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

[regalled]

[The lightest touch is all it takes for him to straighten enough to no longer be looming over her. His shoulders straightened and he turns back to the others, the pain setting into a less immediate ache. Bearable.]

A rumor heard by another Agent, during their time in this universe. As for what it is-

[He hesitates, unsure of how to continue. Explaining would be difficult, for him, and would do little to clarify the situation.]

It is difficult to explain. But you will need it soon. Until then, this place should be relatively safe and provide a-
[There is a short pause as he settles on a diplomatic phrase] useful learning opportunity.

[polyphonos]

[Cathaway laughs, a brittle noise, then reaches out to Lexa or Shepard or Seviilia - a clear indication that one of them ought to help her to her feet.]

You'll make them think you're being coy, my Prince. We don't know exactly the state of this something, merely that it will be useful to us in the future. We saw it and know it will be necessary. Call it a gut feeling if you like, only that we are confident and our gut feelings are rarely wrong.

[earthborn]

[Shepard, who's natural dislike of authority did indeed turn the vagueness of the goal, and of the request, into something more suspicious, took Cathaway's arm automatically, and pulled her to her feet as if she weighed nothing at all.

It didn't do anything to assuage the low-slung certainty riding secret and hidden, like the humming vibration of a cracked casing: we're screwed. We're so screwed. But it felt like the right thing to do, for the moment. People said she didn't know how to pick her battles, but-- was that the truth?]

Alright, fine. It's a recon and retreival mission. We'll get the package and bring it back here. [She doesn't phrase it as a question, because there's no uncertainty about the outcome. This is what will be happening.] You're going to need to give us more information about what exactly we're looking for. You've got one hour.

[Cathaway's own estimation, of course, but Shepard turns it from supposition into law. She issues orders not as if she expects them to be followed, but as if not-following them would be stupid even without her opinion to say so. One doesn't respect the speed of light just because somebody's posted a speed-limit sign.]

[adamance]

He means for it to be a training exercise, especially for the newer and more unruly among us. It'll be a better source of training than Concordia had been, since the goal is far narrower. That is part what you were withholding, yes? [That seems to side-step the vagueness, in part because she's been here long enough to know where the Prince's focus is when it comes to them. They may have been largely successful in Concordia, but Lexa (as an equally critical person) can readily see the flaws in play among their numbers.

They can work as a unit. They've accomplished it to some degree. But they can do better, and new Hosts awaken every day.]

My question is whether we will be able to obtain whatever this is quickly. Or is it meant to take time? [To give them more minutes to practice as a unit. Her eyes flicker toward Shepard with her demands. Lexa has tried the demanding route with Cathaway and Prince and has come up lacking, but that's partly because Cathaway doesn't seem to care and the Prince is just as stubborn as her. Maybe it will be bypassed by Cathaway again, or they may walk away knowing nothing because the Prince chooses to keep his mouth shut.]

[regalled]

I am never coy.

[It is a minor admonishment, softened by the tired sound of her voice, and far more, by the use of 'my'. Not for reasons of affection, but for the fact that she was very present. Something which may have been celebrated, if it weren't so clearly a sign of her weakened state.

He allows Shepard to pull her to her feet without argument, although he is watchful even as he himself moves to stand, fingers set at the cool decking but without obvious difficulty. Enough time had passed that the display of weakness was not to be continued.]

It will be contained in a collection. What we know beyond that we will tell you and the rest of the Hosts when we brief you.

[He straightens, very carefully, shoulders rolling back and expression once again set into something almost unreadable, shadows under his eyes darker, more drawn than typical. A long day that had not yet ended. To say he does not have the energy for Lexa is an understatement. Diplomacy failed at times.]

No, it was not. I said it was a learning opportunity. Many of the new Hosts have not been away from their own worlds. This place provides the chance for them to learn how to navigate their new circumstances without the threat of the Enemy at their back.

[The failure of Avera, of course, proved that no place was entirely safe. That even a simple chance to get their footing could result in disaster. But there was, in the end, little he and Cathaway could do to prevent it.]

This will not be a long venture by any measure.[They had other places to be.]

[polyphonos]

[Once upright, Cathaway takes a moment to straight her wrap and untangle mussed links of the small chains wrapped from her elbows to her wrists and to the base of her fingers. It's a small series of fixes, but it's directly physical and crispy aware of her body and what's covering it. She can't say she remembers the last time she was so particular. Strange. Her skin feels thin.]

We will do what we can to provide you with intel, Shepard. We'll put a dossier together for you to take with. [Not a considerably dense one - she's certain of that. There are shapes and figures moving at the edge of her awareness, but parsing them isn't as easy as she'd like. Especially not when she's like this: too small, too present.]

Lexa-- [She touches her forehead, blinks. As mild as milk, no bite to the words:] Don't be an asshole. We've exhausted him and he isn't in the mood to be interrogated. We're here because we need to be. The fact that some of you might learn a thing or two is a happy side effect.

Now, do us a favor. We need time to collect data. Would the three of you let everyone else know to prepare their things for a trip? A short one. We'll meet you on the hangar deck shortly.