pineslog | (may intro) WELCOME TO WAYWARD PINES!

Entry tags:

(may intro) WELCOME TO WAYWARD PINES!

INTRODUCTION LOG

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.

Threaded | Flat

one: may first;
Poe’s reclamation of his belongings is… interesting. He walks out of the police station in a bright orange jumpsuit, an empty holster and harness around his waist. Under one arm, a flight helmet, lacquered black, with a red insignia he doesn’t recognize, like the blade of an axe—the symbol of the Resistance he doesn’t quite remember being a part of.

All of that, though, isn’t as odd as the droid rolling at his heels, so close that he occasionally bumps into Poe as he walks. The pilot just grins, happy to have one thing that feels right in this extremely surreal, extremely well-monitored place. He glances through storefront windows as they go past them, looking to see if the interiors are as heavily surveilled as the exteriors.

Yeah, even if he hadn’t noticed the cameras, BB-8 hasn’t stopped piping about them since the little droid bumped his way down the police station steps.

two: may second;
It’s dusk, and Poe is sitting on the roof of his giant house. It feels giant, anyway. Five bedrooms including his, not another soul to occupy them. Why on earth he has a place this large, he can’t begin to fathom.

BB-8 rolls back and forth on the walkway leading up to the house, twittering to himself worriedly about the fact that Poe is momentarily out of reach.

Soon enough, the guilt of worrying his droid will call him down from the peak of his roof. But for right now, as stars he doesn’t recognize start to peek out of the darkness, he just needs to be up high.

three: may third or fourth;
There’s a motorcycle in his garage. The garage is where he tells BB-8 to stay, with the promise that he won’t be gone for more than half an hour.

He doesn’t remember ever having flow— driven something like this before, but the controls are so simple a toddler could operate them. He’s out on the road in a trice, not even pausing to close the garage door before zipping toward the emptiest parts of town.

Faster. Faster. Faster. At first it’s great, it’s perfect, feeling the press of gravity and atmosphere. But there’s a limit to it. To the speed he can get up to on these narrow streets, the maneuverability of a vehicle this low-tech.

He swings sideways into a skidding, juddering halt, the stutter of tires on asphalt like putting pressure on a bruise.

Stillness. A crow over cries a warning or a curse and Poe looks up, momentarily hating the animal for reasons he doesn't fully understand.

"Same to you,” he says, under his breath.

four: may fifth;
It’s curiosity more than anything that draws Poe out to the bake sale. He can certainly guess at what a bake sale is, but it’s one thing to guess and another thing to be surrounded by an open air market of confections. There’s something about it that makes him homesick.

As per usual, BB-8 trundles along at his heels, the sight of him making people move out of the way with a speed that Poe can’t understand.

It’s just a droid. And the cutest droid ever at that. BB-8 whistles sadly as yet another someone goes around them in a wide berth.

“They don’t think they’re worthy, buddy, that’s all.” Poe nudges the droid with his foot. “They’ll get used to you.”

They’re going to have to.

Edited 2017-05-01 04:32 (UTC)

May 1st.

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.

Edited 2017-05-01 05:10 (UTC)

1. May 1st-4th

[ Go Ask Alice is situated on Main Street and is one of the few shops that doesn't have the town's ubiquitous sign in the window - though it appears, every Monday morning, and every Monday morning Cassian takes it down when he arrives to work.

He shows up horrifically early, but that is mostly habit relating to employees of the gym who want coffee at slightly less horrifically early hours (but only slightly). If he doesn't hang out there at Crossbones for a while, then it's back to Alice, where there's always fifty billion things to do before opening the shop.

So come in. Have tea, hipster soda, or hot chocolate (it'll be year round before the week is out if Cassian has to argue with Jefferson every afternoon and bribe half the school to come by and try it in that timeframe), or eat something!

Or do that and bother Cassian. Two great tastes that taste great together! Besides if you're newly released from the hospital, you can ask about the Fugue Special.

The night of the 4th finds the shop closed but the lights on in the back of house, Cassian baking in full swing preparation for the PTA Bake Sale. While the front door is well-locked, the back is open to let out some of the heat from running the ovens for hours upon hours. ]

May 5th

[ There's a table for the tea shop here, with tea (of course) and several varieties of cupcakes, but what's possibly more interesting is the fact that more than a couple of other tables that are also sporting baked goods that Cassian made. In said tea shop. Granted, he at least has access to enough recipes that there's a pretty decent variety between what everyone's offering - some folks got mostly cookies, another requested cake, and honestly? Linda's blondis might be TheBomb.com but Cassian sleeps like shit and takes a lot of pride in making food for other people.

Besides, he's a got a brother in the highschool and a roommate working the hospital. Everyone wins. Right? ]

One | May 1-3 | Open

Crowe was one of those who probably wouldn't find it difficult to accept that they'd been in an accident. She remembered something else happening to her, but with enough repetitions, she could accept that her body's memory of pain was from being hit by somebody, at least... for now. It didn't sit well with her, but the nurses and doctors made her feel like she's crazy and she stopped trying to argue. She was alive, they were taking care of her, and yes, she was going to get kept for additional treatment and observation all the way until the third, but by that time she was ambulatory and could get around on her own quite well, thank you.

She was just. Quiet.

Two | May the Fourth be with you | Closed
Continued from here.

[ Crowe honestly hasn't thought far enough along to purpose. She's stuck on what's the point, though Nyx is definitely getting her to ignore, if not resolve, that particular funk.

