#ark open

[barktiers-blog]

TO: all contacts FROM: Jade Harley

[msg] hey what do you think your fursona would be? :B [msg] wait [msg] this is john right?! O: [msg] oh no

[rc-8018]

In most ways Hope can think of, his life has been a series of bad situations, unpleasant problems that no one else could or wanted to solve. He’s used to the unknown. He excels at it. And nobody ever asked him whether he wanted to deal with any of those, either.

He can almost convince himself that this isn’t anything new.

When he found himself unarmed, all but naked, lying in a strange room on a mattress so soft he didn’t even recognize it as a bed at first, he progressed from total shock into tactical reconnaissance within about sixty seconds. (Not that he accepted this, of course, or decided it made any damn sense-- but shock and disbelief is a quick route to an early grave. Not that they have graves in his business.)

Nothing in the room suggested a threat, except his mounting sense of surreality. (Has he ever been in something he could classify as a bedroom before? He’s not even sure he’s seen one. Recognizing it is more a matter of deduction-- room with bed equals bedroom?-- than any familiarity.)

What was more concerning (is more concerning) was his total lack of arms. Whatever purpose, whatever person had brought him here had left him bare-- armor, guns, ammunition, knives, all gone.

The first theory he started turning over in his mind goes like this: he had suffered some kind of trauma, bad enough to knock him out of commission, plus a healthy dose of retrograde amnesia. This isn’t so far off from how he’d wake up in a medbay-- stripped down to the minimal layers of clothing or less, all his kit stored away for him-- except that nothing his eyes see tells him this is anything like a medbay. The hazy idea of a dollhouse comes to mind, he’s not sure from where.

It would be nice to think he’s safe. Hope isn’t biting.

He’s not sure what other options that leaves him. Kidnapping? Afterlife? Delusion or coma? None are very appealing.

He can’t put together any of the information available into anything coherent. Typical intel, he thinks, wryly. The room has windows, which seem like regular glass, nothing reinforced or plastoid-- and outside those windows are trees he doesn’t recognize. Further down, through the branches, there are glimpses of paths and occasional movement. He can’t find any bugs or tricks to the items left in the room: there’s an array of clothing, shoes in what he thinks must be his size, soap, about a quarter of his gear. The architecture of the room is bizarre. Like something out of a Wookiee fairytale. The furniture, the little datapad left for him here, is anachronistic. He doesn’t get it.

Hope’s been sitting on the floor, leaning against the mattress so he’s out of line of sight of the windows, just thinking for about an hour and a half now. Thinking isn’t quite the right word: he’s somewhere between critical analysis and reaching out, like he’s in the dark without his night-vision, trying to sense the shape of what’s around him.

He doesn’t sense any danger-- no barrel of a gun that he doesn’t realize he’s staring down. That makes him nervous.

You don’t just black out and wake up in some bizarre diorama of a real person’s life, on some planet you don’t recognize, and have it be a good thing.

(To be fair, he felt a lot more nervous before he barricaded the door with a dresser. Just to be sure.)

The phone is still where he found it when he woke up, discarded after he checked the display and found it-- to put it charitably-- outdated. The functions are straightforward. He digs through them all, absorbing all the information he can, looking for any glimmer of what the fuck is going on. There’s maps-- confusing ones-- and a pre-filled contact list of names he doesn’t recognize. Basic video/audio capabilities, and a hologram setting. There’s a dating app. He files that away for later, category ‘misc’. (There’s actually quite a few apps, but he isn’t ready to go through all of them just yet.)

There are a couple of 'protocols’ whose feeds seem to autopopulate in his datapad, full of questions from other residents(?) and responses from some kind of AI. Some regulations (the term ‘illegal murder’ holds his attention for nearly two full minutes). The questions are weird, and for a minute he wonders whether they’re automatically generated, random filler text to make it seem active. Discussion of different worlds. Names he doesn’t recognize -- Eorzea, Concordance of Angels, TranStar, Earth -- although that doesn’t count for that much. He knows what he needs to know. Seems like he could stand to know a few more things now, though.

