CASTE F

[capemods]

WHO: CASTE F 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 red F. 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 "F" 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. All the rooms look the same: yellow bedsheets tucked over a twin bed, rust red walls, large screens that reel constant news (there are no "off" buttons). There is no common room, there is no kitchen. There are no bedroom doors. Food will be brought to your room, free of charge. Nearly anything (within reason) is attainable for your lunch by noon and your dinner this evening. Each room is equipped with a private shower and bathroom. You are not given any money. Cameras sit in the ceiling of every bedroom and bathroom. The showers are safe.

Today you are allowed to explore New Vesuvius, as long as you keep within the city limits and meet the curfew of 3PM. You will spend 3:30PM to 6:00PM reviewing the recent history of New Vesuvius (following the divergent timeline). It is a propaganda piece that downplays the travesties against imPorts and mostly features pundits talking about how imPorts put people at great risk, discussing the tens of millions of people who had died in the incinerated cities. You're advised to get some rest. 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.

Comments

Tuesday Happening

[capemods]

Caste F is crucial to image control, insofar as Vulcanus sees the matter, and therefore it is of the utmost importance that all members of Caste F sufficiently comprehend the rules and regulations that dutifully bind their comrades to the welfare of native citizens. In order to ensure proper education on the subtleties of this essential loyalty owed, Caste F handlers (those big men in black combat gear) will escort all Caste F imPorts to the Furnace for preliminary comprehension courses on Tuesday, June 25th. Located in Fort Hamilton, the Furnace has technically been rebuilt as of the Eight Month Resolution, when renegade and probably insane imPorts destroyed much of the training facility. Since its period of rebuilding, the Furnace has upgraded its technological teaching devices and its overall security.

If you attempt to escape during this mandatory educational session (which lasts twelve hours straight, from 9AM to 9PM), you will be executed on the spot. While traditional firearms are favored by the guards skulking around the Furnace's perimeter, they're not above using short range bazookas or lethal tasers or incinerating laser guns.

The Furnace is a large concrete and steel rectangular slab with smoky coloring on its exterior. It has five floors, two of which are underground, and spans eight city blocks by six city blocks. There are no perceivable windows. The perimeter of the facility extends 100 yards from the building itself (on every side) and it marked by an inch-long red line. There are no other parked cars around the facility when you approach.

The entrance hall is decked with shiny black granite flooring and walls and ceiling. You can't see any detectable surveillance technology, but you feel like you're constantly being watched. Psychics and technopaths would be able to recognize that every five feet of surface area carried a vigilant camera and audio recording system.

The only interior decoration is a red and yellow marbled inlay of an exploding volcano, at the end of the entrance hall.

You are told that there are training rooms, solitary rooms, one imPort bathroom, two classrooms, and one imPort lodging room. You will be touring the training rooms and the classrooms today.

The twenty-five personal training rooms are all complete with a psychologist and a moral coach. For this exercise, imPorts may share training rooms but they will not share psychologists and moral coaches. These natives are assigned to only you, and they have already approximated your psychological profile and morality rating (as based off of Vulcanus's opinion of you -- something which you the player can fabricate to your liking!). They will treat you on the basis of this approximation: more stable or more submissive personality types will be treated with respect, while those with identifiable personality disorders or outright aggression will be personally and psychologically attacked. These natives know as much as you, the player, want them to know about your character -- not all of their information has to be incisively accurate, but it should be good enough to emotionally impact your character.

The training rooms are 1300 square feet big. They're dark, with minimal lighting (often native personnel will be wearing nighttime vision goggles). In the middle of a room is a raised sedan with leather straps for arms, legs, torso and head. There is a table off to the side of the room, perpendicular to the sedan, with a large black box on it.

The box contains whatever level of horror you, the player, are most comfortable with. (Knee Splinter, Cat's Paw, Lead Sprinkler, Crocodile Shears are popular possibilities).

If you are too disobedient, you will be strapped to the sedan and you will be practiced upon with devices from this box by your moral coach while your psychologist verbally dissects your motives and shortcomings.

A few of your fellow Caste F imPorts may be in the room with you, or passing by. They may want to intervene, but if they do, their own duo of natives will be with them.

After the tour of the training rooms, you will be invited into one of the two spacious (if cold) auditoriums that are known as the classrooms. You may come in groups, you may wander in and out of lectures. You'll sit in uncomfortable wooden chairs as a large movie screen drops.

