redshiftlogs | october 2019. welcome to the void.

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october 2019. welcome to the void.

Who: Everyone in Anchor.
What: Fourth Introductory Mingle
When: The Month of October 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. sini express delivery service.

There's something odd rolling through Anchor. Whether they wake with it next to their beds or find it sitting neatly in some corridor as if placed there just for them, characters will start finding items that are distinct and unique enough that they have to belong to someone. But where are they coming from? And whose are they?

The easiest way to find out is probably to walk around with the item held high yelling "Does this belong to you?" but that's not a good way to cover a lot of ground.

Don't worry, though! There's someone (something?) to help you. Chiming in periodically from communicators or intercoms across Anchor comes a voice that might sound a little familiar to anyone who made it as far as that spaceship wreckage in the wasteland. Softly laughing and humming, this some-one-thing will cheerfully coax characters in the right direction, giving tips and offering little clues to anyone who might be confused about whose item they have.

Characters struggling with identifying whose item they got might hear a helpful voice whispering out of their device as they move around the city - "Warmer, waaaaarmer...oh no! COLD!" They might hear a laughing voice coming out of a nearby speaker, giving tips or riddles about the person the item belongs to - "Her eyes are grey!" or "What kind of spider is sweet as pie?" Sometimes, it'll just be amused giggling at the efforts of those trying to find their object's owner. That bubbly voice is everywhere, encouraging residents to solve the riddle because "It'll be wooooorth it. Pinky swear!"

And no matter what, it can't be turned off or muted, and it doesn't respond to any direct attempts to communicate in return.

b. flu season.

No one probably takes special notice, at first. It's a sniffle here, a cough or chill there. 'Tis the season in some universe, after all, and even the advanced decontamination process isn't completely flawless. But what starts as a tickle in the throat gets a little worse over the span of a week, or in some cases a lot worse.

Whether laid up for a few days or longer, afflicted characters can expect to feel a few consistent symptoms. Dizziness, lightheadedness, chills and fever, coughing and sneezing (that kind of sneezing that comes in annoyingly long bursts and makes you feel like you've shot your brain out of your nose).

Oh, and hallucinations. Mild ones! Nothing to write home about! (If you even could, anyway.) Hallucinations are the last stage of this mild interuniversal flu, an annoyance more than anything...

And it leaves some people immune, and some people even more susceptible to what might follow.

c. harvestival festival.

Something good is happening in the agricultural sector. Weird, right?

But lo, the whole place has started to bloom seemingly overnight. Tiny fruits become noticeable, then large. Edible vegetation is flourishing, and you can tell which vegetation is edible thanks to the flocks, gangs, and small herds of creatures that have emerged from the still-wild depths of the sector. None of these creatures are aggressive except as a means to protect themselves when scared. Unused to strangers as they are, they'll probably let you get pretty close! Which means you could hunt them, I guess, or try to lasso and bring home some critters to the farm and fenced areas.

The food varies wildly. From electric pink berries the size of a pinkie to giant purple melons nestled in beds of vines. The tastes are as exotic and strange as the fruits themselves. A few people might even recognize some kinds of fruit from home. The root vegetables, squash, and edible vegetation is as colorful as the fruit, though a little more weirdly shaped. Why does that carrot-seeming thing look like a coiled spring? Who knows? You can't judge its life.

The culinarily inclined can take harvested goods to the kitchen areas and start experimenting, but beware! Even plants that look like they could be from Earth or other areas that the residents of Anchor know probably taste a little weirder or more intense than normal. Your best bet for a good recipe is to taste a little bit of everything before you get started. The spicy, the melony, the crunchy, salty, and sweet. There are no available records of what any of these things are, so you'll have to make it up as you go! The only consistent thing across all the agricultural sector's bounty is that NONE of it is poisonous. And none of it will get you high, Klaus and Kabal, so don't get your hopes up.

Navigation.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Carlisle might have been surprised by the compliment (or maybe it's just a fact, as being able to rot the surfaces around him would be impressive if it weren't Carlisle himself doing it), but he's too busy trying to steady his breathing to pay any real attention to it. Being the undead he is, he doesn't actually need the air -- and the way it audibly grates against his throat probably says as much -- but the act alone seems to help calm him down. It's a routine, one well-practiced and familiar.

