MISSION: WAYPOINT SHRIL, PT. I

[onemind]

CHARACTERS: All
WHERE: WAYPOINT SHRIL
WHEN: Day :025 - :029
SUMMARY: Welcome to Waypoint Shril, the soon-to-be home to the galaxy's most incredible competition!
WARNINGS: N/A, will update as necessary.

SOMETHING IS WRONG. Strange, how a moment ago everything seemed perfectly fine - as normal as things get on Station 72 - and then the next the entire void shifts by a degree. There's a crackling, anticipatory feel in the air. Dwelled on too long and it might become nauseating, triggering some hindbrain impulse the nervous system under the skin or--

Something is coming.

Something is coming undone.

In the heart of the Station in a small, featureless circular room, The Prince and Cathaway dredge the Station from its mooring. There's a rush of shared adrenaline, then an massive sensation like an inhale. A gulp of breath. Relief floods through the body like something palpable as the massive beehive structure of the Station snaps into real space above the deep space space station known as Waypoint Shril.

( ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬...Please meet us in the hangar. We have your next assignment....▬▬▬. )

Once they've arrived at the hangar, the Hosts will be briefed by Cathaway and Prince on their new objective. They'll be given their mission kits, along with a written brief on their databanks. The usual warnings apply. Try not to kill anyone. Do not get killed yourself. And accomplish your mission. From there, pack yourself onto the transport shuttle and make your way to the Waypoint. --One of you knows how to drive, right?

Once ejected from the Station, you'll find yourself on one of literally thousands of ships. The black space above Waypoint Shril is full to bursting with air traffic from the smallest pod-shaped one being ship to the most gargantuan floating planet cruisers. Some of them rival even the Station which now lurks, a mottled white and grey latticework structure that's no more bizarre to look at than any of its neighbors.

VROOM. A ship shaped like a sword with a naked multi-limbed alien painted in lascivious, technicolor detail along the blade slices directly across the path of the shuttle transport. It blares a proximity alarm and a holographic message full of swearing and threats pops up even as the ship blasts down toward the traffic choked landing platform in the distance. A school of insectoid fighters go swarming after it. In the distance, the flash of ships dropping out of hyperspace through the gate rings gleams like a strobe light and on around the landing platform itself buzz two dozen security vessels desperately trying to keep order.

Welcome to Waypoint Shril. Don't crash into anyone on the way in.

     I. PLATFORM ALFA
When the ship finally docks on Waypoint Shril - after a lot, lot longer than you may have liked -, the scene that greets you is more hectic than even the busiest rush-hour on Concordia. There are simply too many people in too small and too hastily prepared of a space. The platform itself was clearly designed for utility, not for comfort and not for style. The walls- towering sheets of welded metal from a countless number of sources, flecked with old paint and the occasional slash of grafitti - offer nothing in the realm of sound dampening, and the electro-cloth banners that hang from the ceiling, advertising the Aurora Blue Arena! in dozens of different languages do little to help. As a result, the entire platform echoes with thousands of voices trying to talk over each other and the newly enhanced intercom system struggling to be heard over the din as it works to provide simple directions and instructions for the teeming mass of tourists.

In the press of flesh and the constant motion, it’s easy to get swept away from your party. It’s easy to find that the items you just had on you are suddenly missing, expertly palmed away by slippery fingers as you try to push your way towards the series of pneumatic tubes leading to the Waypoint proper. Ship's hydraulics hiss, lights flash, and the smell of greasy stall food spreads out from the edges of the platform. There are a few bright-eyed, clever locals - or what count for locals on Waypoint Shril - who don’t hesitate to reach out and grab your arm, offering to be your guide. Asking if you’re here as a spectator or a participant. Asking if you need information. Company. Everything has a price.

Get your bearings - if you can. It’s going to be a long couple of weeks.

     II. THE MOST FABULOUS PLACE IN THE UNIVERSE (Please Excuse Our Dust!)
Waypoint Shril's main thoroughfares and twisting platforms may have made sense to someone, but now absolutely no one knows how to navigate them as the ABA! has swept through Waypoint, bulldozing and building up anything and everything in its path. Oh, did you like that tentacle sandwich shop you stopped in five minutes ago? Too bad! We decided two minutes ago we're tearing it down to make way for a spa-slash-beer-garden! Stand back please, there are explosives detonating in this area in 3, 2, 1…--!

Everywhere you look, Waypoint Shril is undergoing a dramatic transformation. Maybe there are places on the outskirts, far from the Arena Zone that aren't literally being paved over or built on top of, but they seem to be the exception to the rule. Don't get lost as the neighborhood quite literally changes shape around you!

     III. MEET THE COMPETITION
Between the fabulous prizes and the fabulous fame - every single still-living winner of the previous competitions became household names before they stepped out of the Arena, then went on to live lavish lives of excess where they're paid exorbitant fees just to be seen and heard, known for canoodling and cavorting with the best, the brightest, the most privileged the Galaxy has to offer- it’s no surprise that the ABA! draws competitors like a magnet. And while not everyone advertises their status, plenty do - hoping to exchange the slimmest possibility of their victory for favors or drinks or just plain old attention. They’re loud, they’re visible, and plenty of them are very, very drunk, or whatever counts for drunk for their species.

