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

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.

[100mitsubishis]

[Kavinsky is only as short on cash as he allows himself to be, which means he plans on owning the arena's betting pool by the end of the week. The part of the mission that involves fighting in a tournament like a protagonist of a graphic novel series doesn't appeal. Kavinsky more prone to bastardized recaps of literary classics-- he'll take them to Wonderland, then watch them bleed out on the Jesus Lion slab. And since she's been inside his head the longest, and since he's opened his doors to her the most, Misato should know that.

Her joke is cute. As is her offer, however typical. He rubs his thumb in a curved line along his lower lip, bringing attention to his mouth and the genuine pleasure it's turning up to display.

Was she looking for him explicitly? He didn't feel it. Which means this is fate or else the faint hummings of each other's presence becoming an impossible to ignore tug. This way, this way, this way.]

Drinks, too?

[wille]

[ How strange to think that she's the one bearing the title chief tactician while he's the one already formulating a plan so convoluted that even she fails to see the finish line. As it is, she thinks he's playing a game and having fun, while the endgame eludes her. Maybe that's just as well. There's a difference, of course, between strategy and tactics.

She turns away when he touches his lip, betraying a flicker of unease that she decisively stamps down while taking a step forward, gesturing for him to follow. ]

Don't push your luck, mister.

[ If asked, she would say it was coincidence, as much as someone like her believes in such things anyway. It's tough life for a staunch card-carrying cynic to be made to choose between believing in the workings of chance or a mental link beyond one's own understanding. ]

Couldn't you have dreamed up the exact one you want?

[100mitsubishis]

You see a bed around here?

[He falls into step beside her, his tongue tasting the backs of his teeth as he mulls over how and when he plans on pulling one of those bikes into existence for his personal use. They can't be much more complicated than a car and it isn't as if he needs them to be perfect; a dream vehicle can speed along without an engine or gas tank. All it has to do is look the part. Kavinsky's perfectionism will get in the way, of course, master forger that he is. He doesn't dream for whimsy and fancy and to merely own things. Gods have to take their times and fall in love with the details; what they do is art.]

And I have to know what I want first. I can't just go in without a plan, I'll get torn apart.

[wille]

[ It would be easy, automatic, for her to say, Come stay at my place. A younger her would hardly think twice before saying so, intent on proving to herself that she's capable of building a home for herself. But that was a failed experiment by any measure. She isn't cut out for it, this whole business of being a mother. Still, the hesitation dominates on her mind.

Misato clenches her hand into a fist, flexes her fingers, then crosses her arms to keep from fidgeting. ]

Why would you get torn apart? It's your dream. You control it, right?

[ Unlike her dreams. Chaotic and predictable when not peacefully absent. ]

[100mitsubishis]

It's a dream. So what's the other side of dreams, Misa? Think it over. What else is up there?

[He taps his forehead with the side of his knuckle, fingers curled as if they were holding an imaginary cigarette or--more likely--an imaginary joint. He must have trained himself to gesture that way to avoid snubbing the cherry out on his skin.

Unconsciously, he's leading the two of them, heading to a sleazy bar with a half-assed lunch menu he might make his usual haunt if they had enough time.]

[wille]

[ Nightmares. She doesn't give voice to her answer. Even without the link between them, as solid as hands held together, thoughts and sentiments flowing between them like Penrose stairs, Misato is presumptuous enough to assume others know exactly what she means without deigning to spell it out for them. Him, more so than others.

She only turns to look at him, thoughtful, with the beginnings of a frown, preoccupied enough by her insecurities to allow him to lead the way. Their steps, too loud even amid the bustle of the crowd all around, punctuate the silence. Only a few beats later does she finally speak up, her tone playful, though she turns her face forward to hide her concern. ]

Have you been having bad dreams, Kacchan?

[100mitsubishis]

[Even without the mental feedback, he'd known it was a nickname, something distinctly Japanese and distinctly Misato to call him. He doesn't complain; he's been called many things, usually variations of his first name without the first playing much of a role. Funny how Joseph has begun to feel like a foreign entity, some boy he could've been but hadn't the mind to. Kacchan is good enough. Kavinsky. K. Joe, even, but rarely and usually not more than once in a row from the same pair of lips.

The circles under Kavinsky's eyes don't come from a lack of sleep, but a lack of rest. Even if he regularly had eight hours a night (and usually its more, midday naps plugged in here and there), he's actively dreaming. Lucid and busy.]

It's not just me.

[The bleed means he has to manage more demons than even he's used to. Makes it all the more fun.]

[wille]

[ The bar may be sleazy but Misato doesn't mind at all. Food is food, as far as she's concerned, and she has never been a material woman. He might be the one leading them to this place, but she can be the one to pick the seat, right at the corner, by the window. She offers him a weak smile as she sits down, almost and not-quite apologetic. ]

Sorry about that.

[ She picks up the menu with its laminated surface peeling off at the edges, studying it with furrowed brows as if any of the symbols make sense to her. (They don't). ]

I don't dream of things that can tear you apart. Not often. Can you swim?

