Test Drive Meme #1

[modaccount]

Test Drive Info

⇝ Test Drive Memes usually take place in a virtual reality simulation occurring in characters' minds that tests them for 'fitness' before they enter the setting officially. However, for the first TDM, it will be set in the real world and centered around the arrival of the first crop of extra-universal "recruits."
⇝ Test Drive Meme threads may be considered game canon so long as all parties agree to it.
⇝ Test Drive Meme threads do count for Activity Check.

Welcome to the Broken World.

You can't even remember how you got here.

All you know is that one moment you were in a world you were used to, comfortable in. It might have been a regular day or the most important day of your life, in the middle of a meal or brushing your teeth or the battle to save the world or the moment of your death. Whoever took you didn't seem to care what you were doing when you were taken, and now that you're here, they still don't seem to care.

You wake up after what seems like the blink of an eye, nauseous and dizzy but otherwise unscathed, possessions taken away, barefoot and dressed only in a set of plain grey clothing, like the most bland uniform ever imagined, in an empty room with empty walls and one single door with a small barred window and a single number printed just above it. The door is locked and cannot be broken by any means, you can feel your connection with any superhuman powers you had severed, leaving them just out of reach - you can feel them there, tingling at your fingertips or in the back of your brain, but you just can't get to them. There is no one to greet you or explain what's happening. You start to lose track of time, the only sound the distant ticking of what sounds like a massive clock.

Just when things seem hopeless, when you feel like you're about to go mad, there's the sound of a commotion outside your door. The sounds of a battle, or perhaps an infiltration gone just slightly wrong. Either way, when the door opens, there is a figure there with a hand outstretched.

"Welcome to the Broken World. Come on, we'll explain everything just as soon as we get you and the others out of here."

i. The Rescue

The moment of peace and freedom doesn't last for long.

Even while you're still disoriented from everything that's happened in the past few hours, the person who's just freed you pushes a gun into your hands. If you're familiar with guns, it's simple enough to use, with a recognizable safety and trigger, a magazine of bullets attached to the bottom. If you're not familiar with guns, well...the person who just rescued you will give you a minute-long introduction to it. Press this button, click this hammer back, pull the trigger to shoot. Nothing fancy, but enough that you won't hurt yourself or anyone else you're not supposed to be hurting. Probably.

After being handed the gun, the person rescuing you looks at you not unkindly and gestures for you to follow, leads you through a maze of concrete corridors to the entrance of the building. There, you'll find something of a small warzone, a battle in progress though almost completed, in the parking and courtyard area between several small, squat concrete buildings. There, huddled in the safety of the building's entryway, the person who just rescued you will point across the courtyard toward an encroaching patch of jungle and quickly explain the situation - you've been brought to this place by the Sylphid, long-standing enemies who will "eat your soul" and replace you if they catch you, and the person rescuing you is part of a resistance army intending to overthrow them. You're to make your way across the courtyard and into the jungle, where you'll find someone named Brycen, a blue-skinned man who will get you out of here even as the battle rages on.

The courtyard is mainly open, with a few benches and trees that can be used as cover, and there is a small group of Sylphid - the enemy, the people who took you and are now shooting at you, but who look like average everyday people - who are taking potshots at whoever crosses the courtyard even as they engage with the rebels. You'll be provided with suppressive fire from those same rebels while you cross the courtyard, but other than that, you're on your own unless you want to take the run with whoever else just got rescued.

ii. Race Through The Jungle

Once you make your way across the courtyard and into the jungle, you'll find Brycen waiting for you about a 10 minute walk in. The moment he sees you, he gestures you over and leads you a few feet further into the underbrush where there are a few All-Terain Vehicles parked in a small clearing. Shooting you a little grin, Brycen spreads his arms to present the vehicles, then heads over to the closest one. What follows is a quick explanation of how to use the ATV, a small hovercraft that can seat two. Brycen points out another ATV that is driven by a member of the resistance, and tells you that this person will guide you to the Witches Camp, where you'll be living from now on. But it's on you to pilot the ATV from here to there.

Well, you and your new friend.

See, there are half as many ATVs as there are people, and each one does seat two. Brycen gestures at the nearest extra-universal arrival and tells both of you to hop on. Now, you're both bound for the Witches Camp together, for better or worse. It's a long walk, so don't piss off your pilot!

Or overturn the ATV or crash it, because the path from the clearing to the Witches Camp is rough, without many trails or paths that have been carved out of the underbrush, something the revolutionaries have done to avoid being tracked back to their home. The ride will be bumpy, hover-vehicle or not, with a lot of swerving to avoid obstacles and dodging to avoid branches. Hopefully, you won't have a run-in with any of the local jungle wildlife, which can range from small, relatively harmless animals to lizards the size of small dinosaurs and wild cats.

It's a wild ride, but eventually you make it to the Witches Camp, a sprawling maze of low-to-the-ground buildings and markets interspersed with jungle for cover, and the rebel leading you keeps doing so until you pull up in front of Central Command. This building is one of the nicer ones in the area, and houses the Witch herself as well as the seat of the revolution. This is where all of the rebel plans are made and where new arrivals are put up.

iii. Welcome Home

Once you enter Central Command, you'll find that they've prepared space for you. First, you'll be led to the residential area of the large building and given the keycard to your new apartment, a small furnished studio apartment with a main living/sleeping area, a desk, kitchenette, bathroom with shower stall, and a walk-in closet for storage. Once you've been oriented to your new apartment, you'll be taken to pick your network device from an array of devices ranging from ultra-modern tablets that can fold into the shape of a phone to an equivalent of regular modern-day cell phones to magical tablets or books that can be interacted with by characters unfamiliar with technology. They'll also offer to alter your own phone or device to access the network, if you prefer that.

After that, you will be guided to one of the big board rooms in the Central Command, where you'll find a large spread of food on the table, ready to be dug into - all the staff at Central Command have brought food from home to share with the new arrivals. You'll also find notebooks and pens to take notes, because this is the official orientation, and you'll come out of it having learned pretty much everything about the rebellion, the Sylphid, how the rebellion originated and most importantly, how you got here and how you can go home.

This is where the rebels point out that helping them is helping yourself, because the only way to send you home is to commandeer the device that brought you here in the first place, and the only way to do that is to overthrow the Sylphid overlords.

After this presentation, no matter how accepting or skeptical you are, you'll be given a small stipend and set free to explore the city, linger around and chat over the potluck leftovers, go back to your apartment, make a network entry to meet other people, or whatever else you'd like to do. Want some new clothes? They can direct you to the markets. Looking to start learning magic? They can direct you to the Mage's Sector where you can find a teacher. Looking to dance your cares away in the wake of this terrible upheaval? They can direct you to a club in The Electric Heart that sells cocktails that'll erase all your pain for the evening.

Go wild. The Witches Camp is your new home. What will you make of it?

iv. Network

Once you've settled into your apartment in the evening, you're free to browse the internet and intranet on your new network device. Care to make an entry and meet the others in your same situation?

NAVIGATION

Comments

Mod Questions

[modaccount]

[tech_nically]

With all belongings being taken from them at the start, I'm assuming that also means eyewear? Which I'm totally willing to work with, just would like confirmation.

Lan Wangji | Mo Dao Zu Shi

[one_note]

I - II?

[one of your fellow rescuees is kind of notable -- not because he looks particularly inhuman or alien, but because he seems very calm, a quiet steady bulwark even in the face of the chaos and the strange situation you've been dropped into. the only flicker of expression he shows is a brief frown of concentration as your rescuer explains the gun to him, and a faint jerky startle when he leans out and fires it, not quite prepared for the kick.

he misses, but if you're tracking the shot, it's still close enough that his target ducks behind cover as it whiffs by. the frown's smoothed out when he looks back at you and speaks for the first time.]

It will do. Come.

III

[or, after the orientation, you might find him just outside the exit of Central Command, looking out across the camp. he seems...contemplative? or maybe unsure of where he wants to go next? it's hard to tell; this guy's just really not an easy read, and he listened to the influx of information and everyone else's questions without asking any of his own.

he will nod politely to you if you catch his eye. if you do want to strike up a conversation now when it's calm, that's a good opening.]

((wildcard prompts also welcome! PM me if you want to check/discuss anything.))

iii

[tech_nically]

[It's understandable if the man's overwhelmed by everything. Even now that his own thoughts are clearer and his mind functioning more to his usual standards, Tech knows it's still a lot to figure out. He may be already mentally constructing a list of things to get started on, but stepping outside and finding this man just there has him pause.

He returns the nod. After a moment, he decides to speak up.]

It's a lot to take in.

Vol'tha Doneeta | Star Wars: Legends Original Character

[bandit_of_ryloth]

The Rescue - OPEN

She's still dizzy, head still ringing, when a gun is placed in her hands. Unlike many of the new Jedi, she has no real objection to firearms - in fact, the long-barrelled antique rifle she usually possessed had been instrumental to her survival as a child, in the deserts of Ryloth. Frankly, the weapon is too fancy for her tastes, she thinks, absently - too much can go wrong. This is all seeming, in its hazy way, like a dream of an insurgency, and you need reliability...

She shakes her head, trying to clear it, taking a deep breath - and the alarming part becomes clear: she can't feel the Force. Or, rather, it's there, but just...taken aside from her. That causes more than a momentary panic, as she ducks down at a fusillade of fire, lekku twitching anxiously. She closes her eyes, repeating old mantras to herself in the language of her people.

She'd survived the desert before the Force. She'd survive this. Her eyes opened, fiercely determined. She's going to get through this, and figure out what's going on. She starts looking around for a melee weapon, something she can use - she's hearing from one side, and it's time to hear from the other.

A Jedi is still a Jedi, regardless of whether or not they have their powers; she might not be able to bring peace, and the enemy may indeed be evil - but she'll give them a chance to prove better than they are.

The Jungle - Open

She'd spent a lifetime outdoors. And, thankfully, had been trained as a Jedi on a planet that was, frankly, nothing but Jungle. She was a dab hand at concealment - which makes her all the more reticent to drive a vehicle that even by her standards, the standards of an orphan desert rate, is still primitive and dubious.