If you want to size up the competition, now’s the time - in the middle of Blunt Force, with scores of other competitors lined up. The club itself is home to a deep, thrumming beat that vibrates through your chest, the industrial concrete walls covered in splashes of electro-paint that pulses in time with the beat. The floor is dark and smooth, the bar is long and there isn’t a single seat to be found at it, just an endless slab of some ancient black stone that drinks slide back and forth across. Every bartender wears a half of a mask in clear plastic run through with simple circuitry in complex patterns and they’ll keep you hydrated for a modest price. Above the floor on a catwalk composed of corrugated metal and transparasteel there are low couches and cushions in rich fabrics of a hundred different patterns of velvet and neon, two dozen tables, and another small bar that will hand out drinks and powders and oils and smoke. The patrons are as varied as anything else in this place, as hodge-podge. Slender, slick looking people with hunched backs and long necks. Short, broad aliens with four legs and four arms. Something heavily shrouded, the only part of them visible a proboscis. Some are here to dance, some to drink, some to talk and more than a few to fight - maybe for keeps. Hell, you might be one of them.

     IV. WILDCARD
There's plenty to see, do and explore. You've got a few days before the competition kicks off - might as well make the most of it.

---

((OOC NOTES: Welcome to Waypoint Shril! This log covers the arrival on the Waypoint and can be used for anything prior to the start of the Aurora Blue Arena! on Day :029. However, feel free to make your own logs if you choose! You can find a complete mission overview and a place to ask any mission-specific questions over at the OOC post.

Thanks everyone!))

NAVIGATION • SETTING • FAQ • MOD CONTACT • GLOSSARY

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Comments

PRINCE and CATHAWAY | NPCs | pile in for one group thread, max 3 player characters

[onemind]

[A sensation crawls between the muscle and skin; it feels like something living, something pulsing and ready to burrow its way free. It's dread and wonder and the sweet taste of some base anticipation and it calls from a place deep in the Station's gut. Should it be followed, eventually the labyrinthine corridors become a straight line: a hall leading faintly and purposefully down, down, down to a small inconsequential doorway and a bare circular room unremarkable save for the mirror shine of its floor and the animal feeling of something living there.

At the rooms center stand Cathaway and Prince. She's gripping his forearms, white knuckle tight and he's trapped in the obligation of keeping her upright as all her weight sags in his arms. Her knees have buckled and every ounce of them flows from the crown of his dark head through the length of his arm and the unnatural slope of her shoulders, through the crooked angles of her ankles to the very floor of the room itself where it radiates and grows and is steadily consumed by the need to breath.

Breathe.

The air lurches. A distance collapses. Reality finds this place again and both Cathaway and The Prince crumple to the floor of the Station's bridge.]

[earthborn]

[Shepard finds that it's all about timing. For example, arriving just before, or just after. The final seconds of a countdown; gut feeling, like the climax of an action vid.

Timing, that's what this is.

She's meant to pilot a shuttle, but the supposed passengers are still filtering in. There's time yet, time and any number of options. She's learned to follow her hunches, after all, and this is the mother of all hunches. Shepard doesn't exactly expect to walk in on what appears to be a medical emergency, but then... she is in armor. It's not often Shepard gets to walk in on things that aren't technically classifiable as medical emergencies.]

Shit! [First rule of emergency response: ensure that the scene is safe. Shepard is on the scene, meaning that by default it isn't, so she goes down on one knee beside Cathaway and the so-called Prince. Maybe they're not dead, after all.] Hey. Can you hear me?

Commander Jane Shepard | OTA

[earthborn]

I. Runcaria, the precursor
Shepard would contend that when stacked against certified geniuses like Joker and Steve Cortez, anyone would look shabby. And anyways, skycars handle like a brick, besides she didn't crash, she landed firmly. Right exactly where she meant to, too. Shepard is a perfectly competent pilot, let no one tell you otherwise.

Listen, she's never killed anything, with a vehicle at least, that she didn't intend to kill. That's just going to have to be good enough. And, why is it going to have to be good enough?

Because Shepard is piloting the shuttle.

And you're just along for the ride. Have nice conversation with her, if you like, but don't distract the pilot too badly, okay?



II. Piperonal, the fragrance of progress
Shril reminds her, in some ways, of Omega. The blatant capitolism is one, and the filth, the influx of the unlucky and gullible, but it's marred by the ongoing activities of the ABA! like a malignant cancer. The fatal kind, but the kind you can cut away. Still, there's one kind of creature that swims just as well in both seas: pickpockets.

And this is the third Shepard's caught trying to find her pocket since arriving.

What is it about her that seems to inspire courage in the bold and stupid purse-snatchers of this world? Is it the height? The way she keeps squinting upwards a little too often? Is it something she can't even predict, some taste of the truly alien, even here among the alien throng? Outsiders are easy pickings, and it's easy to be unfamiliar with the streets when the streets keep changing.

But now she has what she thinks is a skinny urchin child dangling by what Shepard assumes is a wrist, over what she would like to believe is a fatal drop, regardless of your anatomy. Below this balcony used to be a nice little street market, not so long ago; what lives there now is the pupate form of the ABA! only knows what. And she regards the kid with a looming sense of what she is exasperated to find is.... empathy. She hasn't forgotten the days when she would have been the underfed, thieving little alien.

"Look, I'm getting real tired of this," She tells him-- her? It? Shepard lets the alien ponder its mortality for a moment longer then shoves it off hard enough in the wrong direction that it goes sprawling on the ground for a few seconds before finding its feet and vanishing into the crowd, "Fuck you too, kid!"

That's gratitude for you.



III. Sativa, the chain that binds
There are two ways to get in trouble in a bar. The first is to go looking for it. That's not a challenge, really, especially not in a bar like this, filled up with competition-drunk hopefuls, drunk on something else besides. And each one, more hopeful than the last-- nah, it's too easy. You could pick a fight here without having to choose a target. Shout an insult in the right tenor, and the whole place would go up like a powder-keg.

So, the second method, less Krogan to be sure, but still with its merits, is to find a nice, prominent seat, comfortably appointed. And then, armored and all, drink peacefully all on your lonesome, letting trouble come to you. It always does, with Shepard.

