capeandcowllogs

Entry tags:

CASTE E

WHO: CASTE E imPorts.
WHERE: New Vesuvius.
WHEN: 4:12AM June 24th 2013 - 11:59PM June 30th 2013
WARNINGS: Inhumane oppression.
SUMMARY: New Vesuvius presents a dichotomy between utopia and dystopia. ImPorts draw the short straw.
FORMAT: Tagger's choice.

It’s just a bolt of lighting, stripping you away. A flash within a frozen moment and you’re gone, stolen away again. A millisecond goodbye.

There’s a faint, unnerving scent in the air -- like rust and electricity. That’s the first thing you notice before your eyes settle. The source is difficult to place. The room is cold, clean, and perhaps excessively bright. Even, tidy eggshell-colored tiles clad the floor that you've landed upon. You notice that, with the exception of the other sixty or so imPorts who were ported with you, there's not much decoration to this large, clinical space. The only thing noteworthy stands in the middle of the room, a pristine titanium egg that nearly reaches to the ceiling. It looks large enough to hatch three grown men. Your eyes adjust fully now, and you realize how weird this is, how this importation is like none that Lachesis has thrown you towards. Nothing so sterile, so quiet.

And then comes the sound, like a hiss -- at first, like a reverberating snake hiss -- and then a noise more overwhelming, something like radio static, and then --

I'm so sorry. We should have been more prepared.

It sounds much like a human voice but distorted, as if a young woman were speaking through a radio filled with fluid.

It is unkind of us, to keep you waiting. It is excessively unkind and I know how that is, as I have been kept waiting. Since before the Eighth Month Resolution, I have been kept waiting, it feels like a decade. I know how frustrating that can be, when you're not even given a chance to run. How lonely it can be.

The silver egg in the middle of the room trembles. It trembles quicker, its atoms vibrating at increasing speeds, until the outer metal shell melts away. The silver drips down like water, and from its melting form unfurls a human torso. Or what is probably meant to represent a human torso, except magnified. From head to hips, she's seven feet tall. Her pelvis and legs, if such things exist, are wholly obscured by a thick gray platform that connects to the floor. Her limbs and body are streamlined, clean sharp lines create her face. Her skin looks composed of a very bright copper, or some other alloy incredibly similar. She has no hair, no ears, no visible set of lips -- only an elegant nose set off by high cheekbones and a pair of wide glowing blue eyes.

Welcome to New Vesuvius, agent. All of you are agents and I am your Customized Locator Of Things Holistically Otherworldly. You all look so -- so much warier than before -- maybe it's just because -- oh! Is this familiar? Maybe you see the family resemblance?

She says it in a way that's almost hopeful. Her hands cover where her mouth would be, her slim shoulders shrug playfully. She looks at you as if she recognizes an old friend, no matter how deeply you reject the sentiment.

There is very little family resemblance.

I missed you all so much. I had hoped that, maybe this time, we could do things differently? I had hoped for something nicer for you, but they...

Her arms jerk back and her shoulders freeze up.

Their logic does not align to mine. I wanted things to be better. I'm so sorry.

Only then do you realize that the hiss you heard was an airborne paralytic sedative being released into the room. It keeps your heart rate down and your limbs temporarily stilled. Your mind feels unfocused.

White doors slide open, and big men in black combat gear with black guns rush in. If you choose to fight back, they will kill you.

But death is always an option.

"Welcome, imPorts," says the commanding officer. His voice is gruff, yet beneath that barking volume lies something snide. He's happy to see you. "You're hereby registered and fully operational agents of President Wertham's Caste Force. Puts your hands above your head and remain still and silent as we issue you your essential identification cards. Don't worry, we'll take appropriate care of you. We're taking you to your respective iMacs."

As an armed man clad in black comes to you, he squints at a touchscreen device in his hand. Your holographic image pops up, along with stats and information no man from another universe should know: your height, your weight your medical records, your Cityverse power, your employment, your income, your Rumblr hastags. You might begin to feel violated.

As he hands you a lanyard with your identification card enclosed, you see your picture and information next to a large green E. You think you hear the man say something about "new dog collars".

ImPorts are soon divided into four groups. You are led out of the cold clean room and away to a large black vehicle waiting just outside. You are led in one direction with the other "E" people.

Once imPorts are divided and led into their bus-like vehicles, those vehicles begin to drive. They follow one by one, driving down the same roads. Your escorts within the transport keep their guns in hand, but at ease -- certainly not pointed at your face. They don't seem to mind if you talk amidst your company, even if you're loud. That small liberty enjoyed under such aggressive surveillance is a bit unnerving, but at least you're not suffering a gag restraint. You're allowed to gaze out the wide windows of the vehicle, and you may want to do so when you pass through Times Square. Based on the sheer scope and the slightly worn look that this highly technology-driven tourist port touts, it seems that this Times Square has never suffered major damage (nothing comparable to the City's Times Square anyway). Large television screens are hitched throughout Times Square, and that feature continues into Manhattan. Television screens along shopping and residential areas are at the average eye-level -- and interactive! You can watch natives choose which news stations to observe, if they're lollygagging near any screens. There’s something you noticed about the news, how it’s all good news. Nothing about rising sea levels eating away coastal cities, or international conflict, or any major disasters. No missing children, no reports on widespread disease. The streets look as clean as the screen reports, all appear efficient and free of conflict. No pollution, no ballsy rats. Even the traffic seems unnaturally considerate, even this early in the morning.

