CASTE A

[capemods]

WHO: CASTE A 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 pink A. 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 "A" 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: gray bedsheets tucked over a twin bed, light pink walls, medium-sized screens that reel constant news (they have no "off" buttons). There is no common room, there is no kitchen. There are no bathroom or bedroom doors, and the shower curtain is transparent. There is a communal gym that is well-stocked for cardio and weight training. Food will be brought to your room, free of charge. Any kind of red meat and vegetable side dish is attainable for your lunch by noon and your dinner this evening. Each room is equipped with a shower and bathroom, the privacy restrictions mentioned above in place. You are not given any money. 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.

Comments

Tuesday Happening

[capemods]

Caste A! On Tuesday, June 25th, you're jolted into action. You are summoned by 11AM to address an increasingly lethal crisis! Tambora's Breath, the wind turbine field that lines the coast from Cambria Heights to Laurelton (and thus is what generates enough energy for New Vesuvius and some of its surrounding counties), has malfunctioned. Five of its two hundred turbines suffer maintenance problems -- their turbine pinwheels have loosened! And spun off! These five whirling death machines not only threaten the nestled neighborhoods nearby, but the face that these blades are strong enough to scar through cityscape means they can take out other turbines too -- and create a domino effect! This is the HAWT Towered model of turbine, which despite its acronym, is also the most vicious looking.

This is the breakdown:

Two turbine pinwheels are about to fly off in the direction of native population sprawling just half a mile away. Two other turbine pinwheels have wrenched off and are rolling through the turbine field, threatening to down other turbines. One has flung away into the sea and threatened a cruise ship seeking harbor.

Your handlers urge you to organize and assist! You're Caste A, the A Team! You need to help innocent people, don't you?

The more you hesitate, the more chaos permeates this problem.

You can play out any or all of the following situations:

A
You're going after the deathly bladed pinwheels rolling along the ground, weaving precariously between still standing turbines. One whirls a sharp left and takes out a turbine -- that turbine wobbles, threatening to fall. The other slams into a thicket of turbines, sending shudders through the mechanisms. Then they begin to tumble. The rogue pinwheels cycle down faster, taking advantage of the hills, hitting more turbines along the way.

And then there's the one seabourne.

B
You've been send out into Cambria Heights and Laurelton, clearing out these clean and happy neighborhoods in case of some horrific bladed disaster. As you try to organize natives and evacuate them towards safety, a sudden volley of rocks spray out to hit you -- native teenagers throw stones (and soon, glass bottles stolen from recycling bins) right at your face. Adults are quick to join in -- they mock you, ridicule you, yell lewd things about your parentage. You can form groups to coax these people into behaving -- or you can fight back. But if you hurt a single native, you'll find yourself on the run from your handlers. They'll want to put you down.

If you do not respond to aggression with aggression, you will receive a rare thing indeed from your handlers: an apology. It is a felony to attack a Caste A imPort, and the perpetrators will be prosecuted (with leniency, your handler will add. People are still upset, it hasn't even been a full year since the Eight Month Resolution). As a reward for your good behavior, you will be given a hundred and fifty dollars to spend as you so wish.

C
Damage control. You performed gallantly -- but at least two pinwheels surged their way into a high school, ramming through it. There is severe damage to the building, but it's possible that there are no casualties! That detail is up to you -- whether you're quick enough to find anyone in trouble, or what scenario you want to play out.

B; open!

[topslug]

[ Just because she's uncertain of what they're here to accomplish or do doesn't mean Yako's not determined to do a good job of it. She's still mulling over what she's learned from the holograph she'd seen yesterday, the drugs not hazy enough for her to miss the details of the tiny biography brought up.

Power amplification? If that's what her power is, she doesn't have a single clue how she's supposed to use it. Not that it seems to matter now, since she's dodging thrown debris. At the very least, she's been equipped with a safety helmet and gloves, but while she doesn't stand down, she can't get a word in edgewise around the violence, though she's trying to make her voice overheard.

That's a little difficult when she has to keep one arm up to shield her face, but despite it, she pushes on, and her tone of voice remains strident and calm, firmly repeating the standard evacuation spiel over the sound of jeers. ]

open! (and multiple options because i can't be tamed)

[shipper]

[option b!