Takes a lot of booze to put down someone like Shepard, and she's in no hurry. Maybe you wanna go fishing too; join her, will you?

III /slides in here, kicks up leggy

[miscreant]

Trouble comes, alright -- though not the brand of trouble Shepard is searching for. In spite of herself, Seviilia is still clad head-to-toe in her ominous dark-hued armor, hood resting down at her neck and allowing her a full view of the alien conglomerate surrounding them. She'd done a bit of exploring in the throngs of people before it got to be far too much for her. So many bodies pressed so close, too many beating hearts and pumping lungs.

The bar isn't much better, but she can distract herself easier here. In her hands is a drink too strong for most species -- not for any other reason other than experimentation. She'd never encountered a drink she could taste, let alone feel and as it turned out, the one she had in hand was no different. Disappointing, but not unexpected.

She doesn't see Shepard right away. Instead, she feels her -- the sensation she'd gone most of the night chasing without knowing, the slow creep of a buzz and the blur of senses. Unfamiliar, somewhat troubling, however small.

The elf tugs on the connection to locate the source, and her head turns slowly toward Shepard's booth, to which she opts to creep over. He shoves which she provides the people in her way are not at all gentle. Grand sweeps of her too-large arms and she greets her fellow host by pressing the glass down on the table a touch harder than necessary.

Understanding dawns, and her expression brightens slightly as she gestures. "Finish it. I'll buy you another."

ii

[bracchium]

There's so much noise. Every pound of organic material seems to be doubled by the sheer weight of the dyn on Bucky's senses. The mental network of the hosts spreads out like webbing, stretching too thin in places while bunching up in others. Almost entirely by accident, Bucky ends up following Shepard, feeling entirely too flat-footed in the swamp of organisms. He knows some of the languages murmured around him, but most of the audible mush is just that.

As he emerges from the busiest elements of the throng, Bucky is nearly on Shepard's heels, brow furrowed and his mind latched into the programming to keep from overloading. She dangles something over the balcony and Bucky doesn't give half a thought to just how far the drop might be. Instead, he's much more concerned where the rest of their party went. Priorities.

Over his shoulder, he hears a heavy accent and steps into the language without entirely meaning to.

"Drawing attention will bring trouble," he says to her in smooth Russian, as if he'd spoken it his entire life.

III someone asked for trouble???

[100mitsubishis]

Kavinsky doesn't look for trouble, either, but it's hard to do so when he's a mortal incarnate of the concept. He's been spending his time in the bars, the clubs, the social scene. He's been passing out baggies and spice containers with the paprika emptied out and pills stuffed in to replace it. His name-- well, part of it-- is being spread gently through all the worst thickets of space-cokeheads. K. Some new guy here for the competition but wanting to do some business on the side while he's in town.

In return, he's having most of his drinks bought for him and speaking to a whole mess of alien freaks. He tells them so, to their faces (sometimes more than one per body), finding out all the intergalactic slurs and making sure to practice them.

He only veers off course when he senses another Hive member-- a close one, too. Someone from his Brood but thus far he hasn't decided to harass. That's about to change. With everything he's on, walking feels more like swimming through peanut butter, but he finds Shepherd eventually.

"Nice suit. Move over."

MISATO KATSURAGI | OPEN OPEN

[wille]

001 ✖ I won't live with a collar around my neck

[ Misato is at the club wearing something that leaves little to the imagination.

She carries herself with certain confidence, comfortable in her own skin, with no regard for how others see or judge her, ogle or leer, ignore or admire. They can think what they want but all they can see is the fragment she presents to the world. It's likely that she's brought you here (kicking and screaming) only to disappear among the throng. That's the beauty of social scenes. She dons the role of the uninhibited party girl intent on drinking herself under the table, another may play the role of wannabe godfathers presiding over a bottle service, and yet another may be an up-and-coming champion, hungry to prove herself. They all have their parts to play, stereotypical, diluted and stripped of their complexities.

As for her, well, she can later be found accepting any and all potions (and powders and oils and smokes) bought for her, and has now found herself in a drinking match against a shrouded figure with a proboscis. She slams each emptied glass on the black counter as the alien moves its tube from one drink to the next, already starting to miss its mark, and Misato grins at the prospects of victory even as she's beginning to grow unsteady on her feet too. Cheer her on, stop her, shake some sense into her?

Afterwards, she's on the verge of starting a fight as she insists on pulling a turquoise competitor by its arm-like neck toward the dance floor, not yet realizing her mistake until a few of its friends start gathering round to intervene.

Later, much later, she can be found kneeling by a cushion with face hidden in her folded arms, having clearly outdone herself. ]

002 ✖ I don't need a name in exchange for love

[ Whatever you do, don't laugh at her hat.

She has a cup of something steaming in one hand and her databank out, using it as a kind of shopping checklist as she troops through the main thoroughfares with an urgent sense of mission. This time she wears something that may pass for professional, complete with a badge. Her face is knit with something that may seem like worry but her mind is like live wire. She notices a fellow Host only at the last minute, expression quickly shifting from mild surprise back to focused determination. ]

Hey, help a friend out, have you seen anywhere that sells a-- uhh-- [ She squints at her notes and grimaces. ] Shau-Shen specialty roasted rust pie? I swear it was right here an hour ago.

WILDCARD ✖ 永遠の始まりに背を向ける私た

[ I'll roll with anything! Misato will likely be working a lot, but she can be found stealing time to do a little shopping and eating, or on her way to grab some hot baths and much-needed sleep at the Catacomb (thanks Damon!). You can also go here or ping me at unhedged to plot! ]

001

[adamance]

[There is little comfort to be found in pretending to be someone else. Mara Jade had once taken her through a party to show the value of that, but Lexa prefers to act on her own accord. There is some value in leading someone to believe you're someone else, but staking her claim on her true identity means nothing here. So she can be everything but the commander: the tactician, the leader, the person who guides others. That's her goal.