What plays is a thirty minute "biopic" films about the failures, disappointments and humiliations suffered by part imPorts. Notably, by your doppelgangers. They may appear in the film themselves, if they survived the first few months of the Eight Month Resolution and were captured before execution. No questions about your doppelganger will be answered -- all the information exhibited will be at least partially true, if highly distorted at times (this is where your doppelganger brainstorming has a stage). Anyone is welcomed to walk in and watch your doppelganger's life unravel.

These are purposely provocative, and you are being watched the whole time. Vulcanus is watching you for your reactions. This is the real assessment, this is the most dangerous part of your journey.

At 2PM you will be served minestrone soup, croissants, and sparkling water.

At 7PM your psychologist will assess your state of mind until 9PM, when you will be taken back to the Caste F iMAC.

Communicators can be used this entire time. If you're subtle enough with them, you can get away with imparting this information.

You can always attack your native handlers, but you will die. Death is always an option.

open!

[acrossyourpath]

It could have been worse -- sort of. Felicia had been anticipating something happening, as it always seemed to right when people let themselves relax, but this wasn't anything she could have prepared against.

She kept her head down, hair falling thickly in her face, because fighting wouldn't do any good; she didn't try, because she knew better. Her eyes, green and thinly narrowed, peered out from behind a thick white curtain even as she watched herself -- no, a version of herself, dressed immaculately and made up like a doll -- executed on-screen.

All that changed was Felicia lowered her face more, expression hidden from view. As listless and despondent as she appeared, though, she was watching everything and everyone around her intently.

[futureleader]

Everything but the screen was being watched by Quentin. He could hear it, the words were unsettling but he internalized it. There was nothing they could do except to play by the rules of their new authority. Granted no one liked it, but the less he had to hear the easier it was for him to take the verbal beatings.

Which is why he gazes upon Felicia. At first he glazes over her like everything else but, the way she lowered her face caught his attention despite being inattentive. Quentin wonders about her, what she must be feeling. Were they all feeling the same? (He didn't dare test his abilities, he knew better.)

He doesn't say anything, what is there to say? So instead he tries to communicate with his eyes and subtle body language.

open

[acclimatized]

What an emotional whiplash from Sunday's jovialities. At the end of the day, when everyone is transported back to Castle F iMac, John is trembling with rage. He managed to rein it back during the day despite obvious attempts from his moral coach and psychologist to rile him up and remain submissive.

He listened dutifully to the lectures, didn't speak unless spoken to, watched his death without reacting, and endured the vicious dissection of his personality by someone who was far more professional and thorough than Ella ever was.

By the end of the day, his lips are pressed into a thin, tight line and he keeps his hands clenched at his side. Lashing out wasn't going to help anyone. Death wasn't an option either, but there was only so much John Watson could take before he snapped.

[glowsferatu]

Sitting across from him on the truck is an alien girl a little taller than him, but can't be older than sixteen. It's dark enough that she leaves her glow out, illuminating the rest of the cab, but it only makes her own hollow expression more obvious.

Kanaya hadn't seen herself die onscreen, but she enough others she recognized to take for granted that she was in the same situation, if she was here. They all must have. They all could again. Him, the man now sitting across from her, he was there.

She looks at him now and she can see that fury written in the way his shoulders wouldn't stay still, in his clenched fists. Little more than a week ago, she might've been looking in a mirror, but now...it's all too big. Too much as stake, always too much at stake.

She looks at him with a silent sadness, a poorly masked fear, and simply taps her index finger against her lips.

open

[glowsferatu]

[ at lunch, the content of kanaya's bowl looks very different. deep red, just broth, and with that familiar, coppery scent. they gave her a straw along with her spoon, she isn't sure if it's a joke. who drinks blood with a straw?

she breaks off a bit of her croissant, just swimming it around to sop up some of the red, but she isn't sure she actually wants to eat. seeing endless videos of gruesome violence didn't ruin her appetite, normally that would only whet it. but there was more there, the idea that it carries with it.

kanaya raises a soggy, blood-soaked piece of breads in front of her eyes and she thinks about how they're all going to die. ]

[soulbonder]

Kanaya. [He hopes she doesn't mind him bothering her, especially considering their day so far.]

