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open log » ❝ welcome to Exsilium ❞

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.

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She's quite sure that this is just a side effect of her having finally gone completely mad. It just wouldn't do to have one of the only remaining Black family members not be utterly off her rocker, would it? That's the only explanation that she can think of for why she was just a short time ago standing over the bodies of her daughter and son-in-law, and then suddenly in this -- transport room, that's what they kept calling it.

Andromeda decides to just let them lead her around - although she's routinely and inexplicably letting out a soft sound and then letting tears run quietly down her face - until the strangers leave.

Once that happens, she finds her way to the edge of a wall and leans back hard against it, sliding down to the floor and pulling her knees to her chest. None of this is really happening, and they're carting her off to St. Mungo's. She's -- almost sure of it.

Almost. She takes slow, deep breaths in hopes of calming down, but really -- there's only so much one can be calmed when such raw emotion is involved.

[ Charles is standing mostly to himself, though he's holding a large sword and seems to be both questioning and admiring the piece of work in his hands. He places it down beside him then, noting that it's rather awkward to carry around in such a busy and bustling place. Then, he looks up -- makes a point, instead, to make eye contact with the others here.

He certainly had questions, yes. And so did others -- that was obvious enough, given the loud bustle of minds that raced 'round his own. It took a greater effort to silence them than it would in any normal situation, that was for certain. Charles may or may not be searching for familiarity, or anyone he may know more closely; but he looks quite approchable, beyond the heavy sword he's suddenly been gifted with.

how do i hold all of these things ]

It's all a fairly large blur right now. First thing he knows he's got the sensation of waking up someplace even though he doesn't remember going to bed. And then some lady in a weird dress is talking to him, shuffling him along and now he's in this large room, and it's bright. So bright.

He looks it over, and looks all the people over, and concludes nothing besides the fact that he doesn't even stick out in his blue PJish clothes. John had found a familiar hammer in that room and is currently trying to balance it with all the other little things he's been given to hang onto. He settles with putting them all in his hood. It kind of weighs weird around his neck, but it works! Even if he probably looks dorkier than usual.

Paying more attention to the other people in the room with the dilemma of WHERE TO PUT MY STUFF solved, John looks out for someone he recognizes. Or even just anyone who seems friendly! He is not choosey.

Jade tucks away his acquisitions in the item bag. He stands aside, hands in his pockets, and observes. His hands are allowed this luxury courtesy of Jade being in possession of no obvious weapon.

Another revolution on the British Isles. It's an amusing enough turn of events, even if he isn't a great fan of twice being conscripted across universes. It's also fairly disappointing to have lost all of his equipment and research. He can only hope that it was put in the right hands.

In the end, he looks less approachable than he looks unreasonably calm and self-possessed. It is no illusion. His mind is calm and clear, taking in information and processing it with the unfeeling logic of a fon machine. He'll have to progress out shortly, but there is no harm in remaining for a moment.

Edited 2012-02-10 06:04 (UTC)

[John here however seems far more distracted, brows knitting together as he focuses on the items in his hands before he shakes his head to regain attention on his surroundings. For a moment he spends time switching weight on one foot and straightening his posture, taking a breath as he finally starts to be more mobile. First he's putting keys away along with the money pouch until expertly turning the handgun in hand to stick behind him in the safety of his waistband.

He starts to turn the netbook in his hands now, looking at it closely while his tongue darts out and licks over his lips. Right.. Okay, so he was hallucinating. Or.. he wasn't. This felt very real, too real. So he'd been drugged and kidnapped to some place for war? Despite what they said it was hard to believe any of that as true.

Good luck they had said. And the other people here? Were they told the same thing?] .. Jesus.

There were benefits to a Magus' picturesque sense of memory. Numbers and words rattled off easily to him. The explanation given to him was simple and while he should have had the compulsion to think of a way out of the situation, Shirou found himself glowering at the fine bow he was given. There was a faint trace of a scar on one of his hands--a blemish that he was supposed to take as the last vestige of a career in archery.