There are a couple of details that catch his interest in the records, glittering like pretty glass buried in the sand. First, according to the yellow protocol, they are on another plane of existence. That would be plenty to chew on, in its own right. He lets the thought sit as he contemplates it. Second, they are on some kind of space station. Third, it was built some time ago-- he isn’t sure what the conversion is of one Earth year to the standard units he’s familiar with, but common sense about how fast a habitable planet can orbit a sun suggests it can’t be too recent.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Hope weighs this information piece by piece, turning each around in his mind. He would not go so far as to call them facts-- after all, the Codex also said ghosts were real, and all this information has been conveniently left right in front of his nose like meat on a hook -- but he can’t discount anything at this point.

He is formulating a plan. Although it is less of a plan than a series of objectives, with the first objective being ‘stay alive’, and the second being ‘gather intel'.

He’ll have to go outside for that, which is what he’s cleverly avoided up until this point, balancing reconnaissance against cowardice. Seems like the balance has finally tilted.

He puts together a depressing assortment of so-called gear: surprisingly solid pair of boots (they are in his size), black cargo pants, gray tee. His rations, canteen, and first aid equipment are wrapped up in a sweater and tied up with some of the rope, then slung over his shoulder. The datapad goes, begrudgingly, into his pocket. If they can track him with it, they already know exactly where he is anyway.

When he steps outside, he doesn’t know what he’s expecting: not the immediate shock of finding his name above the door, spelled out like he’s seldom seen it, HOPE RC-8018. That takes him aback enough to leave him standing agape for two whole seconds. Good thing no one is around to witness the slip.

A quick sweep later and he’s found there’s three rooms like his, also labeled, and an array of common areas. There’s nothing remarkable except the fact that there are common areas, like this is some kind of-- dorm or something. Not sure what to make of it.

He intends to descend immediately to the first floor, but stops short when the stairs lead him into an open-air garden between the levels.

It’s beautiful. The air is sweet and crisp on the wind, alien in a way he can’t qualify but that smells of minerals and growth and new atmosphere. He wishes he had his suit-- not that he begrudges the softness of the breeze on his skin, but it’s like he’s missing a second pair of eyes, staring right at readouts and analysis results that he’s too blind to see. He’d sell an organ for some more explicit information right now.

The ledge of the garden spreads in front of him, a promise and a threat: wide view, no cover. His movements are slow and methodical as he approaches the little wall around the edge to gaze out at the scene below, studying the little streets and trying to identify the furry shapes he sees occasionally between the tree branches.

It almost absorbs him. The way he turns around is sudden, more reflex than conscious thought, as some part of his mind starts pinging an alert. Someone’s coming.

[ofmorley-blog]

Let it not be said that Teague Martin is not a man of the future. This place is confusing, confounding, at times impossible, but he has taken three days to get his bearings. So far, things have gone well. He has learned that the light-up display is his holophone, whatever that means, and he has fiddled around with it enough without breaking it to learn the basics of how it works. He has even downloaded a few ‘apps’. One of those apps is Kindling.

Apparently this Kindling is a dating service, meant for those avoidant of genuine human interaction, but as far as Teague is concerned it’s an easy way to get a handle on the people he’s been stuck with here. If he can find anyone else from Dunwall, even better, but he’d like to make a few alliances as soon as he can to make sure it doesn’t end up him against the world.

He’s swiping right on pretty much everyone. Gotta keep his options open.

Eventually there’s a ding! of someone else matching with him, or so the app tells him, and he’s a little bit confused tapping at the screen so he misses exactly who it is, but once he’s on the right screen he figures it’s only polite to say something.

[msg] Stuck here too, are you?

[churchassassin]

The last thing Brador remembers--

It’s dark in the cell. Cold, but he stopped minding that weeks ago. The Church hunters in black brought someone new today, a mousy-looking man in odd dress. He’s muttering. Something about hunters and beasts and shackles, over and over. Brador tells him to shut up, but he doesn’t, only says louder, Proud hunter of the church, beasts are a curse and the curse is a shackle...

Brador considers opening the door and killing the bastard. He’s always been able to leave this cell; the point is that he doesn’t want to. The thought slips away like sand between his fingers. Brador knows he’ll sit here until he dies. For Laurence, he will give his whole self, whatever years he has left, even the marrow in his bones. After Laurence... (what a bitter phrase.) his world can be measured like this: a single room, a creaking bed, a door that he can unlock but never will. 

The pelt he wears, its coarse white fur stroking his neck and cheeks with every movement, is heavy on his head. It weighs as it should.

One way or another, he slips into a fitful sleep. When he wakes, he’s somewhere else. (What registers? Dull surprise. Perhaps he should panic. He’s never felt the way he should, always too serious as a child, too quiet, and then scary as an adult man.) He extricates himself from the too-soft bed and takes in the situation.