She is checking the vehicle, dubiously, when she is approached, muttering to herself.

Welcome Home - Open

The Witches Camp. There's a name for a place.

The information she's being presented with...seems on the level. But she also comes from a galaxy well-known for excellently propagandized causes. And the fact that the chip that is apparently in her head preventing her abilities isn't immediately removed is more than a little concerning, too. She'll give them the benefit of the doubt, but she'll keep her eyes and ears open.

At least she can get clothing that better suits her, rather than the jumpsuit that is itching like crazy. It takes her time to find a similar set of black leather-esque clothing, including covering for her scarred left arm - but she manages it. The wrappings for her head and lekku are particularly important. Like regaining a tiny piece of her identity, with so much else taken away. She may be the last Doneeta, but she is still a Doneeta, and she can look like one.

It's also, as a cumulative effect of all of this, that she is also quite happy to seek out the clubs and their pounding music - but particularly the soothing alcohols that inevitably come with them.

She takes a seat in the farthest corner of the club, ruminating over her glass.

Network - Open

[By the next morning, she is at least willing to reach out. She's not the most social Jedi, but she understands the importance of organization - and that others will have information and wisdom you don't.]

Hello. I am Vol'tha Doneeta. If you recognize my species, we share a similar universe. If not, it is unimportant for now.

Has anyone gotten any more information about these implanted chips? And how to get them removed?

Jungle

[tech_nically]

For a moment Tech wonders that he's seeing things. He's still finding it difficult to properly process things, his mind still feeling sluggish. He accounts it for some kind of side-effect of whatever had been done to them during their abduction, as no doubt this is what has happened. Perhaps this Broken World is a kind of slang, a nickname for... for what?

Attempting to rack his memories for anything about the Sylphid doesn't produce any further results than his earlier attempts. He shakes his head, stepping towards the Twi'lek.

"Is the vehicle compromised?" he asks. Given how hurried their evacuation has been he really can't blame her for being cautious.

Tech // Star Wars: The Bad Batch

[tech_nically]

1.
If he had to apply an emotion to the situation, 'unsettled' would be the best he could come up with. He's still trying to process what's happened, but whatever's happened to him has obviously been more serious than merely being stunned. There are so many blanks begging to be filled and nothing coming to mind regarding this Broken World that he's apparently in.

He can understand urgency, however, and as much as he'd like questions answered, Tech eagerly falls into the routine of something he knows. There's pressing danger and he's got a weapon. It's...admittedly a lot less than he's ever had access to, the drab uniform he's found himself in a step down from the bodysuit he'd usually be wearing under his gear. But it'll have to do. There's an escape to make, and it wouldn't be the first for him. Being without his squad however...

The clone manages to hold his own, absorbing the information given as he makes way with his rescuer. Sylphid are most definitely not an entity he's familiar with. Something to ponder later, once he has a moment to actually soak things in. Now outside, he takes cover as shots from enemy fire come flying in their direction. His eyes scan the others who are led out by these rebels, seeking familiar faces. After all, if he'd been taken, maybe his squad was as well. It takes a lot to get the drop on them. ...although he's certain they'd been on their ship the last he remembered...


2.
A vehicle readily available for their escape is a welcome sight. Tech's certain a trek through this jungle barefoot would not be very pleasant. He nods at Brycen and the rundown of operating the ATV.

If there's no reason for delays, he moves towards the driver's seat of one of the hovercrafts, mostly out of habit. One can be assured you'll have a competent driver at least. However if he finds himself contested for the driver's seat, he'll settle for the passenger's side without argument.


3.
Finally arriving at their destination has not helped combat the lingering feeling of surrealism as he's led to his assigned quarters. Things have happened too fast, and he feels his mind has only just started to clamber its way out of the fog he'd woke up in. It's a lot to process, but then he's well-suited for processing this threatening overload of information. It seems there won't be an end of it any time soon, but Tech prepares himself to start documenting. The absence of his handheld computer is something he's painfully aware of, but he wastes no time in finding a suitable replacement from the selection offered.

At the orientation he is taking down everything as information is dispensed. It's another mission, albeit on a terrific scale in comparison to anything he's ever had to prepare for. In fact, for all that they've just been told, the man seems rather calm about it. Processing things as information makes it a lot easier than getting things tied up by emotions. Panic won't help matters, and while he wouldn't say he outright trusts those who have come to their aid, it's all he has to work with right now.

3

[songmother]

{ ooc: please forgive my current lack of icons, I promise she's not angry all the time.

Sarah admired a man who could be calm and observant in the face of extreme distress and adversity. Most were loud and tried to be impressive when they were scared or overwhelmed. The only thing she needed more than to immediately get some sort of power back to defend herself - which already seemed promising, despite her heart being broken at the loss of her song - were reliable allies.

It never hurt to make new friends. Especially when your list was diminishing at home and entirely non-existent in this strange new place. Approaching him with a confident, firm grace, she offers the man a drink, having intentionally grabbed two. If he didn't want it, it wouldn't be going to waste.

"That was certainly... a lot to take in."

Bucky Barnes aka Winter Soldier | MCU

[worthallthis]

I. Rescue

For the first time since he woke up back in a cell and sat silently waiting for whatever punishment fell (back with HYDRA, or maybe the US government which would mean HYDRA in the end, or even the Avengers wanting revenge for almost killing their leader, it's all back, back, back--), he feels like he knows what to do. There's a gun in his hands and there are enemies and he can take them out.

So what if he's not as strong as he used to be. So what if his whole left side is on fire every time he moves his arm. So what if he doesn't know what the hell is going on. He has a gun, and a mission. He doesn't need anything else.

He fires on one of the Sylphid, hits a shoulder, scowls at the inferior weapon's poor sighting capabilities, then adjusts his aim and fires again. Headshot. Better. "Stay behind me," he tells the other escapees, voice flat. Once he has someone to protect, he curls the metal arm around them as a shield, and runs, firing as he goes, taking out enemies but mostly covering for their escape.

Then once across the courtyard, he stops, turns, and fires some more. Somebody drag him with you, or he's going to keep making runs to get prisoners out, all by himself. This is what he's for, after all.


II. Race

He lets whoever's shoved into the ATV with him drive. He keeps both their guns, to cover their retreat and handle any wildlife that might be a threat.

He's oddly silent as he clings to the seat through the bumps and jostles, and he has yet once to look at his driver. He's watching the trees for trouble, and his expression is non-existent but for a set jaw and the occasional tightness around the eyes that suggests he's in pain.

If you want conversation on this ride, you might have to start it yourself.


III. Orientation - cw some PTSD reactions

Now the mission is over. But there's no cryo. There's no maintenance. There's no orders. There's something like a debrief, but no one even asks him for his report, they just want to tell him about Sylphids and history and geography he's never heard of. He listens, and he waits, but they don't tell him what to do next.

He's not sure whether he wants them to or not.

Anyone sitting nearby him for the orientation will be treated to him picking at the offered food but not actually eating much of it, staring fixedly into the middle distance rather than focusing on anyone's face, gripping his notebook as if he thinks it might get taken away, and flinching just a little if anyone gets too close. Oh, and his arm is buzzing noisily. Sorry about that.


IV. Shopping - cw more PTSD reactions

He falls into long-trained patterns: he's in hostile territory and he needs intel. He can be found prowling the city, hands shoved in his pockets, one of them curled around a knife that's more for peace of mind than real safety. He does need to purchase new clothes, because the provided clothes are awful, they're like paper, no protection at all. But he's not sure how. There's a mission skill for this, surely. Why can't he remember it?

Find him staring at a clothing store, or a grocery, or a cobbler, but not quite making himself go inside. Or find him perched on a roof staring down at something with an expression of mild confusion. Or find him wedged into an alleyway hyperventilating because everything is just too much.

iv

[one_note]

Someone comes across him in the alleyway, eventually. He can hear footsteps at the alley mouth, feel eyes on him, weighing the sight and what to do.

In the end, the steps don't approach him further; instead a lot of the light from the main thoroughfare's blocked off. If he looks up, there's a tall broad-shouldered figure, still in Sylphid prison greys, standing straight-backed in the alley mouth itself. His back is turned to Bucky.

Lan Wangji is a man who finds the chaos, known for cutting down evil, but directly comforting someone having a personal crisis is, shall we say, not his strong suit. He can at least give him the semblance of a quiet private space until he can breathe again, though.

Heero Yuy | Gundam Wing

[heeroized]

1. The rescue
With the surrealness of the situation still fizzing in the back of Heero's mind, the familiar feeling of a gun centers him. Maybe he doesn't fully understand what's going on yet, but this? This he understands.

Unbidden, a small smile curls his lips up. He'd been ready to hang everything up, but clearly now is not the time for that. It's almost casual, the way he assesses the situation. Cross the courtyard, don't get shot in the process, and get to safety. Easy enough.

And it is. The cover fire appreciated as he methodically darts from one piece of cover to the next, returning fire calmly as he goes. He's careful with his aim. Maybe they brought him here for bad reasons, but until he fully understands the situation he's not trying to kill anyone. Hearing footsteps, he turns senses on the alert. It's another escapee. Without hesitating Heero provides cover fire, allowing them to join him.

"You alright? We need to move."


2. Through the Jungle
Heero nods solemnly, listening to the strange man - Bryce, explain the situation. It's pretty straightforward. The words of caution falling on ears that are listening, but only with a fraction of his attention. The rest is spent sizing up the other people in the clearing.

"I'm flying." He doesn't bother asking for permission, though after a moment he hesitates. If there's monsters then someone who actually knows how to use a gun would be better in the passenger seat essentially. So shaking his head slightly, he starts over.

"Correction. Where would your skills be best used?"

3. Welcome Home
No matter how 'friendly' his rescuers seem, Heero isn't about to let them touch his laptop. Needing the security of knowing no strange hands have tampered with his tech. The ultra-modern tablet is a nice addition to his arsenal and he almost smiles when he picks it up. He's going to enjoy learning what secrets he can find out about the device.

