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deep in the murk
"It comes first and follows after. Ends life, kills laughter."
With the outcome of the battle against the Caducans and the Moira having twisted together with their ship to form a strange combination of glass, metal, and organic parts (both across the ship and among the crewmembers), there is still the matter of the Ingress not functioning “properly”. It hasn’t worked correctly since the very first person arrived on the Moira through it, and there is little the Captains themselves know about its functions. However, now, more than before, it’s even worse than that. The Ingress malfunctions yet again. This time, though, it doesn’t simply combine time and space and objects around it—it encompasses the entirety of the ship and sends it far off into a completely different universe. Welcome to:
( click text for a rough map/layout )This puts the Moira closer to its final destination, and most of the glass has disappeared as the Caducan ship has been left behind aside from small things here and there (i.e., some of the walls in the corridors, random furniture in the rooming decks, the rooms themselves). Even the mess hall has permanently changed. Yet, there is some bad news that comes with this transition. The universe the ship is in is so terrible that it has been given its own name so that travelers avoid it altogether. Even the Captains themselves are aware of just how Bad News this universe is and had originally planned to take “the long way around” to avoid it. Anything shady or unsavory can be found in the Runoff, and while it might not appeal to the majority, it is simply second-nature to those who inhabit it. From arms trafficking to drugs, whatever one might think is illegal somewhere else is suddenly very legal and very dangerous.
Through the transition, some of the crew will accidentally end up on a nearby outpost specifically used for slave trade. It is a covered, temporary establishment used only for this purpose, meaning there are no open markets, hotels, or businesses of any sort. Stalls and tents line dirty streets, and ships litter the space around the outpost. This is a slave trade zone. People come and go but do not stay. Various lifeforms can be found here, and there are many different forms of slave trade happening. The motto “honor among thieves” does not exist in this place either. Crew who end up here will be “free”; however, this means that there is the potential to be taken and sold or kept by those of the Runoff. The Moira will not be close to this outpost, but the signals given from their MIDs will alert the crew to their location. Rescue, obviously, is imminent, but those who choose to help their fellow crewmembers must keep to small stealth missions using transporters or other crafts with one important detail in mind: they cannot bring attention or notice to the Moira itself.
Almost one-third of the crew has found themselves on the slave trade outpost, leaving the rest to plan for rescue. The Captains will immediately divulge all information that they have about the outpost, which is unfortunately very little outside of the stigma associated with the Runoff. The Captains will ask any MID techs or those with skills to create a program that allows person to person location; this function will allow crewmembers to search for those on the outpost via their MIDs. Rescue efforts are encouraged, and all the ships and transporters in the cargo bay will be available for public use. Crew will be told to be careful and quiet, bringing no attention to the Moira’s location, and most importantly, do not stand out. If crew look and act like they don’t belong there, others will notice. Stealth is the name of the game, and blending in is a necessity. ☄ time goes by slowly The unfortunate crewmembers who ended up on the outpost have now found themselves pursued by those looking to make a profit through slave trade. The standards of hard labor vary from owner to owner, but it is what it sounds like. Rough, hard work that will last as long as the body performing it can endure. If purchased, owners might examine their new property to determine what type of work they’d be best suited for and then split them up into holding areas until they are done with their purchases. Others might have their slaves begin work by cleaning their ship or holding stalls or packing up their tents and gear. The owners, and their needs, are as varied as the universe. Did you manage to escape? Or were you forced to work before you were rescued? ☄ and it seems to last forever Like the crewmembers taken by general labor owners, the murdersport slavers buy and take whomever they believe can last the longest in the pit. Some take those who appear to be strong or have great stamina, and some take those who are light on their feet or are quick-witted. Some crew are chosen simply based on appearance and how good they’ll look in their gear. If pursued, the slavers will do everything they can to capture the Moirans, and if captured, crew might be taken to a holding stall or a testing pit so that their skills can be witnessed by the public and tested. Some slavers want to show off their new property by throwing them into small roped off areas with other slaves, various creatures, or machines. Some make them stand up in front of groups and simply show them off, boasting that, at the next big event in the Runoff, they’ll surely win the grand prize. What kind of slaver has taken you? Will you be forced to fight before you rescue? Or will you not make it to the Moira before the Ingress pulls you back? ☄ but then it starts to fly ( cw: sex ) As is typical of this universe, slave trade comes in various forms. The most notorious being its illustrious sex trade. Slaves are bought and sold quickly and often, with no notable preference for appearance or species. Buyers come from all over to find slaves to work in their brothels, for personal use, as in-house entertainment, and much more. While the other two most popular type of slave trade don’t care as much about the physical well being of their property, these specific owners usually do. They might try to incapacitate first, so that the slaves aren’t bruised or cut, and if necessary, use binds until they can get them back to their ships or holding stalls. Some owners have their slaves cleaned and dressed in the finest attire, while others shove them into uniforms and tossed into stalls. Were you captured? Did you escape? Or were you rescued before something untoward occurred? What's more, events of the past always have a way of coming back to haunt you.
