capemods: (Default)
capemods ([personal profile] capemods) wrote in [community profile] capeandcowllogs2013-06-24 02:54 am


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.
waiting: (Default)


[personal profile] waiting 2013-06-29 04:01 am (UTC)(link)
[ Bradbury's dressed relatively modestly, but still more exposed than he'd like in a situation like this, in orange shorts that ride high on his thighs and cling far too close. It's not the exposure that gets to him as much as it is the feeling of being watched: it brings back unpleasant memories of last November, and when the first ImPorts hit the water and begin to duke it out, his mouth goes dry. Matches may not be to the death, but the idea of your body being controlled and aware of it every minute is a special kind of hell no matter how you slice it.

Yet the most horrible thing about it, probably, is that in some way it's almost a relief to not have a choice, to have it completely taken away from him, and from other people. For the handful of minutes every match takes, it's an escape: he can lose himself in the hits and punches, shut off his fucking brain. He looks more like a fighter than some of the rest, so he attracts as much of the inexperienced players as the ones who favor a more comprehensive strategy. 

When his name isn't being yelled out in the arena, he's sitting off to the side in the quietest corner he can find, eyes shut. Keep living. Keep breathing. Because that's all he can do.  ]

[ ooc: bradbury's powers allow him to cause temporary paralysis (facilitating defeat by getting disabled), power nullification (through touch), and he can put on a burst of temporary superspeed/reflexes. he'll typically be controlled by pretty strategy-savvy types, occasionally hijacked by an impatient younger sibling for some qwop-worthy moves; if you'd like to face off against him in a match, just comment with your desired outcome for your character (win/loss/draw) in the header so I know what to work towards! ]
professorlionface: (Be serious.)

i think we decided on a draw?

[personal profile] professorlionface 2013-06-30 11:26 pm (UTC)(link)
[Hank isn't particularly glad to be here. Being stared at has never been his favorite activity, and deathmatches are only worse. Being crammed into a very uncomfortably small pair of black shorts and robbed of his will? That crosses the line into superlative territory.

It isn't him moving his feet onto the fighting grounds, and it certainly isn't him pounding his fists into the sand as an opening taunt, but the dissatisfied grunt that follows is all him.

The announcer gives an introduction, but Hank isn't happy with it. No wordplay whatsoever, no sense of charm. All the crowd seems to want out of him is a brutal monster, and he wants to say they've picked the wrong man, but he's a little afraid that he'd be wrong.
waiting: (got time to wait for tomorrow)

we sure did

[personal profile] waiting 2013-07-02 03:44 am (UTC)(link)
[ Of all the people he expects to face across the arena, Hank's the last one he would have expected -- but then again, he's not sure why he's that surprised. Like he's disconnected from his body, Bradbury jabs the air a few times, bouncing lightly on his feet in a way that feels entirely surreal.

His voice is his own, at least for now, while the announcer's introduction rolls out over the crowd. He gives Hank a strained smile, trying to be heard over the audience. ]

You ever do this before?
professorlionface: (Don't turn around.)

[personal profile] professorlionface 2013-07-02 05:52 am (UTC)(link)
[Hank thinks of Mojo, of his predilection for forced combat. He thinks of Cassandra Nova, of being rendered psychically helpless while a poor mind-controlled student beats him within an inch of his life with a titanium baseball bat. It's an ugly question.]

Certainly not in a way that ended well for anyone.

[The bell rings and his nerves fire in spite of his protests. He charges forward, one arm flying toward Bradbury, but before it comes near, it redirects. His hand slams down flat against the ground, leaving the rest of his body to swing ahead, both feet aiming kicks at the other man's chest.

Whoever has the controls seems to know how to make Hank work for him.
waiting: (and if you are gone)

[personal profile] waiting 2013-07-08 12:55 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Bradbury's player, whoever he is, is no less skilled. He may not have the dexterity Hank does, normally, but with the nanites coursing electrical impulses through him before his brain has time to respond, he dodges out of the way of that strike, crouching low to aim a sweeping kick that attempts to knock one of Hank's arms out from under him.

There's no smile on Bradbury's face now, however forced, only gritted teeth as he sweats under the summer sun. He's straining against the control, however futile he already knows it is, but it's no use at all. ]
professorlionface: (Whoops! Must be careful here.)

[personal profile] professorlionface 2013-07-08 10:34 pm (UTC)(link)
[The arm slips out from under him with Bradbury's strike, but by then, he's already got the momentum to land on his feet. He moves the way he should, much faster and more agile than his form would make it seem, and Hank would almost find it commendable if the prospect of what's happening didn't horrify him.

No sooner have his feet connected with the ground than he's already bending backward, hands reaching to grab his opponent.