"Right. Don't stand here." Nodding to himself as though he thought of the idea, he scuttles along the wall to the exit, flattening against the frame of the door as a team of worried robots passes by, heading in to assess the damage. Leaving behind a vaguely person-shaped spot on the frame, he darts into the open air of the walkways that lead up and down Anchor's many levels, still muttering about how fine he is. After another ten or so I'm fines, he seems to be composed enough to have a new realization... but not enough to keep it to himself.

"Oh. Oh I could have run there. Just left you in the bar and fled, but now that you're out here and could probably catch me if I did, it seems like a very bad idea. At least- at least I'm okay. For now."

The ground around him, not so much -- there's another spot of weakening surface beneath him, but at least the spread is much closer to him this time.

"Could have, but you didn't. Too late now." He's watching the ground around Carlisle's feet, wondering if he'll drop through the floor at some point.

"Actually, let's go stick you next to a locked door and rust it through. I'll split whats in there with you. 70/30."

Also considering he might drop through the floor if it decays enough, Carlisle steps out of that spot and into another, glad to see a new patch of rot doesn't immediately pop up in its place. Right. Okay. This is fine. Necklace returned, the fellow isn't threatening him anymore, and his clothes are still in one piece, despite all the decay he caused. He can parse out the reason why that is in a moment, namely after he parses the suggestion his terrifying gift recipient just made.

"W- wait, what?" That was a suggestion, certainly. And an unfair deal, but more importantly, something that is a bad idea in principle alone. He continues without so much as a breath. "I mean, I heard you, but no, no thank you. It's, um. I'm sure they're locked for a reason. Legal reasons, probably. Or danger-related ones. Shouldn't go prying where we ought not, right?"

"Aw, where's your sense of adventure. It'll be fun. Promise." Even with the mask, the sinister smile he has behind there can be felt. He does realize short of picking this guy up and physically dragging him somewhere he can't really make Carlisle do much of anything. He doesn't want to touch him with his hookswords because he's not going to risk damaging them, and while he's wearing leather gloves, he's pretty sure that won't protect his hands should he touch someone spewing rot everywhere.

"Keep whining and it's gonna be 75/25. There's a good one up near the generator room. Might be full of useful things."

Thinking about the decay and how one shouldn't keep standing in it unless they want to fall through the floor is where the similarities in their lines of thinking end, apparently: as Kabal realizes he cannot actually force Carlisle to go anywhere, Carlisle is instead imagining all the horrible ways he can be coerced rather than considering how he could turn those necrotic abilities into a line of defense. The masked figure still has his blade -- multiple now that Carlisle gets a better look at him -- and while Carlisle cannot see his face through the mask, he can hear the grin bleeding into the other man's voice, bringing with it a threatening timbre.

"Useful, but- but not ours," he insists meekly, fear ebbing into his tone despite his best efforts. "There- there may be constructs in there. Defenses. Not that you c- couldn't handle them with, um. With all that."

He makes a vague gesture toward Kabal's entirety.

Kabal's entirety is more than capable of taking care of whatever they find. But he's not adept at picking locks. Or making explosives to get through the doors.

"Everyone here is such a boyscout." His tone implies that everyone got together at some secret meeting to determine how best to make Kabal miserable. Sighing he puts the necklace on finally instead of holding onto it, the white tooth standing out in stark contrast to the scars across his chest under the jacket.

Someday he'll get a shirt. But today is not that day.

Time for a new tactic, "And what if what's behind the locked doors is all the junk to fix the dome or make it so the air doesn't kill us or keys to another level full of supplies we need? Guess we just don't find them and don't help everyone else."

As if Kabal would even share ...

A part of Carlisle knows good and well that this change in tactics is meant to play to his conscience, positing that this presumed theft would be for the greater good. In most cases, appealing to Carlisle's guilt works very well, for he has a lot of it, and cannot help but buckle beneath its weight from time to time. However, given this is the same fellow who held a sword to his neck and threatened him within an inch of his (un)life because he tried to return a necklace -- one he clearly cares about to some degree, as he recognized it immediately -- Carlisle is disinclined to believe this masked man has a single altruistic intention behind his argument.