[xxii_thefool]

[Minako sets her own lunch down across from Kanaya and sits with the perfunctory movements of someone running on autopilot.

Physically she's not really even in bad shape by now. Messiah's regeneration is doing its work... and really, they weren't trying to injure her. That would be counterproductive.

Her hands are trembling faintly when she picks up her croissant, though, so she puts it down again and puts her hands in her lap, and without really meaning to she ends up staring fixedly into Kanaya's bowl for a little while before she seems to recognize who she's sitting across from and summons up a wan smile.]

...hi.

[demonspawn]

[ he was morbid enough that he might have been thinking similar thoughts if death had ever been a real option for him. but it isn't, so his mind wanders in the direction of something like it's kind of good to see a familiar face.

he sits across from her with his food. ]

So. [ low and deadpan, the understatement of the year: ] This pretty much sucks.

open || CW for torture-related things

[usavatar]

He's on the sedan twice before lunch. The first time is in the morning and is, his moral coach says, introductory. They want him to understand the consequences for aggression and insubordination. They want to help him adjust, and they know how hard it will be.

They don't gag him. Steve is fairly sure the first time that they want to make him scream. To drive home what they have the power to do, exhaust him early. So when the straps go tight around his ankles and wrists, Steve starts singing. Not well or loudly - not at first - but he rolls his way through popular songs of his day and anthems of various kinds, drinking songs, marching songs, his voice rising and falling in volume and pitch as the moral coach and his psychologist work.

(Lead Sprinkler, Cat's Paw, Heretic's Fork - he keeps singing even after the last is strapped into place, though quietly, the prongs gouging flesh from under his chin and from around his collarbones.)

You think you can keep this up, that you can keep doing this, but how true is that? How long will it take to break you? How many people will you endanger before you let go of foolish ideals and learn the value of obedience and survival?

(Fare thee well, for I must leave thee, do not let the parting grieve thee, and remember that the best of friends must part, must part.)

You have purpose here, too. Let us help you find it. Let us help you find a place that fits.

(lt's a long way to Tipperary, it's a long way to go; It's a long way to Tipperary, to the sweetest girl I know.)

He isn't sure how long it's been once they untie him. All he knows is that after a few hours of nails pounded into his private thoughts, a screening of the biopic, and one too many snide replies, he's back on the sedan and this time there's a spiked gag in his mouth, piercing through his tongue and filling his mouth with hot, metallic flavor.

It's shorter this time. Maybe it's shorter - maybe it's that retreating into memory is a safer way to pass the time than listening and trying not to scream. Any noises he did make would be muffled by the gag - inhuman sounds, regardless.

Physical exhaustion is the only thing that keeps him from punching his moral coach in the face. They help him stand, and he spits blood on their shoes.

After lunch, his coach says. We'll discuss this behavior.

[glowsferatu]

Several times throughout the morning, Kanaya's made to pass the viewing theater on her way elsewhere. The first time, her moral coach whispers to her that it could just as easily be her on that sedan, while the psychologist makes a note of how her jaw sets. She admires Steve's singing, the strength it displays.

The next time, they've pulled up a list of known associates to threaten instead. It could be your best friend, they tell her. Astral, Terrance Ward, we have them both here. Don't think we couldn't have them here at a moment's notice. The singing's weaker now, she feels like her resolve has taken a similar hit.

On the third pass, she can't even look in Steve's direction. The silence is deafening, aside from those same whispers. That ex-girlfriend of yours? Still carrying a torch there, huh. What was it, Daisy? Tulip? Rose, the psychologist corrects. They don't care what the name is, they don't care about any of them, just what they can get out of them. This is resoundingly clear to her by this point. She's dead, the coach continues, if you don't do exactly what you're told. The green crescents her nails make in her palm are easy to miss, but the way her glow flares isn't. Both make it to the notepad.

By the time lunch arrives, she finds Steve and sets her own tray next to his. The bowl may be full of blood rather than soup, but the part she hopes he notices first is the medical kit she pulls out of her purse. She looks around cautiously, hoping this won't get it confiscated, but she has to do what she can. "Let me help."

[acclimatized]

There is something oddly universal about songs from the armed forces. John isn't acquainted with the American ones as well as he should be, but something strikes a chord when he hears Steve singing them loudly. It's easy to spot a fellow soldier and his own moral coach warns him about this happening to him should attempt anything stupid.

