transport log » ❝ welcome to Exsilium ❞

[initiates]

Date & Time: Oct. 24th
Location: The Initiative Hold
Characters: Everyone.
Summary: New Transports have all arrived and have been led to a banquet room within the Hold.
Warnings: None.

NOTE: This takes place during this plot, though the plot log will not be posted until tomorrow. The Transports already in game have returned from their mission to find the island overrun with monsters. The log is set within the safety of the Initiative Hold, however, so while characters will be aware of what is going on outside, they can otherwise go about their business as usual if they choose.

--

You've just been hustled and bustled through mazes of information and literal, wide corridors of the Initiative Hold and you've been equipped with your weapon—be it a gun, a sword, or even your existing powers. They've handed you this light netbook and a small pouch of coins (or a debit card, if you're more inclined), and there are several Transports before and after you going through the very same motions. You can hear the Greeter's voice as she walks alongside large groups, telling them all about the history of this place and sharing with you your purpose here in a hurried and urgent tone. She looks worse for wear, pale and gaunt, though is putting a great deal of effort into maintaining her energy and professionalism for the new Transports. "I am truly sorry that you came at such a bad time. That wasn't intentional, I assure you."

She leads the way through the Initiative Hold. The walls bear the occasional claw mark as a sign of the misfortune that has plagued the island, but it hardly seems deserted anymore due to the other Transports recently returning from their mission. After turning several corners, you arrive in a large room that has been transformed into a makeshift banquet hall. The food presented is perhaps not as luxurious or bountiful as one would hope, but it is certainly enough to go around, and isn't inedible by any means.

"We wanted to try and make this up to you," she explains. "It's meagre, but we did not have much time to prepare." There are a number of Transports already present, some looking over the long banquet table, others seated throughout the room at large, round tables meant to each seat eight people. The mood is grim, despite the Initiative's efforts to raise morale.

Before the Greeter turns to leave, she is reminding you that it will be perfectly safe to explore the Hold, the courtyard, the housing building, and even a several block radius around it. "Hopefully things will be back to normal soon."

Welcome to the banquet. Welcome to the Initiative Hold—and most importantly, welcome to Exsilium.

Comments

[holmesisnowhere]

Sherlock Holmes has never been inclined to intense displays of emotion in the face of the unexpected. At least, when he feels he's got complete control of the situation. For anyone who might recognize him, the furrow of his brow and the faint press of his lips is enough to denote he's fairly put out, but he's not bored, and that's a start.

As he's lead in by the Welcomer, his grey-green eyes slip over the crowd, over the food (which he gives a long, hard look, though he doesn't touch it.) The inhabitants of the room, too, are given the same flat stare, and he's not so concerned with politeness as he is figuring out just where exactly he's been dropped into. He doesn't make eye-contact with anyone, and anyone with good (or superhuman) hearing will hear him sniffing quietly, getting the smell of the room, the smell of the people, especially, who smell everything from mildly pleasant to hideous. His footfalls are soft on the ground, even for what appears to be an average human male in a calf-length Irish wool tweed coat. He reaches up to loosen the scarf around his neck - it's warm enough here, and the cashmere is proving to be a touch stifling.

Sherlock doesn't speak to anyone, not just yet, he's over by the wall, pulling off leather gloves to run his fingers over the claw marks engraved there, leaning so close to the wall one might think he's even breathing in the smell of the concrete (if that is in fact, what the walls are made of.) Long fingers slide down the marks, and he's in movement again, occasionally leaning into faces to search them, likely interrupting conversations and seeming more than wholly unimpressed by anyone either covered in blood in a state of disarray. He doesn't bother to ask if they're alright, either, he just moves on.

A wandering back to the food, and he picks it up a piece of broccoli, inhaling it, but not eating, certainly not partaking in anything, though there's a quick scan for a cup of tea. Setting down the broccoli, he finds teabags and hot water, which, while is wholly unacceptable, will have to do. He makes sure the bag is completely sealed in its package, turning it in his hands carefully before pouring himself a bit of hot water and dropping the teabag in to let it steep. At least Earl Grey is still Earl Grey.

Turning again, he positions himself where his back is against the wall and the exits are the room are in his field of few. A sip of his brewing tea. He wrinkles his nose and resists the internal temptation of throwing the whole affair across the dining hall. Instead he shoves one hand in his coat pocket to check to see that his debt card and cell are still in his possession.

