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[initiates]

Date & Time: Evening, 10th February 3312
Location: Transport Room
Characters: Open To All
Summary: Everyone is brought into the transport room at roughly the same time, in a great succession and flow of imported individuals. Everyone is being lead around in small bundles, or left to their own devices together inside the Initiative Hold.
Warnings: None.

Widespread and crowded, everyone is being transported into this unusually bright room with an efficiency that is almost horrifying. One after the other, new people are appearing -- being led, shown around and then ultimately abandoned with one final phrase; "Good luck."

The Initiative Hold is wide, like a small town in its depth and industry. You've received your weapon; you've got your keys, your netbook, and one of those robed strangers has shoved a small pouch full of what you can only assume is money into your open palm. You've been given an apartment, but where on earth -- are we on earth? -- is it? Your best opportunity right now is to mingle; at least, that's what everyone else appears to be doing. Those strangers in the robes have left. They're tending to the people who are arriving, one by one and in a quick procession. Energy bustles all around you, as you're strapped up with your sudden gifts and looking around.

Hey, maybe you'll even see some familiar faces.

Comments

open!

[topology]

[ As far as dreams go, he's had worse introductions.

Arthur is nothing but efficient in the way he handles the items he's been given. There's a soft click as he checks the gun before tucking it into the waistband of his slacks; the netbook he tucks under his arm, the pouch into his pocket. Arthur isn't going to (nor does he want to) stay here long — if he's expected to play along in some fucking dreamcade that he doesn't remember signing up for, he's going to win — and that means finding out which door these keys unlock.

There is, also, a silver briefcase at his feet. It's easy enough to mistake him for a businessman, but the way Arthur's eyes take stock of the room and its inhabitants suggest otherwise.

He looks at his watch and frowns, giving the face of it a light tap. By the time Arthur looks up again, the room has gotten considerably more crowded.

Game on, he supposes. ]

[mesovortice]

John is wandering over, all big dopey smiles and energy in the way he dashes over.

"Hi there!" He introduces himself: "Hi, I'm John. Who are you? Are you a businessman?" John gestures to the suitcase, and seems to completely miss the way he looks over the room. He thinks briefly of his father, another businessman, but pushes that out of his mind as quickly as possible. "It's all fancy-dancy, that's really cool. Does it unfold into a machine gun?"

[topology]

Something quickly shutters over Arthur's face — mild surprise, irritation, exasperation — before settling into an expression this side of unreadable and several steps closer to impassive. The kid (John, he reminds himself) can't be older than fifteen. Young, to be involved in whatever the fuck this turns out to be.

"No," He says finally, but doesn't bother specifying which answer that question belongs to, mostly because he has a feeling that the conversation is going to run away from him sooner rather than later.

"You can call me Mr. Charles."

[mesovortice]

"OK, Mr Charles. It's nice to meet you!" He grins despite how blankly he's looking at him. He figures he's just close to his friend Dave's type. A cool guy, he thinks. "No what? If it doesn't turn into a gun that's pretty sad." John squats down by it, and after a beat picks it up. He doesn't open it or anything-- that'd be more than a little assholeish-- but just turns it over.

[topology]

His hand twitches at his side. Lucky for Arthur, the briefcase is locked; not so lucky is that the response John gives him isn't so of-the-norm. The frown on Arthur's face deepens. Dream, maybe, instead of game.

"It's locked," He supplies helpfully, although maybe it's not so much 'helpfully' as it is a flat warning.

[mesovortice]

"Oh, I wasn't gonna open your suitcase. That's invasive and rude. I just wanted to look and see if it had any seams that could fold away." John knocks on it a little bit with his knuckles and then sets it down, brushing his hands together. "I guess it isn't anything cool. I thought you were kind of like a spy in a movie, you look like a secret agent, and everybody knows you can't be a spy without concealed weaponry. Oh man. There are a lot of people here," he starts. "Do you know anyone?"

[topology]

"If you could see it, it wouldn't be concealed." Arthur shrugs. It's a good rule, if not the most opportune moment to share it with a kid who at least appears well-intentioned. It occurs to Arthur then, somewhat belatedly, that whatever this turns out to be, he's at least hoping this John kid didn't get a weapon too. That might be... problematic. (He's not wholly sold on the sentient portion either.)

"No." He hesitates briefly, then adds with a slight jerk of the head, "You?"

[mesovortice]

"Touche! You might really be a spy after all!" John looks across the room at that and nods, turning back to Mr Charles, grinning wide. "Yep! A few of my friends are here too. It sucks no one you know is here, but at at least then maybe you have someone who can take care of things at home while you're gone."

[sharp]

[ Amy notices the briefcase paired along with his suit, probably making the same assumption as everybody else at first glance. But that's not what makes her take a second glance. She keeps her eyes on his hands as he taps the face of his watch. It could be nothing, but as a time traveller in a place where time was all wrong, it stood out to her.

She walks over to him, stepping up to his side. He definitely seems less panicked than most people. It's interesting. ] Late for something?

[topology]

[ Arthur's busy straightening the cuff of his sleeve when Amy approaches, the small horseshoes of his cufflinks catching briefly. In the end, it's an affectation: he's not one for reading people, not like Eames or Cobb, but there's a weight to his movements because the air of a professional can do a lot of things to the people of a crowd.

His mouth curves into something resembling a smile, and then quickly crooks at the corners. The overall effect is a little self-deprecating — a certain dryness to the way he exhales out something that's not quite a laugh.

(Late for reality sounds melodramtic, even to his own ears.) ]

Probably, [ He says, then shrugs. ] It's broken.

[sharp]

Guess it doesn't know how to handle a thousand year time difference. Ehm, I mean, if that's the case for you.

[ She realizes she makes the assumption he's from her time, but she has a feeling she can't be too far off. But late for reality wouldn't sound too far off either. It's all a bit mad. ]