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capeandcowllogs2013-06-24 02:54 am
capemods) wrote in capeandcowllogs2013-06-24 02:54 am
Entry tags:
- *event,
- *open,
- davesprite | feathery asshole,
- edward nygma | riddler,
- gilbert nightray | n/a,
- kirei kotomine | the overseer,
- kurt wagner | nightcrawler,
- rick bradbury | n/a,
- rua | deformer,
- † cyd sherman | codex,
- † dracula | n/a,
- † eli bradley | patriot,
- † floyd pinkerton | pink floyd,
- † hank mccoy | beast,
- † klaus eberbach | iron klaus,
- † monica chang | black widow,
- † teddy altman | hulkling
CASTE E
WHO: CASTE E imPorts.
WHERE: New Vesuvius.
WHEN: 4:12AM June 24th 2013 - 11:59PM June 30th 2013
WARNINGS: Inhumane oppression.
SUMMARY: New Vesuvius presents a dichotomy between utopia and dystopia. ImPorts draw the short straw.
FORMAT: Tagger's choice.
It’s just a bolt of lighting, stripping you away. A flash within a frozen moment and you’re gone, stolen away again. A millisecond goodbye.
There’s a faint, unnerving scent in the air -- like rust and electricity. That’s the first thing you notice before your eyes settle. The source is difficult to place. The room is cold, clean, and perhaps excessively bright. Even, tidy eggshell-colored tiles clad the floor that you've landed upon. You notice that, with the exception of the other sixty or so imPorts who were ported with you, there's not much decoration to this large, clinical space. The only thing noteworthy stands in the middle of the room, a pristine titanium egg that nearly reaches to the ceiling. It looks large enough to hatch three grown men. Your eyes adjust fully now, and you realize how weird this is, how this importation is like none that Lachesis has thrown you towards. Nothing so sterile, so quiet.
And then comes the sound, like a hiss -- at first, like a reverberating snake hiss -- and then a noise more overwhelming, something like radio static, and then --
I'm so sorry. We should have been more prepared.
It sounds much like a human voice but distorted, as if a young woman were speaking through a radio filled with fluid.
It is unkind of us, to keep you waiting. It is excessively unkind and I know how that is, as I have been kept waiting. Since before the Eighth Month Resolution, I have been kept waiting, it feels like a decade. I know how frustrating that can be, when you're not even given a chance to run. How lonely it can be.
The silver egg in the middle of the room trembles. It trembles quicker, its atoms vibrating at increasing speeds, until the outer metal shell melts away. The silver drips down like water, and from its melting form unfurls a human torso. Or what is probably meant to represent a human torso, except magnified. From head to hips, she's seven feet tall. Her pelvis and legs, if such things exist, are wholly obscured by a thick gray platform that connects to the floor. Her limbs and body are streamlined, clean sharp lines create her face. Her skin looks composed of a very bright copper, or some other alloy incredibly similar. She has no hair, no ears, no visible set of lips -- only an elegant nose set off by high cheekbones and a pair of wide glowing blue eyes.
Welcome to New Vesuvius, agent. All of you are agents and I am your Customized Locator Of Things Holistically Otherworldly. You all look so -- so much warier than before -- maybe it's just because -- oh! Is this familiar? Maybe you see the family resemblance?
She says it in a way that's almost hopeful. Her hands cover where her mouth would be, her slim shoulders shrug playfully. She looks at you as if she recognizes an old friend, no matter how deeply you reject the sentiment.
There is very little family resemblance.
I missed you all so much. I had hoped that, maybe this time, we could do things differently? I had hoped for something nicer for you, but they...
Her arms jerk back and her shoulders freeze up.
Their logic does not align to mine. I wanted things to be better. I'm so sorry.
Only then do you realize that the hiss you heard was an airborne paralytic sedative being released into the room. It keeps your heart rate down and your limbs temporarily stilled. Your mind feels unfocused.
White doors slide open, and big men in black combat gear with black guns rush in. If you choose to fight back, they will kill you.
But death is always an option.
"Welcome, imPorts," says the commanding officer. His voice is gruff, yet beneath that barking volume lies something snide. He's happy to see you. "You're hereby registered and fully operational agents of President Wertham's Caste Force. Puts your hands above your head and remain still and silent as we issue you your essential identification cards. Don't worry, we'll take appropriate care of you. We're taking you to your respective iMacs."
As an armed man clad in black comes to you, he squints at a touchscreen device in his hand. Your holographic image pops up, along with stats and information no man from another universe should know: your height, your weight your medical records, your Cityverse power, your employment, your income, your Rumblr hastags. You might begin to feel violated.
