MAY 1ST - 3RD | AFTER THE ACCIDENT |
There was an accident. The details are hazy and obscure, but it's still the first thing you remember. Maybe a car wreck — metal and broken glass everywhere, and the sirens and the
screaming. Maybe your bike hit a rock and you careened uncontrollably off a mountain path. Maybe something less mundane, even impossible seems to have happened to you. You can't quite make out the details, not who was at fault or why. Try as you might, the chaos is all you can truly remember.
It's also the
last thing you remember from before waking up.
When you open your eyes, the accident is gone, replaced with white sterility. Perhaps somewhat alarming at first, until you blink at your surroundings and realize that you're in a hospital bed. You try to move but are sluggish, covered in a scattering of minor injuries you only vaguely remember receiving, not to mention the possibility of the partially healed remnants of other, seemingly older wounds.
It's a shame you won't be able to tell the difference between the two. Your memories are an indiscernible fog where they're not absent altogether, only a few standing out in your mind with any kind of certainty.
If the room happens to be empty when you wake, it's not for long. Nurses bustle in, taking your vitals and asking your name and anything else you might remember. Don't worry, they tell you. You'll make a full recovery here. Much of what you say (especially anything unusual, anything about monsters or magic or outlandish technology) will earn placating speculation of head trauma from the accident. You'll be told to stay put, not to push yourself, and to wait for the doctor to clear you before you leave.
Then you'll be left alone. Or maybe you'll find yourself visited by loved ones: family, or friends. You've lived here much or all of your life, so of course you have those things. Of course they already remember you being here, and may remember visiting you in the hospital while you were still unconscious.
Either way, the hospital's population is quadruple the usual, and you get the impression the nurses are working themselves ragged just running damage control. You might hear talk around the hospital of other small population spikes over the past few days, though many patients appeared to be well enough to be released the same day, and the same might be said of you. Or at least the staff doesn't seem to be too concerned. You can even leave your room without much fuss, any doctor or nurse that might try to intercept you getting called away almost immediately to deal with something even more pressing.
Of course, it's not so unusual to settle in until you're discharged, either. You may choose to wait for loved ones to come pick you up, even speak to your fellow patients, whether roommates or others wandering the halls. The more enterprising and suspicious might even consider it an opportunity to poke around for a few basic answers.
MAY 1ST - 4TH | GETTING USED TO HOME AGAIN |
However you get there, outside the birds sing a joyful song, and though the air is just a bit crisp, the sky's as sunny as you've ever seen it. It's bright enough to make you squint for a moment before you feast your eyes on the quaint little mountain town of Wayward Pines, though that might just be some sort of side effect from your accident. Trees line the street at regular intervals, carefully manicured and slightly waterlogged from the recent flood. Cars cruise by at a safe and respectable speed. Fellow pedestrians spare you glances, some wary, others concerned or just friendly. It probably depends on how clothed you were when you left the hospital.
This isn't even the picturesque city center, though a colorful nearby sign reads "
Main Street" with an arrow pointing due south, followed in smaller font by a list of businesses you don't recognize (could be a good direction to head in, though — maybe it'll jog your memory), and one that you might: Wayward Pines Sheriff's Department. You've likely caught wind by now that any clothing or other items you had on you at the time of your accident are being held by the Sheriff until you're well enough to claim them. Not to mention the keys to your home, kept locked and safe at the station for you. That should probably be your next stop, though if anything's missing in what they hand over you'd be the last to know.
It's time to get home, to recover from your ordeal and try to sort through your memories. Do you remember this house, the pictures of family on the walls and how to navigate to the bathroom in the middle of the night? Maybe it's easier with loved ones living with you, helping you get settled, or maybe you're on your own. Either way, over the next few days it's a good idea to try to remember your routines, to get out and finally visit Main Street if you haven't already. Maybe you even remembered that you work in one of the more familiar sounding shops, or elsewhere in town. Makes sense they'd give you some time off to recover and get reacclimated to your life here, but eventually you should probably get back to work. You haven't seen your co-workers in a few days, and besides, you have to be able to put bread on the table.
