(openish | prison log) lock our eyes on distant horizons

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Date & Time: Nov. 19th - ??? at least several days, tbd
Location: Empty housing in the West Wing.
Characters: Arrested mutineers & visitors (potentially YOU)
Summary: Everyone locked up some mutineers so now they're slightly stuck in place.
Warnings: there will probably be discussion of violence and death, will add if necessary.

[ Mutineers have been put in some of the empty rooms in the West Wing, one guard at a time on the hallway and the doors only able to be opened from the outside for now. Roslyn and whoever else she can get to volunteer are rotating guard duty.

They have been set four to a room for the moment.

Cell 1: Charlie, Connor, Max, and very briefly Sev
Cell 2: Chloe, Marie, Tempest, Bond
Cell 3: Sev (after not long at all)
Cell 4: Jesse (after taking Tempest's powers)

Visitors are allowed, but please note that anyone who had at any point been advocating violence against the mutineers in a place where Roslyn is likely to have seen it will absolutely not be allowed near them. Visits will be supervised and in a separate room from the cells for the sake of privacy, with the door open and a guard within easy eyesight  and earshot of any raised voices. 

Mutineers will start without access to their tablets but will regain access within approximately a day to two days. However! These tablets will be temporarily unable to encrypt messages. Private messages to personal inboxes are still accessible but on the network itself all their interaction must be public.

Guards on Duty: Roslyn, Riku, Raiden, Wesley Mitchell, Travis Marks, Seras Victoria, Caspian. Working on 6 hour rotations, so each guard is on approximately once every 1 1/2 days.

If you have any questions about confinement etc just let me know! ]

Comments

Connor | OTA | 19th - so many question marks

[skennen]

[Connor is delivered to 'cell 1' unconscious - and he stubbornly clings to that state of being for a few hours longer. Even when he finally stirs, he does little more than slowly turn his throbbing head to the side, take a long, hard look at the room around him, and then turn his head back and screw his eyes shut. Given the dour expressions on the others' faces and their apparent imprisonment in a random room, he assumes the mutiny didn't end in glorious victory.

Or any other variety of victory.

Maybe he can will himself to pass out again.


... No such luck.

The next few days are spent sitting propped up against the wall beside his bunk, staring straight at the door. He doesn't spare his tablet so much as a passing glance when it's returned.

Once (but only once), he rises shakily to his feet, moves to the back of the room, and then charges forward, kicking off the floor at the last minute to slam all 225-some-odd pounds of him against the door. When that fails to remedy the situation (or even slightly improve it), he returns to his bed and resumes his quiet sulking, now with a sore shoulder for his trouble.

What now? The question nags at him as time passes at a punishing crawl.

He tries to think back on the battle outside the Transporter room, but he remembers only a brief scuffle and then... nothing. A dark, unpleasant nothing that leaves him curling his hands in and out of fists. If the headache and the occasional bouts of dizziness are any indication, someone knocked him out, but who and when and how?

All that work, all that planning... Did they achieve anything whatsoever...?

The situation in its entirety is beginning to seem hopeless. It's not a feeling Connor's accustomed to and he fights against it as best he can while forcing himself to stay still and not pace around the cramped space. There must be something to hold on to, some idea they overlooked that might see things set right here, but what? The more he racks his mind for an answer or a plan, the more of that wretched despair he comes across.

He wasn't even strong enough to stop a couple of Transports. Just about everyone has powers here. Magic and abilities beyond what any normal human should possess. (And then there are Transports like the lizard man.) What is he supposed to do? What help did the Initiative expect him to contribute to their cause, if he had turned out to be some mindless fool content to be ordered about?

He may never know if the Initiative and their loyal supporters are keen on the idea of capital punishment... which is frankly what he's expecting at this point.]

19th

[miscreant]

[The smash into the door is what gets Seviilia's attention and causes her to lift her eyes from the corner she had sanctioned herself in. He had quite a lot of strength (for a human, anyway), but it was no surprise to her that the door didn't budge.

Still, he looks like he needs a talking to. So, with her breastplate now completely mangled by Koltira's finishing blow (to the point where it was almost ridiculous to be wearing, if it would not leave her topless), she wanders over to Connor and stops a few paces away to give him breathing room.]

They seem to think everyone is safer in here, you know.

[skennen]

[Connor glances her way as he draws his legs up onto his bed and crosses them in front of him. Settling into a slouch, he rubs at his shoulder absently. He all but exudes frustration, but he points his gaze back at the door when he replies, not wanting to accidentally direct any of that anger at his teammates. The door is a fine target for grouching at.]

How considerate of them to worry for our safety now, with our being on the moon and at war with a force capable of destroying entire worlds. I will have to remember to give them my thanks later.

[Possibly with his tomahawk, when he gets it back. And that is a matter of when, not if, as far as he's concerned. He looks to Seviilia again, making a renewed effort to stifle his irritation. Curiosity takes its place. Mostly. He still looks a little like if someone marched in right now and shouted "LONG LIVE THE INITIATIVE", he'd snap their neck without a moment's hesitation.]

How did it go for you?

[miscreant]

Yes. Interesting priorities they have.

[His attitude doesn't seem to bother her. Her presence is usually uncomfortable to most, so she is used to his current expression as being the default for most others. The elf looks down at her front, still splattered with dried and frozen blood, before looking back at Connor with a half-hearted smirk.]