Impassively, he nods and they walk on without looking back. He doesn't forget though. At lunch, he carves a line directly toward Steve and looks him over. He recognizes him from the network but they have never actually spoken before.

"How are you holding up?"

open!

[seeksherownsalvation]

They know from the get-go that Kyouko is not one of the passive or submissive ones. No, she's Aggressive with a capital A, and so her "training" gets rough quickly. Nor does she make it any better on herself with how she reacts.

"I'm not! I'm not weak after all, it's not a lie, you don't know a damn thing!" Her voice echoes loud and angry through the darkened training room.

"No! It wasn't my fault!" By this point, she's starting to get hysterical.

"Y-you're tying me down, is that it? You can't handle me!" Predictably, it's after that that she quiets down a little.

In fact, she quiets down an awful lot. That's when her faithful moral coach opens up the box and gets out what's inside. It's sharp.

It's not until a while later that she starts speaking, her language broken as her automatic translation power drifts in and out of focus. Her voice is quieter than it's ever been. "Almighty and most merciful Father--" A pause. "Most merciful--" A whimper. "We have erred, and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep." A whine. "We have, we have followed too much the d-devices and desires of our, ummm, our own hearts. We have offended against thy holy laws."

Silence for a moment.

"We have left undone those things which we ought to have done. A-and we have done those things which we ought not to have done. And there is no health in us...!"

Suddenly she's yelling. She's trying to drown out the words of the psychologist speaking oh-so-gently to her, or maybe the physical pain she finally can't get away from.

"But thou, oh Lord, have mercy upon us--!"

After that, there's silence until it's over. She listens and she watches the movies in the auditorium with distant eyes.

But at lunch, Kyouko can be heard muttering to herself. It's the same words she was crying out before, but held much closer to her chest this time.

[futureleader]

He didn't really know anyone in caste F. He knew names to faces and that was about it. It wasn't surprising that Quentin tried to find a comforting face during lunch. Someone to reach out to or maybe just someone to sit by with some form of silent acknowledgement.

Kyouko catches his eyes, or rather his ears. Carefully, Quentin makes his way to her, knowing full well the state she must have been in. With shaky fingers, he holds his food in one hand and gestures to the seat in front of her.

"Hey... seat taken?"

open;;

[futureleader]

[cw for mentions of torture]

From the moment his mind became unclouded admits the mess of confusion, Quentin had been receptive to the thoughts of others and was constantly on high alert. He knew how grave the situation had become, and understood the atmosphere to the point where he did not speak up and complain as he would have normally done otherwise. He became resilient and gave his team cold stares whenever necessary.

He was used to others belittling him for his actions and trying to make him feel humiliated. To make him feel like he'd done something wrong, and correct the error of his ways. But even as he tries his hardest not to react to their words, it cuts deep. Quentin didn't react however, and tried not to internalize their lies. Reactions were the excuses they wanted. Despite his best efforts, Quentin eventually caved in and reacted. Something like "FUCK YOU!" could be heard as he tried to jump at his psychologist. That earned him his first trip to the sedan and nothing was heard but strangled sobbing.

When he's released, he's different and it's not just the sweltering bruise on the side of his tear streaked face, or his shredded fingers. His glasses are missing but, that's far from the point.

opennn

[demonspawn]

[ at the very least, the darkness doesn't bother him. if anything, separation from the sunlight is a small mercy, almost a comfort -- and one of few in the furnace. the place is, frankly, less than hospitable. but there's so few things that shake terry ward -- not with the things he's seen in people's heads, the nightmares that swim in the back of his head at every waking moment -- and the threat of physical pain has less meaning once you've had nearly every bone in your body broken between the hulk and cement.

it's the mental poking and prodding that gets him. he hates it. that's no exaggeration. ironically, maybe, he has almost no desire to discuss the things he thinks or feels, his past or what motivates him. and being cornered between his moral coach and his psychologist has him bristling, defensive. it's almost a twisted blessing when he's allowed to sit quietly, watching those awful films. he blocks it out internally, the way he blocks out the whispering fears of everyone around him so he can sleep a few hours at night.

hunched in one of those uncomfortable chairs, terry frowns at the screen as the images flash by. ]

open

[bloodplay]

Truth be told, a substantial amount of this is familiar, though the nerve gas is new. He knows what it's like to be quarantined like a sick animal in preparation for conditioning, pushed kicking and screaming into an ill-fitting mold, and he knows how to survive the process unchanged. All he has to do is turn inward and block off every honest part of himself from scrutiny, figure out what these people want and reflect just that off the surface of a shiny fake smile. Simple.

