redshiftlogs | december 2019. welcome to the void.

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december 2019. welcome to the void.

Who: Everyone in Anchor.
What: Sixth Introductory Mingle
When: The Month of December 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. the generic holiday cheer prompt.

It's a dark, quiet, uneventful night. Only those up and about in the wee hours will notice something odd starting in the park.

It's snowing.

The phenomenon seems to be coming from a small bank of unmoving clouds hanging suspended above the trees and lake. A cloud that, upon closer inspection by any scientists in the room, appears to be made of harmless nanites whose sole purpose is to unleash a cheery, blustery kind of weather that remains mostly contained to the park.

Some bots are out serving hot chocolate, cider, flavored snow cones, and other small baked treats. Others are building a solid-looking bit of scaffolding that the snow is rapidly turning into a sledding ramp. In fact, there are sleds ready and waiting at the foot of the slide. The smaller ponds have frozen over in a sharp cold snap that came with the nanites' release, and there are other bots handing out ice skates - careful, though, because one of them is a chef bot and he's made the blades of the skates ridiculously sharp. At least they'll glide well?

Around the middle of the day, the intercoms squeal loudly, crackle, and start pouring generic seasonal music out into the air. Is it for Hanukkah? Christmas? Kwanzaa? Some strange holiday no one has heard of? Who knows, since half of it is in alien languages, but man, it sure is peppy! And kind of annoying after a while! Maybe someone should hack the system and change the music up?

b. the body heat trope prompt.

As the day wears on toward evening, the nanite winter storm starts to gather a little more force, sending cold seeping through the halls of Anchor. There are pockets of warmth here and there - notably, for once, the agricultural areas are largely unaffected thanks to their temperature regulators--but most of Anchor has a wintery chill, and snow is starting to bluster across the levels from bottom to top. Temperatures continue to drop when the suns go down.

The bots are out being helpful, though they can't stop the storm. They're rolling around handing out blankets and thermoses of warm drinks. Unfortunately, it's one blanket and one thermos per two people. Better get cosy - it's going to be a long, cold night!

c. the terrifying monster attack prompt.

The cold has woken up some creatures that have been slumbering away in one of the sealed-off areas of the labs. They couldn't get through the door that kept them caged, but they sure could freeze the windows and escape that way when they got cold enough to break. The little critters make a beeline for the park, prepared to wreak havoc-

If eating snow and ice and rolling snow into tiny balls for meal stockpiles is havoc.

These little creatures look conspicuously like the western dragons of Earth, though most are no bigger than a person's forearm. Their wings - some strange shade of white that sparkles when they move - seem largely decorative. They use them to communicate, to posture, and to keep themselves balanced when they rear up on their hind legs, but none of them appear able to fly. They're a mix of colors, blue and silver and white, some of them with a variety of shades swirling down their bodies, others with one color on their bellies and contrasting colors on their back and head. Some have splotches, or speckles, or tiger stripes of blue. They breathe steam and can freeze things with their clawed forepaws.

Also, if you feed them a flavored snow cone, they will follow you forever. No, really. You'll have yourself an undyingly loyal new pet.

Navigation.

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"Aheh. That... is a fair assessment. A word of warning: should you leave Anchor to visit the wastes, you will be sent through decontamination again. Every time."

Carlisle averts his eyes; he'd probably turn red if he were physically capable of it. He does not want to talk about the decontamination process. He does not want to think about the decontamination process. As a man who is literally covered from head to toe in clothing, save for his hair and the top half of his face, he is clearly a fellow who does not enjoy stripping down.

"I assume there are those who have already attempted to make the journey to find a way out," he responds, huffing quietly. It's too much to hope for that an escape would be so simple. From what he'd seen of the conditions on the upper levels, everything beyond the confines of this place would be...unpleasant, to say the least.

This place is not much better, but it appears secure. Defensible. He will accept that, for now.

"Admittedly, I do not know. There is little but a wasteland surrounding Anchor, and it is filled with, er." He makes a vague gesture with his hand as he attempts to recall the exact word Qubit had used. When he does recall it, his pronunciation is stilted, like someone reciting a foreign word. "Radiation? You must wear these suits, lest you contaminate yourself and die horribly. It sounds dreadful."

And would likely be more dreadful were he alive and actually needed the radiation suit, but he wears it regardless when he goes out because he wants people to think he needs it.