His Bloodletter is gone. (Here it comes: an itching anxiety.) The bell given to him by the Church, as well. A cursory examination of the room turns up clean clothes (ignored), an odd glowing device (he pockets it), and various toiletries. In short: nothing useful.

Outside the window, he sees the sea. This is wrong. It’s crystalline blue and beautiful when it should be grey-green and thrashing, angry like an upturned hornet’s nest. Brador’s too far from where he should be, too far from the things that remain of Laurence which he has protected jealously for the past months.

He reaches up and runs fingers through white, matted fur. It grounds him. Think.

He opens the door of his room and peeks out, furtively. A clean apartment with furniture in a style he hasn’t seen. There are other doors with nameplates on them - he doesn’t bother to look, just moves quickly to the elevator and takes it to the ground floor. Outside the sun is blinding. He staggers on the sand and catches himself on his hands. This close to the waves he thinks he hears singing, or maybe screaming?

The inside of his head is loud and clamoring. He catches his breath.

[concordantknight-blog]

White Chain may be unfamiliar with the specifics of this “Halloween” festival, but she has seen the general case more times than she can count. (Well, no. She could have kept count of them - her memory is excellent, even for an Aeon - but doing so would have been an inefficient use of her mental resources.) The trappings change, but the core activities are always the same - singing and dancing, rides and games, food and drink, and the ever-present intoxicants. White Chain is an angel and a Concordant Knight; she is pure, resolute, and unconcerned with such carnal human desires. By all accounts, she should be busy meditating, or training, or planning further disruptions. At the very least, the festival seems an obvious distraction on the part of the Protocols, and she should be trying to discover what it is meant to distract them from.

These thoughts spin through her mind over and over as she wanders the festival grounds. Sometimes, she sits in on a barn dance, letting the synchronized vibrations of so many stamping feet echo through the hollows of her armor. Sometimes she wanders the carnival grounds, awash in cries of triumph and despair. She even spends several hours casing the fortune teller’s tent, looking for signs that its proprietor has true sight. Always, though, she is on the outside, looking in. And always, always, a knot of unnameable bitterness deep in her chest.

This festival, White Chain thinks, cannot be over soon enough.

[bloodedundine-blog]

Lizzy still wasn't used to this holophone she had been given. Sure, there were telephones in Dunwall so she got the basic concept. But they sure weren't portable and definitely did not moving images and bright lights. Whoever designed it must be smart enough to make Sokolov look like an idiot by comparison.

She'd familiarized herself with the basics of it. Contact list, the ability to get in touch with the 'protocols' running the place, and a bunch of other stuff. One of the locals had helpfully described the little icons on the screen as 'applications', or 'apps' for short. Whatever the fuck that meant.

What interested her most though, was an app with a little heart for an icon. When she opened it, a few of the locals' names and pictures popped up with brief descriptions of themselves. Preference, relationship status, gender, age, interests, so on and so on. After fiddling with it for a minute she realized it was meant to help people hook up. Now that was useful to her.

Lizzy got to work building her own profile. Preference? Very, very gay. Gender? Female, obviously. Interests? Arson, fighting, piracy, jaywalking. She took a flattering picture of herself flashing her teeth (with a bit of tongue sticking out for good measure), and finalized the profile.

With that out of the way she got to work. Simple concept. You swiped to one side if you liked someone's profile, the opposite if you didn't. She started swiping. "No, eh, no thanks, pass, pass, hell no."

Lizzy was about to give up and head to bed early when a profile caught her eye. "Aaaand swipe right."

Swiping right opened up a messaging system. She made the first move.

[msg]: sup

[msg]: u seem cool

[lordofthewindsong]

It's funny. When he last closed his eyes, Levin wasn't really expecting to open them ever again, and yet - here he is.

He only has a second to ponder this before rolling out of his bed to violently retch up blackened blood all over the floor, arms barely able to support his own weight. He stays there for quite a while, trembling, unable to stop - but finally, the hacking and choking turns to quiet coughs, and eventually he slumps to the side, only barely avoiding landing in the puddle he's left.

Speaking of which. Very slowly, as though all his reactions have been delayed and muddled (they have), he realizes that his clothes are, in fact, clean, dry, and untorn. This is quite the difference from where he was at last, laying in a pool of his own blood and tears, and he'd be shocked if he had. The mental. Capacity, to actually do that. Right now he just feels tired, and dead, dead like he probably should be, right now.