The tablet then, is drawn out, and he stares down at it, scrolling through impossible amounts of text fairly quickly. He is, notably, not carrying any weapons, not even (for anyone who knows where to look) a gun in his coat.

[ooc: The Sherlock!Scan will only pick up what you want it to.]

[slingshots]

[ ...There's something a little weird about that guy. And by a little weird, Robin is pretty sure she means something wholly unlike the guys running around with blood-stained huge swords.

Maybe he's crazy.

But either way, she's heading over casually, steps leisurely and indirect enough to make it look like she's just heading to the table for a better look at the food, and it's pure coincidence that puts her anywhere near him — though that may be belied by a curious glance tossed Sherlock-wards now and then. (He doesn't seem armed, though that coat could be hiding the more slender categories of weapons. She'll keep her distance a few feet back, just in case.

She speaks with eyes on a plate of vegetables, like she's talking to it, instead. ]

Tea could be poisoned.

[[ooc; i am entirely welcoming to the sherlock scan!! he might notice things like that she's recently spent a whole lot of time in a (well maintained) cave underground, she's dressed in expensive and lightweight gear made for cold temperatures, and uh... oh god i'm up for anything really]]

ASDFHSDFJI CARRIE KELLY IS BESTROBIN.

[holmesisnowhere]

Weird doesn't even start to cover it. He looks down at the tea apprehensively, then back to the girl. Red hair. Short. Tiny short. He's a foot taller than her, easily. The gear gets a look too, sweeping her form for the immediate presence of any weapons. He's inwardly faintly impressed by the material's she's wearing. Thin enough to allow what must be rather acrobatic movement (and judging by her build, she'll be faster on her feet than he is.) The pale skin, lithe frame, the set of her hips indicating no children and her entire frame screaming young girl. A faint frown touches his lips. They're taking the kids, too? The vegetables are stared at, as well.

"It could be," he concedes. To the observant eye, the girl might notice he's not actually let any of the liquid pass his lips. He's gone through the motion of making it, inhaling it, making a show of belonging, but he stands out with his subdued (yet fashionable!) clothing, the dark blue scarf hanging loosely around his neck. His all too relaxed-yet-tense posture.

"Is it?" an eyebrow goes up. Sherlock stares down at the tea quietly. He's not about to make idle chit-chat. John usually questioned the natives, but John isn't anywhere in sight, and Sherlock's not too certain how he'd handle the stress of being dumped into another war. He'd probably love it, actually. "Good thing I'm not drinking it."

Another pause. "What are you supposed to be? Superhero? Did I miss a costume party?"

OH GOD YOU KNOW HER I'M SO PLEASED *u*

[slingshots]

Yeah, yeah, again with the costume party stuff. Everyone's gotta be a wiseguy about it at some point or another. She glances over once, eyes going from face to tea to hands, and the food on the table has her attention again. Someone that hadn't shared her thoughts on the potentially poisoned food would react with surprise or scorn, depending on whether or not they believed her. He doesn't seem at all surprised, and isn't actually drinking.

Okay, so, maybe he's not crazy.

"Yeah, you did. Real shame, figure it was a big smasher, too." Man, she really wishes she had her poison kit on her. Small doses of antidotes to most common poisons, a tester to search for foreign substances... well, too bad. With a little half of a smile, she adds, "Tea's probably fine, though. Figure if the spuds running the joint wanted us dead, it'd happen a whole lot faster'n poison."

OF COURSE! Frank Miller's Batman series is what got me into comics. *dies of glee*

[holmesisnowhere]

"No loss, I hate parties," rumbles Sherlock with a tight smirk, not bothering to fold away the tablet in his hand - it's already been customized and rearranged to Sherlock's liking, a spartan background, utilitarian icon setup screaming of a device that's been fine-tuned for work. The girl's got his attention now, and his focus hones down in on her, eyes narrowing a touch behind the mess of his curls - a little grown out and unkempt, if anyone's noticing. There's the telltale signs of a rather nasty fall showing in some very faint bruising, but he seems largely recovered from it save to favor his right side a bit. The bruises are at least a few weeks old. His fingers, long and pale, curl around the cup to absorb the warmth. "If you've a bit of silver, you could test for arsenic in the food, but only if there's a high volume of arsenic in the food, and at that point you'd probably taste it before you died," Sherlock intones.