Unfortunately, both his psychologist and his moral coach are familiar with Brian's self-obfuscating techniques from his last iteration here, and equally familiar with his handiwork. As such, they're more than willing to tell him that he's a menace and a psychopath -- which are true and slightly off the mark, respectively -- all the while poking and prodding in search of a real name to match to his already-documented face. They make sure the room is empty of other subjects, not for his personal comfort but to make it easier on them, as if he doesn't know they'll change his lanyard and force Brian Moser into the light the second he gives in. They think the threat of being exposed to his peers, compounded by a psychological dissection, will be enough to make him fold. It isn't. This makes what they do next the only natural recourse.

Vulcanus may not know his name or precisely why he is what he is, but they do know what he's done -- in this universe, anyway. (There don't appear to have been any Tony Tuccis in New Vesuvius, for which he's grateful. Amputation is the last thing he needs.) When they get physical, when they draw his blood (for testing, they say), it's that backlog of bloodless bodies they're drawing on. He fades in and out of consciousness a few times but still insists, half-whispering, that his name is Rudy Cooper, which does not earn him any post-draining orange juice.

It's a very pale and unsteady man who's escorted into the auditorium later, with a grand total of two fingernails left on both hands, but the name on his lanyard is not his own. It's the little victories! The only positive to Brian being a petulant self-destructive manbaby is that his counterpart died well before they could document the process in splattervision, but there are still a number of familiar faces in the matinee. Exhausted as he is, he watches it -- all of it -- with no deviation in expression from the weary baseline he's already established. The only thing that could upset that equilibrium (and indeed, the only thing that could even begin to break him at all) has failed to appear.

Dexter isn't in the movie, neither shown onscreen nor referenced through narration. Dexter hasn't been namedropped once over the course of his hours-long interview. Dexter may not be here at all, now or at any nebulous point in the past. The thought ignites and anchors the extremely small fraction of Brian that retains anything close to human decency, running through him in giddy loops of feedback that the lightheadedness only serves to heighten. What does he care about the people being executed in front of him? By the time lunch is served, he looks almost at peace.

Whether he's entirely there, of course, is another matter entirely. Spoiler alert: he's not. Secondary spoiler alert: sometimes, when you've lost an incredible amount of blood and 75% of what you're thinking is equivalent to I know something you don't know, utensils get dropped and food gets fumbled. Not that he has anything but a spoon, either way. Safety concerns -- you know how it is.

Open

[kaibalite]

[Kaito sat at lunch, glaring at the food with such intensity it seemed a wonder it didn't catch fire.

Heroic.

As his handlers ferried him from place to place, it had became apparent to Kaito that one way or another, a twisted fortune had landed him in a lucky position. Relatively speaking. His past experience had taught him the futility of running from such a compound, and that had been under far less security and threat. He knew he wasn't going to be running anywhere, and that fighting at this early stage was pointless. They knew he knew this, and held him at their mercy. His innate captivity had spared him the sedan.

Loyalty.

They never let up, constantly reminding him of what "he" had done for New Vesuvius, the achievements, the honor, laced throughout with their keywords of propaganda. Always driving home the point he himself had come to the day prior. This was, for all intents and purposes, past bloodshed aside, a utopia. A peace that he himself, through whatever manipulation, had helped to build. That he had protected. Kaito could even begin to understand why he had done so, with how often one of them kept teasing the word family. But that weight was there, the weight he'd carried for so long magnified, fresh. The guilt he kept coiled within tightened, eating at him, gnawing persistently.

Murder.

They had footage, he himself was part of the propaganda. A noble death, fighting in the Resolution. Fighting on the right side, the side of good and order and peace. And yet he couldn't look past the bare fact. He was the one who killed Astral.]

[Closed to Matt Murdock, Monday/Day 1]

[usavatar]

It's the division that does it. The way they're sectioned off into groups and led toward the vehicles. He's read about the way civilians labeled enemies were divided and loaded into cattle cars. He remembers with perfect clarity the POWs in Schmidt's first factory and the work camps adjacent to some of the rest. He remembers. And that along with the knowledge provided by history means there's little imagination involved when Steve considers what might be waiting on the other end of this drive.