It was his weapon of choice in some situations, but it seemed more like a little jab in his personal direction after he mulled it over. Shirou wished he had a better complaint. He was dressed conspicuously--wearing a plain white t-shirt and jeans with sneakers as if he were out on the town doing errands. Slung over his right shoulder was his bag--complete with the few extra items left to him. With a huff, Shirou regarded the bow.

"I already know I can't break this string in good sense. Fixing it would be way too difficult and restringing it seems pointless when it's that strong a wire..." He smiled, trying to ignore the insult of the gift, admiring what he was given while standing on the outside of the Transport Room. Shirou might have looked fairly absent-minded.

[ though he keeps up with the group he's been corralled into, Riku mostly keeps his eyes down and away from everyone else. usually, he'd be looking at everyone, but this had come at too awful a time and he didn't feel quite up to doing recon when he'd just been ripped away from his home for the second time. every now and then, he does bump into someone and gives an apology, though it's probably hard to see that he really is earnest in meaning it, thanks to that sheepdog fringe in his eyes.

give him a break, he hasn't had a haircut in years.

while almost everyone seems to be choosing a weapon, however, Riku wanders away, a shield catching his eye. there's already an intricate and unusual sword grasped in his left hand. ]

Orihime was no stranger to strange new worlds but this time it was different. Every other time she had found herself somewhere new she distinctly remembered deciding to go there. This was different, she didn't remember signing up for this.

She's walking slowly through the hold, trying to take everything in. Of course since she's juggling keys, a bag full of money, a computer and a rapier it's less like walking and more like stumbling around over herself.

[From one Britain to another? Well, it does seem to be a much different genre than the last one. And certainly it isn't mystery or fantasy, is it? Lion still can't resist thinking in those terms after reviewing the games so many times. Probably not normal but oh well.

Lion is perfectly calm, as if this happens everyday. Maybe slightly irritated at the change in scenery and concerned at the very likely possibility of being alone but otherwise fine. First priority is to find Will or any other familiar face. Learning more details of the situation along the way is another issue.

But at the moment, Lion is busy looking over the bow chosen earlier. It seemed like the best idea but... pulling back on the string with no real talent shows Lion has no idea what to do with it. Calm and useless at weapons. At least anyone around can be assured Lion isn't going to hurt them.]

What he remembers last is Gil.

It's an anchor, that thought—not to calm, but to certainty as he's tugged around the facility: the angular bright rooms, the sharp unfamiliar air, the figures swathed and strange. It occurs to him to keep the strangers who know so much nearby, if only to carry the story forward. But Vincent recognises a practised speech when he hears it, recognises an agenda and knows dismissal—and that seethes, too, somewhere in the marrows. He murmurs a pleasantry, tilts his smile, lets them hurry away.

From where he's left, he strays a little—pulls a coin out of the purse as he goes, palms the ring and flicks through each key. He does it idly, a blind inventory as he wanders. Last is the pistol. Vincent examines the body of the gun, smoothing barrel, butt, magazine with gloved hands. A delicate touch. He clicks it back together, fits his hand around it: fingers curling, index against the trigger, thumb flicking at the safety—no hammer to cock it, he thinks. How dangerous, he thinks.

He's smothering a yawn as he fires a small burst towards the floor near passing feet.

[ no harm actually anticipated! unless you want it. '-' ]

[Maybe it was all this new information to process. Maybe it was being dragged around from one place to the other so suddenly and ending up having to carry so many things at once (key drop count: two). Whatever it was, Badou was Not Amused, if the way his teeth harshly clenched a cigarette (chocolate) and how he kept glaring at his gun, expecting answers from it, were any indication.

And what did Badou do when he was unhappy? Let someone know, of course. He'd tried getting answers from the ones that were bringing people in, only to be ushered back over to the others. So he resorted to plan B-- muttering curses under his breath, complete with frustrated outbursts from time to time about his "shitty luck". At least until he could manage to calm himself down, since being kidnapped right after waking up in a hospital room due to a gunshot wound wasn't his idea of fun and all.]

Contrast to everyone else, either standing confused or testing their weapons or just generally socializing, there's always the occasional wallflower. This one being tall as a giant, dressed in a blue coat and adorned with a single pistol, and the breed of wallflower that's (only visibly) ignoring everyone and everything else. Like being kidnapped and dropped in a new reality is just par the course.