From there, he sits through the meeting without touching any of the food placed before them. More concerned with the information they're being given than anything else. Plus, always safer to let other people start eating the strange food before eating it. Even though logically there's no reason these people would poison them. Not after the effort they went through to bring them here. Still, the paranoid voice in the back of his mind is satisfied at the extra level of caution.

Once the briefing is over, Heero starts to serve himself. Quietly he'll sit and eat his fill. A good time for someone to interrupt the all too serious young man if they so choose.


4. Network
[After a night spent doing researching, re-reading his notes, and generally trying to parse out what's going on there's one question that Heero can't answer on his own. So he turns to the network.]

How many of you have combat experience?

[He's pretty sure the answer is going to be most of them, but best to be sure.]

((ooc: I'll style match, so just use whatever you're comfortable with.))

4. Network

[illusionbreaker]

I've gotten myself in plenty of fights before if you want to count that as combat experience.

[Appearance wise, Touma looks to be in his teens. Not only is he a child, nothing about his demeanor or lax tone signified that he was soldier of any kind.]

Mikumo Guynemer | Macross Delta

[stargazed]

[a: the rescue]

[This is not the first time recently that Mikumo has woken up in clothes not her own, in a place she doesn't know, and with the distinct impression that something has gone very wrong. It's a pattern that she really doesn't like, and while she tests the door, most of her time in isolation is spent trying to focus herself and think, and prepare for the potential of an escape.

And thankfully, someone comes to make that potential a reality. Even as the gun is shoved into her hands, she moves almost automatically, feeling for the safety and trigger and where the magazine loads. She's never had to actually take a gun into combat before, but it's something that was taken into consideration when she was made, in the information she might need, and Delta Flight had made sure that Walkure could defend themselves regardless of the situation they might end up in anyway. The way out and the attempt at an explanation is very rushed, but Mikumo doesn't have time to analyse it the way she'd like - the most she can do right now is get out of here, hopefully without causing too much damage.

Aiming the gun, she deliberately fires against the cover one of the enemy shooters is hiding behind, a hair's breadth from the edge as a warning shot. As the shooter ducks back in, Mikumo speaks up to anyone around her, surprisingly calm and almost in her element despite the situation.]

If you're not confident to escape on your own or you want backup, come with me! [It's natural for her to take point in situations like this. There's no time to get wrapped up in it all, but she doesn't expect everyone who's been dragged here to be experienced with this sort of situation and be able to stop themselves from being overwhelmed by it.]

--

[b: race through the jungle]

[The more this situation unfolds, the more grateful Mikumo is for her field experience, because as soon as she lays eyes on the ATV her first thought is that it's probably going to be a nicer ride than the wheeled vehicle she had to take through a snowy forest not long ago. There's a short sigh that's almost something like relief, though something very curt about it still.

Either way, she gestures to the craft with whoever Brycen's decided she's riding with. It's one way to figure out what kind of people she's going to be working with here, she supposes.]

I can drive this if you can't, but if we both can then it might be best to decide by who has more rough terrain experience.

[Purely the pragmatic choice. It's abundantly clear that this is going to be a messy jungle route even from the outset, and while she's got a decent amount of experience in that terrain, she's not discounting the possibility that someone else might have more.]

--

[c: welcome home]

[While Mikumo's perhaps not as used to sleeping in a bed as she should be, the fact that this place is at least clearly prepared for settling their rescuees is appreciated, and while initially somewhat reluctant, she does remove and hand over her set of computerised false nails that function as her device at home so they can be adjusted to work in this world. It's interesting of itself that they have the technology to work with them here, and now that things are relatively quiet, she has some time to consider and digest this new situation.]

(i. orientation)
[While she's present and listening for the whole orientation, ensuring she knows as much about what's going on as is being offered, her behaviour around the food is a little...odd. She does have a plate and it does have food on it that seems to be slowly disappearing, but it certainly takes some doing to actually see her eat. As unfamiliar as she is with eating in front of other people, she still prefers to do it when nobody is looking, and she may even go so far as to pause midway to eating something if someone turns to look at her.]

You must be bored. [It's rather bluntly stated, though there's something almost amused about it even so.]

(ii. markets)
[The market area isn't entirely dissimilar to what the shops on Ragna are like, and while Mikumo doesn't usually need for much back home, she's gone through markets and shops on other planets plenty of times while undercover. It almost feels a bit like that now, displaced from the Brisingr Cluster as she is, but she doesn't have her holographic suit to conceal her regular appearance and so she has to get used to doing this just as herself. Granted, that's half the reason she's here - she might not be that picky about clothes, but the bland, featureless uniform feels like another sign of not being her own person, and she wants it gone as soon as possible.

So she can be found picking through the offerings at a few of the clothing stalls in the marketplace, mainly focusing on simple garments for the moment - dresses without too much going on, long shirts or tunics and shorts. The simpler items also have the advantage of not eating too much into the little money they've received, though even as she goes through them, there's a little bit of a sigh, as if there's something inconvenient here.]

Holographic suits are much easier than all this. [There's a certain amount of dry humour to how she says it, and admittedly she usually uses hard light holograms for stage concerts and undercover missions rather than day-to-day clothing, but it would be nice to not have to shop for clothes this soon.]

--

[d: network]

[Mikumo does a little internet searching in the evening, looking to find out a little more about current events in the Sylphid territory, and how they present their news. But there's plenty of other people here with brains to pick as well, so she sends out a straightforward text post on the network while she's at it.]

So, what are people making of all this? I find myself wondering how many of those brought into this are combatants rather than civilians. Hopefully the majority.

--

[e: wildcard]

[[Up to play with other ideas, just tag in with something or hit me up at reviseleviathan if you want to do something more specific!]]

B. Race through the jungle

[heeroized]

I'm a pilot.

[Short and to the point. Heero looks her over critically, but keeps any judgements made to himself. This is who he's got to work with and so he's going to make it work. It's not like gender or hair says anything about how useful someone's going to be in this sort of situation after all. He's not that shallow.]

How are you with guns?

[Because someone's going to need to keep whatever creatures they might come across away. So if she can do that? Fine. He'll fly. If she's not confident in that, then she'll fly and he'll shoot.]

general sarah alder | motherland: fort salem

[songmother]

𝔀𝓮 𝓶𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓽𝓻𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓸𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻
I-II ｗｅｌｃｏｍｅ ｔｏ ｔｈｅ ｊｕｎｇｌｅ ;

She could not possibly be stuck here, in this prison cell, unable to use her work (magic). She was asleep in her safe house with stewards she had gathered so far, exhausted and stretched between duties and yet entirely unwilling to waste any more time than she needed to. And now she was in a prison cell, helpless, for the first time in a very long time.

Not helpless. Never helpless.

Sarah was becoming enraged in place of panic, silently fuming, often pacing the cell, occasionally cursing the loud ticking of that insufferable clock below her breath. Mostly, frustrated with herself. How could she be so careless? How had she been captured? Were the others safe? Were her captors the Camarilla, and if so, why had then been foolish enough to keep her alive?

Screaming was beginning to sound appealing, since looking for a weak spot or way out had proven futile, when she heard the start of a raucous.

Gunshots? Cautiously, she pressed herself against the door, trying to hear if the sounds were getting closer. She didn't have long to confirm before her door opened and someone rushed in. They quickly announced they were the rescue party, not that she was about to trust the first stranger she encountered here.

"The Broken World?" No time for questions yet, she hurried after the armed stranger, joining more of them. The fighting continued, but the invaders of the prison seemed to be winning. Sarah had little time to assess further before her group merged with a larger group, more organized and giving orders to the various rescue parties.

She was handed a gun, and asked if she knew how to use it. She held it in her slender, manicured hand, as if someone had just placed a dead rodent in her palm, distaste apparent on her face. The man was in a hurry and interrupted less patiently to once again ask if she had any idea how to use a gun. Curtly, she replied, "I understand how to use a gun, thank you. I just find them to be cowardly and barbaric weapons."

She was given the 'whatever lady' look, returned it with something similar, glared at her only form of self defense, and hurried off with her mysterious rescuers once again, the heavy fire reminding her that death held more weight in thoughts than it once did.

When they made it past the courtyard with minimal losses, the group was able to move faster. A few of them seemed surprised she could move so fast and hold her own, which was not something she was used to. Did they not know who she was? The Camarilla would. Their ignorance was a good sign. Dodgers, perhaps? Obviously not Spree, not that Spree were much of an issue anymore, but they would certainly recognize and not underestimate her.

After the longest ten minutes, and far too many thoughts and questions vibrating in her head, they reached the man named Brycen, and had a moment to catch their breath while he updated them and gave them their next orders - which apparently involved pairing up and escaping on ATVs through a very dense and vibrant jungle. Apparently, their destination was called Witches Camp, which both excited and entirely confused her. Witches, but not her witches. How could it be?

She remained perplexed as the speakers finished addressing them and giving their situation reports, and suddenly she was supposed to find someone to be of one lap and bump through the jungle at high speeds with. "Wonderful."

It came out more exasperated than intended, but not too loud.

[homeostatic]

As if on cue, one rather harried and exasperated man turned to look among the small group of rescuees and Brycen, then beyond to the collection of ATVs. Great. More small death traps to fly.

"Where exactly do they expect us to put these damn things," he mutters of the (antique) firearm in his possession, checking to see how many rounds are left (not many, the others purposely fired over the heads of their captors), and flicking the safety on. McCoy slips it into the pocket of his drab pants after a moment, and looks back up to catch the woman's eye.

"You ever pilot a hovercraft, ma'am?" Stress evens out his Georgia drawl, making the soft inflections harder, but he's not entirely rude with the question.

G'raha Tia | Final Fantasy 14

[cheezburger]

I. The R e s c u e

G'raha Tia was not having a good time. To be fair, none of the captives were, nor were they supposed to be, but he was particularly not doing well. He was more stressed than panicked when help arrived, having been very concerned over his inability to draw on or even detect any source of aether in the immediate area, including his own, as well as the inability to figure out where he was, why he was there, and what was going to happen.

