[hatch log] pull plug, enter multiverse

[onemind]

CHARACTERS: All
WHERE: The Station + Concordia
WHEN: DAY :025 - :026
SUMMARY: Somewhere deep in Station 72, a hatch happens; new hosts arrive on Concordia.
WARNINGS: Will update as necessary.

YOU WAKE UP and in a very real sense you are born again. You’re not the same person you were the last time your eyes were open. You’ll never be that person again - well, except for you, Jessica Jones. You know how this part goes, don’t you?

You might not know it right away, though. What you do know is that you’re laying down in a place very different than you were before. The walls angle around you, claustrophobic, and they emit a gentle white light that’s faint enough not to hurt your freshly opened eyes. For a moment you feel fine even if you didn’t before you went under. Whatever injuries you might have had, whatever agony you may have been experiencing, whatever fear dogged your heels, they’re all gone. It’s quiet. When you’re conscious enough to take stock of anything beyond that, you realize that you’re wearing your own clothes and that there’s a faint pinch at the base of your skull - notable as the only discomfort you feel. Reach up, feel along the tube running from the base of your neck to the compartment’s back wall. It pulls free without much fuss.

Then it’s not so quiet anymore. There’s the sensation of something more, something louder, something both big and broad and something intimately near to you. There’s the realization that you aren’t alone, that you won’t ever be alone again. You belong here. This is as correct as the murmur of something like muffled voices in the back of your head is somehow familiar, or how the press of emotion that sweeps over you now doesn’t necessarily belong to you but doesn’t feel out of place either.

You can sit up - barely -, and shift out of the pod. There’s a ladder at your feet, and a little cubby just before it with anything you brought with you, as well as a set of crisp, loose-fitting white clothes; while your injuries are healed, whatever you’re wearing is in the exact state it was before. You can hear a sound in the back of your head, a faint buzzing, something like distant waves or the murmur of a party behind a door. Drop down the ladder to the floor of the Nesting Deck and you’ll find you’re not alone - and the those sounds in your head are louder. Other people’s thoughts swim up: some of them seem clear, most of them are a jumbled mess. Some of these people call to you - their voices are louder, their feelings more clear, they feel right. Further, there’s an awareness that there are others like you - not here, not close, but somewhere: an indelible tug at the back of your mind.

Welcome to Station 72. All new hosts will have one day aboard the Station before being whisked off to Concordia to join the others. Get to know the other new hosts, and ask the guardians of the Station - Prince and Cathaway -, any burning questions you might have. By the time the day has passed, Carata will arrive on the hangar to collect you.



MEANWHILE IN CONCORDIA Angel slips into a coma on :025 at almost at the exact same time that some Hosts become aware of missing pieces fitting into place. Those hosts with new brood members waking up on the station will feel somewhere more complete; you might want to let everyone know you’ll be getting new roommates soon.

Everyone might be putting themselves and their broods back together in the wake of the explosion that left the nest down one host and injected everyone with renewed motivation to either find the people responsible or make sure nothing like what happened at Royal Street ever happens again. Things are progressing on multiple fronts, but on DAY 26 there’s an option to put some of those efforts on the back burner...

     ON THE STATION, the new hosts are herded onto a sleek, black brick-shaped transport. Carata, a woman young enough to almost be called a girl, carefully makes sure everyone is seated and strapped in. She’s all gentle, easy smiles and cheerful responses to any questions posed to her. When everyone’s safely aboard, the ship’s landing platform descends through the floor of the hangar. It snaps into place in the airlock and for a moment there’s a beat of perfect stillness, a shiver of anticipation. Then the transport is flung through the shaft, ejected into the wild black of space. There’s a nauseating lurch in your belly as it bursts through the delicate shell of the multiverse and snaps into real space above the blue and yellow marble of the planet Opia. Somewhere, thousands of miles below in the city of Concordia, your brood is waiting for you.

     IN CONCORDIA
IN CONCORDIA, as dark falls, Nirad announces he’s going to fetch Carata and the new hosts from their landing. Anyone’s welcome to accompany him on the hour long drive to the stealth transport’s landing zone. The rented bus - manned by that same (now very stoic) android - takes everyone to the outskirts of the industrial block. They arrive at a different parking garage just as the stealth transport drops out of the sky, shivering into sight as it touches down. The hosts on the ship step down and then the stealth transport lifts back off the rooftop and wrinkles out of sight. It’s unclear how many more time they’ll be able to get away with this.