Or at the very least some of the delicious treats at the school bake sale you're seeing flyers for all over town!
MAY 5TH | ANNUAL BAKE SALE, PRESENTED BY THE PTA! |
It's that time of year again. The time when everyone digs into their wallet, ignores their diet, and spends a little time supporting the local school bake fair. You know, for the good of the children. Or, in this particular case, the hospital. There's no denying the hospital has had a hard time of it lately, between the steady influx of accident victims at the start of each month and the recent outbreak scare, and the Wayward Pines Academy PTA has come up with the perfect solution to show their support to the hard working hospital staff by vowing to donate half of the proceeds for the sale today. Maybe the hospital can see about finally getting the staff breakroom a decent coffee machine!
And it doesn't hurt that Linda's Blondie recipe is honestly to die for. The PTA has pulled out all the stops this year in the hopes of encouraging a good community turn out, posters advertising the sale plastering every street corner and flyers stuffed into every mailbox for a solid week leading up to the event, and today is finally the day.
There's at least two dozen different tables set up with all manner of delectable treats, even one or two offering vegan alternatives for those inclined. Not to mention a few others catering to some of the townspeople's more... unique palates.
Maybe you've got your own table set up with your wares, or were simply lured to the park today by the appetizing scents wafting through the air. Either way it seems like the whole town has come out to show their support today, and why wouldn't they? Children are our future, after all. Or maybe it's just Linda's Blondie recipe.
Yeah, that's probably it.
MOD NOTES
Welcome to our fourth mingle log for newbies and oldbies alike!
This log is meant to cover characters' first five days in Wayward Pines. Characters for this round will appear staggered in the hospital between the
1st and the
3rd, and a CR building event will occur on the
5th, after everyone has had a suitable amount of time to get settled in town. For the most part, only the five memories detailed in your character's application are remembered throughout the duration of this log, although their false Wayward Pines memories may also begin to surface (in those who've opted to utilize this mechanic) as the week wears on. These memories, as noted in the FAQ, feel very real and are accompanied by as much emotion or sentiment as a real memory would be.
PLEASE INCLUDE IN SUBJECT LINE:
Character Name,
date,
location, and
Open or
Closed, to help keep things organized and make your character easy to find.
If you have any questions regarding this intro log, feel free to ask them on the FAQ or the relevant plurk.
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pineslog2017-04-30 08:52 pm
INTRODUCTION LOG
Laura the weird kid | May 1st and May 5th | Various Locations | Open
Everything is very hazy — and Laura feels like this is familiar in a lot of ways. Waking up like this, with a white, sterile roof above her head, the sounds of beeping, the distant chatter of health-related things. She can't remember why, though. She just knows, like a gnawing instinct, some long-lost childhood memory. Maybe she's confusing it with getting her first shots. Coming in for check-ups. The dentist? ... No, none of that feels right. But nothing can be explained for feeling wrong, either. The moment nurses all huddle around her and her fluttering eyes, they snap open, pupil constricting; something feels wrong. Terribly wrong. Where's daddy? She can't remember much but daddy.
The nurses look at the screens, poke around, reach for her hands, and she plucks them away despite their attempts to be soothing. Something about this place makes her want to run. Get out in any way possible. It's not right, juxtaposed with these tired but kindly faces. Apparently, she'd been struck by a car, was rushing, was perhaps upset by something. She barely remembers it — remembers hitting ground and rolling, but other than snapshots in her head, it's just a feeling more than a distinct memory. But she's not hurt. She hisses it in Spanish. "Tengo mareos."