[100mitsubishis]

Planning on drowning me now? Cruel bitch.

[He says it like someone might say, lovely woman.

Kavinsky waves dismissively at the menu. He knew walking in that they wouldn't be able to read a word of it. If by now she hasn't learned to trust that Kavinsky will take care of things, then she's a smart cookie and should keep doing that. But he knows what to order.

His arm shoots up, trying to flag down a server. The open hand transforms into a single raised middle finger when he's ignored. That gesture has proven to be more or less universal.]

SLAMS IN HERE FOR ALLEYWAY FRATERNIZATION.

[unsea]

[ -- which makes it sound dirtier than it really is ( right now?? ).

He catches Kavinsky's wrist, as the electric-bright path of his mind carves a space out just before him. The press of pursuers, harrying at his heels, has not escaped the Darkling. Not when the interaction between Kavinsky and Petre is so OBVIOUS. It's easy, to seize the other host and tip him into the depths of the alley he had stepped into, preparing to remove Kavinsky from the piss-poor situation he had gotten into.

He pulls, twists, and generally swings the young man from the main stretch of road, into the narrow sidestreet. And then deeper, deeper, down to the opposite end and into the alley that runs crosswise. Out of sight, around a corner, where he flattens Kavinsky to a wall and looks, pointedly, at the sparks that have built around his hands. ]

Stop.

[ Hello again, you little nightmare. ]

oh bby

[100mitsubishis]

[There were only so many options before Kavinsky, because he smoked too much and snorted the rest to keep running forever. Adrenaline would wear out, and eventually he'd come to an impasse with his pursuers, provided they hadn't been gorging themselves on space donuts and did not drop out before he did.

Option A involved letting them catch him, assuming someone from the Hive would hear his lazy distress signal and come to pay bail. Kavinsky had never seen the inside of a jail cell before, let alone one built by a Star Trek writer on speed, so that could be fun. On the other hand, depending on the disposition of whoever decided to come find him, it might end up a lengthy process. Time was money was time.

Option B involved seeing how long he could keep up the sparklers before his hands were too burnt to keep spitting out energy. He'd fight, depending on the Symbiote to download kungfu moves from the Hive and direct him into the one-sided smackdown he'd need to dish out. Downside of that was what if the Symbiote couldn't and what if the spirit was willing, but the body gave out.

Choices, choices.

They're taken from him. A hand grips onto his arm hard enough to leave heavy bruises. He is dragged into an alley, shoved to a wall, and loomed over by a man he's only met once or twice. The first time, he'd been told something like keep a low profile. Kavinsky never took the order to heart.

He smiles. The darkness swarming in around them paints the shadows under his cheekbones black, the line between his lips like a slash made by an irate artist that can never get it quite right.

His hands continue to spark. The pads of his fingers are beginning to blister.]

My hero.

[The color of the sparks fades from blinding yellow to a heartfelt rose. He's touched.]

[unsea]

Not quite.

[ A hero. Not in this place, where everyone seeks to find the very last thing they need, before a long journey.

His lip is still split, bruises around his throat fading to mere memory. A fight with another host, gone ill in his favor. It makes him look enough like a difficult target that he can pass unmolested through the more dangerous areas of the city. Kavinsky has not put out his hands, and the smile that spreads across his mouth is not kindly at all. He presses him deeper into the shadow, hand dipping into the inky black of a particularly dark corner to pull them forth.

Enough so, to discuss the fizz and the spark of the lights cupped in Kavinsky's palms and curling around his fingers. ]

You're -- [ He reaches. Turns over minds with deft fingers, seeks an answer. ] Joseph.

Such a lovely ability that you have. Would you mind showing it off to me later?

[ And putting it away NOW. ]

[100mitsubishis]

This? This isn't what I do. Cool, though, right?

[The round shape of his mouth as he says cool looks like he might blow out a smoke ring, but it never comes. Joseph is as much his name as asshole, only he's called the latter with a great deal more regularity. The only time he hears his given name is when a teacher calls it out on the first day of class in a new semester-- when Kavinsky's only there to check out the fresh meat. And that was back in Jersey and Virgina, some million galaxies away; it's been a long time since he heard Joseph recited so politely.

Weird. The Darkling could have shortened it to Jo(e) or Jay or anything, but he went and mucked about until he saw past Kavinsky's truckload of better versions until he came across 1.0. Joseph.]

I haven't played with it too much.

[He watches the sparks, letting the color sear into his eyes so that when he looks up, there's slashes of pink superimposed over the Darkling's face.

Kavinsky has yet to turn it off, despite being asked so kindly. Along with the colors, there is a scent, akin to over-smoked resin; a good whiff carries an undertone of burnt flesh.]

What do you do?

2

[lavelly]

[This isn't a situation he expected to find himself in. He'd just wanted a drink.