Sizing up the competition is part of why she's here. Trading barbs has its value. Questioning someone's desire to fight has a value, too, in planting seeds of doubt. She drinks because it's part of the role of being here, but she shifts through the crowds, mind occasionally reaching out to others, or ... not so far. Other members of the Nest are here, after all; they all have their own approach to these situations.

She's not surprised to find Misato in a similar place to where they had first met—drinking, making a point of it. She had criticized her at the time for it with thinly-veiled remarks, but their conversation had taken an unexpected direction. Here, she sits and observes at first from a distance, though she doesn't maintain that distance for long.

All of it seems to be some element of playing a part, and she makes sure to reach out to alert Misato of her presence before stepping into place beside her.]

Is this setting familiar to you? [she asks, eyes pointed forward as another set of drinks are set down. Lexa wonders if she has a plan here, but doesn't assume that Misato doesn't have one.

For now, anyway.]

002

[greentech]

Misato-!

[ Pidge starts. Her link provides her enough of a warning that she's not completely off-guard, but it's still a bit startling to have her pop up. Pidge has her own hat on - labeled "Security" - but she doesn't seem to be going anywhere in a hurry. She frowns and scratches at her forehead. ]

Shau-Shen? I think they demolished it and replaced it with a stall selling hats and official t-shirts.

[ She blinks. ]

What are you doing, anyway?

002

[inflori]

[ He'd like to know what the hell is up with that hat, Misato. Should he make fun of it? Should he make fun of her in general? There's no time to make up his mind.

She came to the right baby-demon, at least. He knows where all the food is at, even as it moves around. ]

Yeah, it's over at the platform over there. They just opened. You've got, like, five minutes to get it.

001

[wrackful]

[There's something about the turning of an atmosphere before a fight that Murphy's developed a sense for. When you've dealt with enough violence, it becomes another language. And he can see it already now, the shift in the crowd and the alien's friends moving.

He doesn't know the girl. But he knows her, and he's stepping in between her and the aliens before he can really think otherwise.]

Hey, whoa. [Arms up, palms open.] She didn't mean anything by it, okay.

[A mental nudge reaching out at the same time, insistent enough, he hopes, to get an immediate reaction.]

( Just a suggestion, but you probably want to let him go. Right now. )

CLOSED TO SEVIILIA!

[wille]

[ Misato is such a boy's boy. Not a man's man, no, she's not even a woman's woman, so stuck is she between childhood and adulthood, but that's a story for another day.

Today she's testing out the hoverboard, the one painted with an alien cat, having found the farthest spot away from the bustling stadiums. She is middlingly proficient in the art of skating, let alone hovering, since she moved on to bigger toys by the time her single-woman-with-no-dependents income allowed her to stow away her skateboard and baseball cap in favor of classic sports cars. This feels much like picking up a childhood habit albeit with a few decades' worth of technological advancement, nostalgic and new at the same time.

The tricks she tries out are simple enough. With the board hovering barely more than three inches off the ground, she does horizontal flips, backwards, forwards, then tries a double heel flip she nearly fumbles. Not that it's any reason not to next try a triple heel flip, which she entirely fails, landing on her butt with loud oof. Only then does she notice the company, offering Seviilia a sheepish grin. ]

Oh, hi! You wanna have a go?

1

[deployed]

Are you going to throw up?

[ This might not be the best thing to say, but Bellamy doesn't have a great frame of reference for dealing with alcohol-induced illness. Hangovers had been the least of his worries at home, and Mara had effectively killed his buzz at the festival on Concordia. He has bleedover from other people's memories, which is useful but only comes to him after he's already blurted out the first question.

He crouches beside her, trying to catch her eyes. Octavia had hidden her face from him under much different circumstances and Bellamy knows how to be patient, and wait until she turns towards him before he proceeds any further. ]

lexa | ota

[adamance]

a: rapid changes

[Discomfort presses against her time and time again as she views this world rid itself of its previous identity to claim a new one. Coming from a culture of people born from the ashes of a previous civilization, Lexa's people have taken to clinging to what they can manage, holding on to it tightly, and never letting it go. That seems to have no meaning here, and there's a definite sense of ... discomfort within her.

Of course, to anyone else who's observing her right now, she simply looks put out that a fried pastry chain has been replaced with a location offering skin treatments to various species. (There's even a warning sign: we hold the right to remove your skin if you're unkind to our employees.) Of course, the threat could be the problem, but—]

Was it like this where you came from? [This question hangs in the air, partly because Lexa doesn't begin it with any verbal or physical acknowledgement, but she can sense a fellow Nest-mate there. So, that will do.]

b: going clubbing

[The last time Lexa remembers enjoying herself, it had been the festival on Concordia. There was a value in the relief of letting go there. There is no value here. No part of her wants to take some of her lessons to schmooze, to pretend to be innocent, to pretend she needs to know. Instead, she's here for a simple goal: to intimidate.

Lexa's aim in this competition is not to compete, but to guide other people toward it. She wants the various competitors to try to impress her, to point out their strengths, all so that she can find weaknesses in the process and relay them to anyone who's decided to work with her.

She arrives at the club with this notion in hand, and will be seen dressed in all black (complete with a hood that hides her face until she needs to show it) as she works through the crowd, striking up what conversation she can manage, and showing that she is more than just a mentor when the time is right. She can and will physically part ways with someone, if the circumstances call for it.

Aside from that, she'll be checking on the other Hosts as the time allows for it. She may even poke into minds while conversations are happening with strangers to announce herself, almost to ensure that she can gain an upper hand in the long run through intel.