The other part of Carlisle knows that if he keeps refusing said masked man's demands, he's likely to see that sword at his neck a second time. While that doesn't convince him they'll be doing some noble deed, it is plenty of motivation for him to finally bend. He takes note of the scars where the necklace lies, idly wondering how he got them before deciding they were probably self-inflicted. It would not surprise Carlisle; he is dealing with a hostile character who is clearly damaged in some way.

Then again, aren't they all. Carlisle could easily say the same about his own ruined form.

"I, um." He clears his throat, trying to make it sound as though he's had a change of mind. "I suppose that if we were to find something to help the general population, it would be worth the, er... risk." The risk he'll be torn apart by defensive constructs rather than decapitated by a man he tried to help, that is.

Edited 2019-10-10 18:08 (UTC)

That was way easier than he expected. "Look at you, coming to your senses. Knew you were a smart one."

Sure he did. He definitely didn't see an opportunity to steal things and take it. But now to think about how best to use this. Where is the last locked door he saw that he didn't just bash in? Right, up by the generators where he went with Peter.

"This way. And try not to fall through the floor. How are you doing that anyway?"

Carlisle replies in a very textbook manner, his voice flat and emotionless as he rattles off an answer. "A rampant, uncontrolled spread of necrotic energies, ones made all the more unwieldy by agitation. A perversion of reparation, such energies are capable of decaying both the body and mind, as well as the world around us."

He follows his intimidating companion, wondering if he should ask for his name, or if he'd be in more trouble if he did. Deciding to save that inquiry for when they have reached their destination, he falls silent after his explanation.

"Okay professor boring. Way to make rotting shit through the power of being pissed off, sound really fucking lame." He may play dumb, but he understood enough to realize that all he has to do is agitate this guy and he'll start spewing necrosis everywhere. Score. His own personal skeleton key.

That he can't touch. Or get too close to and have all his skin fall off or something. He leads them up to the generator door and a locked, heavy metal door nearby.

"Tried to open this one a few times. It's by a generator room so gotta be something good in there right?" Or it's generator supplies, either way maybe he can coerce a favor out of someone in return for them. Everything is an opportunity just waiting to be taken.

While he hasn't anything to say about being called Professor Boring -- well, he does have plenty to say, but he's sure if he says any of it, he might end up with his head on a spike -- Carlisle can't keep his concerns to himself as they reach the door, one locked and clearly not welcome for trespassers. He should remark again about how this is a bad idea; he should question this man's logic, or defend himself even a little. Instead, he goes with the first thing that comes to mind, trying to stall for time in the hopes he'll think of something better.

"What's a generator?"

To be fair, it's an honest question for a man who comes from a world without them.

"A generator? To power the... Wait.. Are you one of those people from a place where they don't have phones or toilet paper?" Well that puts a bit of a damper on things since it's gonna be hard to get him to not rust out anything important. But it does mean that Kabal can keep any high tech stuff for himself by telling Carlisle that it's worthless junk.

"It powers all the lights and electricity and shit. So that room over there is full of generators which you're not going to rot away unless you want to be in the dark forever and have no air. This room is like a supply closet for that one."

Carlisle isn't pleased about the way the masked man talks to him for merely coming from a world without generators, but at least he gets a satisfactory explanation out of the fellow essentially holding him hostage, which is honestly more than he expected.

He eyes the door again, hoping to buy himself long enough for someone -- anyone -- to walk within their vicinity. He'd take any help he could get at this point, even if it only serves as a distraction. "So... it will be machinery in there. Spare parts for constructs and whatnot. What use could you have for those?"

"I dunno what's in there. Might be nothing. But we won't know until we open it up." Wow weird, it's almost like Carlisle is stalling. He folds his arms and glares. Well with the mask it's hard to tell that but Carlisle can probably guess.

"So what's the problem? If it's a bunch of junk then why do you care if we open the door? Think you're gonna get arrested? Good news, I used to be NYPD and I'll be a pal and lose your paperwork."