The doctor wanders over, and she — doesn't like him immediately. Hospitals are bad. This place is bad, and the scent of illness is strong in her sensitive nose, and she smells the chemicals — the steel. The beeping of machines. Her heart patters even more quickly, and he reaches out to extend her arm a bit too firmly. Let's give you something for the pain—
She punches him in the nose.
Blood spurts and she leaps up on calf-like legs, wobbling frantically as she jumps off the bed with a growl of warning. One of the nurses tries to grab her — she doesn't want to kill them, or even hurt them, but she's in flight mode, so she just shoves the lady over, barrels through some of them, and leaps through the open window to her right.
Outside, she runs blindly, and tries to remember.
Obviously, going to the sheriff's office isn't really in her gameplan. Yet.
So she just wanders the town in her hospital wardrobe and looks entirely creepy in that horror child vibe way. She feels a gnawing hunger firstly, so she's immediately drawn to any scent of food — whether it's a picnic or a deli or something else entirely, be careful not to leave your stuff in her open view. She may just grab it from you and eat your lunch. Sorry about that. Money, who needs money? She knows what money is, sure, but she doesn't remember using it. So whatever.
Just be prepared for the most suspicious scowl to strike you should you decide to help the child.
She should probably go home. Find her daddy, try to get her head on straight.
But instead she drinks a stolen soda pop on a bench. In a hospital gown.
This feels strangely more right than anything else to do, at the moment.
May 5th.
Once she's got her things all in order, she can be found at the bake sale (hopefully these funds have nothing to do with punching her doctor in the face, that would be awkward). She isn't... really very talkative, and hasn't been, it seems, since her waking up in the hospital. She sits at her father's little table where he's helping with the sales (go team), but she's really not interested in being a social butterfly. She prefers to swipe a cookie when pa or any of the other teachers or PTA members aren't looking. What? It's not like he's the one who actually put effort into making them. She may not remember a lot about Logan at the present, not like she should, but she can take one look at him and know those cookies are probably from another source. Dirty cheater.
She snacks and keeps her gaze downward.
Withdrawn's a good word for her. She hasn't really been herself since The Accident. Or so some townsfolk say.
But she doesn't remember ever being 'right' to begin with.
She pops her headphones in and drowns out people attempting conversation, for the most part, her plastic horse standing like a defense against people in front of her on the table. Hip-hop beats, muffled, cloud the table. Logan's weird kid. Of that, she's most sure — that's her daddy. That's completely and utterly indisputable, even if everything else feels strange and foreign, like a new planet, even if new memories are trickling in at an alarmingly slow rate. School field trip here. Road trip there. Perhaps a fight or two on a playground. Spanish as an elective.
She's just... having some time to herself, to try and sort her life back out.
But she'll try to be nice, if people are nice back.
1st
At least she's here, and alive. She might have a few blood splatters, but she seems okay; like the blood is probably somebody else's. That tends to run in the family. First and foremost, he'd been concerned about her survival; because it had just never been tested. In a car accident, his own survival was not a question. His daughters, though, at least he had never had reason to question their abilities, before this.
He'd been worried that she might react violently, when he'd heard she'd ended up in the hospital. There was a minimal sign of violence about her, though, and nobody was trying to lock her up. The blood spatter was hardly anything, really, in his opinion.
"What happened?" he asks, as he attempts to do a bit of poking and prodding to confirm his suspicions that she's not injured. "Are you okay?"
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She's more than sure complaints have never stopped her before, but still. It's a bad look at the moment (she thinks, not even putting into mind her lightly stained gown). She glances down at her feet, expression a bit grim, and wishes she could put into words what she feels. Her voice is low, and trembles only slightly with her constantly beating line of panic. The soda pop, as it turns out, hasn't particularly helped relax her.
"I can't remember things."
She didn't use her claws, though. For some reason, that seems to be a very grave rule in her head.
Don't use the claws.
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But he can't say that, not out loud. He's only now starting to really remember who he is; or, more appropriately, who he was, before his accident. The past five years he's spent here in Wayward Pines are the clearest in his head. Before that, his recollection of his life is spotty at best; events playing out in his head as if taking place in the thickest of fog.