Why bother with questions while everyone's distracted with the initial suffocation of the hivemind? It's easier to observe from a distance, and you don't need that much focus to observe. So he's one of the rare few among the wallflowers, busy typing on that small computer that was handed out. Occasionally there's a freeze, looking up when someone walks in or listening to someone say something else through the room. But the focus always leaves and the typing always resumes.

Can't hold it against someone if their priorities aren't in line, but that's no reason to let your own fall apart.

[ Well, there's at least one excited party here. Artika looks pretty much thrilled to be here, all cheerful smiles and wide, dark eyes. In fact, most of her eyes are dark, just the very corners being white, and only when she's especially wide-eyed impressed by something. She's also pretty naked, with just a flap of a bright orange loincloth in the way of clothing. She's also not much of a show, being mostly bone and muscle, with no chest to speak of.

But she's perfectly willing to head over and accost anyone that catches her eye-- and many things do. Bright colors. No colors. Very tall people. Very short people. Blonde people! Redheads. Ohh, brunettes are interesting. And who can forget the black-haired people, like her? They're all terribly interesting, and Artika is happy to abandon everything she'd been handed in favor of better observation. ]

[ Laurence looks miserable, but... very grimly so. His shoulders are perfectly square and his back perfectly straight, like he's determined not to pay any undue attention to the way his obviously expensive coat is completely coated in dust and mud, or the way his trousers are almost unsalvageable under their grime, or the way his hessian boots would make any maid faint to see them strolling across newly cleaned floors. No, he meant to be here, and meant to look exactly as thoroughly exhausted and dirty as he does. Yes, indeed.

He's managing, at least, to keep ahold of all the things he's been given. This is helped along just slightly by the fact that he doesn't seem to have a weapon, and a little more by the fact that he has no idea how to use most of it-- so he can concentrate only on not losing it, and not spend any energy trying to use any of it.

If he happens to glance darkly over at anyone, the almost-scowl isn't intentional. It's only just about built-in, at this point. ]

[When he arrived the specific "where" of where he was didn't matter so much as the fact that he was somewhere else than he meant to be. Someplace with humans, Earth, and somewhere he was being led around and told to pick things or take this or go here. All like these humans were here to control him, to make him into their brand new soldier for some cause he couldn't care less about.]

[For all he knows he's going to have to interact with these people eventually, he's not looking forward to it. That's why now, in this room, he has taken up a spot along one of the walls, arms folded across his chest, and face formed into an unsociable frown. It's not that he hates humans; he's just never cared to interact before, even when the only option was internet between universes. So now? His solid red and blue eyes scan through the crowd as he can, looking for anything familiar: the yellow-orange of a horn, the ash grey of troll skin. But it's difficult, when the vast majority are pink-skinned people from (presumably) other earths.]

Thith ith thtupid. Why do I even have to be here?

[He can already feel a headache building between his horns, and in his frustration, occasional flickers of red and blue energy - almost like electricity - flicker along their lengths.]

Edited 2012-02-10 07:27 (UTC)

[ She follows the tour, as it's the smart thing to do, and finds a familiar gun on a rack. The netbook she tucks under her arm, the keys and card in her pocket, and the gun she keeps firmly in her hands at all times. Sentient? It isn't the strangest thing she's ever heard. Either way, it's a weapon and she wants it near her.

So here she is, chilling in a corner and eyeballing everything. ]

[It's a relief to be out of the Realm of Darkness, to no longer feel it's pressure weighting down on her and yet, Aqua can't help but frown even as she feels the magic of her armour settle beneath her arm piece, ready to be called upon whenever she needs to, even as her hand closes around Stormfall's keychain.

These people need her help, she knows, she has been brought here to help and she should, but... somewhere out there Ven is sleeping and waiting for her and somewhere Terra is hopefully, hopefully doing okay, but she's still worried about him too. She has to find them, has to bring Terra to their changed home so that they could call back Ven's Heart to his body - who knows just how much time has passed since she let herself fall into the darkness, just how long she has made their youngest friend waiting...

She has to leave. As much as she feels for these people, as grateful as she is for their assistance; she has to go find her friends.