The mask does keep Carlisle from seeing that glare, but he's pretty sure Kabal has been doing that the whole time anyway. Something about his hostile temperament does not lend well to warm, welcoming expressions.

"I would, ah. Prefer not to be arrested." Again. Once in his life was enough. He lays on a few more questions, seeing how long he can drag this out. Maybe the fellow will get bored and leave. Unlikely, but it's not as though Carlisle can read his expression through the mask. "I don't believe there are even laws in this place, are there? And what's- what's inwhipedy? Something from your world?"

Edited 2019-10-29 21:44 (UTC)

"No but there was a guy in prison once, so that's a thing."

He'd been in quarantine not prison, and he'd showed up there no police force had put him there, but those are minor details in the grand scheme of things.

"NYPD. New York Police Department. Never mind. Just know I'm an authority figure so you won't get in trouble. All above board and legal. Trust me," said with the cocky swagger of someone that should absolutely not be trusted.

Carlisle has no idea where New York is or if it's even a real place, nor does he know if this guy is even telling the truth about having worked for the police. Somehow, he gets the distinct feeling that's an exaggeration at best, and an outright lie at worst.

"You're asking me to trust the same man who threatened me with a blade and is essentially holding me hostage. Is that correct?"

"Well when you put it like that it sounds bad. So maybe less talking more destroying the door, huh?"

The more Carlisle talks, the more he may come to the realization that Kabal isn't going to touch him, so he's not really holding him hostage. A little hard to force someone to do something when you don't want to be that close. All Kabal's got is intimidation, but fortunately he has an over abundance of it.

"Honor among thieves, I'm not gonna rat you out. It's fine."

"I'm not a thief," Carlisle argues, but he does finally glance toward the door with an utterly defeated look, realizing he's probably stalled as long as he can before he starts making Kabal angry -- and if what he saw in the bar was any indication, he does not want to do that. Perhaps if he managed to settle his nerves long enough to think about it, he'd realize this masked man doesn't want to risk being rotted himself; however, given he can think of plenty of ways someone could hurt him without actually getting close to him, Carlisle doesn't even need a tangible threat. His mind does all the work itself when it comes to riling his fears.

He steps closer to the door, putting a hand on it and just... waiting. And waiting. And waiting a little more. Focusing on the door doesn't seem to be helping; nor does him trying to will the door to rot away beneath his touch. How is it he can do this so easily by accident, but when he's actually trying, he gets stage fright?

He glances over his shoulder. Maybe Kabal got bored and left. The answer is, unfortunately, a thorough no. "I, um. I've never done this on purpose before."

"Grower, not a show-er huh?" Behind the mask he rolls his eyes, wondering if this guy is stalling or legitimately doesn't know how his powers work. Considering how bad of a liar he'd been earlier while trying to get out of this he's leaning to the later.

"I know its your first time and I should be gentle, but that's not really my style." Without warning he picks up a nearby potted plant and hurls it towards Carlisle. Not trying to hit him, but aiming to frighten him enough into accidentally melting the door.

Carlisle returns his attention to the door with a roll of his eyes. With his back turned (and the mask obscuring his mouth), Kabal can't see him wordlessly mouth Grower not show-er? to himself, trying to figure out exactly what that's supposed to mean. Carlisle gets the distinct feeling he doesn't want to know, and even if he did, he doesn't have time to question it.

"I can honestly say that 'gentle' is not a word I would ascribe taugh!" He jerks away as the plant slams into the door, the pot shattering upon impact, dirt flying in every direction. His fingers curl against the surface of the door as he looks over his shoulder again, practically hissing. "I'm trying, you horrible cretin!"

Edited 2019-11-05 05:22 (UTC)

"Yeah and I'm trying to help. What do you need? Mood lighting? Candles? Soft music?" He's not sure what exactly he needs to do to get him to start rusting out everything. What had he done before? Threaten him right?

"You got about five minutes to get your performance anxiety under control before I start sharpening the swords."

Carlisle has half a mind to insist Kabal wouldn't dare hurt the fellow he's trying to coerce into eroding the door, but given he's not entirely sure that it's a bluff, he decides not to risk it, turning his attention back to the wall and the door within it. He splays his hands along its surface again, closing his eyes, trying not to think too hard about how long he's taking and whether it's been five minutes and is he going to end up with a sword in his back and how will he fix his clothes when they're sliced to ribbons he needs those to hide what he is please leave his clothes alone.