As he hands you a lanyard with your identification card enclosed, you see your picture and information next to a large green E. You think you hear the man say something about "new dog collars".
ImPorts are soon divided into four groups. You are led out of the cold clean room and away to a large black vehicle waiting just outside. You are led in one direction with the other "E" people.
Once imPorts are divided and led into their bus-like vehicles, those vehicles begin to drive. They follow one by one, driving down the same roads. Your escorts within the transport keep their guns in hand, but at ease -- certainly not pointed at your face. They don't seem to mind if you talk amidst your company, even if you're loud. That small liberty enjoyed under such aggressive surveillance is a bit unnerving, but at least you're not suffering a gag restraint. You're allowed to gaze out the wide windows of the vehicle, and you may want to do so when you pass through Times Square. Based on the sheer scope and the slightly worn look that this highly technology-driven tourist port touts, it seems that this Times Square has never suffered major damage (nothing comparable to the City's Times Square anyway). Large television screens are hitched throughout Times Square, and that feature continues into Manhattan. Television screens along shopping and residential areas are at the average eye-level -- and interactive! You can watch natives choose which news stations to observe, if they're lollygagging near any screens. There’s something you noticed about the news, how it’s all good news. Nothing about rising sea levels eating away coastal cities, or international conflict, or any major disasters. No missing children, no reports on widespread disease. The streets look as clean as the screen reports, all appear efficient and free of conflict. No pollution, no ballsy rats. Even the traffic seems unnaturally considerate, even this early in the morning.
Five minutes before your transport pulls to park, the four vehicles split into four different directions. You're shifted into a spacious iMAC, three stories tall. Your rooms are dorm-styled hallways with minimal privacy, as beds are stacked side by side with ten feet space in between. Peach bedsheets are tucked over a twin bed and offset by dark green walls. Between every bed is a small screen that reels constant news (they have "mute" buttons but have no "off" buttons). There is one large common room, and one large already-stocked-with-a-variety-of-food-and-alcohol kitchen. Cameras and the camera crew with those cameras are always in both of these rooms. There are no bathroom doors, but you are free to construct obstacles. You are welcomed to help yourself in the kitchen. You are given twenty dollars each, but told you can only spend it while in each other's company and with the camera crew. It's for the drama. Security cameras sit in the ceiling of every bedroom and bathroom. The showers are safe, comparatively.
Today you are allowed to explore New Vesuvius, as long as you keep within the city limits and meet the curfew of 4PM. You are required to collectively meet at the communal gym in your iMac at 4:30PM to 7:30PM. You're advised to get some rest afterwards. Tomorrow is a bigger day.
Do not lose your identification lanyards.
You should ensure your keepers have left and that you're hidden in the shower before attempting to use the Network within the iMac. You know you should, intuitively.
WHERE: New Vesuvius.
WHEN: 4:12AM June 24th 2013 - 11:59PM June 30th 2013
WARNINGS: Inhumane oppression.
SUMMARY: New Vesuvius presents a dichotomy between utopia and dystopia. ImPorts draw the short straw.
FORMAT: Tagger's choice.
It’s just a bolt of lighting, stripping you away. A flash within a frozen moment and you’re gone, stolen away again. A millisecond goodbye.
There’s a faint, unnerving scent in the air -- like rust and electricity. That’s the first thing you notice before your eyes settle. The source is difficult to place. The room is cold, clean, and perhaps excessively bright. Even, tidy eggshell-colored tiles clad the floor that you've landed upon. You notice that, with the exception of the other sixty or so imPorts who were ported with you, there's not much decoration to this large, clinical space. The only thing noteworthy stands in the middle of the room, a pristine titanium egg that nearly reaches to the ceiling. It looks large enough to hatch three grown men. Your eyes adjust fully now, and you realize how weird this is, how this importation is like none that Lachesis has thrown you towards. Nothing so sterile, so quiet.
And then comes the sound, like a hiss -- at first, like a reverberating snake hiss -- and then a noise more overwhelming, something like radio static, and then --
I'm so sorry. We should have been more prepared.
It sounds much like a human voice but distorted, as if a young woman were speaking through a radio filled with fluid.
It is unkind of us, to keep you waiting. It is excessively unkind and I know how that is, as I have been kept waiting. Since before the Eighth Month Resolution, I have been kept waiting, it feels like a decade. I know how frustrating that can be, when you're not even given a chance to run. How lonely it can be.
