thisavrou_log | ( april intro log )

Entry tags:

( april intro log )

Who: Everyone
When: April 1st and on
Where: The Moira + Del Pascia
What: The crew finds themselves visiting the correctional facility of Del Pascia.
Warnings: Mentions of blood. Please label your content!

I
N
T
R
O

L
O
G

slammed & counted
"I feel liberated when I'm doing it, and I want other people to feel liberated through it."

The Ingress has pulled you in. Your body experiences several sensations at once: being pushed forward as if a hand is resting on your back, momentary and startling blindness, a gentle ringing in your head. You have difficulty discerning whether it is hot or cold, but where you have been prodded is noticeably warmer than the rest of you. Some may suffer from dizziness while others are perfectly fine. Once equilibrium has been reestablished, you will notice you are standing on a long platform and that the room is filled with a soft cerulean light. It's slightly humid and dark despite the glow around you, and nothing is familiar. Shortly after, you are led out and toward the medbay.

Inside this room, you are given a physical scan and offered a contract to sign that states you are now part of the crew of the Moira with a specific job. This process consists of a complete work-up of medical history and current health, and afterwards, you are given your MID, a device that is integrated into your hand with only the slightest pinch. From there, you are guided out of the medbay and to your living quarters.

With the combined efforts of the crew, the terror plaguing the ship has been successfully removed from the Moira. Yet, it doesn’t come without consequences. Aside from the overall state of those aboard the ship, the Moira itself has taken considerable damage across various sections. Overall functionality seems stable for now, but with necessary repairs to be made and few supplies to actually make them with, the Captains have set a course for any nearby planet with the hope of finding what they need. However, that is much closer than it appears. As new arrivals begin coming through the Ingress, a message is received by those in the Tower and broadcast to everyone:
Please be advised. Your vessel is now entering Restricted Space. As per penal code 65208-A, only authorized personnel are to be admitted beyond this point. If necessary, further assistance will be provided once docked.
As there is little choice, the Captains instruct Navigation to proceed with caution. All transporters will be required to assist in taking those who volunteer to the main hub.

WELCOME TO CORRECTIONAL FACILITY DEL PASCIA

Del Pascia is one of many facilities across the universe built to maintain and rehabilitate its inhabitants. With a combined populace of both prisoners and employed civilians, it functions as both prison and living quarters. The central section of Del Pascia is divided into multiple floors that branch out into subdivisions of the facility—clearly and precisely labeled. For those contracted to work in the prison, Del Pas Main is home. There are cafeterias, common areas for exercise and general downtime, divided residences, and work stations. Beyond this area, each remaining wing of Del Pascia separates into cell blocks A through F with similar facilities available to the inmates. Varying degrees of criminals are brought to Del Pascia, ranging from maximum security to juvenile offenders, and security differs depending on which block is visited.

Yet, there is something peculiar about this prison upon further investigation: there are no living persons within Del Pascia. The AI, which runs and oversees all of Del Pascia, has made arrangements with the Moira so that those who wish may board and take what is needed to begin repairs. This program, while generally polite in nature, goes simply by the name D-E-L.

☄ ENJOY YOUR STAY ... IN PRISON

Those who choose to go to Del Pascia will find themselves greeted by D-E-L. It has already agreed to terms with the Captains, allowing crew to strip nonessential supplies that aren’t needed since the station’s crew and prisoners were relocated due to funding cuts. The only condition placed upon this agreement is that any crew wishing to explore must undergo a mandatory decontamination before proceeding through the rest of Del Pascia. This process takes only minutes and is guaranteed to cause no physical side effects. Following this simple procedure, exploration is open with only warnings to be careful about damaging key systems. It is important to note that there are various security cameras located throughout the correctional facility, and it is not uncommon for D-E-L to comment or show concern for those exploring parts of Del Pascia.