Overall, she's treating this as a recon mission. But like her people, she refuses to change her entire approach to see if a different one can get her more answers.]

c: wildcard

[Lexa's primary goal in this mission will be to be guiding other people to victory. She wants to play the Mickey to anyone's Rocky, and will be helping numerous Hosts succeed if they are willing to take her help. I'd like to play with this, but leave it open-ended for ... y'know. Wildcard stuff.]

A

[earthborn]

Shepard steps up beside Lexa to survey the ceremonial hanging of the neon. It feels a bit like dressing a parade line, to be honest, but maybe that's just the false uniformity of two humans together among a thousand sentient oddities.

"Eh, in places. Capitalism's a bitter bitch," Shepard is speaking as someone who loves fried foods and has a particularly antagonistic relationship with skin, "The upheaval is kind of over-the-top, though, even for Illium. Too much money in the wrong hands, if you ask me. The outskirts are better."

Shit, what was it Kasumi had said? Shepard pauses a moment, head tilting, trying to remember.

"...They don't waste the light."

A

[greentech]

[ Katie can feel the sense of unease that rolls off of Lexa. It doesn't help her get any more comfortable, but it's also not her. And unlike Lexa, she's fascinated by everything. She certainly doesn't feel at home, but she's also not super uneasy. Alien cities are easy to handle. Even if this place moves so fast that it makes her head spin sometimes. ]

Like this?

[ Their shared dream is only half-remembered, but it tugs at her mind. Strange. ]

No, not really. Even the busiest cities didn't have minute-to-minute construction.

b.

[deployed]

[ Maybe it's Lexa's influence that guided Bellamy when he chose his own attire. His shirt and pants are black, cut tight and sleek, and his Ark jacket has been begrudgingly left behind. This arena isn't like Concordia; there are no ribbons or innocent levity. The gathering here feels unsafe. Letting his guard down would be foolish.

This isn't about enjoying himself, not really. It's about observing the people who will be joining him in the tournament. The other Hosts circulating through the crowd ping into his awareness. Bellamy doesn't deliberately migrate toward them, but as he circulates, he draws close enough to nod. But he breaks away from the crowd to approach Lexa directly. ]

Anything interesting?

[ He doesn't think he has to tell her he's going to throw himself into the ring. He's predictable in his approach. Lexa's irritatingly good at figuring out Bellamy's preferred approach. ]

[greentech]

I. Eyes Wide Open

[ The landing is a bit shaky, but Pidge has had to fly with Lance, so it's not like she's not used to near-death experiences. It's less the flight she's interested in and... everything else, once they actually touch down. There's an entire station for them to look at and she's wide-eyed trying to take it all in. There's so much going on around her, so many different aliens, and so many strange and new technologies for her to try and get her grubby little hands on. She weaves through the crowd, the brood and the rest of the crew tugging at her thoughts. She picks up stray ideas and hints of what's happening with the others (and there's a gap where small Sam ought to be, but she tries to ignore it).

She pauses in front of a stall selling a variety of things -- most of them technological -- so she can examine small metallic sphere that's resting on the table. The be-tentacled proprietor rumbles at her inquisitively. ]

Oh, huh, that looks cool -- what's it do?

[ This goes on for a minute or two. She's trying to suss him out and figure out what he actually wants. ]

Come on, you can't expect me to buy it without knowing what it does-!

[ Later she can be found carrying an armful of technological gadgets, eyes glinting with excitement behind her glasses. She might have spent some of her money on knick-knacks. ]

Hey, check this out! You have got to see what they're selling around here-!

II. I'm In.

[ Much, much later Katie has set up her metaphorical shop in the equivalent of space Starbucks, computer out. She's trying to hook into the local network. There has to be more information on the competition. Maybe even some things she can find that might not be strictly public. Then again, if she were them, she wouldn't put anything too compromising out on a public network without some serious firewalls. She glances up, still munching on her pastry. ]

You think we can scope out some of the competition without having to go into a weird alien sex club?

[ OK, it's not a sex club, but forgive her her exaggeration. ]

III. Wildcard!

[ You know the drill! She'll be out and about, getting an oddjob, and otherwise exploring. She wants to do the sneaky, backroom thing instead of directly competing, so anything in that vein is welcomed -- or playing support to the people who actually want to fight. ]

II.

[earthborn]

[Nav points were a convenient feature of an omni-tool interface that never, ever got less convenient. The tenuous sensation of personhood, even at a distance, even through any number of bulkheads, divisions, and crowds of people, was even moreso. Shepard doesn't consider Pidge to be a friend.

But she does consider her to be an ally, however unwilling. And besides, whatever else is true, seedy alien space station teeming with lunatics and criminals isn't exactly far from Shepard's realm of expertise. She's managing. And she's checking in-- and listen. Listen, here, they have cheese danishes.

She likes to eat, alright?]

Technically they do have to leave sometime. Why, you wanna get in?

Shiro | OTA

[shiro2hero]

1) IT'S MY TURN TO FLY
[Before this, the biggest thing he'd seen was the Galra space hub. The biggest he could remember. And the busiest. But once the sense of disorientation fades, once the world reasserts itself, there's no time to sit and gawk. There's a job to do.]

[... there's not even time to process the sensation of loss. The almost missing limb feeling where Bruce had been. He's just armoring up. Grabbing a seat in a cockpit like it's second nature.]

Strap in back there.

[Time to stretch his own wings. Put himself through paces he hasn't tested since last he sat in his Lion's cockpit. Or on the trek to Kerberos. But he can't resist throwing a grin over his shoulder at anyone in the shuttle with him.] This is your captain speaking. Looks like we're in for a roller coaster.