The cup of tea gets set down on the counter. "I don't think they'd so much as poison us here as to employ the use of drugs to keep us here. Quiet. Complacent. As long as we're fed and have a warm place to sleep, who cares what's going on in the outside world, who cares the entire world's been turned into a post-apocalyptic nightmare, oh no, good food and a soft bed will fix all of that right up." Sherlock's voice tends to err toward being a bit flat, but the sarcasm, the snide irritation simply drips off of his words. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat to shove away the tablet after folding it over with a click.

"Is there any way to get food here that hasn't had someone else's hands on it?" Sherlock looks back out to the banquet table, a thoughtful frown turning at his lips.

[whatsupcroc]

Collette rolls into the area sometime after those inclined to eat in the wake of a temporal shock to their system have started in to the food, giving the buffet line a curious look. She breathes in deeply, picking out some of the scents she can tie to recognizable dishes, but avoiding the long table itself in favor of the crowd of people sitting and standing around the room. Not everyone here is a new face, and so she nods, smiles, and waves as appropriate, scanning for any familliar face that's new (or old) to this place. She doesn't need anyone from back home, no, of course not. Wanting them to be pulled in here was a certain kind of selfish that she recognized, though it did nothing to stop her from hoping.

Marco had been here for a while before she'd been pulled in. She's only been alone now for a little over a month. Marco was back home, as long as she believed that's what a disappearance meant, and all she needed was patience. Bothersome as that life constant was.

Collette finds herself at a far wall with a good eye on both exits as a matter of course for her own curiosity. Angling her wheelchair with the handles to the wall, she reaches down and flips on her brakes before making any overtures to those around her. As luck may have it, there was at least one man. She briefly admires his scarf as she looks up at Sherlock, flashing him a bright smile and a wave of her hand.

"You know, when I came here, the biggest fanfare I got was a look of surprise and someone scrambling to find a wheelchair. The whole guilt feast is an interesting idea." Either a step up from tossing everyone out in the courtyard like last month when the rush of people had started being pulled in, or a desperate bid to curry favor when not-so-comfortable-living-situation went to wll-now-we-have-mutant-monsters-and-they-don't-stay-safely-away-from-where-you-sleep-at-night.

It was kind of exciting. Too constant for Collette's tastes, but exciting nonetheless.

[ ooc: up for anything re: Sherlock!scan; Collette's outfitted in clothes that come out of Exsilium rather than anywhere else in history. Let me know what I can give you to work with! ]

[holmesisnowhere]

Paraplegic. From birth. A flicked glance to the legs, but then to the arms - fit, strong, so yes, wheelchair needed from the time she was old enough to use one. There's a sort of stony silence from Sherlock as he takes her details in, the wheelchair being one of the ones from the facility here, presumably. Flaccid paralysis or spastic? Another glance, this one shorter than the first. He can't tell under her clothing, but it's not terribly important. A check at the hands, unmarried. Frame and facial development reading her as teenager.

A cup of earl grey tea is poised in his hands, but he's only making a show at drinking it, the level of the liquid staying precisely the same in the cup. He leans back against the wall, eyeing the girl next to him cautiously. "Guilt feast is a surprisingly apt term." His voice is quiet, so quiet if the young lady's not listening closely, she might miss it. Tinged with a British accent - received pronunciation, marking him from the area immediately surrounding or in London, if she's of an ear to recognize that sort of thing.

"How long have you been here? I don't imagine you fight unless this world has come up with a way to cure you." The tea is set aside on a nearby table. He wasn't drinking it anyway. His focus on her might be unnerving, as he doesn't tend to blink much and it seems like the entire room vanishes from his mind when he looks at an object - or a person.

[whatsupcroc]

"Glad you agree." More amused, really, since the guilt the Initiative was trying to assuage was their own causing. The longer they played at rewriting history, the more they were going to apologize for the related 'inconvenience'. Imports just got to be the lucky beneficiaries by being some of the very few who will always remember.

She laughs -- he didn't waste time getting to a point. "You might need to imagine further than what used to make sense in a logical world," she admits, shifting to better focus on him as he, what, observed her? It felt like being back in the hospital in a way, a source of focus for the medical minds constantly grappling with trying to understand an inexplicable why. "But you're totally right. I'm not who you send in for direct fighting. I work better with the element of surprise."