"It is."

He's heard of such areas in the Australian Outback. Perhaps that is where they've ended up. You heard of only the very worst and desperate of sorts living in that irradiated wasteland.

It does rather rule out exploration. Definitively. There are things he would risk, but that is not one of them. It is true, after all, that the enemy you cannot see is often the most deadly.

Oh good, he knows what radiation is. Carlisle was worried for a moment that he would have to explain it, and having only a cursory knowledge himself of the concept, he was absolutely not prepared to do that.

"Right. Well, I assume the threat of contamination would be why most people who come here seem to just stay in Anchor for now, building what lives they can until they are hopefully taken back to where they came from. It's not unpleasant most of the time, but it does have its flaws. Or some of the people do, rather."

He hopes Hanzo is not one of those people. Anchor only needs one Kabal, for example.

If he is hoping to find people without flaws, he will no doubt be searching for quite a long time. And he certainly shouldn't be starting his search with Hanzo, lest he lose hope entirely.

For now, his interest seems mostly in the hot chocolate. He is however listening keenly to everything Carlisle can provide, head tilting slightly with consideration.

"Not unlike most places, then," he grumbles.

"It is not," Carlisle confirms, "save for the technology. Not all of us come from a world where it is so... prevalent. But I assume we all must adapt to our new surroundings in some way."

In his case, he learned how to use the phone. It was a big step. He notes how Hanzo is glancing toward the hot chocolate and waves politely for him to go get some, if he'd like.

Hanzo gives a faint nod in response before moving to collect a cup of his own. The smell is pleasantly sweet, a small comfort in the midst of so much upheaval and change. One does have to take the time to appreciate the smaller, simpler things.

"It is always so. You seem to be doing well enough," he replies, arching an eyebrow at the man.

"Only because I've been here for a few months now," Carlisle replies, deciding he'd rather not point out how he spent his first day in Anchor trying to figure out the very basics of his communicator, all while flattened against a wall for fear that he'd be swallowed by the vast, open sky and the endless wastes. He's adjusting, bit by bit.

"I will note it has not been easy, but there are some advantages to this place. The communicators are practical enough. You can converse with people no matter where they are, writing letters and sending them images -- er, photographs -- with it."

To say Carlisle is technologically inept would be an understatement.

Suffice to say the world Hanzo comes from is much more forgiving a transition. Holographic transmissions, hovering vehicles, mechanical life forms, all part of the day-to-day. But it's clear from the way Carlisle speaks that his own adjustment period required a great deal more fortitude.

It's impressive. In a way.

"We should be grateful anything here is functional at all, from the state of things." Hanzo frowns, staring upwards at the floors visible from the park. "It appears this was once a place of great advancement...until something became of it. Now, only we appear to remain."

Carlisle's eyes follow Hanzo's up and up, the rest of the levels of Anchor all visible from the park as they spiral overhead. He hms to himself at the assessment, having never put too much thought into what their small numbers means for the facility at large. The constructs have generally taken care of things, but what would happen if a hundred people sudden arrived? Could the settlement itself survive with such an influx? How many people lived here before, and what happened to them all?

The man-in-the-glass had been vague on such details, only promising that those arriving were welcome, and that the facility had been built by those who were 'Anchored' before them, and more were arriving all the time. Just how and why they, in particular, were chosen is something he's wondered for a while now, but as to what happened to the previous tenants...

"It is now us and the constructs, primarily," he notes. "They go about their daily tasks, celebrating holidays as if this place were full of life. It does make me wonder just how many lived here before us, where they've gone, and just what their technology granted them. I cannot say all my experiences here have been good ones."

"If none remain now to tell us what happened, that in itself is quite telling."

Hanzo's gaze lowers to Carlisle once more, mouth set in a grim line. "It would be wise to assume that what came for them intended them ill, and would do so for us should it return. Better to be on guard than assume we are in any way safe."

No matter how festive the bots appear to want to make things, it'd be foolish to let their guards down. Though...for hot chocolate, perhaps exceptions could be made.

Well, that... sounds ominous. Carlisle's brow furrows with worry.

"Right, ah. I understand what you're saying, and while I agree, I'll be honest in that if whatever came for the previous tenants did return it were looking for a fight, we might be in trouble. This place isn't exactly safe even on good days."

And as far as Carlisle is concerned, there are not very many good days.