Months past, a monster terrorized the crew and left a very literal mark upon those that it touched. Those scarred by encounters with the Ploiatos will find their minds drifting as they work and go about their day. They may also find themselves in a different part of the ship than intended when they come back to themselves. It happens slowly, these small moments of lost time. But both before and after these events occur, one might notice that the scars seem to shift slightly. Where the patterns have been stable for months, suddenly the branching arms of the scars appear to be in a slightly different position than before. More often than not, those who lose time will regain awareness and find themselves in Navigation. When this happens, oftentimes Captain Manasseh will herd them out with a quiet, but undeniably firm, suggestion to visit the infirmary. More unsettling are the moments when they awaken in the I.L.R. standing outside the one door that should never be opened. As for those who were lucky enough to avoid encounters with the creature locked within, they must figure out how to deal with their friends and fellow crew who seem to walk around in a fog with no control of their actions.
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thisavrou_log2016-07-19 01:11 am
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Tarn reaches for the cube, barely able to reach it without him having to lunge for it. His fingers tremble as he lifts it to the slit of his mask. The minute it hits Tarn's tongue, he knows that he's made a terrible mistake. This swill makes the Fools Energon taste like the finest high grade. He sputters, forcing himself to swallow the mouthful. Trembling he goes to take another sip, but ends up spraying it back out the slit in his mask, hacking up fluid from his intakes. He can't do it.]
This is poison.
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Yeah. [he sighs.] C'mon, leave it alone. There's no point harming yourself more.
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They must be doing this on purpose. Keeping us weak enough through starvation that we can't escape. Who knows what sort of fuel that even is.
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[he shakes his head, not looking away from tarn. for once, riptide won't be the one ashamed here.]
Guess I'm lucky I refueled before they got us.
[he doesn't feel too bad, tarn.]
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[Tarn doesn't bother hiding the bitterness in his voice. Even fully fueled, the fools energon never fully replenished his energy levels.]
What have they asked of you? He called on me yesterday and just wanted to rub himself on me. It was disgusting.
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[riptide looks sick for a moment.]
On... on my deck! He said if I let him lay on my deck for a while he'd give me some nicer energon.
[he puts a hand to his head.]
It was out in the sun and I fell asleep, I-- brrff. I'm gonna be sick. I don't even know if anything happened but I'm gonna be sick.
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Well if that's the nicer energon, then I would hate to see what the regular stock is like.
I refused to let him touch me-- which is probably why I have gone without fuel since we got here. I don't need his grubby hands touching me. Have you noticed the weird look he gets whenever he watches us? It's like something has sprung a leak inside him.
[Tarn isn't sure why Riptide is so concerned. What could he possibly think that he did while Riptide was asleep? He must be missing something.]
If you're going to be sick, don't do it on me. Honestly you already let him lay on you what's the worst that he could have done?
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[he scrubs his face a few times, trying really hard to not empty what little is in his tanks.]
Maybe I'll call him and tell him he can rub himself as much as he wants on me. Then I'll throw him into the stratosphere. Jerk.
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[Tarn shudders at the mere thought of it.]
I wouldn't call any more attention to yourself than is absolutely necessary. there is too much potential for things to go awry at the moment. We need to collect more information about where we are and what types of weapons they posses to keep us in line. Making wild bids for freedom, although cathartic, may only prove detrimental in the long run.
[He has no idea what sort of technology is being used in the prods, but he does know that last time he was hit with one it had more than enough juice to send him offline for a brief period. Tarn doesn't want to think about what else they could have waiting in the wings.]
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[he huffs flopping back against the wall.]
Stop being right, it's making it harder for me to hate you.