He takes a peek after a minute -- still nothing. How had he done this before? It had happened automatically, terrifyingly fast -- and without his knowledge. He hadn't even felt his energy shifting, escaping him to cause the rot spreading at his feet, from his hands, everywhere he was touching. And why hadn't it affected his gloves? Or his shoes? Or any of his clothing? They weren't enchanted. Was he subconsciously protecting his clothes?

Another peek -- still nothing. Oh no. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying harder.

Protecting his clothing does sound like him, but also takes a degree of control over his necrotic energies that he's sure he can't have, not unless his time as the Blight Heir somehow strengthened his grasp over them, a muscle made stronger through use. Perhaps it was that, or it's the fact that necrotic energies and restorative ones involve the same kind of magic -- they are ultimately two sides of the same coin, someone most are not aware of even in his world. His talent and command over healing wouldn't necessarily make him good at necromancy, would it? Would it?

He feels his discomfort welling in his gut at the very thought; his fingers itch as he tries to remain focused. The wall before him discolors, flaking along the frame.

It's a sickening irony to be such a gifted healer in life, only for those same gifts to be twisted in his passing. His death turned him into the very kind of abomination he despised, a foul creature he would have slain in the name of his goddess without a moment's hesitation. His fears mattered not when it came to his sworn duty to rid the realm of the living of the undead. Would his goddess be more appalled that he'd failed in his duty to slay himself along with them, or if he tried and became something worse? Would he become a wraith if he had no body left?

He tries to remain calm despite his unraveling thoughts, but he can't figure out how long he's been standing there once he actually tries to think about it. There must be swords at his back; any moment, the swing will hit, and he may be no more -- or maybe he'll still be undead, but with a blade-sized hole through him. He tries to focus on the door again, but he's finding it almost impossible now that he's so wrapped up in his downward spiral of self-loathing and paranoia. If he opened his eyes, maybe he'd realize the door -- and a chunk of the wall around it -- is already corroded well past the point of kicking in, and that he should dial it back before he rots a hole through the floor below him.

Kabal is definitely not bluffing and he would absolutely dare to hurt the fellow he's trying to coerce into eroding the door. This is not someone known for his patience, tact, or caring personality. The hand that had been on the handle of his sword, ready to pull it free and chop Carlisle in half to see if maybe he bleeds rot, drops to the side as Carlisle finally does what he said he would.

"Took you long enough," far from being grateful he folds his arms and watches all this unfold, noting that Carlisle seems to be overcompensating for his previous shaky start. "Alright that's enough, don't gotta overachieve here. Always leave them wanting more."

Normally he'd shove him out of the way, but he really doesn't think touching this guy is a good idea especially not with how bits of the wall are now crumbling down and fading into dust as they sink to the floor. Hmmm. He turns and wrenches a pipe off the wall, which fortunately for Kabal wasn't full of sewage or hot water or scalding steam or anything because he absolutely didn't check, and uses it to poke at Carlisle's shoulder, trying to get him to come back to himself.

"Keep that up and there's not going to be anything left for us to take. Man of my word, you still get thirty percent, but thirty percent of nothing isn't a great take."

With as hard as he's trying to concentrate and focus through his internal frustration, Carlisle doesn't even hear Kabal speak to him, the wall still rotting until he's prodded with the pipe. The pipe itself survives, but the edge has the beginnings of rust where it touched him, a clear sign that Kabal was right not to do so with his sword or his bare hands.

"I- I did it." Carlisle seems simultaneously relieved and surprised; again, he hadn't exactly felt the expulsion of energy, as he should have. Is it because his senses are dulled? Or is his command over the necrotic so strong that the exertion is negligible, like a strongman lifting what most would consider a heavy weight?

Either way, the conclusion is uncomfortable. He steps aside to let Kabal past. "Fantastic," he mutters to himself, picking at his sleeve nervously. "Nothing I would like more than thirty percent of stolen goods."

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