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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.
Peter Parker (Hadriel CRAU) | OTA
[There was once a time where Peter would have been nerding his entire brain out over a robot party on another planet because this is some Star Wars shit okay, but that time was like, a year ago. Before Thanos, before Hadriel, sure, this would have been pretty cool. Now? Shitty wasteland planets and robots were in spots 2 and 3 of his "top five things I never want to deal with again" list. Spot 1 was lasers. Just. No more lasers.
He'd been drawn to the party by the noise and had almost left immediately because, again, noise, but the refreshment table had caught his eye. Scavenging had become second nature during his time in Hadriel, and that's why there's some scruffy looking kid stuffing food into his backpack over at the refreshment table. He hasn't had fresh fruit in months okay, don't judge.]
D: AND THEN SHIT GOT WEIRD
[Okay.
Okay. The transparent guy at the pool table. That was a thing. Peter had played it off as some sort of glitchy hologram. Given the nature of this place so far, it hadn't seemed too far fetched a theory. This place has party robots, why not holograms too? Perfectly reasonable. The kids outside? Totally holograms. Just holograms playing on a loop. The hologram theory seems pretty solid to Peter, that is until the kids start trying to interact with him and suddenly he wants very much to not be here. His theory quickly shifts from holograms to oh my God this entire place is haunted why is my life like this, but before he can retreat, all Hell breaks loose. Ghost kids are getting scooped up, ghost moms are screaming, something about a quarantine, goddamn lasers.
Normally during overwhelming situations, Peter relies on his spider-sense and his instincts to navigate his way out of trouble, but right now none of his senses know how to react to this bullshit. He can't fight whatever's happening, can't help the spooky hologram ghosts, can't do jack shit but try to get out of there and maybe find cover. Which he does, next to YOU. Hi there.]
Oooh my God. Okay. That's happening. Oh my God, what is- what's happening? I'm not losing it, am I? Like, this is happening, right?
WILDCARD:
[wanna do a different prompt or something COMPLETELY DIFFERENT hit me]
A} {Too much trust in the unknown gets you dead, kid
You really gonna eat that? [Dubious level: 10 thousand. Kid, what are you doing?]
no subject
Y'know, I've considered the possibility that this food might be, y'know, tainted in some way. Poisoned, if you wanna be dramatic. Right now that is a risk I'm willing to take, so. Yes. I'm really gonna eat this.
[Which he demonstrates by popping a couple blueberries into his mouth. He doesn't mean to come across as a douche, he's just. So tired.]
no subject
Well, at least the rest of us will know the answer soon enough, I guess. [He folds his arms across his chest, like he's just counting the seconds or minutes before something dire happens to the kid.]
no subject
[He does not seem at all bothered by the possibility of poisoned blueberries. Or poisoned anything, but he does kind of feel bad for being a smartass to a complete stranger. Just because he's annoyed with life in general lately doesn't mean he needs to go taking it out on someone who's just looking out for him.]
Seriously, though, I think the food is safe. I mean, there's a stew over there that tastes like nightmares, but the fruit and vegetables seem fine.
no subject
Diego really isn't bothered by the attitude-- doesn't even perceive there is one coming from the kid at all, if he's honest.]
I didn't know nightmares had a flavor.
no subject
[That's honestly about as bad as Peter's attitude gets. He's never had a proper "rebellious teenager" phase.
Almost as an afterthought, he sticks his hand out in the universal sign of "nice to meet you, here's a handshake".]
Oh, uh. Peter Parker, by the way. I'm tryin' to get better at the whole introduction thing, I was terrible about it at the last place I was stuck. Also, I figure someone should know what to put on my headstone, just in case the blueberries really are poisoned.
no subject
There's a hesitation, but after a beat or two, he takes the kid's hand into a firm shake.] Diego Hargreeves. So this isn't your first... not-home-world, then? [He smirks at the headstone comment.] We'll remember you fondly. Peter Parker: He ate some weird fruit.
no subject
Second not-home-world. Well... Hang on, the last place was a city that got teleported to a bunch of different planets, so... technically this is the fourth different planet I've lived on? But the city and the people were always the same, so I'm gonna say this counts as the second not-home-world.
no subject
And he still ended on the same opening point from before by the end of it anyway, so what was the point.]
The whole city was teleported to different planets? What-- how-? [A beat. And then he lifts his hand, an umbrella tattoo on the inside of his left wrist.] No. Nevermind, I don't think I need or want to know.
no subject
Nah, it's fine. My answer was probably just gonna be "space magic" anyway.
no subject
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[Peter glances down at the bowl of blueberries, shrugging nonchalantly before grabbing a couple more.]
So, where you from? "Earth" doesn't count, I think most of us are from an Earth.
no subject
[He perks a brow at the qualification of his question, and the answers that would, or wouldn't, suffice.] Have that many people really just answered 'Earth' when you asked that? [He shakes his head.] Doesn't matter, does it? I'm not there any more. And at the rate I'm going, I won't be getting back there any time soon.
[Look as I ninja that answer in an IC brush-off because canon never says where they're set~ go, me, go!!]no subject
But damn, does he ever feel this. He's distracted from actually eating these blueberries and just kind of fiddles with them while he talks.]
Is this not your first not-home-world, too?
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[Figuring out basic space survival was less complicated than figuring out sketchy government bullshit.]
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Oh, man. If I had any family stuck in these places with me, I'd probably be freaking out like. Constantly. I mean, there's just my aunt, but still. Just constant freaking out.
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A
He recognizes that animal instinct to stay fed in the way the kid stuffs fruit into his backpack. ]
Good to see someone's thinking ahead.
no subject
Y-yeah, I just, uh. I've only had canned fruit for the past like, year. Kinda missed the fresh stuff.
no subject
Finnick shrugs and reaches for a handful of berries. It would have been good if he'd had something on him when he arrived that would let him carry and store more food, but his uniform pockets will have to do. ]
May as well take it while it's on offer.
[ Take whatever food you can get, whenever you can get it had always been good advice for the arena. ]
If you're not sure where your next meal's coming from, stocking up on this one's a good plan.
no subject
He thinks it over for a second and then shrugs, tossing the apple into his bag.]
Yeah, okay, fair enough. I'm just worried that there isn't much to go around, y'know? I don't want take a bunch of it, and then someone else doesn't get any.
no subject
Of course, in Thirteen the food had been rationed, the amount each person was allowed based on nutritional requirements, but in the arena and even in the districts, people take what they can, because the food supply is uncertain if you don't know how to steal or hunt or fish it for yourself. Even then, sometimes.
Finnick considers the kid. He doesn't have the scrawny, poorly-fed look of the kids from the poorer districts, so maybe he doesn't have that experience himself. ]
If you don't know where you're going to get more food from, getting as much as you can is a good idea.
[ He says it gently, and reaches for an apple himself. ]
Guess the good news is these had to come from somewhere.
no subject
There is an agricultural level, but I haven't had a chance to really check it out yet. Could be a ton of stuff growing up there. Not sure about like, animals, though. The only thing I've seen so far that's even remotely meat-like is whatever the robots put into that... I think it's supposed to be a stew? I'm not touching it.