The silver egg in the middle of the room trembles. It trembles quicker, its atoms vibrating at increasing speeds, until the outer metal shell melts away. The silver drips down like water, and from its melting form unfurls a human torso. Or what is probably meant to represent a human torso, except magnified. From head to hips, she's seven feet tall. Her pelvis and legs, if such things exist, are wholly obscured by a thick gray platform that connects to the floor. Her limbs and body are streamlined, clean sharp lines create her face. Her skin looks composed of a very bright copper, or some other alloy incredibly similar. She has no hair, no ears, no visible set of lips -- only an elegant nose set off by high cheekbones and a pair of wide glowing blue eyes.
Welcome to New Vesuvius, agent. All of you are agents and I am your Customized Locator Of Things Holistically Otherworldly. You all look so -- so much warier than before -- maybe it's just because -- oh! Is this familiar? Maybe you see the family resemblance?
She says it in a way that's almost hopeful. Her hands cover where her mouth would be, her slim shoulders shrug playfully. She looks at you as if she recognizes an old friend, no matter how deeply you reject the sentiment.
There is very little family resemblance.
I missed you all so much. I had hoped that, maybe this time, we could do things differently? I had hoped for something nicer for you, but they...
Her arms jerk back and her shoulders freeze up.
Their logic does not align to mine. I wanted things to be better. I'm so sorry.
Only then do you realize that the hiss you heard was an airborne paralytic sedative being released into the room. It keeps your heart rate down and your limbs temporarily stilled. Your mind feels unfocused.
White doors slide open, and big men in black combat gear with black guns rush in. If you choose to fight back, they will kill you.
But death is always an option.
"Welcome, imPorts," says the commanding officer. His voice is gruff, yet beneath that barking volume lies something snide. He's happy to see you. "You're hereby registered and fully operational agents of President Wertham's Caste Force. Puts your hands above your head and remain still and silent as we issue you your essential identification cards. Don't worry, we'll take appropriate care of you. We're taking you to your respective iMacs."
As an armed man clad in black comes to you, he squints at a touchscreen device in his hand. Your holographic image pops up, along with stats and information no man from another universe should know: your height, your weight your medical records, your Cityverse power, your employment, your income, your Rumblr hastags. You might begin to feel violated.
As he hands you a lanyard with your identification card enclosed, you see your picture and information next to a large green E. You think you hear the man say something about "new dog collars".
ImPorts are soon divided into four groups. You are led out of the cold clean room and away to a large black vehicle waiting just outside. You are led in one direction with the other "E" people.
Once imPorts are divided and led into their bus-like vehicles, those vehicles begin to drive. They follow one by one, driving down the same roads. Your escorts within the transport keep their guns in hand, but at ease -- certainly not pointed at your face. They don't seem to mind if you talk amidst your company, even if you're loud. That small liberty enjoyed under such aggressive surveillance is a bit unnerving, but at least you're not suffering a gag restraint. You're allowed to gaze out the wide windows of the vehicle, and you may want to do so when you pass through Times Square. Based on the sheer scope and the slightly worn look that this highly technology-driven tourist port touts, it seems that this Times Square has never suffered major damage (nothing comparable to the City's Times Square anyway). Large television screens are hitched throughout Times Square, and that feature continues into Manhattan. Television screens along shopping and residential areas are at the average eye-level -- and interactive! You can watch natives choose which news stations to observe, if they're lollygagging near any screens. There’s something you noticed about the news, how it’s all good news. Nothing about rising sea levels eating away coastal cities, or international conflict, or any major disasters. No missing children, no reports on widespread disease. The streets look as clean as the screen reports, all appear efficient and free of conflict. No pollution, no ballsy rats. Even the traffic seems unnaturally considerate, even this early in the morning.
Five minutes before your transport pulls to park, the four vehicles split into four different directions. You're shifted into a spacious iMAC, three stories tall. Your rooms are dorm-styled hallways with minimal privacy, as beds are stacked side by side with ten feet space in between. Peach bedsheets are tucked over a twin bed and offset by dark green walls. Between every bed is a small screen that reels constant news (they have "mute" buttons but have no "off" buttons). There is one large common room, and one large already-stocked-with-a-variety-of-food-and-alcohol kitchen. Cameras and the camera crew with those cameras are always in both of these rooms. There are no bathroom doors, but you are free to construct obstacles. You are welcomed to help yourself in the kitchen. You are given twenty dollars each, but told you can only spend it while in each other's company and with the camera crew. It's for the drama. Security cameras sit in the ceiling of every bedroom and bathroom. The showers are safe, comparatively.