...those fish outside are a really nice distraction from the way everything in him hurts.

……..Fish?

This does prompt him to raise his head, squinting at the world outside this… bedroom, place. It's like nothing he's seen in Jugdral. Jugdral didn't have fishes like that, he didn't think; surely nothing so colorful and bright was brought in from Silesia’s coasts! And even if they were, no one built houses and rooms underwater.

He sits up, wobbles, squints at the outside, arms curled around his chest protectively, searching for something to hold - Forseti. Forseti, Forseti, where was Forseti-

The tome is on the nightstand, but he knows something is wrong from just one touch. The power, that oh so familiar feeling that resided inside it is gone; when he opens it, his fears are confirmed. All the words inside have been replaced, rewritten not even with the standard runes of a mage but with the common tongue. It doesn't matter; the meaning is the same: prayers and invocations of Forseti, bidding the divine god of winds to descend and pass his judgment upon the hearts of those caught in his gale.

It doesn't matter, anyways. It doesn't work in the common tongue; it doesn't work for people who don't have the god’s blood in their veins. He could share this with a thousand people and not one could master it, not even in the most basic of tongues. It's useless.

And still he clutches it tight to his chest, holds it close to him, because he needs comfort and has no other right now. Fury is presumably far, far from here, and Sety is with her, and if Manfroy is right then Sigurd and his army have all burned and he was right in his suspicions. He is, at this moment, quite alone, and if the tightness in his chest and the puddle of blood on the ground is any indication, that's how he will end, too.

For a while, he's content to languish in how much he feels like shit right now, and how close he probably is to dying of dark magic poisoning - but not for long. Eventually, he's sick of that, and so he wipes his mouth on his sleeve, grabs a blanket from the bed (he's shivering, shaking uncontrollably - he's not entirely sure if that's from cold, though), and makes for the door, stumbling. Once outside, he leans on the wall, like it's some lifeline - and then, slowly, he starts making his way around, leaning against the wall for support all the while.

There is a staircase (which he ignores, other than staring down into it and wondering how deep this place went), some shiny thing he doesn't know the name of, more fake fish, a pool (useless to him. He can't swim), and then…

Oh, well. He's tired.

And so Levin collapses into the closest seat to the entrance of the living room, and contents himself with languishing in misery there.

[ordennan-steel-blog]

Hella doesn’t remember falling asleep. It’s not a habit she indulges much in, anymore.

This isn’t the room she would have fallen asleep in, had she fallen asleep, though. She can tell before she even sits up and takes a look around. Something about its ostentatious decor seeps directly into one’s pores; too glamorous, by far, to be one of the rooms in Samol’s house. Plus, there’s there gnawing anxiety of being somewhere you’re certainly not supposed to be, especially when there’s somewhere else you’re really supposed to be.

Hella’s not very good at sorting her thoughts into words. She’s a woman of action (never mind the brooding fit she’d been indulging in prior to this), and, as a woman of action, she gets up from the bed. The room is entirely unfamiliar. There’s her armor, though, approximately where she left it when she took it off, there’s her pre-Erasure spyglass, there’s...

Hella narrows her eyes.

Her scabbard is empty. Her sword is gone.

If only she had the luxury of thinking, ah, easy come, easy go, I’ll get a new one from the next weapon-seller. If only she were still ignorant of the sword’s true nature, she wouldn’t be feeling a rising panic now. She searches the room. She looks under the bed, checks the wardrobe, anywhere a reasonably large sword might be. Nothing turns up, except for a strange, small device with a glowing surface. There’s small words on it. Hella picks it up to try and read them, but it reacts to her touch, and the glowing part changes.

She frowns. She turns it over. The back is dull and blank. She turns it back. A list of names glows up at her, most of them unrecognizable. Hella mistrusts lists, or she’s started to, ever since they found out what Arrell’s was for. In fact, this stupid shit is precisely the kind of thing Arrell would be behind. Did he somehow sneak up on them at Samol’s, and trap them all in one of his bubble universes? That would be just her luck.

Hella puts the small device carefully into her pocket, and tries the door. To her mild surprise, it isn’t locked, and opens into a dim hallway. Her gaze sweeps the area, looking for her friends - or anyone, really, who might be able to explain the situation to her.