☄ DEATH BECOMES YOU

There is salvage to be found in all parts of the facility, including the cell blocks and infirmaries of the prison wings. However, there is something odd about these sectors, a strange charge in the air that follows you as you search for anything useful to bring back to the Moira. Perhaps it is the eyes of D-E-L watching? But then, after an indiscernible amount of time, it's like a switch is flipped. Suddenly, you are wearing your sins where anyone but you can see. For however much death you have wrought or committed, there will be blood on your hands—perhaps even further than that. This bizarre occurrence will appear as an almost digital skin and will not vanish until outside the cell blocks. If exploring the infirmaries for supplies, any and all health stats throughout your life will be visible and easy to read by anyone who happens to take an interest.

For those who have killed once or twice, they might find a red stain on their hands, but the higher the kill count will result in larger proportions of blood covering their arms and, in extreme cases, perhaps their entire body. The blood will vanish once you have left the prison wing, though you may occasionally see a flicker of the image while anywhere on the station. The same goes for health stats viewed in infirmary sections of Del Pascia.

☄ WHAT WAS THAT SOUND?

Del Pascia is a very large station and has been abandoned for quite some time. D-E-L will regretfully inform anyone who asks that some nonessential areas have fallen into disrepair. It will warn that exploring these areas can be risky as it has no knowledge of what damage these sections have taken. Regardless of that, if you venture in, you’ll find that these sections are in rather bad shape. Exposed wiring sparks in the walls, a great variety of broken tools are thrown about, and it seems that every camera has been purposely broken. Venturing in further will yield valuable components for salvage, and yet... as before, you suspect you aren’t alone. It isn’t often, but sometimes, you might hear a step falling moments after yours or a rattle coming from the vents. Every time you go to investigate... whatever made the noise is gone.

Should the AI be queried about this, D-E-L will emphasize that all personnel and prisoners were removed and that there is no one on board except crew from the Moira.

( ooc; For questions, go here. All players, please comment to activity check to receive new ranks (if applicable)! )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Ingress

[He's halfway to Escobar, staring at himself in the mirror in his cabin's bathroom, checking he's thin enough for his plan to work. To look like Miles, all the hated features subtly wrong in exactly the right way to pass, and to fit in his stolen uniform. He has to be, he thinks, he can't really afford to wait much longer. Not at the rate of a clone a week...

And then the world shifts around him and something pulls him away from his tiny cabin, pushes him cold and startled into an entirely different space. The floor is cold on his feet, and he looks down automatically, scowling as he realises his boots are gone. Half-panicked, he feels in his pockets; some things he's missing, but he pulls the datacube out safely, holding it gently to look at it closely. It doesn't look damaged, which is the important thing.

After that, the rest of the process is a mess of confusion and a little cold panic. They ask who he is, and disorientated, he gives them that name, although he manages to clamp his lips on anything past the first word. There's a contract he signs reluctantly, scowling, but if what they've said is true he doesn't have much choice. He baulks at the medical bay, only reluctantly undergoing a check-up when they agree to move it somewhere else without anything like needles or scalpels nearby, answering all the questions in curt monosyllables. After a little while, he's on his way, already in his new uniform and actually glad to be out of the stolen one, stomping angrily through the ship in search of his new room.]

What are you looking at?

Del Pascia - Prison Wing

[He kicks some of the broken tools across the floor, a sullen sort of interest on his face. He doesn't even recognise some of them, and he knows a lot of not strictly approved or legal uses for a lot of implements, thanks to his training. Interested enough to actually talk to someone nearby, at least.]

What do you think this one was for?

[He seems entirely unaware of the red stain over his hands as he bends down to pick it up, turning it over between his hands.]

Del Pascia - Infirmary

[He looks uncomfortable in here, face pale, eyes a little wide. The angry sullen boy from before is gone, replaced by someone who looks very unhappy. Maybe something to do with his stats, which list his name as [ERROR] and list a very long list of surgical procedures, injections of very long-named chemicals, major and minor injuries from beatings including fractures and burns, and also the information he's suffering from long-term malnutrition - and lists a fatal allergy to Sodium Pentanol

He's a little too distracted to notice it, however. He swears he can hear rustling, somewhere, and not from the person who's just entered.]