She can't right away, not when she is surrounded by all these people - order must be kept after all, but later perhaps, she could try and open a portal to the Lanes Between. There is no real purpose to mingling, not when she is not here to stay, but... she feels for even planning to abandon the others.

The least she can do before she takes her leave, is to help where she can now.]

There's a very subtle between feeling lost and feeling displaced, Jack thought. And because he knew what was probably expected of him--if them granting him access to a weapon arsenal that was anything but small and providing him with board and lodging was any indication--he decided to settle for displaced. Yeah, that felt about right.

He'd thought about taking a hostile stance, at first, but given that he arrived with all of his weapons and was allowed to take another one, he already suspected that in the grand scheme of things, they probably wouldn't consider him too much of a threat. Waking up in strange places and then being a captive or told to go fight something wasn't exactly... new, but this was just all around odd--like he had signed a contract with a client but couldn't for the life of him remember the details anymore. Could it be...?

Maybe he'd been drunk. Too bad he didn't exactly feel like it; and not many people would welcome a hangover (if only because it left the possibility that his men were playing a prank on him and he'd punish the one in charge thoroughly, like usual). But no, Jack felt remarkably sober, if a little agitated.

And still utterly displaced, unable to reach anyone he knew. Of course information was dispensed sparsely, and no answer was given in response to a very pressing question--where and how did you get that weapon?

That weapon he had taken instinctively, which should be at home, locked away safely; a memento.

Well, fuck you, too.

So here he was, a man with a large frame and obviously a weathered soldier, inside and exploring the Initiative Hold--carrying a bunch of weapons and everything he'd been given by the robed people who gave off the vibe of being some crazy religious cult--trying to get his bearings. The room he'd been assigned was probably a good place to start gathering some intel and calm down before he'd confront the ones in charge. Big Boss could be a one man army if he needed to be, but being uncooperative in a place and situation he had no intel on whatsoever was nothing short of idiotic.

It had to say something about the course of Jake's life so far, that his first thought after something of his situation had been explained to him wasn't What's going on? or Why me?, but simply Dammit, not again! He was no stranger to traveling to other worlds, but this wasn't the world he wanted to be in.

At least Oy was with him, so he wasn't entirely alone. He supposed he should be grateful for that, but he didn't feel very grateful. What he felt was annoyed. He might only be a junior Gunslinger, but that didn't give these people the right to bring him here against his will.

Still, he tried to do what he thought Roland might do if he was in the same situation. To that end, he sought out a more or less unoccupied area, to all appearances, playing unconcernedly with Oy. In reality, his mind was busily engaged in trying to read the surface thoughts of the others. So far, everyone else seemed as much in the dark as himself, but maybe he'd get lucky.

[ 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. ]

Edited 2012-02-10 11:34 (UTC)

[No.]

[Again. No.]

[How about three times? Oh, well maybe not, one need not repeat himself that many times, two is enough, anymore and things get dumb. Not that any of this isn't dumb, and frustrating, and infuriating. Equius had much more important things to do, and none of them had to do with wasting his time in some... alien world away from his moirail who was very much in danger. A bit seething already, even if he doesn't look it. Equius seems to be rather calm as he stands, arms crossed; having been given his new belongings, Equius finds himself rather perturbed entirely by this next bit. That of course being...

Social mingling. And not even that of a refined kind! Like the kind highbloods did to assert ties amongst themselves. These are merely inferior species gallivanting about with no sense of dignity and it's just... ugh, no. Equius can feel a drop of sweat ready itself at his temple, waiting to fall down his cheek as he stares sternly through cracked sunglasses. The troll does his best to not touch anyone as he stands, leering at anyone in view, his nose is having a terrible time with all the unfamiliar and unpleasant smells lingering about like some interstellar sea of profane aromas.]

[Perhaps once he calms himself down he can information gather properly, but for now he'll just teem with fangs bared, as if ready to pounce any passerby.]

[Aliens.]