Like hell he's going to let this happen. Like hell he'll let them take these people. It's not a logical calculation - it's visceral emotionality, and he's starting to move before logic can catch up.

i hope this is ok ;;

[guardiandevil]

Logic, as it happens, is Matt's forte, and as such, he's not about to let anyone make a stupid decision that could jeopardize their chances down the line. They couldn't afford to charge in blindly. They couldn't afford to get themselves killed out of the gate.

In a motion that was graceful and practiced, he extended an arm as Steve moved past, a deterrent to slow the man down. It didn't matter that it was Captain America. For all Matt cared, he could be slowing down Captain Crunch. The brakes had to be put on, that's all there was to it.

"Easy, soldier."

Thursday Happening

[capemods]

There's a parade happening on June 27th that seems to span most of the early day, from 9AM to 2PM. Caste F is strongly encouraged to participate in it, as this caste in particular has always had an emotional tether to the natives of New Vesuvius. The parade train will run the entire length of Broadway within the New Vesuvius limits, and traffic is obliged to obey the celebratory path. In effect, most businesses within the city are closed for the day, to adequately observe this event. If you have already acquired a patron (either through the government or private sector individuals), then they will likely walk with you, talk with you.

You control these NPCs. Condescension is a given, but not everyone is rude -- again, Caste F is still regarded as the "loyal" caste, despite their prior impact in the Eight Month Resolution. In general, everyone seems so happy. You have yet to find evidence of maltreated natives, no forsaken homeless population or abused runaways. Everyone seems so pleasant to each other.

The grandeur of this ceremony is not to be understated. There will be floats, there will be fireworks. Other parade participants may be dressed up like -- but not exactly like you, more akin to some horrific caricature of your physicality than anything else. Your image and information will be routinely flashing on all of the news screens throughout the city: your name, your physical descriptors, your romantic endeavors, your rivalries, your Loyalty Rating, your Competence Rating, your Power Rating (all factors based on the perception of your iMac caste handlers). Children will gush over who could take on who in a battle, they'll discuss your merits against your fellow Caste F imPorts and their merits.

The end of the path reveals a new bronze statue of President Wertham holding smaller, weaker looking sculptures in her hands.

Sculptures of Caste F.

This is not just any old parade.

This is a New Vesuvian triumph.

The event concludes with a free feast open to the public (as well as Caste F participants). The food is international, with various vendors donating to the warm celebration. While the feast is an hour for socializing, for meeting and greeting, it is not without its business quality -- especially for Caste F. As they are perceived as the most loyal caste, they are also highly profitable in manufactured product; in other words, Caste F is almost as "toyetic" as Caste E, but much more child-friendly. You may have business-oriented natives discuss with you your image (physical and personality) in hopes of gathering material for a marketable action figure, or dakimakuras, or really cool posters, or life-sized, statuesque busts. Natives will most likely talk to you in groups of two, and they WILL ask you to describe your Caste F comrade, for pitchable market appeal. Given your prior experience with natives and their requests, it is unwise to deny them your participation. You will be able to NPC the reactions of pleased or displeased natives, to whatever degree you'd like.

You can have your communicators on the whole time -- just try to be stealthy.

open!

[acrossyourpath]

The worst part to Felicia about the whole charade is exactly how undignified it is to be strutted around and flaunted like she -- they -- belonged on leashes, mere dogs to government whims, whatever those might be. As she had the days previous, she takes to tilting her jaw down so that her hair tumbles in front of her face, blocking most of it from immediate scrutiny. This way, she manages to block out most of the parade from her periphery, focusing mostly on walking straight the way she's supposed to.

Fighting, after all, isn't worth it, and she's not that reckless. Or that desperate. Yet.

When the feast comes around Felicia ignores -- does her best to, but she can't entirely -- the natives that flutter around, touching her shoulders and trying to tell her this and that, demanding her attention as they asked her to sign something or share with them gossip about her about her teammates, the pink-haired one or the one in stars and stripes, what were they like and did they have deals already, any scandals they should know about? Felicia does her best to brush them off by focusing on the feast.

open!