Nepeta doesn't fully understand what's happening or why they've all been transported here, and she certainly doesn't like being assigned another caste (ugh) or told what to do. however, even with all of this hanging over her head she still cares for people and doesn't want to see them hurt. if she can help prevent some catastrophe, that's worth taking directions a little while longer.

the first volley of projectiles catches her off guard, but as soon as she's aware she's under attack it's easy enough to sidestep the incoming debris. their aim isn't particularly good or strong, and Nepeta's spent her whole life dodging stuff like this. she wants to give them a good smack in the face for being such idiots, but there are still other people in the neighborhoods who haven't done anything wrong and need to get out.

so instead she just sticks her tongue out at the hostile people, face pulled into a grimace]

Fine, whatefur! You can stay here and get all ripped up by the windmills!

[and with that she turns her back to them, pretending they aren't there as she continues trying to move other civilians along]



[oooor option c!

well, this certainly isn't the worst thing she's ever seen in her life, but it's still a little sad that they weren't able to completely avert things. Nepeta is small and athletic enough that she has no trouble bounding through the debris and squeezing into small spaces to check for anyone who might have been caught in the rubble - and that's exactly what she's doing now. every now and then she calls out for any survivors to make themselves known, but most of her energy is focused on trying to shift debris aside and check every nook and cranny.]

c

[dragony]

[ there's a tiny bit of blood on ruka's face, and scratches on her legs from lucky shots in the citizen assault, but there's still "work" to be done. in a way, she doesn't feel surprised. when imPorts first arrived in The City, and even in the months following, even when she first arrived, there was this sort of hatred and fear. but this isn't the first time this city has had imPorts, is it? and from the sound of things, it hadn't been good then, either.

so while it's true, that she doesn't care about these people, or particularly want to help them, she's not keen to deliberately piss off the people with the sedatives and guns.

the damage to the building is visually distressing, and ruka worries that the turbines have done damage enough to the structural integrity that parts of the building might collapse. it's worrisome. she has her right hand balled into a loose fist, ready to pull on the power of her shield the moment she needs it—or even the moment before.

when she spots nepeta—not recognizing her at first, half-hidden in rubble—she wonders first if this is some natural citizen to this world.

well, one way to find out, right? she approaches, cautious for a trap. ]

You alright over there?

[shipper]

[Nepeta looks over her shoulder to ascertain the voice's owner before turning around fully and abandoning her debris shifting for the moment. she wipes some of the dirt off her face with a coat sleeve, streaking it over the bruise forming from where a rock had struck her particularly hard. she doesn't really want to give the time of day to her 'handlers' if she doesn't have to, but this is someone she knows from the City.

her smile is a but more subdued than it usually is, voice cheerful but even. she's not going to fall into despair if she can help it, but she's sure as hell not going to pretend everything is ok]

Yeah, I'm fine. Just making sure that efuryone else is.

[a subtle question as to Ruka's state of being. she knows the blood on her face is negligible, but emotions were a little more difficult to patch up]

open; a

[viced]

[ He can't do much to stop the pinwheels. If anything, he's entirely useless to machines that have already gained the momentum, and no amount of telling them to stop is going to stop the momentum. The most he can do, is slow them, shut down the mechanisms inside, and hope it has an impact. They let him use his powers, if it's for this purpose. He's already been informed of the reality.

He can't talk to anything else, he can't listen. They knew his powers in a way that was violating and horrifying. They wanted to make sure that he couldn't do what he was capable of doing.

He had a feeling they knew just how far his powers extended.

But he wouldn't just let some runaway turbines get the better of him, either. They'd stripped him of the trappings of his office, giving him a pair of simple jeans, and his white shirt. The cut of the circuits stood out against his arm, his neck, much more prominent when he didn't have a suit to distract anyone from the marks that ran further than he let anyone see.

He told them to jam, trying to slow them down, his voice flaring with sharp color, synesthesia invoked by just a few words, flaring green, aching filings, and invoking a headache. The words weren't meant for humans. ]

[heartlessglitch]

[ She had, for the most part, been quiet and cooperative since they arrived, doing nothing in particular to stand out from the other ImPorts. It was a strategic choice, bred from a survivalist mentality and whatever traces of her adaptive programming lingered in her organic body. Danger needed time to process her new situation, the new information. They had, of course, identified her on arrival, rattling off data on her like everyone else.