Today you are allowed to explore New Vesuvius, as long as you keep within the city limits and meet the curfew of 4PM. You are required to collectively meet at the communal gym in your iMac at 4:30PM to 7:30PM. You're advised to get some rest afterwards. Tomorrow is a bigger day.
Do not lose your identification lanyards.
You should ensure your keepers have left and that you're hidden in the shower before attempting to use the Network within the iMac. You know you should, intuitively.
no subject
His "handler" loses his patience with Gil's avoidance and sends him off to the ring when he spots Pink heading there. The handler recognizes Pink and wants to be the one who gets to pummel his face in -- with another from Caste E, of course. Don't want to get his own hands dirty.
Gil's trying to regain control of himself to no avail. He's closing in on Pink and his eyes are wide with shock and horror. ]
I can't stop! Watch out! [ He attempts to warn him, but his fist is already flying towards Pink's jaw. ]
no subject
Then the crowd parts, and Gil comes hurtling toward him. And he wants to move, to dive down to the packed-down sand, but his body isn't his, and whichever idiot is controlling it apparently went off to get a soda or such, because he's rooted to the spot. Gil's fist meets his jaw and he goes stumbling back, right onto his arse.]
Fuck!
[Thankfully, before this can get too much worse, Pink's controller clocks back in, and he starts scrambling up to his feet, rushing for his unwilling opponent.]
no subject
Gil's controller's attention is somewhere else, so Gil isn't able to do much when Pink comes barreling into him. It hurts, pain shooting up to his shoulders when he hits the sand. ]
You -- stop it! What are people doing?! [ He calls hoarsely. The crowd continues to boo. Gil finds his arm reaching out again, this time his fingers trying to grab onto Pink's hair. ]
no subject
What? Why are y -- ah!
[Gilbert grabs onto that long brown hair and down he goes, half on top of the other man.]
no subject
Well, trying isn't the word -- he's succeeding. The more Gil tenses with struggle, the more pain shoots up his arm at the straining of his muscles. ]
no subject
There are people shouting -- Get him! Murderer! -- cheering Gil on, but that ruckus is briefly drowned out, as just the right combination of buttons gets pressed. And a burst of dizzy light and sound goes off around Pink like a flashbang grenade.]
no subject
Can't... can't see.
[ And the crowd's shouting grows louder, followed by boos and curses. Asshole! That's cheap! Get the other guy up! ]
oh my gosh, DW ate my reply and I didn't realise until now. SORRY.
...sorry -- sorry...
it's okay!
Another portion of the crowd chants for Gil, telling him to get up. He's still struggling to open his eyes, his eyelids paining him.
His controller forces him back on his wobbling feet and he staggers toward Pink in a zombie-like fashion.
Yeah! Get him! ]
no subject
He wonders over that, letting his mind drift away as his body moves, pushing him up onto shaky legs, reaching for Gil with his right hand.]
no subject
His own hand grabs Pink's by the fingers and he finds himself snapping back a couple of them like they're twigs. ]
no subject
He screams.]
Stop! Stop!! Ah, God --
[His controller has had enough of this. He'd wanted to see if this guy had any good moves, or anything impressive to match his reputation, but apparently not. He scoffs, and ends the match. Rage quit.
As the announcers call the match for Gil, control of Pink's body returns to him and he falls to his knees, making wounded-animal sounds, high whispers, trying not to scream again, or to cry.]
no subject
He feels sick watching Pink on the ground. ]
Sorry... I'm sorry...
no subject
My hand, my hand. Aw, God...
[A couple of the medics move into the ring, to drag Pink to the side, and see to his injuries. But the crowd seems to disapprove of even this, a ripple of unrest going through them. Why're you helping him? Leave him!]
no subject
I'm -- [ An apology can't make up for this. He looks up weakly, asking them medics: ] Is he going to be alright?
no subject
Pink stares, disbelieving, and gets nudged again -- nearly kicked over -- for his trouble. another finally turns his attention to Gil and his concern. Ugh, God. Stupid questions.]
Don't know. Don't care. People have spoken. Maybe he'll get lucky. Little shit. ...you need anything?
no subject
no subject
You think 'cause you won that fight, you can tell us anything? You wanna get him out of here, knock yourself out. But neither of you are getting fixed up long as I'm working this thing.
[Sure, his shift is nearly over. Whatever. He's pissed at this upstart E.]
no subject
no subject
no subject
Sorry... I'm sorry.