2) I'M IN OVER MY HEAD
[There are. Too many people. Way, way too many people. Aliens. At least here, armor and facial scars don't stand out. They're actually sort of blending in for once. So, if nothing else, there's a sense of anonymity. Something he hasn't had in a long time.]

[But the press of people is too much. All he wants to do is find the target, find somewhere to get out of the way, and keep his head down until they can figure out how to hit it.]

[You can find him attempting to wade through the crowd, trying to map the streets and passes. Reaching out across the links with others, in an attempt to locate them. He doesn't like this plan, the one that's slowly forming in his mind, but it might be something unavoidable.]

(Anyone know where we're setting up camp? I could really, really do with getting off the street for a while.)

[Something literally demolishes right next to him, and he's practically leaping across the street, hand glowing before he realizes it was just construction. Dust billowing around him while he tries to calm down a sudden, racing heart and sharp stabs of panic.]]

(... and soon.)




3) COSMIC CASTAWAY
--wait!

[That's a shout of protest if there ever was one. Because, despite being built like a black garlic Dorito of Muscle, it's easy to get swept up in the press of the crowd. Swept up and in to, of all things, an alien dance club. Of the Adult Variety. With loud, pounding music, flashing lights and too many hands everywhere.]

[This is The Worst.]

[Anyone in this club is probably treated to the sight of a big, armored human trying to weave his way through a crowd of grinding aliens with too many limbs or eyes or tentacles, without touching anyone. It's probably comical.]

[Please save him.]



4) WILDCARD
[ hit me up with anything! ]

2

[wille]

[ Despite being spoiled for choices, it's in fact rather difficult to find food that's edible for humans on Waypoint Shril's packed thoroughfares. Coming from Misato, that's saying a lot. But she has managed to locate some form of goopy noodles with mystery meatballs at a stall, in the middle of paying the owner with odd change when the ground beneath her feet shudder in a fit of familiar explosion, followed by also familiar panic.

Well, well. She wastes no moment to locate him, reaching through the crowd to grab his arm, whichever one. ]

( A bit jumpy, are we? )

petre | ota

[inflori]

i. [ He hates this place the second he steps foot on it. He's made himself look just a little bit older, old enough to not get carded for every single reason. It's easy to pick up on how little people around here care about rules, though, which has its advantages up until Petre realizes his money is gone.

A quick turn of his head and he can pinpoint the strongest, immediate source of greed. Picking up sins is an easy skill as ever. Learning to handle a situation without committing one is not.

He snarls at the punk who took his cash, shoves him on the floor and gets ready to beat him down. ]

You little bitch, you think you can just take my shit like that?!

ii. [ He did want that stupid tentacle sandwich. Hell, he still wants to try just about any food he can get his hands on.

An alien passes by with what looks like a tray, and what looks like a bunch of crumpets on top, if crumpets looked like neon-blue sponges. The context is that of a food market, but maybe it's so recent that the people who used to live in the neighborhood just moments ago are still making their way out of the premises.

Petre snatches up a neon-blue-crumpet-sponge-thing, and lifts his hand to insert it in his mouth.

Except the alien cries out in a panic, MY BABY! SOMEBODY HELP, HE'S TRYING TO EAT MY BABY! ]

What the f--?

[ No time to finish that sentence, he's getting tackled by a bunch of knights in sponge-y armor. ]

ii

[100mitsubishis]

Oo.

[It isn't every day one sees an angry little shit covered in sponge folk, all of which are doing their best to pummel his much sturdier body with their soft, porous-- do those count as fists? Kavinsky whistles low and stays back, one with the rubbernecking crowd.

One of the sponge people, not currently on top of Petre, is wailing about baby eating and monsters living among us. He creates a starting point of this kid is an idiot and extrapolates from there. The laugh that bubbles up is genuine.]

( This is the worst gangbang I've ever seen, man. At least act like you're into it. )

sam wilson + bucky barnes / closed

[bracchium]

[Staying away from the Arena has been Bucky’s goal since arriving at the Waypoint. Nothing good can come of submerging himself in violence again. Every time he faces conflict, the Soldier finds a way to break through. Something about the Station or the Symbiote has shoved a wrench into the programming. He can’t remember anything surrounding the events, only the aftermath and the questions that continue to plague him.

So far, the pet shop gig has been uneventful, giving Bucky time to work on his mental defenses. Like Sam, he builds them in layers. Instead of Sam’s vibrant rosy clouds, Bucky’s mind is surrounded with a blizzard, biting cold and frigid ice threatening to freeze anyone who trespasses. The second level has been more difficult to construct, but when there are no customers, he can focus on Sam’s defenses, the wings that curled around them both with both strength and flexibility.

Frustration is the primary result of his efforts, exhaustion the second. He’s quietly grateful for the tiny studio built above the pet store because by the end of a day of focusing on shielding, he’s got a headache and an urge to sleep.

They’re two hours from close and Bucky’s nursing a migraine and the itching of the programming under his skin when the bell on the door rings. He looks up to see a handful of masks and pistols.

Not good.

There’s no time to do anything other than try to batten down the hatches on the Soldier and send a mental alarm to Sam. ]

[sizeofyourbaggage]

[ Sam likes to hassle Bucky about his stupid decisions - but this one is smart, and Sam definitely supports it. He has no intention of entering the Arena, either, though he skirts the edges of it, trying to keep an eye on the people they've got in there and support them how he can.

Being in the pet store, though, particularly with the rescued animals... it's comforting. Reminds him of when he was in high school volunteering at a raptor rehabilitation center, and after he left the air force when he was trying to find his way back into himself again. He tells those stories to Bucky, when things are quiet, smile soft when he admits that he doesn't usually talk about those.