There was one thing, however, they knew that she hadn't. And despite the impressive control in Danger's face, inwardly, she'd been surprised. Her power, they'd said, was not to merely maintain a robotic form-- it was to change between forms. And while it was always entirely possible that the authorities in a new dimension would lie to her, the past few months suddenly made more sense.

There was, of course, only one way to find out.

Up ahead, a runaway turbine tumbled forward, struggling somewhere between the forces of physics and Mitchell Hundred's power. In her soft, organic form, there was nothing she could do-- she'd be crushed, brutally maimed if not killed-- but as a robot, she'd be the perfect tool. She gave herself a running start, willed the change to happen, remembering in her mind what it felt like to be strong, to be made of wires and metal, to be binary--

She veered around in front of the pinwheel, calculating under a second the angle at which to meet it and bracing for impact. There was a harsh, metallic clang between her body and the turbine, her feet skidding backwards as she pushed, alloy in the dirt. ]

Mitchell Hundred-- it is not enough. [ her voice in its mechanical tone carried over the noise of metal scraping the ground. ] You must try harder.

[viced]

[ Her changing had been like a freight train to his head, she wasn't just one voice, she was thousands of processes and parts, and he winced with the addition. Not so much that he stopped his hold on the turbine, but enough that he was already listening for her voice, barely able to hear the clang of metal on metal. There were more important things to listen to, after all. Her voice, perhaps still unique to humans, spoke twofold for him, once voice audible for all, a green reflection hitting the part of his brain that translated a unique speech into something he could understand. Signal into sound.

But the message, either way, was loud and clear. He watched, eyes focused on the both of them, still far enough away that he wasn't in danger yet, and he nodded, even if Danger couldn't see his head nod.

This was what he was made to do, after all. Talk to them, neutralize them. He'd stopped a plane, redirected, and landed it, all with his voice. The control of those processes had been precise and taxing, but here? Here he'd been practicing. Edward had been right, to tell him to work at this more. He didn't like his powers, but he understood the necessity in making sure he could use them.

As much as he wished he was just an administrator, a bureaucrat, he still had superpowers at the end of the fucking day. ]

TURBINE, REDUCE ROTATION SPEED BY 50%. APPLY STOPS. DO EVERYTHING YOU CAN TO STOP YOURSELF.

[ It may not seem like much, and hell, he knew it wasn't. Those kinds of words didn't sound fucking superheroic, but it didn't matter what he said, but it was for the benefit of people around him. He hadn't liked knowing that the people running this place knew that he didn't need to use his voice at all. That all he needed was a thought to reign in the signals.

He still used his voice, and his power, and it was surprising, when he lifted a hand to his nose, expecting blood, and finding none. Nothing had popped, yet, even as his head throbbed with pressure, and he concentrated. ]

Thursday Happening

[capemods]

Come Thursday morning, you're kept off the streets. If you inquire as to why -- and you might very well do just that -- you'll be told that there's a parade occurring, and only Caste F is participating. You're doing something better, your handlers will tell you.

"You have been given the prestigious task of organizing the Agent Archives!"

Hooray.

You'll be charted off to the Mid-Manhattan Library, and you'll be allowed into the cloistered maze that composes the Agent Archives. This locked archive is not accessible for the general public, you're told. You've been given the key because you were so heroic on Tuesday, and this is a real treat! You get to peek into the past!

Your own past.

Sort of.

What you'll find in the Agent Archive is a multimedia crypt of the prior imPorts who lived in New Vesuvius. The ones that looked just like you. Years and years of information, and it's all organized by imPort name. There are handwritten papers, itemized inventories of possessions, video reels, audio recordings. There may be interrogation tapes, or entertainment interviews to watch. You'll read their journals that were confiscated, you can access the copied data files of some of their Network posts. With the permission of other players, you can access their character's backstory and share the details as you will. While some of this can be found publicly (depending on if you choose it to be in New Vesuvius pop culture or not), not all of this intimate information will be. As this is your story, you can choose what is and what isn't. You can uncover the love letters or angry diary entries or sad tales of the Eight Month Resolution (though imPorts will have different names for it -- it was their rebellion).