Infiltration, observation, and key strikes where and when least expected. Those were any animorph's best tools next to their arsenal of morphs. "Let's see, I first got here in... July of 3312, by this calendar. It's October 24th now. Are you from England?"

[holmesisnowhere]

"London," supplies Sherlock to the question of his origin, still leaning against the wall. His eyes drift out to the tables full of food - he's abstractly aware that he hasn't eaten in some time, but eating makes him feel full and stupid, and that is the last thing he wants to have his mind dulled at this precise moment.

There's faint approval in his eyes at the words of the girl, her self-assured confidence, but yes, there's clinical observation, the gaze of a studious, if not blindingly intelligent man attempting to unravel her just by looking at her. "So you might be found more on a rooftop with a sniper rifle than brawling among the brutes, mm?" The faintest flash of a smile flickers across his face, it's more of a tight smirk and the entire expression feels a little forced, unnatural even, as if he's not so sure that he knows what a smile is supposed to be.

Thankfully, the banquet hall has his eyes now, and he scans the table once again to see if there's anything to nibble on that won't slow him down too terribly.

[boughtabookstore]

She didn't come to this last time, but this time she wants the food, the information, and most of all she wants to evaluate the newest batch of newcomers. A few of them had caught her by surprise last time. This time she'd like to be more prepared for them.

Still, she's wound up spending most of her time against the wall, watching people more than talking to them, eyes on exits and where people go, who they interact with, the groups that form.

She notices him not long after he moves to near her, and after waiting to see what he does she nods at the tablet.

"There's a lot of backreading to do. Eight months worth."

[holmesisnowhere]

"I'm almost done," he replies tersely, taking a step away from the woman to give himself a little more space. His attention divides from the exits and the tablet to settle on the woman who's next to him now.

He's a fairly normal looking fellow by all stretches of the imagination. No visible weapon, dressed in a long coat paired with a deep blue scarf, and the collar of a deep aubergine dress shirt peeking out from behind it. Sensible, comfortable shoes of high quality and a pair of rather nondescript black trousers complete his appearance. They're not armored, there's nothing about him that denotes a life of fighting, or even a natural bent to it.

Sherlock isn't eating, and the cup of his now-overbrewed tea has been neglected as well almost as if the tea were a prop in his hand. He settles back against the wall.

"War, death, mayhem, recent attack by mutated creatures set upon the compound by an overbearing government across the sea. Simple," he pretends to take a sip of the tea in his hand, but again, not drinking it, merely making a show of drinking it. He had to be there for a reason, and tea was a good enough excuse in his mind.

[boughtabookstore]

She raises one eyebrow and permits his attention without comment. There's not a lot to see, really. Average height, more than average muscles that are clear on her whipcord frame. She carries herself with a military stance, though some of the harshness of it has faded now in the six years since she left the navy. She's tired and dirty, hair pulled back tight in a bun, old jeans and a t-shirt and hoodie, blood some of the stains on her clothes. Her gun is holstered at her thigh, standard FBI issue, the bulge of a bandage just visible on her left thigh, which she's not resting her weight on.

Practicality seems to be the running theme of her things, her boots and the bag by her side.

She glances over him in turn, just her own preliminary assessment of a person. Interesting. There's money there, put together - not the sort of person she would expect to see being brought in to fight for someone.

"Quite a summing up. Rather accurate. Not as simple as you make it sound." She leans back against the wall, some relief for her leg. "British? What time are you from?"

[ex_bandai157]

Barnaby comes in from the fighting at some point after his powers have been exhausted for the time being; with an hour to kill, he can check in at the Hold to see how the people, new and old, are holding up. The banquet is a surprise; there hadn't been anything special for the last groups of arrivals at all, unless one counted surprise bombings from the UE, and he hadn't thought the remnants of the Initiative would have the resources for such a gesture, let alone be interested in making it.

He sheds his coat as he moves towards the table curiously, making a slight face at the state of it (honestly, he'd only bought it a few weeks ago after his last one was ruined) before folding it over an arm. He doesn't want to get too close to food because he's still wet from the outdoors and he's not particularly hungry, but he does make himself a cup of tea. It's there that he notices the unfamiliar face, whether new or - but no, if he has a tablet then he can't be a local; and so it's with a rueful air that's so easily pleasant that it can only come with years of practice that he approaches Sherlock.

"Catching up?"