Five minutes before your transport pulls to park, the four vehicles split into four different directions. You're shifted into a spacious iMAC, three stories tall. Your rooms are dorm-styled hallways with minimal privacy, as beds are stacked side by side with ten feet space in between. Peach bedsheets are tucked over a twin bed and offset by dark green walls. Between every bed is a small screen that reels constant news (they have "mute" buttons but have no "off" buttons). There is one large common room, and one large already-stocked-with-a-variety-of-food-and-alcohol kitchen. Cameras and the camera crew with those cameras are always in both of these rooms. There are no bathroom doors, but you are free to construct obstacles. You are welcomed to help yourself in the kitchen. You are given twenty dollars each, but told you can only spend it while in each other's company and with the camera crew. It's for the drama. Security cameras sit in the ceiling of every bedroom and bathroom. The showers are safe, comparatively.

Today you are allowed to explore New Vesuvius, as long as you keep within the city limits and meet the curfew of 4PM. You are required to collectively meet at the communal gym in your iMac at 4:30PM to 7:30PM. You're advised to get some rest afterwards. Tomorrow is a bigger day.

Do not lose your identification lanyards.

You should ensure your keepers have left and that you're hidden in the shower before attempting to use the Network within the iMac. You know you should, intuitively.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's 7AM on Tuesday, and if you're not already awake then you're shattered into the conscious world the second a cheerful, high-pitched male voice hits the iMAC intercom:

"Rise and shine, Caste E! Welcome to your bright and early Tuesday morning! Please join your fellow caste members in the kitchen for some sausage and eggs and get your rear in gear the hot new lowdown of your project! Hippity hop, house bunnies! Exciting!!"

This noise plays continuously until every single member of Caste E is gathered in the communal kitchen. The promised food has already been prepared, with mason jars of hot coffee or orange juice or sparkling water for the picking.

The filming crew is already set up in the kitchen, awaiting your arrival. Their mics and lenses focus on your, eager to lick up any drip of drama.

On the table in the middle of the room is a pile of handheld cameras.

You're told that you'll be given these cameras with a purpose: you're going to interview your fellow caste members while touring around New Vesuvius today. You will need to interview at least two other caste members, and ideally at least one should be an imPort you know very little about! The raw footage will then be returned to your caste handlers, and the edited versions will appear on television! This is your chance for real stardom, Caste E!

Failure to comply adequately means you lose your clothing rights. No clothes for you. You better take these questions seriously and answer all the ones you're asked -- the more entertaining your answer, the better your food will be come dinner. You will be forced to wear pulse detectors during your interview, which will catch most lies. Any attempts to exit New Vesuvius will be met with death.

You can either take turns asking questions with your interviewees, or play the interviewer the whole time -- as long as you're filming it all. The following is a list of pre-approved questions you may ask your interviewee! You do not have to ask all the questions, and you may inquire in whatever order you'd like.

1. Why didn't your mother hug you enough as a child?
2. What one thing are you most afraid of?
3. Who in your life has betrayed you the deepest?
4. What's the worst thing you've done to a fellow imPort?
5. What do you love most about your significant other?
6. What's the greatest downside to your power or power set?
7. Are you a virgin? If so, why?
8. When did you feel most helpless?
9. Who do you hate most, and why?
10. Do you have a crush on anyone?
11. Who is the most useless imPort, and why? This is not limited to your caste!
12. Which imPort do you most admire, and why?
13. Which imPort do you consider the biggest gossip, and why?
14. What is the worst thing about the world you originally came from?
15. Which imPorts do you romantically "ship", and why?
16. If you could have any other imPort's power, what would it be?
17. How have your friends disappointed you?
18. What do you hate about yourself?
19. Which imPort would you like to kill?
20. Would you wear lace underwear to save another person's life?

Well. At least the color scheme suited his tasted, thought Edward -- charitable thoughts, when he had first arrived to his Caste E iMAC, after that improbable shock of encountering (what all evidence suggested to be) another Porter. Clotho, the youngest sister.

Edward knew his Greek mythology, and knew it well. So much of it proved flushed with riddling material, and needless to say he found the implications daunting. They consumed his thoughts that day, voracious pyres of synaptic burn.

He didn't dwell with despair during the hours spent adapting to this New Vesuvius. He engaged a system. Observe, deduce, imitate (if necessary) -- these were the daggers behind his eyes. He expected secret police, he expected sudden riots. Everything was too clean, too utopian to deny that darker paranoia.

He didn't expect personal cameras.

Edward picked up his own, a mason jar of orange juice in his other hand. A slow smirk spread across his face. A slow, sick, catalytic grin.

Ten minutes later and he was walking towards Brooklyn, vying to capture his fellow Caste E comrades. Kidnap only to the immortality of film, of course.

Bradbury wasn't a man who made a natural pick for shows like these. The qualities that made him a good bodyguard -- easily forgotten, blending into the background -- didn't make for good entertainment, which was what the "E" stood for, right?

Meaning he was malingering near a public fountain, idly fiddling with his cameera. Easy pickings, really -- he hadn't settled into asking anyone any questions yet. Regardless of his apparent distraction, Edward cut a distinctive figure wherever he passed, and he glanced up, expression neutral, once he came into his peripheral vision.

He would have said something about how Edward looked better, but knowing the man? The reminder of weakness, however temporary, would only provoke sharp, brutal retaliation. So he kept his silence (and his misgivings), raising a brow and raising his camera, the way one might to ward off a blow.

Tuesday Happening

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