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

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. ]

[wrackful]

[Murphy doesn't do anything to acknowledge Bellamy's presence. The acknowledgement's already there, between their minds, the thrum of the connection there. The dull ache of his missing broodmates feels better when Bellamy's near, a solid example of what Cathaway had told him.

Not that he'd tell Bellamy as much. Instead he smiles at what the other man says, dry, utterly unsurprised.]

Yeah, of course you are.

[Following the mission, taking the hero role. What else would Bellamy do? But the competition required teams of two or more, which meant this wasn't just a friendly head's up.]

Let me guess: you're here because you want me to sign up with you.

[deployed]

Yes.

[ Is there a point in pretending otherwise? Bellamy isn't sure how far his irritation with Lexa had vibrated within the Nest, but even without that argument his plan would be clear to Murphy. It was Bellamy's turn to drag Murphy into something potentially ill-advised. ]

Will you?

[ Maybe Murphy wouldn't. Maybe all Bellamy's arguing with Lexa tonight would be for nothing. It's hard to tell. He's trying not to indulge the immediate urge to grasp at the connection between them and yank until Murphy's consciousness is close enough to envelop him. That wouldn't do him any favors when it came to Murphy deciding his course of action on this mission. ]

[wrackful]

[He owes Bellamy one. He doesn't need to be reminded of that. Really, it doesn't even come down to a balance sheet. They're beyond that, and had been before they'd woken up with bugs in their heads.]

Sure. [The impression of a shrug in his mind, nonchalant, no big deal.] Not like I've got anything better to do.

[And that was true, mostly. Exploring the Waypoint, asking questions, learning as much as he could about the options for getting away from the station. He had time for both. Probably.]

But you might want to check if the Commander's feeling cooperative enough to have me around. [His mouth pulls in the corners, the smile of someone who knows they're the thorn in someone else's side.] I mean, assuming you're taking her in too.

[deployed]

[ The easy agreement is a balm against his earlier argument turned negotiation with Lexa. At least Murphy was inclined to make this simple, or outwardly pretend it was simple. ]

She isn't entering. She's going to advise.

[ Advising is going to read one particular way to Murphy. Bellamy knows that, but he isn't sure how to divert it. In some cases, he can't even divert his own unkind thoughts about Lexa. They pass through his mind without gaining traction, and without any particular malice. Their begrudging truce has evolved far beyond tolerance, but it hasn't completely eroded the possibility of being irritated with Lexa's intractability. ]

And she knows I won't do this without you.

[ Not that Murphy needs to know how hard Bellamy had to work to make that point clear. It involved a larger explanation and a disclosure of his own transgressions. They'd come to an agreement at the end. That's the part that matters, and the part he's choosing to focus on now. ]

[wrackful]

You already talked to her.

[It's an easy, obvious conclusion to take from what Bellamy's said. The further would be to wonder if that was intentional, checking with Lexa first before coming to Murphy, good little soldier looking for authorisation before progressing. But Bellamy makes it sound more like he'd had to make a stand, about him, and Murphy isn't sure if he's surprised about that or glad.

He looks away, back out over the waypoint, trying to avoid examining Bellamy's face for the answer.]

Well, that must have been fun, considering how she thinks I'm a waste of space who's going to get you killed.

[deployed]

[ No irritation bubbles to the surface of Murphy's mind. Bellamy's eyes trace Murphy's profile, assessing. The memory of Murphy with his hands tangled in red straps comes unbidden to his mind as if to guard against the accusation. ]

I wanted her to understand.

[ Not that Bellamy can fully understand or explain the dynamic between them, but he'd tried to communicate that as best he could. ]

We were going to talk strategy. I had to say something.

two

[inflori]

[ Oh, Murphy. Don't you know the best way to get Petre to do something is by telling him not to do it?

He scrunches up his nose in an internal misconception that he looks intimidating, arches one brow and purses his lips. He's made himself look a little older for these occasions, just so assholes don't come up to him and question whether or not he should be by himself. ]

( What, is it too much for pussies? )

[wrackful]

[There's a beat, a moment where Murphy hangs somewhere suspended between continuing to do the good deed, and letting Petre get what he deserved for being a little shit. It's only a second, and then he's easily falling to the latter.]

( You know what? ) [He smiles, a sharp tug in the corner of his mouth.] ( I changed my mind. You should take the whole tray. )

[inflori]

[ Damn it, now he's telling Petre to do the opposite. ]

( ... I'll do it if you do it. )

[wrackful]

[Murphy takes a look at Petre, a look at the staff standing around the edges of the floor, and then at the tray he's stood nearest too. He's already tried this one. Not great, but nowhere near as bad as the one Petre's picked.

He shrugs.]

( Sure. )

[He leaves his plate on the side, picks up the whole tray, and starts to carry it back to his seat. The staff who notice bristle (one of them literally), but none of them make any move to come over and stop him. He's already proven himself the kind of difficult customer best left alone.]

[inflori]

[ Petre just seems to add insult to injury, grabbing a handful of the edible dare while following Murphy back to his table, invited or not. He already has the look of an overly confident idiot, hoping it will cover up any of his insecurities.

He figures he can speak up now. ]

Do it.

[wrackful]

[Honestly, it's unsurprising that Petre would take it as invitation to join him at his table. He's not particularly bothered by it, just looks at him flatly, then gestures at the tray.]

Already did.

[He hadn't said anything about eating it all, and he isn't intending to. He's heaped a few piles on his plate, busy scooping a sporkful into a little circle of some kind of flatbread. Then he glances at Petre's hands, and the lack of tray in them.]

Looks like someone got chicken, though. Shame.

[inflori]

[ To no one's surprise, Petre's jaw sets and he fixes his glare on Murphy, trying to figure out how much longer he can get away with this chicken before he can't argue his way out of being prideful.

He squeezes the food idly in his hand, tonguing the inside of his cheek. ]

You're such an asshole.

[ And it takes one to know one. In his mouth the non-recommended food goes, immediately followed by a gagging noise and uncouth turn to the side to spit it on the floor. ]