Get your meet and greets in and stretch your legs; you have a few minutes before everyone piles into the van and takes the long drive back to the Bearings Apartment block where the hosts have rented out the entirely of Level 13. New hosts will find there are rooms there that as of yet unclaimed, and they’re free to begin making this their home in whatever ways they please. Get familiar with your new comrades, explore the city, or maybe just take a well deserved breather. Officially speaking, nothing much happens until--

     EARLY ON DAY 27

A NEW WINDOW POPS UP IN YOUR EXTRANET PANEL...

---

((OOC Notes: This is the hatch log for all new and recently returning hosts; any threads on the Station should be closed to newly awakened hosts or Station-based NPCs; a top level for Cathaway and Prince will be going live shortly. Any threads on Concordia can be open to both new and old hosts! For anything happening beyond these calendar dates, feel free to create your own logs and posts.

If you have questions about the mission specifically, direct them to the most recent calendar post HERE. You can find a more detailed overview of the hatching process HERE; you might also want to take a glance at the MISSION CONCORDIA BRIEFING. For all other questions, please hit up either the FAQ or MOD CONTACT pages.))

NAVIGATION • SETTING • FAQ • MOD CONTACT • GLOSSARY

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Comments

[unsea]

[ From the doorway, he makes his way over to one of the large, square units that line the rooftop. A cooling system, maybe. Electricity hub. Whatever it is, it's large and slightly-dented from any number of inter-nest scuffles that have come up as a result of their... mixed feelings towards one another, and it's upon that unit that he climbs and sits. A dark, bound book - strange commodity for a world fixated on technological advancement - held loose in his hands, resting in his lap. From his perch, he's able to regard Bruce. There's distance between them, if only physical.

He considers something, in silence, and replies: ] Perhaps. You are in mine, as well.

[ A two-way road. Bruce's will -- is a steady thing, strong, present and respectable. It reminds him of Steve, a little. ]

I meant of any of this, though. [ The Station, the nest, Concordia, missions. Leaving everything behind. ] But yes, especially...

[ Gesturing, from his temple to Bruce. Yes. That most of all. ]

[batmotif]

[He watches as the stranger (not a really a stranger, he feels so familiar now, and that's a painfully disconcerting realization for him) seats himself on one of the units lining the rooftop. Bruce can't help but knit his brows together, watching him. Eying the book, reflecting back the way the man regards him. He can't help himself, despite his reservations about their mental connection -- he cognitively reaches out, testing the waters, a ripple against the still surface. What he finds is surprisingly empty, no doubt wrought from the man's discipline. But there are echoes there, too, brimming from under the surface. A darkness, a timelessness.

Bruce frowns at the gesture. His willful nature (his stubbornness, most would say) is easily read from him, flaring up at the notion of... everything. Of a shared everything. It's true, he may not have to find any of it acceptable, but what, then? What purpose does he have, if not transplanted on the streets of Gotham? None, and perhaps that bothers him more than anything else.

The thought of his city causes images to flash through him: darkened streets, lights that cast long shadows, pavement slicked with rain. And, strangely intertwined, the far away cry of bats, echoing off a cave wall.

His words interrupt these scenes, cutting as cleanly through as a knife.]

I prefer my privacy. But even I know an exercise in futility when I see one. [He takes a step forward, purposefully.] And so I suppose I should ask what's a man like me to expect, now.

[What to expect from this place and its situation, yes, but more importantly -- and of far more interest -- is what he should expect of his broodmates. Who are all of you.

He may as well start with the one sitting in front of him.]

[unsea]

[ The cityscape within Bruce's mind is unlike anything he's seen before, with the exception of the neonlit-storm that was Concordia. The shadows have deep pockets, heat rises from grates in cracked pavement, and towers ( skyscrapers, he's come to learn from his studies, are what they are called ) rise towards starless skies. Though the new host projects - he's quite good at reigning in his thoughts, and the Darkling politely refrains from commenting on what glimpses he's seen. ]

You're not the only one, [ the sharing of thought and feeling among the brood is often without consent. They project and pull, try as they might to avoid such.

Expectations, though. They're many, and equally divided among mission, nest and brood, in the end. He stars in the smallest sphere of interdependence: ]

Loyalty, in differing form and function. Consideration, of your privacy. Expectations, self-imposed, for the most part. Shared pain, when we are hurt.