And then a gun is shoved into his hands. He understands the basics of guns: you point them at things and shoot, but a gunslinger he is not. An archer, yes, once upon a time, but that was then and this is now and he's so glad he's a quick learner.

He keeps at least one hand on the gun the whole way through the building, just in case, even out into the courtyard. For whatever reason, everything sounds muffled, like something he can't see or feel is covering his ears, and no amount of twitching them seems to remedy the distortion. It's very disorienting and makes him that much more cautious about his surroundings.


II. The J u n g l e

The ATV is a suspicious thing. The Empire holds the lion's share of the world's technology, while the rest of it is Allagan-made, and both have been modified and repurposed by various groups as necessary.

The ATV is of Garlean (probably) nor Allagan make, and therefore G'raha doesn't really know what to make of it. Of course, it comes with another explanation, and it sounds simple enough, but in the interest of Not Dying, G'raha is offering the driver's seat to the nearest person.

"I feel that of the two of us, I'm less qualified to operate this..."


III. Central C o m m a n d

Knowledge is power, and as a scholar, G'raha is great at accumulating knowledge. Whatever's going on here might not be his normal area of expertise, but he's sure going to write down everything that sounds important so he'll have it for later. This also includes anything he's personally experienced on the way here.

He has a decent sampling of snacks surrounding his note-taking area and is absently grabbing pieces of food as he pays more attention to his notes and the orientation. Careful if anything of yours ends up near his snacks, as he might accidentally take it.

II

[maskedtyrant]

It might seem like G'raha has made a wise choice in giving up the driver's seat to the woman at his side at first. She's certainly enthusiastic about it, grinning and bouncing behind the ATV's controls with a bit more gleeful excitement than is probably appropriate given the situation. That being said, she exudes confidence as she brushes her hands over the handlebars and front panel, hazel eyes wide, intense, and impatient.

"Whatever you say!" Codi pats the side of her waist in a gesture for G'raha to hold on. "Buckle up, cat man. I think I kind of know what I'm doing!"

This is the only warning he gets before Codi makes to rev the engine - which actually has them lurching forward at an alarming speed. She whoops in surprise and exuberance.

"What's your name?" Codi calls over her shoulder while they fly through the mushroom forest. Because this is a great time to get to know each other, right?

Dakota Perkins | OC

[maskedtyrant]

I. Rescue

Crouched behind a tree stump already pockmarked with bullets at the far end of the courtyard, Codi stares critically at the pistol in her hands. The tutorial on how to use it ended just minutes earlier, so even if she didn't already know how to use a gun, she and her fellow freed prisoner beside her ought to know how to use them now. This isn't what has the somewhat disheveled redheaded woman looking so disdainful. The way she easily handles the weapon, disarming it and slipping out the magazine to check its ammo, also suggests that a contempt or unfamiliarity with this particular brand of violence isn't the culprit for her bad mood, either. She recognizes that sometimes the most efficient solution to a problem is to shoot it.

Being kidnapped before even having the dignity to wake up in her own house, enjoy the breakfast made by her own husband before going to the office building she owned, for the company she directed - being so unceremoniously denied the life she'd spent so long cultivating for herself? Now that has her mood soured. It's not the pistol's fault, of course, but it can't talk back to her. Easy target.

"You could have been a cup of coffee," she complains at the gun with a heavy sigh, even as she slaps the magazine back in and chambers a round. "Or a cappuccino. I'd kill for a decent cappuccino right now."

She whips around the trunk, taking several half-blind shots at the Sylphids (at least, she assumes they're Sylphids, since they're shooting back at her) at the other end of the courtyard. Personally Codi doesn't stop to check if any of them hit, but it should be noted that they all miss. Badly. Woodchips spray from behind her head as their opponents return fire and she ducks, wincing.

"--Do better," she hisses at the gun. Codi abruptly turns her focus to the fellow prisoner hiding next to her, looking flustered and very oblivious to the fact that her primary conversation partner thus far has been an inanimate object.

"You think we should keep trying to pick them off, or make a run for it?"


III. Acclimation (CW: drinking)

From one loud place to another. The next few hours are a blur, punctuated by notable revelations and hard resets. All of them are very far from home, commandeered first as prisoners, then as freedom-fighters. They are expected to adjust. Codi already tried one approach there, getting a much-needed shower and reorganizing the apartment she's been given, but eventually she found herself staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror anyway and despising the unkempt wretch staring back.

She needs to get established.

After another few hours of blowing through most of her stipend on better clothes, makeup and food, Codi finds herself at a nightclub, feeling much more confident with a gently nursed martini-like drink in hand as she scouts the bar. Her appearance is one she's chosen carefully; a short dress with hints of glitter and kitten heels says that she's looking to enjoy herself, but her more subtle makeup and plainly-styled hair says that she isn't trying to get completely trashed in the process. Controlled chaos. That's what she usually aims for, anyway.

After taking some time from various angles of the club to get a read of the place, Codi will use the night to watch for anyone that looks out of place - preferably for her fellow recently freed prisoners, even better if it looks like they're nearing the bottom of a glass. She slides up to them with a toothy smile.

"So the world's ending and some idiot gave me a wad of cash," Codi says brightly, voice raised over the din of music and partygoers. "Can I buy you a drink with it?"


IV. Network | Text

[Early the next day, Codi decides to take her recently revamped cellphone and do some research with it.]

[...Well, more like social networking that's thinly veiled as research. Someone somewhere will find this information useful, she's sure.]

Show of network hands: Who here is from Earth? Just me?

IV. Network | Text

[heeroized]

I've been to Earth. Wouldn't say I'm from there.

Nicte Batan, Motherland: Fort Salem

[cynicte]

THE WAY THROUGH

The jungle is too much like Liberia for Nicte's liking, hot and leafy green, and she wonders if that's why the rescuer called this place broken. Sweat curls down the nape of her neck as she fights a slow path through undergrowth, the gun slick in both of her hands. Had she been home she would have tuned into bird song and followed the pretty light trails of sound out, but without Sight the world is duller, heavier, like a bat to the head.

When she tries instinctively to work, straining her vocal cords, she finds she can't form a single note.

To her companion, her voice hoarse, "Is it always like this? So quiet?"

RELUCTANT JOURNEY

Brycen is a very patient man, lingering unsubtly as Nicte's hands poke-prod at his ATV; it's obvious that she isn't the first to want to inspect one before she climbs into it. Once satisfied, she slithers into the seat opposite, facing her companion with hands clasped between her knees. He gives them their destination, and leaves them to it.

But Nicte reaches out, hooking her fingers around the lip of the little door to keep it from closing.

"A Witches Camp?" Scoff, "No thank you. Nothing good ever came out of one of those, believe me."

A push to open the door and free them both. Nicte, swinging her legs around. "Out. We're better off in the jungle."

WELCOME BUFFET

The food reminds her, disturbingly, of War College, and the mess halls made busy by slow to start, sleepy breakfasts. All those unassuming witches dotted about in secret, happy groups, safe in their units but plied with juice and coffee and any kind of spread you could imagine for your toast-

She doesn't take a step toward it. Betrayal is still bitter on Nicte's tongue.

"You trust too easy," she hisses, at the first person to reach past her, "How do you know this isn't a trap?"

WILDCARD

(Go nuts. Alternatively ping me with an idea and I can craft something bespoke for you!)

[heeroized]

"I waited." Heero pauses from his mission of gathering food to gesture around the room to where many people have already finished eating a first or sometimes even a second plate. His tone is flat as he responds, bland. "No one goes through all the effort they have today only to poison us now."

He'd already considered that option and came to the conclusion that it was extremely unpractical so therefore unlikely. If they'd wanted them dead, they would have shot them upon sight. Not armed them and brought them here.

"Make no mistake. I trust no one."

Including her, she is just a random stranger after all. But even he needs to eat, his performance would be compromised going too long without. So he goes back to assembling a satisfactory meal.

"Satisfied?"

The Engineer | Team Fortress 2

[spah]

[THE RESCUE]
[The Engineer - a stout, middle-aged man with a robotic left hand - blinks as he turns the gun handed to him over in his hands. He eyes it over with a practiced look. He knows guns, and the pistol apparently leaves him mildly disappointed.]

Well. [The single syllable alone gives away a heavy Texan accent. He sighs.] Beggars can’t be choosers, but…

[He glances to the nearest gray-clad person next to him. That’s you!]

I was sorta hopin’ a scenario like this would mean more interestin’ guns. At least a shotgun. You know?

[At least he’s calm for just being told they’ve been kidnapped by aliens.

Also, the fact that there’s a parking lot firefight happening right next to them.]

[tech_nically]

All things considered, perhaps we should be thankful to be provided with a weapon at all.

[Also oddly calm is the goggled man beside him, who appears at least be familiar with a firearm for how easily he holds his. His calm is more due to the distraction of more pressing things, and right now it's difficult for him to focus on anything more than what comes up next. ]

We could have been forced to rely solely on our rescuers and be relegated to taking cover until things are clear.

viktor / arcane

[grindset]

i. lfg

So this person who frees him, this stranger who won't explain, who keeps forgetting his pace and then waiting for him to catch up, this lady gives Viktor a gun.

It takes a moment for his brain to filter through the thus far overwhelming quantity of information such that it can comprehend the nature of this gift. After two entire seconds, having made the relevant association (long straight hair, stock raised to cheek, finger a careful hook), it registers. The result: a comically honest flash of dismay, a panicky attempt to hand it back that becomes angrier the longer it's refused, but listen, they don't have time for this, so he just holds it, this ugly thing making his hand heavy at the end of his wrist. And they press on.

