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

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?