#diplomat 01

[800movingobjects-blog]

@dangerousallies

It didn’t take long for Prowl to discover the train station, and by extension, the train. It was rather suspicious, in his opinion, that he--and others, he had seen--were apparently allowed to roam unattended. He had been surprised when the train required a pass to board, but even more surprised when he discovered that he had one already on his person. Getting aboard, he found that the train had only four stops: Tranquility, Nectar, Crisis, and Commerce. Crisis was where he was coming from, and he had to admit it wasn’t very pleasant there, but the other options seemed a little too good to be true. Who designed this place? Prowl had time and more to try and puzzle out this bizarre situation, but as he boarded the train he discovered he was not there alone. A--human, he guessed, was already there. Great. He threw himself down in a seat and pointedly ignored them.

[tidecast-blog]

@dangerousallies

The little communication device is strange, as most things here are. Sleeker than what usually comes out of gnomish or goblin hands, less shiny than draenei’s, the interface more complex. Convenient, though: she’s found she can make it display a map of the area, or show the weather forecast, and there’s messaging options that would be interesting were it not for the amount of names available there, of people who presumably are in the same situation as she is.

But for the moment, those are secondary concerns. She’s been scowling again at the response this Enforcement Protocol gave her earlier question, or, more precisely, the absolute lack of answer within. Someone has to be running this place and setting those inexplicable ‘rules’, surely, and she hates not knowing. 

In view of this, perhaps she is not in the kindest of moods when she turns at the sound of the door to the common area opening behind her, blue eyes narrowing when the face seems familiar despite everything, and the smile that pulls at her lips when it clicks is both polite and glacial.

“Are you always so keen to ask about murder, neighbor, or was it only academic curiosity?”

[wheelbadge-blog]

STARTER: @dangerousallies​

Alfred’s sitting on a table in the living room stripped down to a grey turtleneck and loose pants, mending his clothes. A small bubble of comfort and normalcy in his otherwise surreal situation.

(He remembers-- returning, triumphant, unburdened, reconciled with his fate. The sharpness of his own sword. And the blood, and the blood, and waking up. Impossibly: waking up.)

After the initial shock he’d taken the time to pull his room apart, methodically: sheets and pillows in a pile, every drawer opened, bathroom and closet inspected. He’d found need and thread in the closet, alongside a strange machine whose purpose was unclear to him; there was no grey thread that matched his Executioner’s vestments exactly, but an off-color patch job was better than leaving a hole in his robes.

It’s odd: the holes are on his chest and back where the sword went through, but there is no blood left on his clothing.

He looks up when someone else enters the room, bracing himself. He’s seen the closed doors, and expects more occupants, but what form such occupants might take he doesn’t dare guess. But the newcomer appears to be nothing more than a normal human.

“Oh, hello,” Alfred says, quickly putting on a pleasant smile. He doesn’t take his eyes off them, leaving his work on hold for now. “I suppose you are one of my roommates...? You can call me Alfred. It’s a pleasure.”