That he can barely keep up is irrelevant to the necessity of the situation. Someone grabs his arm, efficiently thrusts a shoulder under his armpit and hauls him along in spite of hissed objection, the crutch's foot skipping a few quick bounces behind them before it's lifted clear. He's released to stagger and sag at the concrete entryway, skim-milk pale, heaving wet coughs, holding back further complaint and nonetheless telegraphing a great deal of pain. There is no way a person this frail is going to make it across the courtyard by himself. There's simply no way.

In what can only be described as a perverse rejection of reality, this wretchedly sweaty, crooked scarecrow of a man, leaning heavy on his crutch and carrying a sidearm with a grip better suited to a banana, still looks like he's calculating how best to accomplish this.


ii a. buckle in

Somehow, he makes it as far as the ATV orientation. Somehow, he perks up for it. Though the unforgiving jungle terrain slows him to mindful clumsiness, and his shirt is blooming patches of darker grey, he still musters the enthusiasm to ask enough technical questions that he has to be cut off, because look, they don't really have time for this, he can get the full run-down later.

Unsolicited, he climbs into the driver's seat, wedges his crutch in alongside and then just sits there for a minute, with the shirt loose on his bony shoulders (leather strap on the left) and the jut of his thin neck and his hair like a spiky bird's crest in disarray, looking at the dashboard. Just his head turning, his eyes moving here and there, shrewd, gleaming yellow. Like someone left a seasonal prop there as a prank.

The gun is... somewhere. Not here. Don't worry about it.

He adjusts the token side mirror. He lifts his hands to the steering control and squeezes bony fists around it. He does not look in any condition to drive.

ii b. yep

He was not, indeed, in any condition to drive. Fortunately, the ATV is in one piece and all limbs possessed at the start of the ride are (presumably) accounted for on arrival. Maybe this is only true because there was a necessary, hastily performed seat swap somewhere along the way. Maybe someone got motion sick. Maybe someone's formidable eyebrows are making a sullen shape about it.

"You got the easy half," he grumbles, unfolding with extra stiff care to disembark, as though he managed to age a hundred years during the last leg of their trip. He's all slouch and gawky elbows, his crutch like a wizard staff.


iii. it's fine

In a daze, Viktor selects a tri-fold tablet he does not yet know how to use, because it looks cool; he does not eat any food, because he doesn't like eating in front of strangers; and he scowls through the entire orientation, because a scowl is his default expression for most things anymore.

Afterward, he takes his stipend out into the hallway, stands off to the side, and looks at it like he's not sure how to interpret its presence, with rather more benign results than were produced by the gun. This, of all things, really gives him pause. This is currency—the tangible hallmark of a culture. Among the most common of items. Nearly universal. He can feel the waxy patina of every hand that touched it before his, see on its face the results of who knows how many iterations of design. Imagine the mold or press that might have formed it. The unknown mind that wrought its shape from an idea. It's real. This is real.

A voice reaches him as though through water, a blur of sound. He turns his face in its direction, sharp cheekbones and lingering scowl.

"What?" In contrast, his voice is soft; his accent plucks gently at consonants. "Sorry, I... were you speaking to me?"


???. wildcard

[Feel free to tweak any of these to suit or hit me with something else. Will match format + will tag around in a bit. You can find me on plurk @ abyssal or discord @ abyssal#7007 if you have any thingies to thingy, you know the drill.]

III

[maskedtyrant]

"--Hmm?"

The ginger woman hovering at Viktor's side looks similarly startled at being addressed, jerking abruptly upright like she's been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Both hands are behind her back, of course - nothing unseemly happening here save the fact that she's snooping in this wiry stranger's business.

"Oh! Just wanted a penny for your thoughts." Codi flashes Viktor a disarming smile, raising her eyebrows. "No pun intended I guess. It's a lot to process, yeah?"

Marc Spector/Steven Grant | MCU

[fightingevilbymoonknight]

I. The Rescue

Marc and Steven haven't even had time to miss the suit and its powers, dammit. Steven hovers around behind Marc's eyes, but thankfully lets him handle the gun. "Body snatchers," Marc mutters. "We've been kidnapped by body snatchers."

(Or just people who possess other people. Like, you know, Khonshu. Or you. Shut up, that's not the same.)

Marc knows that, and it was a low blow, he's just tense. He puts the chagrin away and focuses on the situation they're in right now rather than Steven's feelings. "Okay. So we take out the shooters there and make a run for it." He looks behind him at another fellow prisoner. "Together or one at a time?"


II. Race Through the Jungle

Marc takes the wheel when they're shoved into an unfamiliar off-roading vehicle. He's dealt with worse terrain than this, he's sure. Maybe. Probably?

"Buckle up," he tells his new passenger. "I think it's gonna get bumpy."


III. Welcome Home - Orientation

Well, this is... definitely a thing, isn't it. Steven takes over sometime during the presentation, munching steadily through a plate of fruit, rolls, and salad. "So is this another whole universe?" he wonders, tapping the notebook rapidly with his pen. His accent is "Or just another world in the same universe? Well, two worlds, technically, but you know. Same question. Because there are definitely aliens and gods and such who might be able to help, if it's the same universe."

Though he has no idea how to contact the Asgardians, if they would even listen to somebody like him, and he's not sure Khonshu would listen if they tried calling him, even if this was the same universe. But he would try for this.


IV. Network - Text post

So we're in the space age invasion of the body snatchers, huh? Anybody else here from Earth?

[He's not letting go of that reference, sorry.]

IV

[cantreachhighshelves]

Body Snatchers? I don't get the reference if that is some pop culture artifact.

But yes, I'm from Earth...or at least I was originally. Until one day Being X decided to I needed to be taught a lesson and sent me off to war in another world.

harley quinn ♦ dceu

[nutbuckets]

♦ The Rescue

[All things considered, she's been in weirder situations.

Or okay, not weirder, but definitely scarier and more hopeless, and she always made it out alive. This is pretty simple, and she takes the gun, cocks it, clicks the safety like a pro. It might not be what she's used to, but a gun feels familiar in her hands, and she doesn't have a bomb in her neck (just a chip somewhere in her head, which is fucked up but also familiar). All she's gotta do is make her way across one little courtyard and dodge maybe 10 Sylphid.]

Piece of cake.

[This is nothing like facing off against the entire Corto Maltese army with only 8 people, badass as those people were. And all of which got totally slaughtered. With the whole jungle backdrop and all it reminds her of Corto Maltese a little.

Glancing to her right, she makes eye contact with whatever other poor sap is stuck in this situation beside her, and grins.]

Don't worry, I got ya covered.

[A moment later, she's making her way out into the courtyard and parking lot, aiming back at the Sylphid and dodging bullets.]

♦ Race Through The Jungle

[The ATVs are cool, way better than trekking through the jungle in a pair of lame scrubs and shoes that are obviously meant for the city, not the underbrush. When the blue guy gestures for someone else to come over and drive the thing with her, she gamely clambers her way up into the back seat, sitting backwards and cocking the gun she's still carrying.]

You drive, I've got our backs.

[And with that, she lifts her gun to her shoulder.]

♦ Welcome Home (Shopping)

[The feast and the information had been great and all, but the best part is getting the stipend and being set free. She makes her way to the markets almost immediately to get new clothes, since the ones she has remind her unpleasantly of being in prison.

Of course, it's not like she's paying for them. Paying is for dummies.

The only thing she actually buys is a big bag, which she uses to stuff items of clothing she likes into when the shopkeepers and other people aren't looking. Of course, it only lasts so long before someone catches her at it and starts chasing after her.]

Shit!

[Laughing gleefully, she finishes shoving the sparkly shirt she'd been lifting into her bag and bolts, weaving her way through the crowd, black and red pigtails flying behind her like a banner. Once she has a decent lead on the shopkeeper, she yanks out the hair ties holding her pigtails in and pulls her hair into a low ponytail, hiding the coloured parts down the back of her shirt, and grabs the closest person.]

Quick, pretend like we're makin' out, you got me?

[She's still grinning.]

♦ Network

two truths and a lie! I'll start:

1. some guy I know is basically a walking shark, two rows of teeth and all
2. one time some people and I fought a walking seahorse the size of a skyscraper, and won
3. I can fight real good with a javelin, who knew?

♦ Wildcard

Will match style, so if prose is your jam just hit me up that way. PM if you're interested in plotting or want me to write you a custom starter! Otherwise, if none of the prompts work, feel free to hit her up at the potluck and info session or around the apartments, she'll be wandering around. She's also the type to approach someone minding their own business so feel free to have your character just lingering around!

network; username: V

[grindset]

2.

[Yes, that's all. His big network debut: two whole characters.]

peter quill —— marvel comics

[jetboot]

one — rescue | courtyard

[ is he dead? the way his head is pounding sure makes him think so. christ, he is so hungover. or maybe he's still drunk, maybe that's why he's waking up on the — floor? — of his room, and why he's steadfastly refusing to open his eyes in spite of the whole floor situation because he feels like if he does, he's going to throw up.

at least it's cold.

he thinks he remembers groot trying to wake him — which he'd ignored because he'd really wanted to sleep; and the guardians — the new guardians, since rocket was—

—well, he's not talking about rocket, and he's trying not to think about him either. the same goes for gamora. whatever. the new guardians had been having teething problems with regards to 'being a team' and 'getting along' and 'letting peter have some peace and flarking quiet' and apparently that's still an issue this morning based on the noises coming from outside his door.

reluctantly, he opens his eyes and his gaze settles on — white. not his room. he sits up abruptly, nausea being replaced by a swell of dread in his stomach. it's not often anyone gets the drop on him, and okay, he's not been living his best life just lately, but he's still him and more than that, for him to be here — wherever here is — it means whoever's out there had to get through his crew.

the door swings open and peter's ready to fight—

—and then he's handed a gun and a vague explanation, and though his uneasiness doesn't subside, he follows when he's led through the building.

the architecture isn't familiar. sylphid doesn't ring any bells — worrying in and of itself — and he makes a point of looking out and listening for the rest of his team. he's pretty sure he'd hear them before he saw them, none of them were particularly renowned for subtlety.

eventually, they reach the door to outside. another explanation, another something peter can't say he's thrilled with. there's someone else waiting to cross the courtyard and peter shoots them a look, giving them a quick once over to ascertain how comfortable they are with the situation.

he looks tired. his blonde hair is greasy and unstyled, laying flat against his head — listen, he's had a rough few weeks-slash-months-slash-years-slash-life, okay?but there's an innate confidence and aura of ease in the way that he holds both himself and the gun he's been given. he's done this before.

a lot. ]

I've done this a million times. [ dismissive, almost glib, punctuated by a beat. ] I'll cover you, go.