You should explore in pairs, because you probably don't trust your handlers. Who could blame you, given the nature of this world? It's good to have a buddy system.

You've been told to organize all this information in order of relevance: which imPorts are in New Vesuvius right now?

You can share any information you find with the Network.

Lancer and books? Dangerous combination. (also OPEN)

[lucke]

[Organizing and filing... Just when he thought things couldn't get any more demeaning.

Surprisingly though, when told his new assignment Lancer calmly just nodded his head and followed his handlers to the hall of records.

Yes, he needed handlers. But while there were several encircling him as he made his way onward, the number was actually at an all time low. Only three now.

Perhaps he was spending too much time with Kotomine, but subterfuge was starting to grow on him. When he arrived in this copy of a copy city, of course he had fought back. But it seemed like the people behind this had expected that and done something to limit his powers. Nearly incapacitated, it still took half a dozen guards to wrestle him down to the ground and sedate him.

It must have been quite the show for the other dazed imports.

But anyone who knew Lancer would have been quite surprised to see him now.

Calm. Polite. Obedient. And quite amiable with everyone, including his handlers --who seemed to be warming up to him despite his status as a Caste A.

Even a biased culture such as this wasn't resistant to the Blue Panther's charm.

However. There was no surrender in Lancer's eyes, his shoulders squared and head still held high. He had not given up. He was simply... waiting.

Inside the record room there was no need for his handlers to hound him any further so they took a break, parting with Lancer who bid them well before sauntering into the well lit, but stale-aired chamber.]

[topslug]

[ Unlike others who'd been sorted into Caste A, Yako's powers didn't lend themselves well to a specific task: while she hadn't been called on to use them yet (not that she would have known exactly how to, even if she was) it had seen her shuffled around more to provide support for others than anything else.

This morning, she's been paired with Lancer. While she's caught glimpses of him in the time they've been here, they haven't really had an opportunity to speak with him alone until now. Hands on her hips, she stares up at the archives thoughtfully. This is a lot of information to sort through, but looking at it won't make it go any faster.

Finally, she turned to her partner with a smile. ]

... Well, Mister Lancer, where would you like to begin?

[lucke]

[Lancer regarded Yako with a contented smile, happy she of all people had been chosen to be her partner in this task.

From their last meeting it had been fairly easy to tell that she was a very intelligent girl and exactly the type of person he needed for this.]

Oh... I have somewhere in mind. Don't suppose you've seen this before?

[Delicately, as if it might crumble in his hand, Lancer withdrew a small, folded piece of paper from within his shirt and gently unfolded it.

It was a small poster, designed like a piece of propaganda. On it were the words 'REMEMBER YOUR PLACE' over the figure of a man, bleeding and strung up to a pole --slightly reminiscent of a crucifixion.

However... while the figure's details were washed out by design, it was easy enough to tell the figure was wearing a single blue one-piece and sported a mane of matching hair.

Suddenly Lancer's calm smile didn't so benign. It wasn't that his expression changed, it was just, with context, the truth of it became obvious.

Lancer wasn't content. He wasn't at peace.

The smile played on his face was real enough, but anyone who paid him any heed could feel the killer intent barely suppressed beneath it.]

OPEN!

[heartlessglitch]

[ There were, of course, certain benefits to having access to her mechanical body again. As long as she behaved obediently, presenting herself as a tool more than a threat, her handlers seemed to have little issue with allowing her to exist in the form that made her the most useful to them. As much as she loathed having authority lorded over her-- being controlled, enslaved like she had been before-- she was nothing if not strategic. Danger knew how to play nice with humans. It was demeaning, maybe, but ultimately worth the advantage of her powers-- and her mechanical body.

In this form, her memory was flawless and infinite. Everything she read or heard, she remembered to perfect detail. Information was broken down into ones and zeroes, stored in her computerized brain to be categorized and stored. Given time, she could understand and dissect this place. And the other incarnations-- of herself, of her fellow ImPorts. The more she knew, the stronger she would be here-- the more useful she could be to others, if she chose to be. Scientia potentia est.

She canned through papers and inventories simultaneously while listening to audio recordings, processing all the data at once, absorbed in her task. ]

[oedipusrat]

[There is nothing in this city that could possibly help Silva's mood, but to be fair, he hasn't made an extremely violent attempt at escape yet. Where would he even go if he got that far? So he does only what he is more or less forced to do. If it means some boring, degrading work, well, reminding himself how much worse it could be isn't helpful, but at least it's something.