[xxii_thefool]

At first, Minako keeps her eyes steadily on the ground in front of her feet as the parade moves along. She is quiet, docile, not very much the bright and animated girl she usually is under better circumstances. She's tired, still shaken from yesterday, and the whole spectacle has her wound tightly on edge, all the moreso thanks to the nearby presence of a standard-issue-bland man in a dark suit and tie - a representative of her government "sponsor," keeping an eye on her behavior.

A funny thing happens as they go, however, as the news screens begin to cycle through the key details about her - it makes her flinch at first, when she initially catches a glimpse of herself evaluated in numbers and keywords.

But then they start getting into the relationships.

Hidetoshi Odagiri. Andre Laurent Jean "Bebe" Geraux.

Names scroll across the screens, pictures.

Reminders of bonds which, even now, cannot be broken.

Ryoji Mochizuki. Ken Amada. "Theodore."

She starts to recite them to herself as she walks, calling up the memory of the power they gave her. Junpei, Yukari, Fuuka. Mitsuru-senpai, Akihiko-senpai. Rio, Saori. Bunkichi and Mitsuko. Maiko, Mutatsu. Tanaka. Akinari. Aigis.

Shinjiro Aragaki.

Something in the way she carries herself begins to change, a tension loosening and draining away, leaving her lighter on her feet.

That's right, she thinks. I'm not alone.

The government agent notices the change and frowns, eyeing her sharply sidelong. Catching the look, Minako turns her head and very deliberately smiles at him. It's a bright, confident, satisfied smile. It's a smile that says very clearly: "You lose."

She still doesn't look at the crowd as she walks, but she holds her head up now, looking straight ahead with newfound determination. At the feast, she eats with methodical purpose: she'll need the energy. She engages the natives who talk to her with a fluidity that lets the unpleasantness of the situation roll off her like water off wax.

She's going to get through this. She doesn't know how yet, but she's not going to lose.

[steelminded]

It's been a few days.

As he was just milling about the parade, the flashing screen containing information about him just made him sick, for some reason. The sight of himself being up there alongside his relationship and other stats being displayed are just—

Wrong.

He's not supposed to be well-known, nor is he supposed to be treated as an object. He had been repeating to himself that this kind of place is not an utopia, but rather hell for those who drew the short end of the straw and didn't know a thing about it.

And then there's the fact that he saw himself trying to help everyone, only to be persecuted by the ones he really tried to self in that session within the auditorium. Honestly, the fact that he was approached by people in itself is already telling that either they forgot about it, or thought of him as a completely different person.

Maybe that's why he's just brushing off any attempts of communication by politely answering how he's not that close to the others in the same boat. Which reminded him of one fact. That he's not entirely with familiar face in this crowd.

He's alone.

Friday Happening

[capemods]

You’ve been informed that you will be helping host a celebratory welcoming for imPorts on behalf of Vulcanus, which will be held at the Guggenheim Museum. You are encouraged to attend the rehearsal on Friday at 3PM to 4PM, so you know how you will be contributing to the celebration.

Caste F is meant to ensure that all attendees are kept safe, but especially the Representatives of the United Nations of Vulcanus, who will be beginning their discussions about how to integrate new imPorts this coming week. Some of these UNV officials will have their aides at the rehearsal, to ensure things are going smoothly, and some of those aides may wish to talk with you, or ask you questions. You may NPC them. You’re told that during the party, you are free to walk around the Guggenheim Museum (as long as you're keeping an eye out for trouble), and you don’t even have to remain there the entire time (it is a long celebration).

During this Friday afternoon, between coordinating your positions and contributions, there is ample time to talk among yourselves. Early in the hour, all imPorts collectively receive a text:

I’m sorry, to have hacked into your Network like this. I thought it the most discreet way to contact you. Oh yes, this is Clotho. We met briefly.

I am afraid I cannot so easily send you back, though I have tried. Vulcanus wants you here because they think it is right. I have a different opinion of the matter. I do have opinions.

I cannot return you because my system has been depowered. I can be empowered again, but I require your help. At the Symposium tomorrow there will be many Vulcanus officials, and they will have ignition keys around their necks. It is a sign of importance, and these ignition keys are quite hard to miss. I only require four.

This will not be my last communication to you. During the Symposium, I will send you the intel I am still gathering describing the Vulcanus officials, in case they are armed.

I can disable the security of my nest, where you were first ported in, during the last hours of Sunday. I'm afraid it has to be late, when my watchers are least vigilant.

Then I can return you to your city, hero.