( or feel free to encounter peter at any point throughout the escape! )

two — command centre

[ he's not happy.

no-one's been able to tell him if the rest of the guardians are here, just a load of 'nope, don't recognise those names' and 'a talking tree, are you serious?' kind of replies. more than that, no-one's been able to tell him what's going on with the thanos-dead-brain-upload-gamora-danger crap that maybe possibly keeps playing on his mind now that he's not onboard his ship to try pretend he doesn't want to deal with it.

he spends some time at central command — he's not fussed about the food, gravitating instead to the coffee and an empty table to sift through the information they've been given about this flarking bull—.

he leans back in his chair, the front two legs lifting off the ground as he does so, and he runs a hand through his hair. he thinks that he ought to shower and shave, and then explore the city, try and find some people to talk to that he's not quite as quote-unquote indebted to for the rescue.

(fuck, he hates this.)

he doesn't believe that the only way to get home is to help the rebels — how many situations like this has he been in? okay, sure, not exactly like this, but close enough. there will be another way.

it's not that he doesn't want to help &mdash he does, this is exactly the sort of the thing that the guardians were created to deal with, but the problem is that the guardians aren't here, and he can't shake the worry gnawing at his stomach about what's going to happen with that entire situation.

he shoves the notebook and various pieces of paper away from him, all covered in the handwriting of someone that, once upon a time, had to do a lot of writing but now doesn't do any. (or: covered in a barely legible scrawl.)

he stands and downs the rest of his coffee in one, pulling a face as he does so. it's disgusting. ]

Ugh. [ the best he can say is that it's just a cup of hot. hot what? who knows. just hot. ]

three — network

un: quill
Now that we've done the 'raise your hand if you're from Earth' thing (answer: humans get around, ask me how I know), there are a few more important questions to answer.

1. Drinkable coffee — no/yes/where?

[ that's it, that's the list of questions. ]

four — wildcard
( if none of the above work for you, feel free to reach out to me or just go right ahead and drop your own starter! i'm totally open to ideas and shenanigans. )

3

[scarabwings]

That's some serious intel you're asking for.

What's it worth to you?

mildmay the fox | the doctrine of labyrinths | ota.

[septad]

a) THE JUNGLE.

Honestly, the courtyard was a holiday waltz compared to the fucking jungle. Mildmay moves slowly, operating with a pronounced limp, and the uneven ground slows him further. He makes pain-staking effort not to trip himself like a damn fool, but he wasn't made for this, in more ways than one. He can count the times he's been in a forest on half a hand; the city was what he was trained for, maybe even bred for, if you wanna get poetic.

He doesn't. Accent thick, reminiscent of the American south, Mildmay's words are mostly being used to swear. "Fuck me sideways 'til I cry," is muttered under his breath, though you may not immediately understand it-- his heavy accent is made even more impenetrable by the pronounced scar curving over his face, causing his words to slur. It makes the displeased snarl on his face all the uglier.

If Mildmay, cruel-faced and hard-built, hissing with displeasure, gives off a thuggish air, well. It wouldn't be the first time.

b) JUNGLE PT 2: WE'RE IN A CAR.

If he absolutely needs to, if it's life-or-death, Mildmay can almost ride a horse. He can direct a hansom a little better, maybe, but it's been septads since, so he wouldn't bet on it. This fucking thing, all metal and rubber, is as alien to him as the surface of the moon.

It's as alien as the surface of this world. You'll just have to make do, Milly-fox.

He grits his teeth, but keeps his mouth as straight a line as he can with the scar twisting up half of it. Wouldn't do to snarl and get stabbed (shot?) by the poor fucker in the seat next to him. It weren't my fault, you put me in with a thug.

He hits the ignition, which makes the vehicle roar like the ocean, like a monster, like magic. It lurches forward, smooth as the calm sea despite the ugly size of it. There's shit in the way, underbrush mostly, and Mildmay tries to avoid it, but some ways in some fucking animal falls out of a tree, onto the vehicle itself. It's some kind of tree-cat, ears pointed flat back, and Mildmay could almost hiss back at it if he wasn't dead-stone focused, the way you gotta be when Keeper is watching.

Not that Keeper's here. It just always feels like she oughta be, whenever he's on the verge of fucking up big. Which is to say-- Mildmay has been silent, through all of this, at best giving his name (Mildmay, just Mildmay) and a shrug to any further questions. But now, he breaks his silence: "Aw, fuck."

c) ORIENTATION.

After several tries, Mildmay manages to make it clear he doesn't give a shit about the 'communication devices', because he can't fucking read. He ends up with something they call a 'walkie-talkie' with 'text-to-speech capabilities', but to Mildmay it's just another fancy rubber brick. Why is everything fucking rubber in this place? Rubber or metal, no teak wood or carved stone, no clay shingles or tin rooves. It's fucking uncanny, and if Mildmay were the right sort of religious, he'd sign himself.

But you can't worry about that shit. You just gotta keep moving. Mildmay walks-- slow and steady, minding an obvious limp from one bum leg-- and finds the Cheaps. Everywhere, no matter what, has a Cheaps. A place where people sell what they got, hock what they don't need, and make do best they can. Felix'd called it a market once, and Mildmay'd nearly pissed laughter. A market's where you sell things. A Cheaps is where you sell anything.

Mildmay finds a long coat, a short knife, and boots that almost fit. He'll stuff them with bedding later; there was more than enough in the room they'd assigned him.

He also finds a stick. It's not a walking stick. It's just a long, twisted branch lying on the ground, and Mildmay is still (still) quick enough to bring it up and whap the hand of a kid standing nearby. She looks up at him with big eyes before turning tail, but she was standing awful close to a new recruit, some other survivor of the grey-uniforms, the jungle, the orientations. And her hand had been awful close to wherever their money had been kept.

d) THE NETWORK.

[Transmitted via voice, Mildmay's message has a thick accent that some may find reminiscent of the American South, particularly Tennessee. His words are sometimes slurred or mumbled.]

UN: milemay

I ain't never heard of no revolutions with happy endings.

e) WILDCARD.

[fuck my shit up, i'm open to anything. mildmay can be a little reserved, so if you wanna massage the prompt a little to give our characters a better reason to interact, go for it. hmu @ gambeson if needed.]

a.

[littlemissfutility]

Yeah, he looks mean - get that out of the way first. He's got a scar so nasty it almost hurts to look at, and it gives his face an awful scowl. But the way he walks, it's clear that he's in pain; he drags one leg like it's half-dead. She thinks of her father hobbling through the prison, and of all the ways Daryl's bark was worse than his bite. And she slows down a little.

So she falls in with him, on his bad side. Her voice is soft enough that everyone else passing them by might not hear, with just a touch of a similar accent. "Are you okay?"

Obi-Wan (Ben) Kenobi | Disney Plus Canon

[bentheredonethat]

[OOC Note: This is a test, this is only a test. Taking him from the end of the most recent Disney Plus show Obi-Wan Kenobi so he's less scruffy and emo than he was at the beginning. Still, I know this is relatively new canon, so will try my best to avoid any significant spoilers.]

I. The Rescue

Obi-Wan Ben, he needed to get used to thinking of himself as Ben had been sitting peacefully in the center of his jail cell attempting to meditate. It hadn't done shit toward providing him any sort of connection to the Force, but it had given him time to calm his mind and assess his situation.

Not Good. Bad. Worse. Could be worse. Might yet be worse. Were the currently prevailing thoughts. A bad feeling about this, didn't even begin to cover it. Though Ben's lips twitched as it was all to easy -given recent events- to hear Qui-Gon telling him to focus on the here and now.

Focus.

Bad feeling still there.

When his door crashed open, he had two options; stay or go. Given the most recent events in his life, Obi-Wan determined that out of the cell was the better of bad choices. He didn't have the Force to tell him to trust this man, but he decided to believe some of his instincts were still sound.

Dashing headlong into absolute chaos felt more like coming home than was probably wise for one who claimed to follow the Jedi Code. Call it a draw back to living in the moment. Regardless, he took the gun -stopping only long enough to be briefly bewildered by the idea of projectile ammo- and just nodded in response to the instructions.

Run first. Ask questions later. Flashback to his apprentice years.

Halfway across the open space, if he happened upon anyone who appeared to be struggling, he'd pause and reach out a hand. His voice was still rough, rusty but consonants clipped and clear as he called out over the din of the firefight.

"Come on then, no time for a nap!"

II - Race through the Jungle (open to one thread)

Apologies to whoever got on the ATV behind this madman. Force or no Force, he's learned over the years that often the best way to avoid trouble is to outrun it!

This is going to be a bumpy ride, and the scruffy man at the controls may or may not be laughing about it!

III - Welcome Home

The meeting is over. A rough overview of their situation laid out in front of all the new arrivals.

Before the meeting, Obi-Wan had sought to discreetly study the others gathered about the room. A quiet presence at the edge of conversations, he'd listened and if he caught anyone's attention for too long, ducked his head and moved on.

Now, he remained in his chair, frowning deeply while absently twirling a root vegetable back and forth in some sort of dipping sauce. His expression is quite distant, but now is as good a time as any to tell him off for eavesdropping earlier.

III

[learnedfool]

[OOC: No worry about spoilers]

A man approaches, but he seems more interested in the root vegetable. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to play with your food?"

Agent 8 | Splatoon 2: Octo Expansion

[consider8]

I. Party Poppers - Rescue

[Eight was no strangers to facilities with dubious intentions. If nothing else, she appreciated how honest they were being. They were clearly testing subjects: nothing more materials to be used and discarded. There was no room for ambiguity.]