( ooc: Sherlock!Scan can pick up whatever, and lemme know whatever you need :) )

[holmesisnowhere]

The irritation that comes off of Sherlock is palpable. He turns around to face the man that hovers nearby, setting down the tea behind him on thet able rather easily.

"Do people always have to engage in small talk? Really, what's it look like I'm doing? Enjoying a nice, quiet dinner, taking a dog for a walk, running the London Breast Cancer Awareness triathlon? Oh, I know! I could be taking a nap, right here. Of course I'm catching up, what's it look like I'm doing?" He snaps his tablet closed and shoves it into his pocket.

"Well? Who are you, what do you want?"

[ex_bandai157]

His eyebrows go up, but he seems a little surprised rather than bothered at the outburst. He hadn't been too pleased on his own arrival either, but most new transports he's met are too bewildered or angry in a different way - one more aimed at needing to get back right away rather than reading up on their new world and dislike interruption.

"Many people take some time getting used to these devices first," he says mildly, but doesn't argue the point. "My name is Barnaby Brooks, Jr. I can try to help if you have any questions."

He doesn't expect to get asked anything after a response like that, but habits from being responsible for people are hard to shake.

[lovesgod]

Lucifer eventually finds himself bored with the food and the scratches in the walls, so it's time to move onto his next thing to do in these kinds of situations, which is talk to the populace. Not that he actually cares what they think, but until goes off on one of these missions he might as well find out who could be getting in his way.

The man drinking tea catches his eye - it's the calm, really. He doesn't look angry or panicked or upset. He looks like the kind of guy that gets in and out of these kinds of things quickly. Sharp. An advisor at heart even if he has some worthless occupation like artist. He wouldn't let something silly like being pressed into a war in another dimension ruffle his feathers. Cool as a cucumber.

Those types of folks are usually more his kind than the dumb emotional types, at least on the scale of barely tolerable apes. He snatches himself up an apple, red as blood, and takes a bite. Sweet. Taste is a good sense. He meanders over towards Sherlock who, if Lucifer's read him right, has probably already noticed him. He looks over the man's shoulder at the tablet and takes another bite of the apple. Also, being this close is making the hair's on the back of Sherlock's neck stand up. There's a definite vibe rolling off him.

"Anything good?"

Lucifer's body temperature seems a bit too warm and he smells barely, just barely of ash. Despite this, his clothes are oddly clean - no extra hairs or fibers, no sense of washing machines or dyers, no scents of dirt or books or anywhere. The posture and body language is all arrogance and superiority, and there's a strut to his step. He's blonde hair and blue-eyed, and there is not a shred of kindness anywhere in his expression. He looks like he wants to make fun of you.

[Any other Sherlock!sense bits you want, just ask!]

edits for my own derp, not sherlock's

[holmesisnowhere]

Whatever is standing behind Sherlock absolutely cannot be quantified or rationalized, especially with the palpable aura of weird. Sherlock turns around slowly to find a gentleman that smells ever so faintly of ash and doesn't seem to have any of it on him standing entirely too close to his person. To his nose, though, the smell is a bit obvious He takes a few steps to the right, running a hand over the back of his neck to get the hairs to settle down, shoving down an irrational shudder at the first sensation.

The apple gets the tracking of Sherlock's eyes, who watches the man devour it as if it's a steak.

"Don't... chew in my ear, thank you," growls Sherlock, narrowing his eyes to focus them on the other man. Deduction in full spin at this juncture, Sherlock gives him the once over, checking his hands - manicured? clothing (new, tailored, recent, expensive, brands?) and then back up to the man's face. The ash-scented fellow's expression doesn't seem to bother him one jot, and Sherlock stuffs his tablet back into his pocket with a look of supreme annoyance. Young man, money... lives in a clean room? and Sherlock's deductions stop there, and he frowns faintly.

"Yes, I'm reading, that's exactly what I'm doing. Don't you know it's rude to interrupt and hover?" The crispness of his English accent says received pronunciation, so London, if Lucifer cares or notices those sorts of things. His entire set of body movements and facial expressions are subdued, as if he were making them by memory and not unconsciously. "What is it? Who are you and what do you want?"

Dark brows furrow over stormy grey eyes which flicker with warning light. This is perhaps the sixth person who's interrupted him in the middle of trying to get a decent cup of tea while he reads the history of the place, and he's wholly unamused by the entire affair.

