here they talked of revolution, here it was they lit the flame

[initiates]

Date: October 1st
Location: The Observatory.
Characters: Everyone.
Summary: New Transports arrive and are shuffled into the Observatory for the show of the year. Initial briefings are very brief this time around, and that Greeter just won't stop crying.
Warnings: new confused people and old sad people??

Your arrival here has been very unceremonious. One second you were somewhere else, and now, very suddenly, your feet hit the glowing white of the Transporter pad, and you're here. You aren't alone, either. There's a crowd of others around you, each seeming just as bewildered, angry, or confused as you might feel. At the head of the group is a woman in purple robes, with eyes red as if she'd just finished crying. She hurries over a quick overview of your intended purpose here, and gives direct answers when asked for them, but to most things she simply shows you how to access the tablet you've just been given. There, you can find the history of this place and a record of what your new cohorts have experienced — although it won't have Network access for another 8 hours. Someone stands on hand to give you a weapon, and though the armory is now greatly reduced, you should be able to find something to suit you.

You're shepherded down a walkway tunnel and into the Observatory, where you will find screens mounted on three sides of the wide room. The only lighting comes from dull red emergency lights, and the scenes of a dreary, rainy city from various cameras up on the screens; the largest of the screens opens up to a view of Earth from a good distance away -- this one isn't a screen at all, you might realize, but a window. As you watch, all screens in the room fill with light, impossibly bright. It consumes the buildings, the people, everything. There is no sound played, perhaps mercifully, only that white light -- and then nothing.

Through the large window, there's a pinprick of light over one of the landmasses on the blue planet. It grows to a tiny blossom and then dies away, but a cloud begins to mushroom outward in the same spot. It pushes the natural clouds out of the way, claiming that small portion of the world and wrapping it in a uniform gray.

Strings of numbers begin to fill the blanked out screens as the base's AI begins collecting data and calculations, but the show seems to be over. You're free to explore the base, visit and use any of the VR rooms, or discover your new room and roommates, but try not to step out of any airlocks if oxygen is a requirement for your system.

Welcome to the moon base, with front row seats to the grave of Exsilium.

[[ooc; reminder! The Network will be down for 8 hours after the wave of new Transports.]]

Comments

[alittlesweptup]

[He glances after her as she goes, scraping his tablet off the table before the beet juice can get near it. He pinches his nose and-- shit. Alright. Don't be an asshole. By the time she gets back, Charlie's sacrificed his napkin to the cause: dabbing at the outlying mess before it can spread very far.]

I wouldn't. [He doesn't look up, mouth set. The napkin's gone all pink.] Bound to be glass you can't see.

[praevikaan]

[She tilts her head a little. That almost sounds like a warning. Is he trying to be kind to her? She can't ascertain the motives behind his attitude, but her expression - a grim neutral - does soften just slightly.]

I will be fine. Slivers heal, yes? Better not to surprise others.

[Since it happens to be her fault and all. She plucks an alarmingly mushy beet out from amidst the worst of the glass with ginger fingers, and sets it carefully on a nearby plate.]

Besides. Tough hands.

[She's trying to be reassuring, in her own way.]

[alittlesweptup]

I mean I wouldn't bother saving the food.

[He shoots her a sidelong glance then, scraping up some of the loose glass with his sodden napkin and balling the whole mess up.]

[praevikaan]

[She ducks her head, embarrassed at having misinterpreted his words.]

Better than wasting it? It can still be saved, I think.

[alittlesweptup]

[He takes it in stride. Charlie may be an ass, but even he can tell she's new - isn't familiar with the language or, hell-- probably any of this.]

If you want to shred your throat with glass, be my guest. But I don't think they've got an infirmary set up yet, so you might be buggered if you do.

[praevikaan]

[Familiar, no. Curious, always. His attitude may have her off balance, but he's hardly being mean. It's simply one more thing she'll have to adapt to. She considers the statement, giving herself ample time to digest the translation so as to avoid further missteps, and when she's certain of the intent,]

Mm. Glass sinks. If it were-- [she wrinkles her nose faintly. What is the word?] -- souped? It could be strained.

[alittlesweptup]

Look, we're on the moon, not in communist Russia. No one's going to run you through a bloody gauntlet for wasting one jar of beets. [He's trying to be gentle about it, but there's no denying that he's coming off as brusque. It's been a long day.]

No one even likes beets.

[praevikaan]

I like beets.

[Her tone is very firm. She does! They're quite similar to some of the vegetables she has back home. Making a plain statement helps while she tries to mentally sort through the exact meaning of his strange colloquialisms.]