About as well as it looks.

[She keeps her arms crossed to avoid grossing him out further with the large hole in her sternum.]

I held them off for as long as I was able.

[skennen]

[Connor's eyes flick down off her face for a second. He blinks in surprise at the damage done to her armor and the blood that certainly wasn't there last he saw her. How did he not notice her condition sooner? He moves his hand from his shoulder to his head and wonders if perhaps he should consider himself fortunate he's not seeing two or three of her and the others.]

If it is any consolation, I imagine you had more success than Maria and I did.

[Not that having possibly lasted longer in battle amounts to much considering here they are, stuffed into guarded rooms, but he's slightly ashamed of his spotless robes now.

A small frown is his only allowance of emotion as he goes on.]

How badly were you hurt?

[miscreant]

That depends on your definition of success. They did get passed me, after all.

[She looks annoyed about that, for her part. In fairness to Connor, she plays off her condition well -- she's straight and upright, not hunched over in pain, and she's still smirking. Obviously, whatever had happened to her wasn't of much consequence now.

But...he obviously hadn't heard about that. There's a brief hesitation that doesn't quite reach her expression before she raises her chin and offers her next statement as gently as possible.]

I fought to my death.

[Everyone else had seemed a bit torn up about it -- much more than she would have expected, or she might have shrugged it off.]

[skennen]

Your death?

[The news is gently given but not gently received. Connor sits right up, all of his calmness gone in an instant.

He starts to ask "What?" only to cut himself off, recalling how the Initiative and other people here are able to revive those who have fallen. He could have sworn he'd heard that the Initiative were no longer capable of that, though; it must have been someone else who returned her spirit to her body.

His hands fall to his legs and his fingers dig lightly against the deerskin leggings over his pants.]

What of the others? Was anyone else slain?

[miscreant]

My death.

[She offers the confirmation with the barest of smirks. Its easier to consider when she shrugs it off as just another battle-scar -- another milestone in the long tenure of undeath. In the reality of things, she was still reeling from the experience, despite this being the second time she had fallen victim to death.

She doesn't miss how he tenses and strides across the room to make their conversation slightly less informal.]

But as you can see, it is hardly of consequence. As far as I know, I was the only casualty.

[skennen]

[He watches her go and, after a moment, stands up again. Hearing she knows of no other deaths among their party brings him some relief... but not enough to quell the anger coiling ever tighter inside him.]

You should not have been killed.

[He practically spits that out.]

19th i guess?

[theflyingone]

[ Altaïr's scouting plans changed when he overheard that the mutineers had been captured. But it was all over before he could do anything of worth. An apprehension pervades his mind, not unlike the one he'd felt when he'd returned to Masyaf's inhabitants under the influence of the Apple. After all, there are so many Transports who would give their lives for the Initiative. Part of him wonders if something like that is behind it.

So it is with caution that he approaches the makeshift housing-turned-prison. He makes it known to the guard on duty who he intends to visit, and innocently shows the food he has brought. It is one of the microwavable pastries, the so-called "hot pockets" Chloe had codenamed him after. If that is not a sign of his continued support for his allies, he hopes the small throwing knife hidden inside is. He's successfully smuggled one each to Maria and Chloe. A simple safeguard, only to be used in emergencies. He does not trust the Initiative or its supporters to treat their prisoners well, but he knows trying to set them free would only end badly in such a small space. There is nowhere to hide.

He is a dour hooded figure seated in the room set aside for visitors. The hot pocket – rather, the lukewarm pocket – is in its opened paper box on a table close by. He waits patiently until Connor is ushered in. Would that Altaïr's first meeting with him had gone as smoothly as with Giovanni. He is not sure what Connor thinks of him, but he is still a Brother. Altaïr has put the days of petty rivalries behind him. The Assassins have more than the UE to deal with here; the more allies, the better.

At worst, he can simply refuse to give him the knife hot pocket. ]

Safety and peace. [ He gestures politely for him to sit. ] How do the Initiative loyalists treat their prisoners?

[skennen]

[Connor wasn't expecting any visitors so when the guards show up and shoo him out instead of one of his cellmates, he's immediately on edge. He moves stiffly to the indicated room, but a parting glare and a spit are aimed at his captors before he at last steps through the door.

His eyes fix on the someone who asked to see him. He stops dead in his tracks. Again.

The Master Assassin.

Connor hangs back by the door frame for a long couple of moments.]

There is no safety here and there will be no peace if things do not change.

[Wariness clings to his movements as he finally edges over to the chair and sits down.]

They do not starve us, if that is a concern of yours.

[He did notice the strange food-looking thing on that table over there, yes sir.]

19th!

[onen]

[In the aftermath of the chaos, it has taken her more time than she would have liked to find out the fate of her son, and when she does?

She is furious.

It is not that she is angry with him, she is angry at her own powerlessness in the situation, that again she has no voice to lend to getting her son free, and... though she will not admit to it to Ratonhnhaké:ton... the one person she might have turned to for help in that has been whisked away from this floating metal prison in the heavens that they are resigned to.

When she comes to the holding area, she pointedly ignores the guards and fixes them with a ferocious glare as she heads towards her son's cell. She is so angry at the state of him, she cannot keep it from her voice.]

Ratonhnhaké:ton.