[lovesgod]

Everything about Lucifer's body seems a bit - well, a bit normal. Generic. He has jeans from the mall (old navy, maybe, levis, kohl's) and a flat-colored t-shirt and a simple jacket. The kind of thing that you see on new dads in the suburbs. The clothing seem well-worn, although there are no evident rips, tears or stains. Even his grooming is almost oddly average - while his nails are short and unmanicured, they're also too clean to suggest this man has ever done hard work in his life. The same applies for the clothes, hair, and skin.

His eyes flicker up from Sherlock's tablet as he munches on the apple. He doesn't appear to be concerned with his obvious breach of social norms. He even talks with his mouth full.

"I figured since we were apparently teammates in someone else's war it's more important to stay connected. Maybe you had some valuable information that could help us both. What is what? Also, I'm Lucifer. And what I wanted was mentioned above. I think that covers all your questions."

he can read what he can from him but good luck. tony's a persona.

[fe_male]

It's sad when a 'Welcome to the Shithole' banquet is really the closest thing to a decent party around here. Tony enjoys perusing the new groups of transports, but for the most part, they tend to get somewhat boring rather quickly on the first few days. It doesn't help that the Initiative seems to be intent on either gathering up all the skeptical assholes, trigger-happy shoot-em-ups, or obscenely naive temporally challenged it can get its metaphorical hands on in the name of self-defense. If he didn't have first hand knowledge as to how specifically ferociously they were willing to fight for their continued existence, he would think they had a collective death wish.

Most people tend to be evaluative in their introduction to Exsilium, but it's moderately more infrequent that any of them seem to actually be equipped enough to handle their own observations. Coming from someone who tends to take in everything at a glance and come back to it later, watching the one tall man walking around smelling everything - really? Okay, sure. That's what it looks like, anyway - and the level of precision he was implementing in the information-gathering stage was kind of... piquant. Tony's attention was definitely piqued.

And, Tony being Tony, he then had no qualms whatsoever simply approaching the object of his interests, the last half of a sandwich he was making use of in his hand, and the other extended out to shake. Just to see if the other man would.

"Tony Stark. You look... bored."

I sort of wish this would happen IRL. Stark/Holmes. Solving crime.

[holmesisnowhere]

"Sherlock Holmes," and the man shakes Tony's hand absently, still considering the food with apprehension visible on his features. His grip is strong, though not crushing, simply a man's polite handshake.

Grey eyes sweep the sandwich - well, if this gentleman's eating the food, then it's certainly not poisoned. Sherlock's not in the mood to eat though, and the cup of tea he's pretending to drink obviously hasn't been touched. "Consulting detective, and yes, I am a bit bored. I've read all of the history this place has on itself and I'm finding it woefully incomplete. It's simultaneously annoying and a bit tragic that England's been turned into this pathetic wasteland of a country, but if we're here to fix it bit by bit, well, then so be it. I need a lab, a rather extensive chemistry set, sets of beakers and all, and I need one of those beasts that tore this hall apart to take samples to figure out what it's... allergic to, to see if its physiology adapts to poisons or if there's a neat, simple clean way of getting it done. Once that's done, I need to figure out each point in history that lead up to England looking like this - maybe someone's already done that and there's not enough staff to send back in time to make up for that fact, perhaps they haven't, and it needs doing anyway, which means I need books, lots of books. I've been told the internet doesn't exist here, so books it is."

Sherlock pauses for breath, pretending to sip at his tea as he regards Tony with impassive eyes. Sherlock inhales Tony, his hair product, his cologne, the scent of his suit, the food he's been eating, ignoring the other scents about him. If the other man's going to smell the room, well, by the Queen, so is Sherlock. Might be something he missed.

woe befalls the crime world at once as prisons go 'but how do i hold all these felons'

[fe_male]

Hey, you don't want to eat, that's just more for him. There's nothing here that's more poisonous than anything Tony's voluntarily put into his body at any other point in his life, and he manages to finish his sandwich during the short and somewhat unexpected monologue that greets his statement. It isn't that he's unused to people talking far more than one would predict, or that he isn't interested, because really that was honestly pretty interesting, but still. Considering the mental faculties of most transports first day - or indeed, most people on any given day - kind of impressive.