"So I have noticed. The upper levels moreso."

He's seen for himself that most of the safer, more habitable levels are further down into the complex. Which presents its own risks, as there is nowhere for them to go from there. It's not an immediate concern, simply something to be taken into account.

Everywhere is potentially dangerous. He's long learned that lesson.

"What of you? You don't appear to be much of a fighter." Not a judgement call, just an observation.

No worries about judging him as a non-combatant, Hanzo; despite the padded clothing, Carlisle looks like a strong wind could knock him over.

"I'm not, if I am honest," he says lightly, no offense taken. "I am a cleric by trade, and an exorcist on occasion. If I do deal with a hostile individual, they're already dead. Ghosts, shamblers, aberrations and such."

He would have had a clear profession then, where Hanzo comes from. Even he can recognize the need for someone to tend to the spirit and perform rites for the dead, bringing peace to those still restless in the afterlife. His esteem of this man raises by another degree, despite his odd appearance.

"And have such spirits presented themselves here?" he presses on, curious.

"Not the incorporeal," Carlisle explains. "Though we have seen the sort that are not much more than shambling husks. Beyond the walls of Anchor is a building filled with them."

And then there's him There are also the ones he raised by accident in the agricultural level, but the place where the incident occurred seems to have disappeared entirely. Anchor is odd like that, and Carlisle would prefer not to question it, lest the swamp and its corpses return.

"But as you said, we should, perhaps, remain vigilant. I would not put it past this place to conjure further dangers for us. There are, at least, a number of those here with some capacity for physical combat."

"Both are necessary. It is a far simpler thing to kill than to heal, or put at ease such maligned spirits."

The more difficult the task, the more skilled its practitioner must be. It's not a path many take, so even if Carlisle isn't a fighter of any sort, he may yet be worthy of admiration and respect. It remains to be seen, he supposes.

Hopefully the occasion does not arise too quickly.

It is a far simpler thing to kill than to heal. There's something in those words that makes Carlisle shift uncomfortably. Indeed, killing is so easy a task that even a mindless undead could do it -- or in his case, an embittered, wrathful undead who no longer recalls who he used to be.

"Yes, well." He clears his throat. "Dispatching the undead is not necessarily difficult, at least. For example, one could enchant your arrows to do that much. You are an archer, aren't you?"

He nods toward Hanzo's bow. It's very different from what his father carried, but not so alien that he doesn't recognize it.

If Hanzo notices that discomfort, he does not remark upon it.

"Indeed. I have heard...tales of such. Arrows blessed by priests to banish demons and ghosts."

Hanzo's eyes narrow slightly, head cocking thoughtfully. "You could do this enchantment yourself?" That would be quite a feat. And perhaps useful, if the undead prove a persistent problem here.

Hanzo might catch the barest hint of a smile crossing Carlisle's face; it touches just below his eyes, tugging his mask along with it.

"I- I can. I mean, I have before, but I am not an enchanter by trade. I have a lot to learn when it comes to elemental enchanting, for example. My uncle was quite skilled at enchanting of all kinds, but I am mostly trained in... well, just the one. For undeads."

A real specialist, in other words.

Better to perfect one art than be mediocre at many. Hanzo lets out a quiet huff in turn. "Fortunately, arrows are well-suited to dealing with creatures that are not undead well enough on their own."

Is that a hint of a smirk? Had that been...a joke?

You could never really tell.

Joke or not, it gets a quiet chuckle out of Carlisle, albeit one laced with just a hint of his usual nerves.

"Of course. Well, should you need your arrows enchanted, I am but a call away, and happy to help in any way I can. Well, maybe not happy, as that's not really an emotion I would associate with the need for such enchanted weaponry in the first place, but willing to help regardless."

Whatever makes him feel marginally less useless in the grand scheme of things.

"I will bear that in mind. Hopefully there is no cause for such, but better to be prepared."

And Carlisle gets a polite nod out of the former assassin, and a look that approaches approving. "What would you require in turn?"

Everything comes with a price. And he's not opposed to paying for services rendered.

Carlisle waves dismissively, albeit as politely as possible.

"It would give me an excuse to practice both my enchanting and glyphcrafting," he admits, "and so long as such enchantments would be used for the benefit of Anchor and its citizens rather than the detriment, then that would be all I ask for. Remember, I am not a fighter, so one less danger to Anchor is one less danger to me, as well."

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