"That's normal. It's okay. Do you know what happened? The accident?" For Logan it had been a motorcycle accident, and he'd totaled his Harley. It happens differently for different people.
Most tend to wake up in the hospital with evidence of their accident; but Logan, of course, had been free of any sort of injury save for whatever head trauma he'd suffered. It was a common theme, in his life, he'd only recently come to realize. He's likewise not surprised to see that Laura doesn't seem to be physically injured.
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Staring back out over what they can see of Wayward Pines, she feels something like a chill along her back.
A chill she calls instinct.
"People get hurt a lot here."
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5th
"Hola." Complete with finger-wave. "¿Te gustan las magdalenas de arco iris?"
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She looks out from under a curtain of bangs, popping her headphones out at the sight of the finger wave; she may be avoiding people in general, but she has some semblance of manners. Sooort of. Not really. Look, she has her moments. She at first assumes he's going to point out that she's got crumbs on her shirt and on the table from her own pillaging of the baked sale goods, but the question throws her off. Fella, she is a fine lover of rainbows. Her old shirt she retrieved from the sheriff's office shows as much, if that's anything to go by.
Also, anything edible is a good thing. She cocks her head to the side, unfamiliar. She wishes she could remember things properly; as it is, this whole experience has been a technique in re-learning sweets that she couldn't quite remember. "¿Qué son las magdalenas?"
She remembers cookies, cake — birthday cake. She knows breads of course. But there are... little pockets of uncertainty. Surely, she's had las magdalenas at some point, right? It's yet another thing she can't immediately put her finger on. Little things mystify her, interest her. She saw a dog not too long ago — a real dog! — but was too unsure of what would happen if she approached. And yet, she has apparently lived here. Lived among dogs. She is truly vexed by it all.
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"Esto es como la torta de cumpleaños, apenas más pequeña, o cualquier tipo de pastel que te guste. Hice esto con tú en mente." Memory tells him that she loves sweets (like most children) and loves rainbows, and is usually a little less guarded around him.
Memory cannot be trusted.
He shrugs a little. "Me llamo Cassian. Tú padre no es un muy buen cocinero, así."
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"... Laura." She says, her mouth totally full. But she thinks he definitely knows her name already. That unsettles her a little, but she will endure. Her very full mouth twitches, however, a near-smile. Almost. "... You made his cookies."
It's not asked, but spoken like a certainty, though she leaves room for error.
... A lot of people probably bake better than her father, anyway.
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5th
Still. She had seen him talking to the quiet little girl and it's not that Jyn felt an odd pang for a childhood she can't remember but she knows for certain that gruff little scowl had crossed her face more than once as a slightly tinier Jyn. And it's more than a little amusing watching her nick cookies when no one is looking.
So she takes her leave of Cassian with an 'if you ask me if I'm okay again I will punch you in the face' and a pair of cupcakes and heads home. But she pauses next to Laura's perch at the table, cupcakes held out to Laura low and out of the line of sight of Official PTA Adults™, glancing down at the little girl as she casually mentions in a low voice, "Cassian said you like sweets, so don't remind him I didn't pay for these."
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Oh, you did. Clearly the horse is not as socially shielding as Laura had thought. She'll need to bring a box to put in front of her next time. A big, big box that will hide her, show only her feet kicking under the table. But maybe it's not so bad to be bothered once more; she looks with great interest at the cupcakes. And, goodness, she's had so many sweets. But what's two or five more?
She carefully takes the cupcakes like this is a goddamn drug deal, he favorite hater-blocking shades on. "... Está bien." A pause. "I don't pay for things, too."
What a little crook.
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Instead she crouches down -- and since she is on the very short side, this means she's looking up at Laura -- so she can lower her voice even further because cupcake drug deals at PTA bake sales are her thing now, eyes sparkling with faint amusement.