Did you hear that? It sounds like someone is here...

Wildcard

[Or make something up. He'll be around the library and main hall on the ship, lurking in the mess-hall only when it's quiet.]

[Gregor moves slowly through the wing, collecting what salvage he can, completely oblivious to the fact that he's apparently covered in blood from the base of his chin to the tops of his shoes. He's across the room from Mark and he looks over at the question, eyes narrowing curiously.]

I have a few guesses, but considering the other sort of things I keep finding in here, they're all fairly vile. Perhaps it's best not to speculate. [He catches sight of the red splash on Mark's hands and straightens a little, his brows drawing down.]

Mark, are you all right? Are you injured?

No. Why?

[Curiosity makes him look over at Gregor, only for his eyes to widen fairly dramatically. He's... almost certain that can't be blood, not unless Gregor's suddenly had his throat cut and can still somehow remain standing. Also, he's fairly sure that much blood would smell like, well, blood- not that Mark really knows how that smells.

...Not that he wouldn't put it past Gregor to do that, somehow. That kind of quiet determination can do a lot.

It's very definitely unnerving, though, and only a certain amount of regard for respect from someone who occasionally shows it stops him from backing away in search of the exit, although he does have to look away.]

...I'm guessing you can't see yourself?

[Gregor watches Mark's expression shift, going very still for a moment until Mark turns his gaze away.]

It looks like you cut your hand. I... am also guessing that it looks like there's something wrong with me as well? [He frowns a little, looking down at himself, then back up at Mark.]

...how bad is it?

My hands are fine. You look like you took a bath in blood.

[After a moment, he risks a look back. It's definitely still there, though, and he rubs his hands together awkwardly. Blood on his hands... well, he guesses there is, probably. He still sees Galen's face, sometimes, the surprise as his carefully moulded tool turned on him...]

I- this was a prison station, right?

A bath? Really.

[Gregor doesn't sound overly troubled by this, but his eyes are shadowed as he looks down at his own hands.]

I look fine to me, but I believe you. [He frowns, turning over Mark's observation.] It was, yes. ...exposing our sins for others to see, perhaps?

I heard, about Ser Galen. I'm... hmm. I'm not sure if 'sorry' is quite the correct word, but I truly cannot imagine what it must have been like for you beyond complex and painful, and for that I am sorry.

[He gestures at about neck level, although it's awkward given the nature of his shortened neck, as he risks another look at Gregor.]

About from here down. That's... a lot of sins.

[It's easier to keep his eyes fixed on Gregor's face, really. Gregor never sounds anything but calm, but not for the first time, he has to wonder what exactly the Emperor of Barrayar has to do to stay in power, what he's already done to get there. It's not quite the rhetorical seas of blood Galen used to declaim, but it's probably more than Mark would ever be comfortable with, and he rubs his hands against the side of his uniform unconsciously.

He manages to sound a little more defiant, though, when it comes to Galen.]

I wouldn't be sorry at all. I'm not. I don't think his son is, either.

[Galen was much better dead, Mark has zero doubts about that. He just feels a little sick when he remembers pulling the trigger, the surprise on Galen's face...]

(no subject)

lets_see_what_happens - 2016-04-15 02:36 (UTC) - Expand

[There's probably something to be said for irony, here. Frisk can't help but make a double-take when Mark passes by, but they're observant enough to notice the severe difference in body language, expression, even Mark's voice. Miles is intense, yes, but not aggressive.]

[After the momentary shock passes Frisk shakes their head with a little smile.] Nothin', sorry. D'you need help findin' something?

[He actually stops for that, blinking a little. Most people don't look at him and offer help. He's not Miles, and he isn't charismatic enough to carry off the twisted shape he's in.]

I don't need pity.

[But it comes out a little uncertain, because he's not actually sure he wouldn't take pity if it was offered. It's better than indifference.]

...I just want to find my room.

I can help with that! What room did you get?

