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
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"Stop." There's an edge there, a warning, and Cassian has the grace to shut his eyes against the sound of his own voice. "Fulcrum work is important, even after an operative is decommissioned, and I might not know where in the galaxy we are, exactly, but I am not putting that work at risk. The rest..." He shakes his head at the droid. "The rest is fine to tell, you know, but you might want to wait a few weeks. That's about how long it took me to piece it all together."
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Cassian has just answered a question Poe didn't know he wanted to ask. Several of them, in fact. Too many of them. He's going to get a headache from all of this information, trying to work it into some kind of understandable pattern.
He lets his head sag, far enough that he's almost got his nose in his coffee. It smells good. Which is not incentive to lift his head up again.
"Are we family?" It's not accusatory. Poe's definition of the word is broader than some peoples'. "How did we meet? Let him tell me, Bee."
The droid rolls over, its speed and the angle of his head dome still broadcasting contrition. BB-8 bumps his dome against Cassian's leg.
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To Poe's question, though, Cassian gives a soft chuckle. "We are, in a way. It's like there's two stories happening, simultaneously. I can give you the one that'll make the most sense, here, or I can give you parts of the one that won't. We're on the same side, at least." He gestures towards Poe's helmet and suit. "The style and color has changed a little, but not the meaning."
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Frustration twists his expression, and he balls his hand into a fist, thumping it lightly on the table. "But I don't remember."
He aches to remember. It matters to him, he knows that, it matters to him more than almost anything. His sense of family is tied to that symbol, there's no mistaking that.
Poe wants to ask Cassian if he's heard of memories being pulled straight from a person's head. If he knows the First Order, the enemy. The undeniable enemy. It feels traitorous to remember who the enemy is but not who's on your own side.
"I want the truth, whatever that is."
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Instead, Cassian takes a breath. "You woke up in the hospital. There was an accident. That, alone, seems to be true. The circumstances or even where this accident took place? When? How you ended up here? More difficult to determine.
After a few days I would look at someone and remember, all these emotions and memories or sometimes even just impressions connected to that person, but none of those memories existed before. And at least one person has vanished, taking all the memories I used to have of them with them, except everything after the accident remains.
So there is that. The memories come with their own kinds of truth; we're cousins, you were in the forces longer than I, you used to visit -" Cassian waves a hand, annoyed immediately, but presses on. "But in what is probably a very different and dangerous kind of truth, I knew your mother in passing, I knew of your father, and I've probably been dead for a long while for both of them, so."
He points, with his chin, towards one of the cameras situated near a light fixture by the door. "We're constantly monitored. The messages on the phones delete themselves; I don't think the computers do, yet. There's a fence that makes you feel like you're dying when you approach it and if you wander into the unused houses the Sheriff's office comes along to see what you're up to."
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It makes Poe laugh. He needed that. Cassian's mentions of knowing his parents makes him feel unspeakably homesick. The vast, empty places in his knowledge, the idea that he'll remember things, lies, that feel like the truth-- that makes him want to puke or punch the nearest representative of the town's authority. Whichever. He doesn't want anyone in his head, never again, never, ever again.
He's lost. It's a foreign sensation.
He really doesn't like it.
"You're not dead." Poe's sudden gratitude at that fact makes the gouge of homesickness worse. Not dead, not old. No, this place doesn't male any sense, but for better or worse Poe has decided Cassian is someone worth trusting.
There are a thousand things he could ask, but one of them takes precedence. "What's my mother like?"
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That smile stays, somehow, as Poe declares him living. Barely, he thinks, reminded of his conversation with Damon and being asked if he was 'surviving'. He'd answered with a lot more conviction than he felt then or now.
"Ah." Cassian pauses. It'd been some time since he'd interacted with Shara Bey. "A damned good pilot, for one. Her people trust her." He shakes his head. "We weren't...very close?" Because Cassian was only very close to anyone at the very end, honestly.
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He should know this. He should know his cousin's friends-- His cousin, who knows his mother, which reminds Poe that literally nothing makes sense right now.
Okeedokey.
BB-8 pipes something about Rogue One, then makes a short noise that sounds a little like blart and roughly translates as oops.
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Cassian's smile is a bit rueful.
"He hasn't shown up. Probably for the best; he'd get into something with in the first few moments of arrival, I'm sure."
BB-8 just gets a smile. Kay is a lot of things, but he isn't classified like Fulcrum is.
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"So a friend." Poe is adamant about certain things. Terminology is one of them. He knows politicians, the way they tend to slide around things with a turn of phrase or a careful exclusion. He might not remember he knows politicians, but the instincts that knowledge created are still there.
Poe likes things to be laid out, plain and simple. A friend is a friend is a friend.
Poe's lips twitch.
"BB-8 almost tased an officer."
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At Poe's lip twitch Cassian lets out a little snort and glances at the droid. "Did you now? Good job."
How's that song go? Fuck the police.
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He means it, too. There's nothing odd about it, even if he could remember more than he does--he can't look at BB-8, exploring the shop again and talking to himself, and imagine a situation in which having a droid for a best friend would be strange or sad.
In response to the praise, BB-8 pops his arc welder out again and gives what he appears to believe is an aggressive wriggle.
"He's a fighter. I think he blamed them for my forgetting things." He glances at Cassian, eyebrows raised. BB-8 is probably not wrong, but hey.
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It's probably safer if he isn't here, honestly.
(Not that it makes missing him any easier.)
"Well. Considering they have our things when we wake up, and they're enforcing the current status quo, there's every reason to believe they're involved down there at the Sheriff's office." No reason to believe they aren't, in contrast.
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He shouldn't have let Cassian do it in the first place. He saw the signs in the windows. He would have had the presence of mind to stop the man, probably, if he weren't so overwhelmed--
He's fine. He'll be fine. Just roll with this, it's... fine.
Poe takes another bite of the brownie, another sip of the cooling coffee.
This is fine.
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They also shouldn't have given him family, but that might go best without saying directly.
"Whatever happens is not going to be a direct result of this conversation alone, you know." Cassian hasn't exactly been keeping his nose clean at all hours. "And I doubt it will be anything too drastic. Someone I knew blew up a police car, I think they arrested her for only a few days."
All things considered. Granted, the town treats Iba like she's a child and while that doesn't seem terribly far off it also doesn't seem like the entire truth of the matter. "The last person I talked to about the cameras made it a point to yell at them in my kitchen, so you're doing pretty well."
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He points his fork at BB-8. "Goes double for you, Beebee."
Poe doesn't want to think about what the sheriff or his people might try to do to a disobedient droid, and he sure as hell won't let them get BB-8 without a fight. He has his mouth full of brownie when Cassian mentions the guy in his kitchen and Poe nearly chokes on a laugh.
"You're kidding."
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A shrug. It is what it is. They'll work with it; they have no other options. Pretending everything is okay is not on the table.
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It's not much of a hope, but hey.
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"Hopefully not the hard way."