He's trying to coax an alien bird with too many eyes into eating something when he feels the mental alarm from Bucky, and drops instantly from relaxed into ready. There's a part of him that wants to come running, but bursting out into whatever's going on isn't going to do any good. There's a pulse across the mental link to let Bucky know that he's on his way, and he moves quick and quiet out of the aisle.

His hands go up the second he sees guns and masks, and he keeps himself calm as he opens his connection with Bucky wider, already ready to give him mental support if he needs it - if these idiots can't see the danger they're in, and don't turn the hell back around. ]

Come on, guys, you really think a pet shop is gonna have anything for you to take? Try the pawn shop two doors down, their security guard just quit.

Joseph Kavinsky / OTA / general drug & alcohol usage warning

[100mitsubishis]

i. different color, my passport, Instagram my stack load

[The responsible thing to do would be to duck and cover as building after business after stall is demolished. Kavinsky doesn't have the self-preservation instinct. His shades are settled high on the bridge of his nose, casting the world dimly even as it lights up from each explosive burst. He's close enough to sober, having been warned that the hive will need some keenness to their senses on the mission. And they say he isn't a team player. But that doesn't mean he can't have a little something swimming in his system. There's a bass to this world they've been dropped onto. A beat in the patterns of aliens squashed together in updating streets. He can feel it, booming out from invisible speakers.

It's a song he could get used to.

He smiles, honest and wicked. Someone bumps into him, steals the ziplock of pills that was hanging halfway out his back pocket. All part of the plan. He barely tilts his head to watch as they head off into the crowd.

Supply and demand, motherfucker. What a dumbass.

Others from the hive can find him setting similar 'traps' or wandering into any store that sells items of unnecessarily fast transport. He's laying hands all over anything vaguely motorcycle shapes, touching buttons the salesperson-- strained-- tells him not to. Kavinsky assures them if he doesn't have the cash yet, he plans on having it soon.

Real soon. Supply and demand.]

ii. rich kid, asshole, paint me as a villain

[Blunt Force is the honey and Kavinsky buzzes over early. He could feel the pound of its music from a half mile off, though he suspects he should start measuring distance in this world's standard if he's going to ask what's the best place to get wasted in a five (insert alien measurement) radius. Let it never be said he wasn't flexible. He had to adapt when he moved to Virginia, and he'll treat each new port the exact same.

Kavinsky walks in the club and he's home. He stops by either bar, first picking up a drink, and then an oil that he's instructed to apply a drop of to either eye. For that, his sunglasses come off and the drink-- tastes like cherry, looks like neon puke green-- is downed. Minutes or hours go by, and he's already explored the entire catwalk. He pokes his head into conversations he should, those between future ABA! participants and even less savory new friends. He flashes his teeth, he picks up on the lingo, and his brand of playful insults seems to hit the mark when everybody has alcohol and other poisons sloshing inside them.

His latest venture involves sitting at the bar with a group of muscular, six-armed individuals who each have a boastful claim to make on the big win. Kavinsky's all lazy smiles and pseudo-affectionate arm pats. He's oh yeah, show me and tugging on other people's chains.

He's gaining a tad too much attention. Exiting Blunt Force may not be as easy a process as entering. The problem with being so good at making friends without ever being willing to give them a real name. Maybe things will ease up if he keeps sampling the bar's wares.]

iii. wildcard

[If it's terrible, Kavinsky is willing to be a part of it. Also open to making unique starters if nothing appeals here!]

i.

[wille]

[ Misato's understanding of the mechanics of supply and demand is rudimentary at best. She doesn't take easily to the idea of planting traps to reap later or this concept of growing and nurturing something to harvest in the future. Hers is a spontaneous universe, she pulls herself along by her bootstraps, from one moment to the next. But she's perceptive, more than most give her credit for, and her mind draws quick connections between what she sees to form what she calls woman's intuition. ]

Short on cash, are we?

[ The look she gives him as he exits the store is a knowing one, curious and unrelenting, but quickly turning into something less judgmental. Self-deprecating and amused, like a parent discovering her child having figured out a way to trick her. Her shoulders relax. She doesn't care about these people anyway, but she finds herself rather biased in favor of the boy. ]

You hungry? Let's grab some dinner.

MURPHY | open

[wrackful]

ONE: DAY 025 | EARLY
[There's something about cities that's always going to be a shock to the system. Coming from a decimated world will do that to a person. On Concordia, it had inspired panic once or twice, caught in the crowd and completely lost on how to deal with it. There'd be something to be proud of in managing to avoid that this time, if Murphy had time to stop and be proud about it.

He doesn't bother fighting the flow of traffic. He has no set destination in mind, no goal just yet, so there's little point in expending the effort. It lets him explore the lay of the land, side streets and paths he might not have taken, the whole place pulsing, growing and reshaping around him.

Of course, by the time the crowd thins enough to leave him to his own momentum, he's far from anything he might have recognised. Shifting his bag's weight on his back, he turns to retrace his steps, unthinkingly reaching out for the nearest host mind, no greeting or other explanation as he starts to use them like a point on a map to guide him.]

TWO: DAY 025 | LATER
[There's an all-you-can-eat buffet on Rosco's fifth tier, and Murphy's been taking up space at a table for about two hours now. The staff keep looking like they might try to kick him out, but he's proven himself a little more tenacious than they have time to deal with, so far. Besides, he is still technically eating. In fact, he's been working his way through trying every dish offered on the buffet - which is a lot, seemingly catering to every kind of whatever that might wander through the doors. And he's wandering up to refill his plate again when he registers there's another host about to do the same, standing in front of a dish he seriously would not recommend.]

( Really wouldn't touch that one, if I were you. )

THREE: DAY 025 | LATE
[It feels late, but it's hard to tell, and the pit stop doesn't seem to sleep. Finding a place to rest presses as a necessity, but Murphy ignores it for the moment. He's climbing, instead.