[They barely even pay the refusal of pity any mind, though it does bring up thoughts of one small flower resting in a pot on a windowsill, glaring at anyone that comes near. Frisk closes the distance and hold out their hand, offering but not trying to force their presence on him.]

[He actually freezes for a moment, but... they don't seem to mean any harm, as hard as that is to believe. After a moment, very nearly despite himself, he reaches for the offered hand, resting it in theirs awkwardly.]

...Nomo. 18, I think.

[Frisk nods with a bright smile, taking his hand and turning to lead the way. Even with Mark's...unique inherited stature, Frisk hand is still fairly small in his, and they don't hold so tightly that he couldn't pull away if he wants to.]

That's the same deck I'm on! I'm in room 5. We got bunk beds an' stuff, they're really super comfy!

[He actually appreciates that, at least a little, contact without actually being too invasive, and his expression and tone of voice actually manage to reach something approaching neutral.]

...Bunk beds? Are the rooms shared, then?

(no subject)

gainedlove - 2016-04-15 05:23 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

accidentaltruth - 2016-04-25 22:58 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

gainedlove - 2016-04-26 06:17 (UTC) - Expand

[the second-ranking Dendarii officer aboard has been checking the MID map on and off all morning, watching the new names pop up and circulate about the ship. unfortunately, though, the Del Pascia debriefing is also on the MID, and Bel has been skimming it on the way back to Nomo Deck, swinging round a corner just as--

--the pace slower than that first pelting charge down the Ariel's hall a near-decade ago, a head-on collision can be avoided; at his height and momentum, shoulder versus ribs is more to the point. it's a heavy but glancing impact, a brief stumbling recovery, a wordless exclamation dying on the lips as the grey eyes meet the brown.]

[[Setting this close after his TDM thread with Miles, if that's ok!]]

[He's studied Bel, since he came up with the plan. He had to, to know how best to fool everyone. So he recognises the face, at least, as he looks up, ready to snap.

All that actually comes out though is a small sort of surprised noise. Wasn't it bad enough Miles was already here? Did he also have his entire assorted crew of misfits, too?

He toys for a moment with pretending to be Miles, a test run to see how far he'd have gotten if he hadn't been snatched, hand dropping to the datacube in his pocket. No real point, now, though, and after a moment his shoulder drop and he looks away, clearing his throat.]

What?

[[Absolutely fine :)]]

[...she'd been right, Elli with her cold anger and haunted eyes when they realized how far it had gone last time. they're closer than Bel had dreamed, closer than they could have believed, and it can't be denied that Miles's moods have been unusually frenetic of late, eyes wild, reflexes shot past predictability -- but this man has been sleeping more than half an hour a night, this man doesn't smell of the ship's current collection of miscellaneous interplanetary hygene products, this man wears shieldlike a body that doesn't know Bel's touch, and it's Ingress Day.]

Damn-- [one arm had flung out automatically to steady them both, the shake in the tight alto as much from the collision as the realization; straightening doesn't put them quite out of reach. he must know all of Miles's captains by sight now, he had enough time to study their files, but he's not playing it the way he could; he looks... closed, alone, as he turns his head away. did Miles truly get through to him, that night at the locks?]

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. The Ingress has its sense of humor. [the rueful irony is equal opportunity, whatever that's worth -- months away from their ship and crew is still a bitter cut, for all Bel tries to avoid stretching it.

a host of questions crowds about the little man, enigma in familiar shape, potential assassin, walking wounded out of Jackson's Whole; and less importantly, but still telling to the only person of this particular genetic heritage in the fleet, how Jacksonian would he turn out to be? it's hard to know where to start, if he'll even permit it, and Bel's not sure whether to handle him as something fragile or something sharp. but if he's not here to be his brother, the simplest question might be the only route to take.]

We didn't meet in person last time. [or Bel devoutly hopes they didn't. the low voice isn't effusive, but it is open to neutrality.] Have you chosen a name?

It's not a very good sense of humour.

