station72 | MISSION: WAYPOINT SHRIL, PT. I

Entry tags:

MISSION: WAYPOINT SHRIL, PT. I

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 )

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[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.]

[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.

[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.

[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.

Edited 2017-04-09 16:47 (UTC)

[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?

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.]

Edited 2017-04-17 02:38 (UTC)

( 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. )

[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?

[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.

[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.]

[Lavellan stares at the cigarettes for a good few moments, because he has no idea what smoking is.]

I... don't think so?

[Is that the right answer? He has no idea what Kavinsky is looking for here.]

( Come on over. )

[Kavinsky switches to conversing through the link, but this time it has nothing to do with privacy. His mouth is full as he sets both cigarettes between his lips.

Too bad elfboy can't have heard of Freud, or he might have something to say as K lights both smokes up at once. For effect, he calls upon his symbiote ability; all it takes is a couple white sparks.]

[Lavellan's only reaction is to narrow his eyes. He can tell what Kavinsky is offering him, and he's dubious, but he's also not above digging his heels against what he sees as an intimidation tactic. From a teenager. Shut up.]

That's handy.

[If handed one, he'll take a stronger draw than is really warranted--he's used to elfroot, which requires it. That's a lot of coughing.]

[The coughing is met with a wide grin that tucks deep into Kavinsky's hollow cheeks. What a good sport.

For the sake of Lavellan's bad temper, Kavinsky will lead by example rather than by vocal direction. He takes a much shorter draw, tilting his head back to demonstrate the flex of his throat as the smoke sinks down. Then he puffs it out again, a thick plume of white that spills out into the air between them.

Briefly, Kavinsky's face is obscured, and by the time the smoke clears, his smile has vanished along with it.]

( Try again. )

[Lavellan imitates him on a second try, and it goes down easier this time. It's curious. It's not unlike what he's used to, but the taste is strange, and the effect more subtle. Whatever's in it, he's sure he hasn't encountered it before.

It takes him a few moments to figure out how to hold it, now that he's figured out how to breathe, but once he does he's smoking like a champ.]

Interesting. What is this?

[Kavinsky exhales another veil of white. The club is distinctly windowless, always giving the smoke a chance to waffle over its existence before it dissipates.

As soon as it's safe to exit demo mode, Kavinsky's posture goes to shit; he pivots on his rear to lounge near horizontal over his seat. Wisps of smoke trail after his mouth.]

A cigarette. Clove, probably. You like that?

I think so. [He doesn't quite sound sure; he squints at the thing in his hand like he's expecting it to turn into something else.

But yes, he thinks he does. The taste is bizarre, and not entirely pleasant, more like ash than the herb he's used to. But it's close enough to serve.]

What is clove? A native plant?

[Botany wasn't Kavinsky's specialty unless it had something to do with a specific type of plant and its many strains. Even then, he was always better with indicas than sativas. Explaining cloves falls outside of the realm of what he's able to do well.

He sidles around the question.]

Don't think too hard. I've been smoking them all week, man. They're fine.

[His gaze flicks to Kavinsky's face warily. Probably it's perfectly safe, but he still doesn't like the idea of consuming something when he has no idea what it is.

But he's already calmer--maybe it's the way it reminds him of smoking elfroot--and right now that overrides what little sense of self-preservation he has left.]

Where did you get these?

Why? You want more? I can get you more.

[They aren't worth a dime to him if his hivemate can access them from another source. The rule of any supplier is to be the best, the easiest, the most dependable. Kavinsky has the unique position of never needing to outsource. Soon as he's taken one hit, swallowed one pill, pulled one puff, he can replicate it with flair.]

[Lavellan turns to look at him. Suddenly something about this conversation is making him suspicious.]

How? I thought we were only supposed to be at these places temporarily.

[Kavinsky laughs, rough like a battered body being dragged over craggy rocks, but smooth, like the blood dripping out and creating rivers between them.]

I got a guy. No matter where we go, I can hook you up, man.

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MISSION: WAYPOINT SHRIL, PT. I

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