And while we are not in -- communist Russia?

[Wherever that happens to be. She makes a mental note to see if it's part of Earth, later. The tablet functions wonderfully as a library so far.]

-- We still have limited resources, yes? And it was my error.

[... a moment, and then she holds out one hand across the table. She's seen other people do this, maybe it'll help with... whatever strange manner of conversation they're having now.]

I am Sikoyja. Koya, if you cannot pronounce it.

[alittlesweptup]

[Oh for Christ's sake-- but fine, yeah alright. They'll do the handshake thing. Charlie scuffs the palm of his hand on his jeans, leaving a dark stain of beet juice on the denim, before accepting hers. His fingers are callused, palm square. Some kind of working man, as if the muscular bulk didn't already give that much away.]

Sikoyja. [He doesn't stumble despite his own thick accent, mouth more than used to working through unfamiliar words.] Name's Cutter.

[praevikaan]

[It's okay, she's properly filthy to begin with. She's spent most of the day getting into all manner of places where she probably shouldn't be and her fine silk clothing, all in a burnished burnt orange, has certainly seen better days, even without any beet stains she may or may not have acquired in her ill-fated adventure.

Her grip is also firm, no-nonsense, and she has her fair share of callouses as well. She releases his hand after a moment and offers a little smile. She's pleased he got her name right. Call her sentimental, but there's so little here to remind her of home that even the smallest, simplest things are a wonder that she cherishes perhaps more than she ought.]

'Cutter'? What is it you cut?

[Nouns as names are not a concept she's familiar with. She'd almost peg his build as a blacksmith, but the name - title? - implies something else altogether. Butcher?]

[alittlesweptup]

[Maybe if he can distract her with small talk long enough, he'll be able to sweep up the mess on the table before she can go eating anything filled with glass. --Which is the plan, up until she asks that and god if there isn't something terribly pleasant about the question. Which is stupid. It's a stupid question and she means it honestly, but it's exactly the sort of smart assed remarks he used to get back home.

Moon base or no, there's a small little rush of homesickness and fondness that knots in his stomach.]

I don't cut anything. It's just my name.

[praevikaan]

[Excuse you, no. She's totally rescuing bits of beet here and there and putting them on that plate, and cleaning up the rest of the area besides. She pauses as she navigates the extraction of a particularly jagged piece of glass from the dwindling remains of the mess. Adapting to the gravity is an exercise in something very like frustration. Everything weighs less, or seems to. Even her own body. She sighs, it comes out as a tiny huff of annoyance.]

Then, Cutter, it is nice to meet you. Circumstances aside. I promise I do not make habits of throwing food at new acquaintances.

[alittlesweptup]

Probably a good thing. [He says, watching as she plates up what remains of the beets. Fine. If she's so determined on sharping up her internal organs, she can have at it.] Otherwise you'll be eating a lot of glass at this rate.

[Not judging, not judging, not-- totally judging.]

[praevikaan]

[Judge away, lbr she sort of deserves it. Even if it does earn an amused snort.]

I am not a fool, Cutter. Next time I will not break it. The gravity here, it is... different. Lesser. Hard to gauge my own strength. I have been told the VR room may help with that.

[A shrug. She eyes the plate of mostly-salvaged beets. It would be easier with metal, she could use magnets to retrieve the pieces. Glass is harder. She'll figure it out.]

[alittlesweptup]

[That gets an eyebrow raise, just vaguely skeptical - it's not that he's doubting her necessarily so much as he is stubbornly dedicated to pessimism at the moment, but it'd be easy to understand how she might potentially take it as the former.

Charlie folds the slop of his napkin up, glass on the inside so it's easier to pick up without nicking his hands.] Well good luck with it. Though I'd run a few jobs before getting used to it if I were you; bit of super strength never hurt anyone.

[Well. Unless it's spraying glass shards about, but who's keeping track?]

[praevikaan]

Jobs?

[Whatever doubt he's throwing at her beside (she refuses to take it personally. She never has been good at grudges.) this is the first she's heard of any 'jobs'. Perhaps he's conflating them with missions?]

And I do not think I would call it 'super' strength. It is merely my own, in a different environment.

[alittlesweptup]

Jobs. Missions. [He waves his hand dismissively. Can hardly call them 'missions' when they're not really being handed down by any kind of point of authority, now can they? 'Self imposed flights of fancy' might be a better term for it, but that sort of thing tends not to go over well.]

I'd say it still qualifies. Not as if this environment's going to change any time soon, now is it?