[The rescue was welcome, and the young girl willowy girl looking straight at their rescuer with an intensely quiet stare. She follows direction well enough, and takes her time with the gun that is handed to her. Huh... projectile-based ballistics which fires what I could only guess by it's weight is metal toward it's intended target? I mean, sure, you could do it, but why would you want to? [She shook her head, no. There had to be a reason.]

[An experimental shot against a wall is enough to inform her of how much force was behind the weapon as well as how much kick the thing had as it flew down the hall. Ah. Yes. Well. She supposes if it hits as hard as a jackhammer could be effective... eventually.]

IIA. Into the Woods -- Forest

[Oh but what sights awaited her outside of the compound! Eight is as curious as an octopus in a new tank. The foliage and green is enough to make her forget that they were being rescued. Indeed, one may quickly find a girl taking her time to lean down, staring at leaves and trees, her fingers touching and running its way through the bark.]

Beautiful... [The first thing she says. Of course, when the firing begins starting up again, she will be immediately ready to fly back into action. But for now, she's having a wonderful time.]

IIB. Who Let a Child Behind the Wheel? -- Forest

[The normally stoic girl with the octopus hair has a big grin when she sees the vehicle. Hover-craft technology? Yes, please.]

I'll drive. [And drive she does! Octarians practically perfected hover-craft vehicles, and it shows. Though the ride is bumpy she seems to be pushing the limits of this thing. Most notable is a section where she rides the side of a wall to avoid a large cat-creature.] VEEMO!! [She exclaims, speeding along merrily in spite of the near-death collision.]

IIIA. The Important Question -- Home

[All throughout the meeting, Eight listened. Quietly, dutifully, diligently. She listened and let then discuss what they want, listening for the hidden things that weren't being said. Oh sure, she had no doubt in believing that what they were telling her was the truth, or rather, A truth, but what did they not say? Those were the more important questions.]

[Finally, when the moment came for people to ask anything of their liberators, a hand raised from the girl with octopus tentacles for hair.] What happens if we say no?

IIIB. The REAL Important Question -- Home

[The settlement is nice, she supposes. Compared to the grandeur of Inkopolis, this place was a definite step down in scale and things to see. Well, all except for one really important distinction:]

[Perhaps you may spot her: a red-tentacled girl with sharp golden eyes. She has been trailing you, examining your every action, occasionally picking up what was put down and discarded to give it an appraising air. Finally, when you become fed up or when her curiosity becomes insatiable, she will ask:]

Are you a human?.

IV. Midnight Channel - Network

[A message goes out in the middle of the night:]

UN: Anonymous

.... . .-.. .-.. --- .-.-.- / .. / .... --- .--. . / - .... .. ... / .-- .. .-.. .-.. / --. .. ...- . / ..- ... / ... --- -- . / .--. .-. .. ...- .- -.-. -.-- .-.-.- / -.. --- / -.-- --- ..- / - .... .. -. -.- / .-- . / -.-. .- -. / - .-. ..- ... - / - .... . -- ..--.. / --- .-. / .- .-. . / .-- . / ... - .. .-.. .-.. / .- / .--. .- .-. - / --- ..-. / - .... . / . -..- .--. . .-. .. -- . -. - ..--..

IIIB

[bladebabysitter]

That might be a difficult question to answer.

[Having known something was coming from her erstwhile shadow, Elma doesn't even pause or blink at the question. Instead, she turns to fully face the xeno.]

When humanity fled Earth, their biological bodies weren't ready or able to handle the strain of space travel for an uncertain length of time. Also, the evacuation was pretty hurried, as these things go. Ultimately, humanity chose to upload the genetic profile and minds of the evacuees into Ark Ships. Those minds then piloted robotic bodies, called Mimeosomes, using the wireless relays of the Lifehold's computer banks. When Earth was destroyed, the original bodies and minds died with it. So the first question is, are the uploaded minds still human? They existed only as data, piloting artificial bodies, after all.

On top of that, something strange happened with the Ark Ship I was aboard. When we landed -- or were shot down, I suppose is more accurate -- the Lifehold databanks were completely destroyed. That should have been the end of all the minds inside it, but somehow they were preserved. Instead of remotely piloting the Mims, they instead inhabited them. So, are those human?

[She lets all that exposition sink in for a bit.]

For what my opinion is worth, humanity is still humanity, even after all that. But I know some people disagree. You might too.

[Usually, no one notices that when Elma is talking about humanity, she always carefully phrases her comments so that she never directly states she's a member of the species, and instead relies on the implications thereof. For a change, though, she isn't hiding her true nature -- she doesn't know it, at this point, which is honestly deeply concerning.]

Elma | Xenoblade Chronicles X

[bladebabysitter]

I. Waking Up and Getting Out

[Elma didn't seem the slightest bit winded after that run through the concrete corridor maze. Which doesn't mean that she handled it as well as she'd like. Something is extremely wrong here, and she needs to understand it. Why is she in her Mimeosome, and not her proper body? Or IS this her Mim -- can it be, when it feels slow, weak, and clumsy? The Overdrive circuits aren't responding, either. This is bad.]

[And add to it another person to worry about...]

If you're not familiar with how to use a gun, I can take that instead. I typically battle with two. I would rather we not kill anyone, anyway. That's an action you can't take back.

[Her eyes follow their rescuer as he takes off, possibly to go find someone new? They may not have any reason to doubt the story, but by the same token, reality could be very different from how it's been portrayed.]

Also, if you'd prefer, I can go first and draw any fire. That should get you through -- safer, anyway. Nothing's safe on a battlefield.

II. Driving Onwards

[No sooner does Brycen make it clear that someone needs to drive the ATV than Elma steps forward without comment, clambering into the driver's seat to begin checking the controls and understanding them.]

This should be easier than driving a Skell through Noctilum. And probably a lot more dangerous. Are you able to keep a lookout effectively?

III. Questions, Questions

[Stipend or not, freedom or not, Elma goes no further than outside the front door of Central Command, where she leans up against the wall with her head bowed and her arms folded.]

So. [Those things she doesn't keep secret, she's accustomed to explaining to her team. So she thinks aloud, out of habit.] That chip they talked about must be responsible for my Mim's condition. But at the same time, we're supposed to have some sort of powers... and need to make a Tether between someone else who has the other sort.

I don't seem to have any magic. No understanding's just popped into my head. How do I figure this out?

[Her fingers drum on her arms, as she considers.]

II.

[ezra_of_lothal]

No idea what Skeel or Noctilum is.

But I've done lookout on getaway vehicles plenty of times before. [He'd feel better about it he could touch the Force but...no reason to bandy that around.]

And driven them, too. [He raises a challenging eyebrow.]

What about you?

Sunstreaker | Transformers (IDW)

[solartrauma]

I. THE RESCUE
[Waking up in a place he doesn't recognize isn't unusual anymore. Happened more often than Sunstreaker would ever like to admit. Doesn't mean he has to like it. Or the fact for some reason he's in fabrics. Who thought it was a great idea to put the mechanoid pajamas? They aren't even attractive pajamas. Grey is such a hideous color when it's not polished into chrome. He does not like it.

He likes being short even less than that. Because either he has lost twenty-feet in height or organics around here are somehow extremely tall and that makes even less sense to him. The gun shoved into his hand doesn't look special, not armor-piercing class clearly. And for all that he's been diminished in his height, it's still smaller in his hand. Like holding a minibot size blaster.

Not like he's giving it back. They put a weapon in his hand and he's going to keep it.

Years ago, he wouldn't have cared about protecting the human(oids?) around him. Years ago he would have focused on taking out the enemy. Well, he still liked shooting back at whoever was trying to take him down, but if he sees anyone near him that needs covers he going to grunt, sigh, and step in to help them get out of that courtyard too. So deal with the twelve-foot tall robot suddenly into your way, blocking a shot. They might hurt but he can handle it. Frag it that's going to take a while to buff out. He just hopes whatever material the stupid pajamas are made of doesn't burst into flames or something.]

Come on. Are you trying to be an open target?

[Doesn't matter whether or not you were, he's going to find some way to judge you and nitpick.]

II. RACE THROUGH THE JUNGLE
Are you serious?

[It's what he says as soon as the blue organic shows him to these hovercrafts. Not that Sunstreaker can't pilot one--he knows how to pilot a damn hovercraft--but he's not even sure he can fit into one.]

How do you think we're going to make this work?

[He'd already tried to shift into his alt-mode and found that he couldn't. Something was blocking his ability to use his T-cog. Which is enough to frustrate him, but now he's trying to fit himself into this hovercraft and not squash whatever fleshy they put in there with him? Ugh. He pointing at you, because somehow you've been stuck as his partner, sorry for your lot in life.]

If you're squished before we get to the rendezvous point, it's not on me.

III. WELCOME NOT-HOME
[There is one problem with having to allow someone to alter his communications device to access the network and that's the fact he has to allow someone access to his communications device. Letting anyone--especially a human-looking organic--near his head is not something he wants, but the other options of trying to use one of these ridiculously tiny and breakable devices is just not feasible. So he has to allow it or deal with not having a way to properly communicate--or breaking whatever they give him within a day or two.

And the fact he has to remove his own finned audial before allowing them access to the port and systems just means he's going to be grumpy and on edge until he can reattach it.]

Just hurry it up. Your systems aren't that complex.

[It's not like he's being upgraded into Telparinak or something like that. He's going to glare at anyone else around getting their little handheld machines worked on. After their "orientation" he's going to scout the city as best he can, because he wants to know where things are and the fastest routes to get out.

Maybe see whether or not the chip they put in him can be "adjusted." Because frag if he's being trapped like this for however long.

Someone might hear the sound of fabric ripping and have to dodge the large pile of gray cloth being dumped on the ground after Sunstreaker finally rips them from his body. Because frag stupid organic pajamas, too.]

IV. Network.
UN: BOB
This is a test and no one died. Congratulations.

iv.

[jetboot]

un —— quill

do people normally die in your tests?