"Chronologically, although I reserve the right to not completely go in sequence: the history is hilarious in that it's not here; labs are a little easier; good luck, we just got all the assholes out; they don't really send people for that kind of thing; and books exist, technically - library's your best bet there." He pauses, considering. "Was that in order? I think that was in order. You're gonna hate it here."

[onemoredeath]

It was one of the strangest gatherings he had seen in this place yet. Takegami had been outside, climbing through muck and debris to better get an understanding of the situation the prison camp had gotten itself into. That they had made a mis-calculation about Russia - and from what they had around them, the Initiative did - was apparent. That they had to fight even more creatures in order to keep their precious skins attached was a given.

He wasn't still sure if they knew what they were doing with bringing in more people when there was a crisis. Then again, they brought him in and they knew what he could do if provoked.

The tables were given a glance, his lips pulling in what could be assumed as a smile by people who may not be able to read his body language too well. The meat was dismissed with a snort and he finally found the kind of food he preferred - expensive as hell hothouse fruits and vegetables. A glance had him pick out the native that brought them, and his face went from the slightly tired sulk he had into a full smile that usually made people melt, and that had made that particular native blush. Takegami plucked a few fruit from the table and headed for the back table and the tea.

Again it was in tea bags. He sighed and just poured hot water over the honey and lemon slice before taking up a spot against the wall, delicately eating his apple while waiting for the lemon to seep. He glanced at the new person, noted what he was doing and then smiled, taking a careful bite of apple.

"The best information is not on the Network," he said lightly. "But I suppose it does give you an idea of how lackadaisical they have been in their selection."


[ ooc; Go ahead, scan him, but he will scan back. It's very canon of him to study details. ]

hope you don't mind a late tag i just love sherlock ;;

[moralperil]

"Oh wow, I love your scarf! Where did you get it?"

Leave it to Mahdi to find one of the guys who certainly didn't seem interested in party or conversation to talk to. He's earnest in his interest, though, and at least not so uncouth as to touch the material or anything like that - he's clapping his hands together in excitement instead.

He has to look up to try and meet the man's gaze - at 4'11'', it's something he does a lot.

Then he seems to answer his own question: "You probably brought it here with you, huh? I turned up in my work clothes and got tangled in my apron. Not exactly great for bombings and battlefields and stuff." Mahdi frowns a little in sympathy. "That's life as transport, they say."


[OOC: Scan away! Mahdi appears as a young man about 15, naturally lavender eyes, not-from-Earth neutral accent tinged with New York and Californian influence. He smells like he's been baking lately, and is dressed in light but warm clothing provided by the Initiative. His manner of dress and somewhat sloppy ponytail probably suggest a touch of absentmindedness. Need anything else and I'll be happy to provide.]

aw, thank you bb, I've been lagging on this thread for awhile. D:

[holmesisnowhere]

Sherlock looks down. And down a bit more, his blue-grey eyes finding the rather small fellow with a look of undisguised interest. The scent of flour rises off of him, and Sherlock recognizes the Initiative clothing almost immediately, having seen it draped over other people. Unfashionable stuff, in Sherlock's opinion. The tall man sets his tea down for what feels like the tenth or twentieth time, saying nothing while the young man gives his opening lines.

"It was a gift," he replies lightly, his own voice a quiet baritone touched with what is unmistakably an English accent. From who, he won't say, but he's not taken it off or even gone to tuck it in his pocket since he's arrived. "And yes, I brought it with me."

Sherlock takes a step closer, inhaling slowly to get the scent of what exactly this fellow has been baking recently.

"Can I help you?" he asks, a little tiredly.

no worries!

[moralperil]

"What a nice gift! You're lucky. Someone wanted you to be warm when it was cold." Mahdi's warmth is of the nearly unbelievably sincere variety: he's genuinely touched by the scenario he's imagined, someone giving this tall British guy a scarf because it might be cold. The thought of it inspires him, brings him genuine joy.

Mahdi seems a bit confused when Sherlock asks him if he can help, and he blinks a moment as he lets his mind catch up to the situation. "No, I'm fine. I guess the scarf's kind of a weird thing to ask about, but I'm not really used to so much weather and I get cold, and it just sort of came to me like, oh yeah, I could use a scarf like that!" He shrugs, and then looks a bit embarrassed. "I'm so sorry. I should be asking you if I can help you! I've been here since August! Do you have any questions about this place?"

Aside from the smell of flour, there were notes of vanilla, chocolate and brown sugar. He'd been making cookies before he arrived.