[ He tics things off on his fingers, amused by the gesture. It ends, without fanfare, as Bruce doesn't need someone trying to sell him on the "wonders" of being linked mind to mind to mind from now into - death or coma, really. The book, he places to one side, folding his hands together as he leans forwards, looking curiously at the new addition. So, introductions: ]

I am called the Darkling.

[batmotif]

[Bruce watches him as he explains, each notion seeming to reverberate in the back of his mind, as if to tell him -- yes, this is how it'll be. As if he already knew this is what such connection held with those so closely entwined with each other. But that treasonous part of himself, that decidedly alien sensation, is pushed to the far corners of his mind. He reminds himself that it isn't him; that being bound by loyalty, consideration, expectations, and shared pain was never something he felt he lacked before.

The curious look is reflected back by one that is a... precarious sort of cynicism, perhaps directed more towards the overall situation than the Darkling himself.]

Quite a name. [-he responds, finding it less a name than a title, an alias, a sobriquet. For a moment, he does not even considering giving his own name in return -- a moot point, he imagines, for that would be easy enough to garner from his head if anyone truly wished to. But propriety (in the face of a conversation that may clear up his many questions) overrides his natural tendency towards stoicism.] My name is Bruce Wayne.

[He steps a bit closer, coupling the movement with a question.] And is trust part of equation, too? [Naturally, a question only asked by distrustful people.]

[unsea]

[ The new host says 'name' the way he might also say 'that's not a', and the Darkling very nearly smiles at it. The corner of his mouth twitches, because no, it is not a name. It is very much a title, and it is what he prefers to wear. The image he'd chosen and crafted, rather than the name he had been born into. The host before him -- Bruce Wayne, his name is ( foreign on his tongue, but the flicker of a notion that his name was of some import does not escape ). ] As is yours. Bruce Wayne.

[ His tongue, used to the decadent, rolling r's and thick vowels of his own language - the one spoke back home, in Ravka, very nearly mangles the man's name. The way he very nearly mangled Rhys's name, Bellamy's. Still, it feels - less a name, more an step forward. Something asserted? As Bruce, one of his own, comes closer even still. Mistrustful, and rightly so. There is a distinct need for mistrust, in this world, for this mission they are all one.

Perhaps even a healthy degree would keep the nest sane and relatively untangled from one another. Now, he really does smile. He does not bare his teeth, when he does; leaning forwards to peer down at Bruce. ]

When properly earned, yes. No matter if you come to know my mind and I come to know yours, trust... is a precarious thing. Hard to earn, easy to lose.

[ A reply from one cynic to another. ]

[batmotif]

[The accent isn't lost on Bruce, though he can't quite pinpoint its origin, which adds to frustration rather than his growing sense of curiosity. After all, it is merely one more thing he doesn't know; one more uncertainty, one more question in a sea absolutely brimming with them.

And for a man as controlling as Bruce (as one may be able to tell, given how eagerly he keeps up his mental barriers in the face of a casual conversation), not knowing all the answers rubs him the wrong way. It's a like a bug, crawling just under the surface of his skin, invisible and untraceable -- the detective in him wants to know all the answers, wants to know who these hosts are, who this man who calls himself the Darkling is. A part of him wants to shatter the notion of trust and barge into his mind recklessly, grabbing handfuls of imagery and memories at a time, taking it all for himself.

But as controlling as he may be, Bruce is not a reckless man. Trust may not come easily, nor will he offer it freely, but he's not so keen on being that guy. Not yet.

It doesn't mean he won't ask about it, however. He makes sure to phrase it not as a threat, but rather as a legitimate concern. From one cynic to another.]

And those that chose to break that trust? To rummage around a broodmate's brain and pull their secrets out, one at a time? Are we so closely connected that it would be something we couldn't stop?

[unsea]

Bruce, [ there is a certain measure of concern in his own voice, as well. Brought upon him by this line of questioning, and what it might mean for the dynamics within the brood. ]

Are you asking me whether those who might do such a thing are punished? Scolded, like children who've been caught stealing treats?