And after all, Danger isn't the only one with a mind to absorb as much information as possible here, especially on his fellow imPorts. The history of this iteration of the world doesn't interest him as much as what he might learn of these other selves--and how telling they might be of the ones he's familiar with.

These days, the one with the most information tends to win. But he can't really compete with a computer, can he? He'll pretend at being only friendly and curious when he spies Danger. She's always a good ally to have on one's side, he decided not long after they first met.]

Finding out anything particularly useful, my dear? [He lightly scoffs, fingering through names of others, who may not necessarily be here now. Naturally, he knows he'll have to look at his own file, soon, preferably before anyone else does.] They could probably make it easier on themselves and stick this task to just one or two people, rather than the lot of us milling about.

[heartlessglitch]

[ Danger doesn't acknowledge Silva with her body language. In fact, it almost seems like she means to ignore him at first, prioritizing the task at hand over what she might classify as needless human socializing. But if there's any uncertainty, it only lasts for a moment or two before she finally speaks, filling the brief silence that she'd allowed to fill the space between them.

Her voice, when it comes, has a subtle mechanical hum and little inflection. Her eyes remained focused on the printed words in front of her. ]

I am processing a high volume of new information.
Whether it proves to be useful or not remains to be seen.

[ She pauses lightly, then finally glances at him. ]

Is there a specific reason you chose to interrupt me, or did you simply wish to make small talk because you recognized me?

[topslug]

[ After yesterday's events, they've not had much of a chance to speak to one another, but the shift in Danger's form wasn't lost on Yako. She's really only in transit, on her way to somewhere else in the archives, when she spots an opportunity to speak, voice quiet -- as much not to disturb the facility, as to keep a modicum of privacy. ]

How are you doing? [ She brushes hair back from her face, giving Danger a soft smile. If the strain is wearing on her, she isn't showing it. Yet. ]

open

[gevurah]

[ Information? It's like Christmas for Kate; a severely fucked up sort of Christmas. Though she's barely keeping a lid on her anger and resentment to others she appears freakishly calm. If anything, she's determined and focused on this task. She promised Helena she would get to the bottom of this and here they are being granted a pass into the archives.

She's absorbed in the papers and video reels. She starts from the earliest records, though she keeps an eye out for her name anywhere in these files. Something ugly stirs in the pit of her stomach as she buries herself in the work. It warns her she isn't going to like this.

When is the truth ever not painful? It can't deter her. She has to know. ]

[dragony]

[ It's while Kate is in one of the media rooms—where light and sound hold dominion, rather than paper and ink—that Ruka enters the same. Her heart is making a mess of things in her chest, unable to keep a steady rhythm with her feelings so disjointed. Her hands are in fists, tucked into elbows for her crossed arms. They tremble too badly for anything else.

She'd entered to get away from the long files, maybe for a moment alone, but the door announces her arrival with a too-loud clack as it glides closed. After something like that, it was too late to simply turn around.

Her voice, at least, comes out steady. ]

How bad is it, on this end?

open;

[dragony]

[ Hooray.

All her time interning at City Hall was about to pay off. Filing. Her favorite.

But really, no amount of rolling her gaze to the ceiling or sighing under her breath was going to get her out of this library, and though it was hypothetically within her power to tear the roof off and cave the whole building in, that didn't seem very productive, either. Figuring out what had happened—and, more than that, determining why they wanted them to figure out what happened—seemed much more important, even if it did go against her natural inclination to cross her arms and sit sullenly in the corner for the next several hours.

So, she sorted. Almost every name was familiar to her, at least in passing—the penalty for having lived in the City for so long, and having payed so keen attention through the years. Her gaze drifted over text, over names and dates and photographs, and her fingertips over smears and smudges, the prints where others had rested their hands before.