Edited 2012-02-10 12:49 (UTC)

It all happens really fast. First, he's being dropped into a room. Then he's dragged off through some other weird places, and finally here. He listened best he could to the woman; remembers her words clearly, but can't make complete sense of them. The weapon he holds is not unfamiliar; he'd picked it because it was so; but it's a little more vicious than what he's used to. Spikes line one of the clubs, bright colors a mockery.

So he just sticks to leaning against a wall, not surprised if no one is quick to approach him. His makeup's a mess, still; and he's also an alien with gray skin and candy-corn horns, and he's pretty damn tall. Gamze'll eye the crowd with sharp eyes; wondering if anyone else he knows is here as well. He'd be pretty disappointed if Karkat wasn't -- but for now, he'll wait. All these aliens were pretty interesting by themselves.

He didn’t know how it was that he came to be standing there, on that glowing circular platform within the a building he had never before seen, only that he was certain he had not been mere moments before. He had not even been standing before, relegated to the constrictive bindings of the most powerful nature and fastened to the chair that would be his only company, Aizen had lost sense of his prison the moment he was placed into it. His senses deprived, he knew he was in Hell only because he had been told he was being sent there. He didn’t even know how long he’d spent like that before he was suddenly… here.

Dazed by the abruptness of the return of his senses, uncertain which to focus on, Aizen followed the smiling guide woodenly. Too distracted by the scuffs of his boot against stone the floor, his eyes had lowered, lingered on the black and white stitch of the boot he wore, the white and flowing hakama that covered all but his foot. He marveled at the softness of the fabric and the reassuring familiarity of the garments, the weight of them. His hands came up unbidden to press into the coat and the shirt, and Aizen’s gaze turned to them next, marveling at each deft movement, each artful muscle as his fingers flexed free of restriction, for the span of a heartbeat.

Needless to say, he missed most of the tour. Only the weapon restored his focus, however briefly. Yet, once that was in his hands, his attention became so focused he paid little attention to the remainder. But items were pressed into those hands: a key, a curious piece of technology he had yet to see the like of, currency; and the smiling guide was leaving, off to assist the next arrival, and Aizen...

Well, he was left to stand there. What this place was did not hold the same relevance as why he was there, yet he wondered both. He wondered, as he stowed what he had been given in his sash, but he wasn't troubled. His now free hand closed around the hilt of Kyouka Suigetsu, the sword that was once more sheathed as his side, and Aizen's posture relaxed somewhat. It was still exacting, but the surety returned to his bearing, and the fog in his mind peeled back.

Even as the smirk curled the corner of his mouth. Yes, this was quite the development, wasn't it?

"So it is..." he commented absently.

[In this corner, one large, obviously pissed-off man.

Well, actually, on second glance he's not that large -- under 6', actually. It's just the bullish set of his shoulders and the distinct aura of anger around him that makes him seem like a big guy. Or maybe that and the large, sharp knife that he is definitely not keeping in its sheath.

He's not just angry. He's disoriented, more than a little freaked out, and he's busy thinking -- calculating the odds, the exits, wondering just how much good he could get out of mounting an offensive against the creepy, cultish freaks who brought him to wherever the hell this is. "The Future". Right.

Not only have they grabbed him, they've apparently grabbed a whole lot of other people, too, some of whom appear to be wearing stage makeup (and that is the scariest clown he's ever seen in his life, which is saying something). Then they've armed everyone -- even the children, he notices, which (coupled with the fact that they grabbed children to begin with) pisses him off on a whole different level altogether.

And after all that, their captors have . . . left them to their own devices, apparently? What the hell kind of hostage-takers are these people?

The whole situation makes no goddamn sense, which makes him angry. So he'll just be over here, simultaneously seething and assessing the situation.]

[The first thing Zoë does after the robed people leave is transform her uniform into a more casual set of clothes - a shirt that was such a pale green it almost seemed white, a medium green skirt that ended around mid-thigh, light green thigh-high stockings, and dark green vest and shoes. She wasn't on duty here, after all, and the more casual clothes might help her blend into the crowd better, though it was so diverse it was hard to tell what would or wouldn't stand out.

Sticking the communications device they gave her into one pocket and the pouch of money - physical currency? How quaint - into another, she starts looking around at the others in the room with her, trying to assess the people who'd be her new teammates for now.]

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