[He meets the irony with a wry tone of his own, still studying the captain, looking for some kind of reaction. He's not sure what he was expecting, but... neutrality probably wasn't it, somehow. Hatred? Disdain? Some kind of opinion on his existence, at least; everyone else seems to have one, after all. For a moment his eyebrows draw in, remembering that hastily uttered "Mark" at the interview, before he shakes his head.]

No. But it's not like that seems to matter to anyone else. Pick a name, everyone else does.

[He can't help the bitter tone of voice, and he doesn't want to. If they're going to bring him here, offer him the very slightest taste of freedom from Miles and then take it away again, he isn't going to pretend he's okay with it.]

It's really not. [irony for irony -- a good sign. can he laugh? after what he's been through, Bel isn't holding any breath, but maybe someday.] Did it take your footwear too? It likes that.

[had a strong opinion about the Komarran plot, but its central piece had gone and jumped the board. if he's not going to try again -- those last moments of grandstanding on the recording, promising to hijack the fleet and sail it into disaster -- what's Bel to make of him now, a man who doesn't even admit to owning a name? does he even know himself who he wants to be, besides not that?]

That's no way to live. By 'everybody', you mean--? [the captains? your brother? the Emperor who'd been your follow-up target? the cousin who'd nearly been collateral damage? or one other -- but if he manages to Ingress out of wherever your nerve disruptor sent him, I'll shoot him again myself.]

...yeah, it took the boots. And a couple of other things.

[Not his boots, really. Miles' uniform, Miles' boots. He doesn't own much of anything at all, and even less now the Ingress has stolen some of it.

He shrugs, abrupt, irritated by the line of questioning. All very well for other people to say "no way to live", but it wasn't exactly like he had much choice for the first eighteen years of his life. And even after that, Miles and his insistence on that ludicrous name, as if Barrayan custom meant anything to a clone who'd grown up on Jackson's Whole and then on Earth under Komarran teachings.]

Does it matter who?

(no subject)

hellsbel - 2016-04-15 01:57 (UTC) - Expand

[ There's a moment that feels almost like vertigo when she walks into the room. A flicker of light as her file appears beside her, as she faces a familiar face and a familiar voice that is at the same time out of sync.

She blinks, then his words hit and she shifts, scanning the room carefully, looking for places someone might be able to attack from, her hand falling to the pickaxe strapped to her hip. ]

I've heard it in different parts of the ship. Have you seen anything?

No, just heard it.

[He lightens up a little, though. At least he's not hearing things that aren't there, which is always comforting. After a moment's further listening, met only really by silence now, his eyes actually focus on the person who just came in. Armed, sort of, although the way she's got her hand on the pickaxe makes him uneasy and he shifts sideways a little, getting an abandoned bed between them. There's some kind of screen hovering behind him, and he reads it unthinkingly.]

Are you... Lara Croft?

[ She doesn't quite relax when nothing comes of the noise, though her hand falls away from the axe handle. They really ought to figure out what's going on around here, if only so they know if it's safe to stay longer or not. She blows out a breath and focuses back on-- She's not sure. ]

Yes... [ Her eyes flick to the screen behind him, then shifts slightly, looking over to see her own. ] ...Oh. That's a bit invasive.

...It is.

[He tilts his head back, getting a better look at his own, where it hovers at what would be head height on anyone who wasn't so drastically shortened at 4'9". Even the screen doesn't seem to know what his name is- although it seems to know everything else, and his faces goes even paler for a moment, all the things he went through up there in black and white.

No-one needs to know all that. He doesn't even need to see it all like that, let alone anyone else. He can't help getting stuck somewhere between panic and anger at the situation, obvious in his tone of voice.]

Did you read mine?

[ At the question, her eyes very nearly go to his screen out of impulse. Still it'd been rather hard to miss the big glowing screen as she walked into the room so she nods slightly. ]

A little. Not on purpose. [ But also: ] Did you read mine?

...Sorry.

Because of course he had. Habit, as much as anything else, finding out whatever he can about the person he's faced with. And he supposes he's less angry at her for reading it than he is angry about the situation, frustrated he can't even keep his past a secret here.

He sort of has to ask, though.]

You survived all that?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only