She would learn everything she could. More than they could ever comprehend. ]

[tridentkind]

[feferi had made a cursory attempt at filing and doing a little investigation on the side, but truth be told, she'd never been good at keeping with tedious tasks, and the ugly mood that came from being stuck in a place like this made her even more fidgety than normal. the claustrophobia of the archive itself didn't help, feferi always having preferred open spaces.

so she'd started wandering instead--under the pretense of finding something more interesting to "organize"--both to alleviate her anxiety and to maybe find somebody to talk to.

ruka wasn't the first person she'd encountered, but she was the youngest so far--older than feferi, sure, but certainly not an adult. more importantly, she looked strangely familiar, though feferi couldn't put her flipper on why. and she was all by herself! already plenty of reason to approach her. the fact that she looked quite occupied was of no consequence.

there was nothing to do but march right up and tap her on the shoulder, obviously.]

Hey there! Being productive?

open; why would you even you know this will inevitably be bad

[oedipusrat]

[Everyone will be the most interested, of course, in their own files, with others being secondary though still of import. Silva is hardly going to be an exception to that rule, plucking his out with ease.

Actually looking through the documentation is proving to be a choice he feels he needs to build up to. He doesn't like the idea that he might be nervous to see what petty indignities he may have suffered in this kind of society, but he knows with certainty--the kind of certainty he gets the feeling most everyone else has as well--that he'll regret whatever decision he makes. Look at it, don't look at it, it likely won't be pretty either way. Plus the fact that with people choosing to be all buddy buddy means not a whole lot of privacy.

He might also have the wheels turning for an idea. An experiment, perhaps. But if it even worked, it would probbly mean a pretty swift death that he'd be at least partly responsible for. Maybe he shouldn't be so dramatic (perish the thought!) as to try and sway the emotions of those around him. He's barely known he had the ability for the past few days, much less had the time (or the ability) to see how far it goes. But if he could somehow manipulate a riot, well, that would be something, wouldn't it?

It might also just stay a burning fantasy in the back of his mind. Did he ever mention how he hates this place?]

it could only end beautifully

[doubleoohbaby]

[For the most part James has been trying to avoid partnering and pairing up with others, lone wolf that he is. It's not that he was worried about what he'd find, he was far more concerned about what others might find.

He'd sat for some time scanning over various documents, footage and whatever else there was on himself. His other self. The one that had been forced to spend a painful amount of time subjected to humiliation that Bond is honestly surprised he lived through without killing himself or someone else. Perhaps it suggests he's stronger than he thought, or perhaps it just proves his other self was a total idiot.

With a hefty sigh, arms stretching upwards, James gives his eyes a well needed rest, moving instead to prowl the area with the vague pretence of co-operating with his fellow caste members. Not a total lie, in fact, considering he finds himself drifting towards a familiar blondie.]

Don't. Whatever you're scheming, don't. [He knows that look.]

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 1PM to 2PM, so you know how you will be contributing to the celebration.

Caste A will be touring the facility, ensuring that everything is properly set up and ready for presentation. Some gallery rooms will be closed off, as there is a particular exhibit at hand. The Archives that you organized you now will set up in display (if you're displaying another character's doppelganger, keep in mind you ought to get player permission! You can get as imaginative as you'd like with the presentation). Natives who are helping with preparation of the museum for its grand symposium may inquire about the imPort information displays (which you can NPC). 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.

[gevurah]

[ Tensions for Kate have skyrocketed. Aware that Renee's been ported back into the City, but from her detective days, and with Dent showing his face the moment he saw the post, she's been more than hellbent on getting back to the City. To Nill, Helena... Renee. So much runs through her mind. It feels as if she can't contain everything and her head is about to burst.

The message only sets her further on edge. It's a small hope to cling to, but if this is their chance, they have to take it.

She continues to act as complacent as one would, keeping calm on the surface. She re-reads the message to etch every single word into her memory. ]

open;

[dragony]

[ She doesn't read the text.

It's not that she doesn't know she gets it, or that she wants to ignore whomever is sending it. Rather, she's been keeping to a schedule: only after dark, and never in mixed company. Ruka does not want to be the one who so carelessly reveals the devices for what they are, and what they mean.

She doesn't want to lose the only way she can contact the people most important to her.

So when the message comes, Ruka ignores it. Ignores most everything, lingering near one of the walls with her arms folded and her gaze unfocused. When the coordinators and staffers ask, which they frequently do, she dismisses them by claiming to be "visualizing the scene." They understand that she means the final exhibit presentation, but her thoughts are stuck on toothpicks. ]