Marcus Wright II Terminator: Salvation/Final Battle, ota

[anewhero]

-1- Waking up and Getting Out

[Marcus felt his rock hard cyborg head expecting him to feel less achy and maybe less dizzy then he does now. He eyes his surroundings. A..jail cell? Was this a fucked up joke? He couldn't be back in prison, right? His uniform wasn't a black coat with red Resistance patch or bluish with red but a shade of grey. Not what he was used to but it would have to do.

He had wanted to punch the door to see if it would knock it down but he was unsure if his cyborg powers even worked here. The door finally opened and Marcus was able to follow] "Broken world? Sounds a little too familiar for my tastes."

-The Rescue- 2.

[Marcus eyed the man who walked into the room who talked about a Resistance of some kind and had a gun shoved into his hand, halfway expecting General Connor to come busting in his room and screaming out orders the same way these Rebels are. Funny how similar this Resistance is to Connor's own. ]

[Marcus follows the rebel down the corridors and into a jungle warzone. This felt oddly familiar too except they were no longer fighting terminators.]

[The half terminator lifted his gun, hoping to hell they had plasma rifles here or at the very least something alright for now. ]

Marcus frowned from the back as he shot some more Sypids "Hey, you know how to shoot? If not, follow my lead. "

-3- Welcome home to HQ Not Resistance.

Marcus eyed the location, which he was relived to see some many different faces than ones who were hardass and not willing to blow his ass up for being a terminator for no fault of his own. The half terminator sat on his bed adjusting his comms trying to communicate with his own Resistance back home with no fruitful attempts. Great, he was stuck here.

IV: Network

UN: Wright
... This feels odd to not having Skynet knock at my door or through this network for once.

1~

[consider8]

Eight had been following behind their liberator, watching to see the actions they make to open the doors. Who knows? It may be something that she'd need to use in the future. Plus there was a little excitement of finding out who was being held inside.

Yet for some reason, they each end up being the same: "Another human..." She muttered with a hint of restrained indignation. Was she the only Octarian in this facility?

Link: Breath of the Wild

[newmemorywhodis]

II. Race through the Jungle
Link has no idea what is going on. He has also never in his life seen an 'ayeveetee' before, but it seems vaguely similar to Ancient Technology, so he assumes there's no point in trying to figure out how it works. But he can apparently ride it like a horse, so he doesn't hesitate to hop into the drivers seat.

Riding it, however, it turns out is not quite like a horse. Which means that whoever had the luck to hop on the 'ayeveetee' with him is now having to deal with Link learning how to ride it, in real-time.

There might be more than a few wild swerves, and jerking stops-and-starts as Link tries not to crash into any trees.

III. Welcome home
The presentation makes Link's head spin, and honestly only curiosity and the presences of food kept him in the room. He's not used to so many people, all in the once space.

(He wonders if that was what Hyrule had been like, before the Calamity.)

Now that it's over though, he doesn't stop to ask for help or directions. Instead he just heads right outside and makes a bee-line for the nearest tallish building. And then he climbs up, never-mind what odd looks he might get, until he can stand on top of the roof and get a good look at this place.

III

[consider8]

Link may or may not have noticed that he had a magenta shadow following behind him. It was the ears that drew her immediate attention. Those were the type of features that she would see from the people back home, but has grown to learn is not common for the other human races. How... strange. She wanted to know more and was content to just following behind in quiet silence.

And then he started climbing. Why would he climb? There was more to him that she realized and she could tell immediately that he had the experience of doing this many times before; each hoist was confident and his grip sure.

When he got to the top she decided to continue to follow him too. Oh, sure, she didn't have quite the reach or the strength that he did, but she was just as sure and twice as nimble.

Once she reaches the top she stands to the side, a pair of curious eyes boring into the blonde elf.

gilia st. loe | oc | ota

[seaboard]

i. jail break
There was no point mindlessly throwing herself at the door, as she tried to ascertain who or what had dared to lock up a Queen. Especially one such as her.

But then the door is broken open, loud and the sound of battle fills the corridors, and she sees her rescuer, and the people also moving beyond, also it seemed, escaping from these cells. It answers as many questions as it provides. This was no enemy she knew. These were not even a building type she had ever seen, even in stories of the most fearsome dungeons. But... not the only one locked away.

How afraid she might have been once, as opposed to this rush up her spine to hold herself steady.

They insist on giving her this 'gun'. They insist she must fight and kill. She takes it, because there are times and places to object, to make her intentions clear. Escaping from capture is not the time.

Until she is in a corner with someone that does seem to know what to do with it. Thrusts it forward. "Take it. I have no use for it."

ii. rescue
Finally, she realises just what that noise is. That horrible, horrible noise. Blasting, shattering, pain and misery and the screaming, the screaming, the screaming. It choked in her throat. So many deaths. Always dying, and she caused it, she caused it and she could not let another die. Not again, never again.

They needed to cross this space. How could they? They would hurt, they would hurt and die and she was a Queen, her oath, first, always, and last, was to keep them all safe, and she failed, she always failed.

But as she reached for the core of her being, for the second half of her soul - it did not answer. The one thing that had always been with her, so much that she had not thought to understand the strange loneliness she could not place until this moment - the Sea-Father did not answer the shudder of her voice. The call, the prayer that began and died, like her voice had been stolen itself from her.

And she crumbles and shudders down behind a piece of cover. It's clear, that in the chaos, the tears welling in her eyes, she is shutting down entirely. Her knees curling into her chest, her hands shaking. There is gunfire and shouting and someone may be telling her to move, or do something at all. But she can hardly process it at all.

If no one helps her, she might not move at all. As readily captured again as not. What did she care? She was cut off from half her soul.

iii. car-sickness
No ship she had been on, no chariot, no carriage, had ever moved as fast as this... this... horse? Whatever they called it. She could not process the words, in the state of shock she is in.

What she can process is that it is awful. Doing her level best to keep herself steady, and it is an admirable effort. Practised a very long time in holding herself back even in the face of worse things, and three children had taught her a great deal about being ill in life.

But once it stops she has to firmly encourage: "I require you to move, now. Prithee, quickly please."

The last thing she wanted to do was throw up on this person's shoes.

iv. new home
It was a great deal of words she cannot say she understood fully. Of witches and sylphs? She was exhausted, and mourning, mourning so deeply, it washed over her like the water that no longer answered her. But she was informed this was her quarters, and here was her a book of bound parchment and quill for her to use. That the quill would never run out, how grand.

She had no answer to them. No answer to them at all. Mute even when they sat for the meal in her grief that would not pry itself from her. She held herself towards the back, tall already, and since she had no way to bind her hair in these ugly plain clothes, her curls were wild and spilled in every direction. At least her maids were not also taken, as much as she knew she was going to need their help to brush this all neat again.

Maybe soon, she could find their bathing house?

But some things came easier when she sees others, and she steps aside to let them take a plate of food. "Eat, it seems we all shall need sustenance for what is to come. If to fight it is, it shall only get worse, before it ever grows better." Her voice is low but measured with the simple weight of understanding. There was no joy here.

War was never just violence, after all. If only, if only it was ever just one battle and then done. It was hunger. It was emptiness. It was mindless days and nights of waiting and dreading and waiting. She heard it on the lips of the refugees, and then, finally, knew it herself.

And now they were all snatched into someone else's.

v. network

They said to speak here, as I would to another.
But I know of no letters that can be in my hand as now, and yet given the same to another. What spirit guides this?

IV.

[ezra_of_lothal]

Ezra smiles back at the woman, but the expression is tinged with fresh grief.

"I know. Eat when you can. Sleep when you can. Try to make the losses count for something. I just came from a rebellion," he replies quietly.

He sucks in a breath slowly.

But there is also hope. He thinks - he must have faith - that his friends and family managed to use his sacrifice (and his master's sacrifice) to free his home world from occupation.

mara jade | star wars eu | ota

[borrowednames]

01 ▷ ESCAPE

Mara doesn't trust her rescuer. She doesn't trust the other "prisoners" either, but for now she doesn't bother wasting ammo on those who aren't actively trying to shoot her. Her first couple of shots aren't as clean given the state she'd been in when she'd been busted out, but she finds her bearings soon enough that she's able to take down the enemy with lethal efficiency.

The jungle offers some cover and a bit of respite, but she doesn't trust that either. She remembers Myrkr all too well, down to the haunting feeling of being disconnected from the Force, and it's worse now that she's gotten some training and practice. She scans the faces of those being herded into the waiting ATVs — a part of her actually hopes to find Skywalker among them, not that she'd ever admit it out loud — but recognizing none, she complies and decides to play along until they get back to wherever civilization is.

"I'll fly," she declares to her companion, moving to the pilot's seat so they could get going.

02 ▷ EXPLORE

Know your territory had been the first rule drilled into Mara by the Emperor, so almost immediately after arriving at Witches Camp she starts to take long walks, in both daylight and at night. She manages to be discreet about it, of course; she wouldn't have been the Emperor's Hand otherwise. Still, she likely won't be the only one snooping around.

And she goes everywhere. The residential area, the markets, heck even the club and the Mage's Sector. She's not too keen on working with others, though. She'll be cordial and friendly for the most part, using one of her many borrowed names, but most of the time she'll do her exploring alone. Unless you both unintentionally run into trouble, or you're just persistent.

03 ▷ NETWORK

Most of the time Mara just lurks in the network, gathering intel in the same way she tries to do in person. But when she has to keep a low profile, it's the best place to explore without the risk of getting into too much trouble.

If Skywalker's here, she hopes he'd recognize the name she's using. Surely he's not forgotten their time on Myrkr.

USERNAME: sennikiffu
Anyone here play sabacc?

04 ▷ WILDCARD
[ please feel free to DM me or add/PP me on notanybunny to plot! i'm a slow tagger due to health reasons, but otherwise i'm easy and willing to roll with just about anything. ]

04

[ezra_of_lothal]

UN: Bridger

I know the rules. I wouldn't say I'm a sabacc player.