"I'm supposed to tell you that's bad." A beat. "But it's only bad if you get caught, so."
Don't.
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This little shit.
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1st!
It makes it difficult to sit on a bench and get lost in the idyllic view, which is what he's trying to do. He ignores it for a few seconds, then a few more; then it occurs to him that it isn't his voice. The realization makes him straighten up and check his surroundings, which is when he notices the insanely conspicuous situation on the neighboring bench.
Maybe he had been sufficiently zoned out. That's the only explanation for how he'd missed a child wandering around in a hospital gown. There's a quick, sharp thought that tells him she probably isn't real, which he irritably pushes down; then he spares one last glance to see if there's anyone around who has a single clue what to do with a kid. When that comes up short, he finally looks back to her.
"Hello?"
That wasn't supposed to be a question. Between the concern and the confusion, it's kind of a challenge to sound cool.
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There's a bit of blood on her gown. Not a little. Just a little. She herself seems relatively unharmed, and she stares at him for a long moment -- wondering who he is, what he may want. Likely just a worried bystander who wants to know why she's wandering around out here without supervision, in this outfit of all things.
Laura gives 'em the ol' stare, and wonders if she's suppose to know this guy.
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It's when he looks back that he spots the blood. Or the red, weirdly vibrant and dark at the same time. He thinks it's blood.
"Are you..." Real. Don't ask that. "Are you okay?"
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May 5th
When she finally has a break from manning her table, she comes over with a small tupperware, which she opens for Laura to present to her a small assortment of cookies and biscuits for taste testing.
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Laura considers the woman with a sort of intense stare, one of latent, instinctual focus and caution.
She's not sure why she studies everyone, why she feels like anyone could be a danger.
"No money?"
Usually people give each other money for this stuff.
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Either way, she's familiar with this level of wariness. Jiaying brings a finger to her lips in a conspiratory manner as she crouches down.
"It'll be our little secret."
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1st
With his hands tucked in the pocket of his jacket, he steps closer, smiling.
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She looks at it — looks at the mysterious new face, her defenses hardly lowered by the hospitality. What's his motive, here? Surely people can't just be nice to be nice. Is it really that hard to think otherwise?
... Yes, yes it is, even if why is still foreign to her.
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"Nice catch." He stops about a feet away, eyeing the empty area of the bench. "May I?"
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1st
And obviously, nothing was better than pizza.
Clint follows after a moment, and while he's taken the time to stop by the sheriff's for his things (and his dog!) and his home for a change of clothes, he's not looking all that fresh at the moment with a thick bandage across the bridge of his nose and long strips of bandages wrapped around his ears and jaw. On the other hand, he doesn't appear to be all that bothered by the injuries either, or the fact that his dog is currently begging for food from an angry looking child in a hospital gown.
"This isn't how you make a good first impression, Lucky," He says with a sigh, and then addressing Laura herself with a tired, "he's not starving or anything, he's just greedy."
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... Well. It's not killing her, or anything that would resemble killing.
No maiming here. She sniffs the air around the creature. Old dog smell. Not the best smell. Carefully, she starts to reach for the dog's fur, because apparently the natural instinct to pet a dog is inherent in all people, and she only stops and pulls back at the sound of Clint's voice, where she stands awkwardly as Lucky prods at her knee.
And if she looks just as suspicious of Clint, well. That's just first impressions always. Unlike Clint and his bandaged face, the flecks of blood here and there on the hospital gown aren't from her.
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Possibly. Whatever, there's definitely not enough blood there for her to have killed someone, so it's honestly not his problem.
Clint gives her a small smile and a casual shrug, sticking one hand in his pocket as he tells her, "it's alright, you can pet him. He doesn't bite." ... people that aren't tracksuit vampires, anyway. Which she hasn't called him 'bro' yet so he's pretty sure they'll be fine.
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