levels and levels, fit for hundreds of people at least. Thousands, maybe.
"But, where is everyone? The plants aren't dead. The air stinks, but it's not like rotten or stuffy. It's.
It's creepy."
She doesn't like creepy. It creeps into you, twists things up, plays games, and she's still all unsteady from the panic of the decontamination.
no subject
"They don't look like anyone's looking after them," he says, squeezing Annie's hand gently but firmly, a reminder that he's here, ready to protect her. Not that he can protect her from the sense of emptiness of the place. They're fisherfolk, they're used to the sense of vast openness with nobody else around you, but they're also victors and Careers, used to apparent emptiness bringing with it the danger of unseen tributes, mutts, and traps.
"Maybe the people worked out how to leave."
no subject
"Mm, maybe. Though if they were all nice enough to leave a welcome message, they could have gone, 'hi, we've left, this is how, may the odds be ever in your favor'." Without quite thinking about it, her voice dips into a Capitol prissiness at the end.
They walk. They look. And nothing. No strange sounds, which is weird in of itself, no attacks. Nothing.
She tries not to walk too close to him, because if he needs to move he doesn't need her crowding him, but it's an effort.
"The air isn't... great, though. It tastes bad. Stuffy."
no subject
"Yeah," he agrees. "The message said they were working on finding out how to make the, portal it said, send people back. So either they did and didn't update it, or something else happened."
They keep their hands entwined, but Finnick also keeps his trident ready as they walk, looking around them to try to understand more about this place.
"I think it's because we're underground," he says. "Maybe the ventilation hasn't been on?" She's right about the stuffiness, but the air doesn't seem to be bad, as such. It's breathable, at least.
He tugs her hand gently, indicating for her to come closer one of the columns that holds up the ceiling. There's a deep scratch gouged into it, and Finnick bends to examine it.
There are a lot of things it could be, but they're victors. They know better than to ignore what their environment can tell them.
no subject
"We, we can fix ventilation," is what she actually says. "It can't be too hard, right? Maybe clean some filters." Which begs the question of how and with what, but this is less actual problem solving and more just discussing the situation so she doesn't need to twist herself in the issues of problems D through to M.
When Finnick tugs her over to a column, she follows. Always keeping an eye on their surroundings, but she follows, and she looks. It doesn't look like a clean scratch to her, too dark. Too...
Burned.
"Gunfire?"