[ He nearly laughs at the thought. At the worry, but manages to contain himself to the curious hum of a man truly considering the depth of those concerns. The truth of the matter, is that he does not know if the brood is so heavily connected that they could not stop one another, should someone decide to do just that. He knows Cathaway, and how deeply entrenched she is among her multitudes, and he keeps a watchful eye upon his own, for traces of it. There is solidarity to be found among one another, and a unique strength, in knowing where one another is and how one another is feeling. But, he, out of all of them, prides himself on his individuality and his solitude. ]

I value my freedom. [ He's certain that each of the others do, as well. ] The connection makes equals of us, for the most. Where one may reach, the other is able to deny. Like so --

[ He favors action, though. And in a moment, his mind presses - seeking nothing beyond rebuttal - against his broodmate's. The sharp, cold-steel rush of attention and precision. ]

[batmotif]

[Before he can open his mouth to respond, he feels the push of the Darkling's mind precariously close to his own. It's an immediate response (a bit too knee-jerk, when he reviews this conversation later) how quickly those walls are reinforced. From brick to steel, by sheer force of will. He knows this man is trying to make a point, but he sees no reason why not to oblige him; too long has Bruce been a secretive man. The threat of having everything about himself revealed is alien enough that his reaction is stronger than it should be.

(Ironically, pushing back so hard reveals a bit of himself, anyway. That steel wall, one hundred feet high, is accompanied by the defiant screeching of bats, as if his willpower takes it own sort of personification.)

He doesn't hide his frown, even as he keeps up the barrier.]

No, I was asking if it was possible. I don't know any of you. I don't trust any of you, yet. [At least he's an honest man. He wants to keep distrusting, even though the closeness of bonds within the brood compel him otherwise.]

I'm a business man. [And much more than that. In some ways it's a lie of omission, in some ways not.] I come from a world of grinning faces and courteous people who'll stab you in the back as soon as you glance in the other direction. Maybe I believe what you're saying, maybe I don't.

[He wants to believe that he can push out someone's invading thoughts, but he's not so naive to think that everyone is the same. That everyone will approach so openly, so obviously. That his walls won't become soft and malleable by time and association alone.]

I would hope that there's enough respect between us all that we keep out of each other's heads. But we all come from different places, defined by different experiences. Someone, someday, might arrive here who doesn't care about respect, about trust. Maybe someone already has.

[unsea]

[ He tests Bruce, as much as Bruce tests him in return - neither seeking to force one another, but to set a boundary, something to be respected and minded. Who knows how long they will be among one another. ( Until coma, or death. ) The width of his mind pressed against steady resistance, walls made of steel and the eerie shriek of dusk blackened by the flitting wings of bats in the multitude.

He likes bats. They're very small pieces of whole monsters that bleed from his body, slip-slide darkness and abomination, when he calls for them. ]

A business man. [ He turns the thought over, and over. It doesn't quite fit Bruce. ] I come from a court of liars and hidden snares as well.

[ A world of people driven to do desperate things. Children, driven to violence in their terror. And here they are: a business man with hidden depths and an old warleader with a mind like dark water. They're part and parcel of one another's waking world and unconscious mind, and neither is quite able to trust the other - let alone any one else within the nest. He doesn't blame Bruce. He feels very similarly. Certainly, he does not aspire to change his mind on the matter, not within their preliminary meetings. ]

So, I understand. It's a valid argument and something of concern, [ there could be. If he has anyone in mind, he doesn't offer names or faces. ] Having one's privacy compromised might be the worst crime among the nest, to be sure. Cathaway is a fair example of what it means to be subsumed within the trapping of the nest. Who's to say brief glimpses and offerings of our minds to one another aren't indulgences we'll come to crave? It's so easy, to keep track of where we all are. What state we're in. If those we may think of fondly are secure.

[ You want paranoid and mistrustful, Bruce?? He loathes every little vulnerability the symbiotic connection begs him to reconsider. ]

I'll respect your wishes, of course - as I'd like you respect wishes that are mine. And I'd like to work well with you.

[batmotif]

[He doesn't know why just yet, but coming from a court of "liars" and "hidden snares" seems to be suited for the Darkling. Unlike the opposing thought of Bruce coming from a world of business not settling quite right, Bruce thinks this sounds quite fitting for his broodmate; perhaps it's something subtle floating between their interconnected minds, or perhaps it's the setting of their first meeting coloring his perspective, in the shadow of the night, isolated on the rooftop proper.

Though his lips are pressed into a slight frown, Bruce finds the words reasonable enough for now. To respect each other's privacy is not quite the same as privacy not being an issue at all; but the latter was a pipe dream, it seemed, and Bruce was quick to readjust his expectations to that of reality for now.]

I wouldn't reach into someone's head without good reason, and I expect the same of everyone else. [It's as much of an agreement as one can get from the man.] As for whether or not we'll work well together, that's something that'll be revealed in time.