There are struts and supports lining the waypoint's outer walls and ceiling, the whole place feeling more like a station than the station does. Heights tend not to bother you so much when you're born in space, and Murphy makes his way up and over the construction ground of the stadium, takes a seat on a walkway with his arms resting on a bar and his legs dangling into open air. The central nexus of the waypoint's shifting and changing turns beneath him, and he watches, starting to chart in his head the layout of the place, the areas that don't change. The places that might be worth taking some real interest in.]

https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/e9/30/d3/e930d332186a70c926641f2db2b8aa87.jpg

[deployed]

[ Murphy has to be able to feel the moment when Bellamy's attention shifts from just cursory awareness to direct focus. Bellamy's still sweaty from the press of bodies in the club, and there's a lingering sweetness from an alien drink in the back of his mouth. His Ark jacket looks strange coupled with the sleek black outfit he'd struggled into. (Lexa's influence, or the Darkling's, it's difficult to say; it's not something Bellamy would have chosen when he'd first arrived.) The climb feels good; it's as pleasant to haul himself upwards as it is to let the connection between their minds reel him in.

He sits without asking. Since Murphy asked, Bellamy thinks of the Ark more often and perched so high while looking downwards reminds him of one open stretch of window and Octavia's face. The memory lingers like smoke in the back of Bellamy's mind as he settles his arms on the bar and rests his chin on his forearm. ]

I'm going to enter the competition.

[ There's no reason to stall in imparting that information. He didn't come up here to start an argument. It just felt better to lay out a plan side by side, face to face, rather than bouncing through back and forth through his mind. ]

Sam Wilson | OTA and two closed prompts

[sizeofyourbaggage]

001 | got all the answers to your questions | OPEN

[ Shopping isn’t usually up there on Sam’s list of enjoyable activities, but he’s got presents to buy, and he has to admit that the main avenue down Waypoint with all of its ever changing shops is pretty damn fascinating. He’s actually having fun poking through everything.

Except for the fact that he keeps feeling hands trying to dart into anything that looks like it might be a pocket on his outfit. He grabs the wrist of the latest kid to try - or hell, maybe it’s not a kid, maybe it’s a fully grown adult alien that’s just three feet tall - and pushes it off. ]

Man, try that on someone who didn’t live in both New York and D.C., get out of here.

[ There’s the unmistakable feeling of another Host nearby, and Sam’s mind brushes against theirs. ]

( Maybe we should hire one of them to just steal the prize for us. )

002 | it ain't that hard when you got soul | CLOSED to Bucky

[ It’d been completely by accident that he and Bucky ended up at the pet store. The crowd had been… intense when they arrived on Waypoint, and even Sam had wanted out of it as quick as possible. The press of the crowd had made it too damn easy to get lost quick, and Sam just considers himself lucky he’d managed to keep a hold on Bucky. Until there’s a break in the crowd, and a pet shop advertising help wanted in exchange for room and board.

Why the hell not.

It’s not like any pet store or animal shelter he’d seen back on Earth, and the strange alien animals are pretty much running free in the back area of the store, but there’s not a lot of people, and it’s good enough. By the time they prove they’re decent enough workers to be hired on, Sam’s pretty damn tired.

The second he steps into the little studio, he hears chirping noises that sound almost bird-like, and he immediately zeroes in on it, face lit up in a little smile. ]

You hear that?

[ They’re not birds. But the dozen or so weird animals he finds curled up in a drawer are still pretty cool, and when he scoops one up, two more start butting against his arms for attention.

So he shrugs and turns to plop one of them on Bucky’s good shoulder. ]

003 | been through the worst but I still give my best | CLOSED to Damon and Misato

[ Damon is… a pretty decent guy. Oh, he’s also legitimately an asshole and Sam has absolutely no illusions about just how fucked up his morals are - he’s been in the guy’s head, after all - but there’s more than just a softer side to him. Mostly centered around Elena, but it’s not just limited to her. Sam’s seen the empathy there, however it’d ended up coming out.

Or maybe it’s just that Sam’s feeling grateful since Damon keeps giving him stuff like it’s no big deal, access to a hotel suite and a leather jacket that almost looks like home - or maybe Sam’s feeling more contemplative than usual, because it beats giving in to the dark edge of grief that lurks just out of sight, waiting to spring on him if he looks at it too long.

He’d come back to the suite with plans on using the shower, but of course, the bathroom’s occupied, and Misato just shouted back at him when he’d knocked on the door and teased her. Sam’d raised an eyebrow at Damon, given a little amused smirk and a roll of his eyes as he dropped down on the couch to wait his turn, occasionally calling something out about how there better be hot water left.

It’s not that Sam is faking his usual casual amusement, it’s just.. dimmer than it might normally be, something a little more quiet to his side of the mental link. Still, when Misato comes bursting out after finishing her bath and announces that they should go out to that alien club, Sam laughs and shrugs one shoulder. ]

Why the hell not?

004 | stand up now and face the sun | WILDCARD

[ If you want something different, gimme a shout and I can write up another prompt, or give me one of your own! Sam can be found all throughout Waypoint and at the ABA field office in a blue uniform, helping register those who want to enter the competition. ]

1

[shiro2hero]

[When you're on a new, loud station, where everything is periodically exploding, of course you're going to gravitate toward familiar minds. Familiar people. And Sam is one of those at the top of the list.]

[Needless to say, he's been at his elbow for a while now, not really browsing so much as just sticking around. Leaning mentally against the other's presence. Idly looking around at the things on display.]

[Only to be surprised at the sudden turn of events. Moving to try and grab the perpetrator at the same time as Sam.]

(Let him go. Right?)

[Not that he thinks Sam would do otherwise.]