That's a kid over there digging himself into a hole, and if Lavellan's correctly interpreting the constant low-grade murmur of thoughts in the background of his mind, he's another host, too. Nothing's happening yet, and maybe Lavellan's being paranoid, but something about this seems like a recipe for disaster.

He'd just wanted a drink.

Well, he certain doesn't want to be the one to start something if it's not going to happen on its own, so he settles himself as nonchalantly as he can manage in another part of the bar, feigning detached interest in the goings-on, and decides to give these newfound... abilities a try.

He tries a gentle, wordless nudge. Nothing overt, just a simple announcement of his presence, and a question of what Kavinsky is doing. Mostly to see if he notices, and if he does, how he'll react.]

[100mitsubishis]

[Kavinsky doesn't say a word as the other host slips his mental consciousness against his own. After the first thirteen hundred times, it loses its punch; he doesn't feel the urge to recoil or clutch. Without missing a beat, he continues his conversation and nobody's the wiser as to why he's tilting his head away to shoot Lavellan a look like a bullet between his pointy ears. Kavinsky's drunk enough to wink, a simple flap of one eyelid down and up, easy enough to miss unless he's being watched.

Which he is, but K hasn't taken time to calculate the number of eyes.

He snickers at something one of the competitors says and hops down from his seat. He's both shorter and slimmer than the men he was conversing with, but Kavinsky shoulders between two like he's never once thought they could crush my windpipe and then feed it to me. He's heading over to see his friend.

Gazes follow him, a contrail of expectation and uncertainty and mistrust. Kavinsky handles it like any B-list celebrity would-- there is perverse amusement in the shadow between his lips. A bounce in his step.]

Hey.

[lavelly]

[Well, that's just wonderful. Now attention is on him, which is exactly what he didn't want.

Apparently he'll have to have caution for the both of them. Lavellan flicks his gaze briefly toward Kavinsky's "friends"--hopefully they're drunk enough themselves not to be particularly observant--and knocks back the rest of his drink in preparation for whatever trouble just landed in his lap.

He gives Kavinsky a blithe smile. There's not really a point in pretending he hadn't been the one to contact him.]

I don't believe we've been introduced. I thought it would be best to get to know everyone in our little "family" as much as possible.

[100mitsubishis]

[Caution isn't a subscription Kavinsky's paid for in years; he's taken so many risks for such insubstantial rewards it should count as a form of religion. The drunkenness, the high, they aren't acts, either. He's walking serpentine and lazy because he's been sampling all the club has to offer and it's made every threat seem so small and insignificant. Besides, he has a better idea of the competition now that he's chatted up most of it. He should be thanked by whatever portion of the Hive leeches from him.]

You feel like you need another drink.

[Fortunately for Lavellan, the 'feel' Kavinsky means has nothing to do with physical touch. He's feeling the void of the other's mental link and it's-- needless to say-- harshing his vibe when they're this close.

Kavinsky flops himself on the nearest chair, sprawled with his legs stretching out as far as he can reach them. He taps Lavellan's boot with one of his own.]

Tell me what you want, I can get it for you, man. 'S nothing.

[lavelly]

[Lavellan always feels like he needs another drink, but that doesn't seem sensible right now. He regards Kavinsky stonily, all casual pretense gone.]

I'm very capable of ordering for myself, thank you.

[He nods past Kavinsky's shoulder at his "friends."]

What exactly are you trying to accomplish here?

[100mitsubishis]

Making friends.

[For a moment, he lets the elf think that's all he has to say--a useless non-response without any backing.]

( Scoping the competition. What are you doing? )

[There's a measure of derision in the question, like he can't imagine anyone has had this idea yet. And fair enough, a lot of the hive are the type to seat themselves privately and wait for the action to come to them. Kavinsky hasn't the patience.]

[lavelly]

( I'm attempting to get drunk in peace. )

[He hates this method of communicating, but he still has to agree it's much more discreet. He'll deal. Though he downs the rest of his drink first.]

( You're attracting a lot of attention, you know. )

[100mitsubishis]

[As if he could tell what the other would prefer, and he can, Kavinsky switches back over, slipping into open, verbal speech like another pair of slippers, as comfy as the first.]

You called out to me, man.

[At least, acknowledged him, which is close enough.]

You really want to sit here alone?

[lavelly]

[Lavellan sighs, thinly and impatiently, like Kavinsky is an irritating child more than anything.]

I wasn't trying to invite you over, I was trying to make sure that you actually knew what you were doing.

[Which he definitely has yet to be convinced of.]

Though I suppose I can't stop you, if you're insistent on it.

[100mitsubishis]

[Kavinsky rarely has patience for the antisocial. Back when he attended high school, that type was safe from his attentions. He liked his party girls, his rowdy boys. Kids that knew the only way to immortalize their youth was to die young with a blunt in their hand not on the steering wheel.

He's in a good mood, though, and Lavellan provided an out from spending more time with alien thugs. Kavinsky can't sway off into the night without expressing his gratitude.]

You smoke?

[He knocks out two black-filtered cigarettes from a half-empty pack.]