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Would it help if I said something off-color and insulting towards you?
[Tarn stretches his legs out in front of him. All of this sitting and waiting is making his joints stiff.]
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...
Actually, no, I would. Because then you'd catch even more fire.
[his hands go up and he makes a pwhooo noise.]
Crispy Tarn.
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[Tarn cant help but shake his helm in disgust.
No matter how hard Tarn may try, his gaze is repeatedly drawn back to the cube of "energon." He's so goddamn hungry, he can barely think of anything else. Casually he drags it back towards him. Maybe if he just chugged it and got it over with quickly...
Tarn glances over to see if Riptide is judging him.]
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[riptide is too tired to actually give a shit about tarn's opinions right now, not that he ever did, and doesn't break optic contact.
oh yes, is he being judged.]
You know if we made an escape attempt we'd just leave you here anyway.
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[Tarn's optics flash dangerously the minute the sentence leaves his lips.]
Have you truly learned nothing? Even after I ripped your spark out with my bare hands?
[Despite the fatigue weighing Down his mind, Tarn knows that he can't just let Riptide's comment slide. He can't press an attack in the state that he's in, but perhaps the energon will give him just enough of a boost.
Snatching up the fuel, Tarn chugs it, refusing to let the taste deter him from the energy that he desperately needs. By the time he's through with the cube, there is a renewed fire burning within him. Or so he tells himself. Really it's probably just crippling nausea. Tarn tries to drag himself up to lunge at Riptide, barely letting the fuel settle in his tanks when suddenly it's coming back up. The DJD Commander collapses on his hands in knees in front, retching into the inside of his mask. Fuel drips down his chin to form a puddle underneath him.
Refusing to give up, Tarn swats blindly and ineffectually in Riptide's direction.]
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this might be funny, if it was basically anyone else. vaguely, riptide wonders where tarn got these abandonment issues from. he can't imagine someone like the leader of the djd having such a basic problem. he'd ask, if it was literally anyone else.
or if he cared. riptide decides not to tell tarn that he took that ability away from him.]
... I won't tell anyone if you don't.
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It takes a few minutes before he's able to look up; although he refuses to look in the Autobot's direction.]
Fine. [The word is rough and staticy before he clears his throat.] No one needs to know so long as I'm not made to stay here.
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You know if nothing else, Megatron would come in to drag you out. We can't leave Cybertronian scrap laying around.
[he's pushing it and he knows it.]
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[He's not bitter. Tarn wishes he could just grind Riptide's face into the dirt floor of the pen. Instead, he manages to lung forward enough to swat Riptide upside the head.
Unfortunately his angry floundering and has earned the attention of their jailers.]
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[he strike makes him jerk his head back, stumbling slightly.]
Did you even ask him?!
[riptide hasn't noticed the jailers, just yet.]
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[Their organic captors enter the pen, prods in hand. By the time Tarn notices hes up in a flash, futilely trying to back away, fists clenched and ready to strike at them if they get to close. Unfortunately, the prods are long and quick to strike Tarn's flank before he can attempt any sort of offense.
He grunts, falling to his knees and putting his hands up in a sign of good will. Fighting isn't worth it right now, especially when they are all scattered and without a solid plan of attack.
He supposes this is what he gets for scuffing Riptide's paint with his weak ass punch. Can't have the chattel trying to off each other in the pens. It certainly is rather counterproductive to how well kept O'Nel has tried to keep the two of them.]
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[look he's learned a thing!]
Leave him alone!
[riptide can't believe he's saying that, but he feels like to a degree they have to work together. he doesn't want to kill any of them (okay that's a lie he does) but has to settle for trying to rip the prods out of their hands and lobbing them against the wall.
he gets one, before he's zapped in the back of the knee and goes sprawling, much like tarn did.]
Ugh. Tell Yaj to shove those up his ass if he wants a proper experience. [another zap to the side of the head. riptide coughs, smoke coming out his mouth.]
...
You should've asked him, genius.
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However, he doesn't reciprocate as Riptide is hit with the prod. Several times. He just watches.
Tarn waits several minutes for the organics to exit the pen before he speaks again.]
Perhaps I will. Ask him, that is.
I deserve an explanation if nothing else.
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Thanks for the help, slaglord. Try talking to him. He's good with words. You of all people should know that.
[and now he's just frustrated with tarn in a "why are you so stupid it's so obvious" way.]