She follows. She doesn't question him, or even hush his chatter, though she's definitely getting restless and irritated. Even while soaking in the information. What he is saying seems consistent with what she is seeing, what she has been seeing since she woke up in the hospital, so she tries to make his words fill up the foggy blankness in her mind. It doesn't fit.

She keeps trying.

And, no, she doesn't question when he leads her towards the woods, though the tension is very definitely back in her body and her eyes are very much on alert once more. Sorry, Nyx. She'll fight back if you attack. ]

Three | May 5 | Open

Nyx had brought her here. She wouldn't have even thought to come near the place on her own, but he had people for her to meet, and she'd not had much of an excuse to deny him, anyway.

Not that he would have insisted if she'd firmly told him no.

But she was here, and he was off talking to somebody, and she was. Browsing the baked goods.

ooc: Brackets and prose all good. If you want fake memories with, hit me up on

kikibug13 or in the discord chat.

Edited 2017-05-01 08:53 (UTC)

May 1
When Dom wakes up in the hospital, she accepts the explanation of you've been in an accident without too much complaint. Something bad happened to her before she came here, she's certain of that (the memory of gunshots, glass breaking, blood), so why not a car accident and a concussion? Sure.

Still, the whole setup feels weird, and she's not very good at staying put in her room. Until she's released at midday on the 2nd, she gets caught sneaking about the hospital more than once, although she doesn't really feel like she's sneaking. She's just curious, and restless, and wants to know more, particularly once she catches the comments about the increase in patients.

May 2-4
But now they've finally let her go, and she's at her little mobile home with her clothes and her belongings and a maddeningly non-functional smartphone. Staying put isn't an option, so she spends her days wandering around town, popping in and out of shops and killing hours at Java Joe's or at the bookshop. You could run into her pretty much anywhere, and at least half the time she'll probably have a lollipop in her mouth.

May 5
Dom's wandered up to the bake sale, unable to resist the lure of sweets. Of course, having done so means that she needs to make conversation—awkward conversation, per usual. She goes back and forth in front of the same table three times before finally stopping and smiling. "Hey. Brownies. I'll take one?"

Afterward she finds a bench in the park and has a seat, munching on the brownie and watching the townsfolk go by.

[ ALSO if anyone wants some fake Dom memories, hit me up. ]

Edited 2017-05-02 14:24 (UTC)

i • hospital (may 2st)

[ charlie wakes up in a hospital, and his first thought is i should be dead. even when the nurses and doctors tell him and continue to act as though it's really just something minor and nothing to worry about, the thought that he shouldn't be alive lingers.

he tries not to dwell on it too much, but it's always there in the background. he doesn't quite remember why, but — he shouldn't be alive, should he? and yet he is. he's here, and everything seems really very unfamiliar. ]

I don't think I've ever been in a hospital. [ he tells the person occupying the other bed, and swallows down the "at least not a human one" because that's what this is, isn't it? he's still on earth, isn't he?

but he doesn't want to just think about himself. he doesn't want to think about himself at all, really, because it only brings up a desperation he doesn't quite understand. he killed someone, he knows that much. he doesn't know why, but he knows that he pulled the trigger —

no, it's better not to think about that too much. ] Are you going to be all right? [ he asks instead. ]

ii • school (may 4st)

[ charlie doesn't remember going to this school, but the timetable was on the fridge of the house he has a key to and he knows that he has to go to school. pass his a-levels — is that what they're called? — and pass for normal. so he goes to school. he manages to find it by asking around, and he's not quite late by the time he arrives, dressed in the clothes he'd picked up at the police station, hair neatly parted to one side.

he doesn't remember this school at all, and so he has no idea which direction to walk into, where to find his first class. ]

Excuse me — [ he turns when he hears footsteps approaching, smiling in an attempt to look friendly rather than helpless. ] Could you help me?

iii • bake sale (may 5st)

[ everything smells really good and everything that charlie's tried so far has also tasted remarkably good. there are a lot of people here, too, and charlie wanders around for a while before he finds a bench to sit on, nibbling at some of the blondies a lady recommended to him.

he remembers going to a bake sale before with his uncle who'd made a big cake for it. he remembers having been at a similar event on a much larger scale, a fundraiser attended by nobility and royalty. he remembers holding a speech there, written by someone else, the cool gaze of his parents.

none of this makes sense.

when someone sits next to him at the bench, charlie smiles brightly. ] Hello. The Blondies are very good. Have you tried them?

I. — MAY 3, WEAVER'S (BAR)

[ dutch checks herself out of the hospital against medical advice early. she's fine, or she's physically fine and it's only her mind that isn't. there are gaping holes in her memory and a drive to escape, to get to high ground, to go on the offensive. maybe to shoot something.

instead of all those things, she finds a bar. it doesn't feel quite right: for a moment, she expects someone bald with flamboyant make-up behind the bar, a jazz singer crooning in the background and sexers picking up new clients. then she remembers having been here before and the dissonance dies down, at least for a while. long enough to find an empty stool at the bar, long enough to order a strong drink.

dutch stays at the bar the whole evening, not quite downing shots but not just nursing one drink, either. at times, she only stares darkly at a spot in the distance, at others, she might catch someone's gaze, one corner of her mouth lifting in a lazy smirk. ]

Can't say I remember seeing you here before. [ is half joke, half pick-up line. she could do with a little distraction, really. ]

II. — MAY 4, CROSSBONES BOXING

[ there's an anger inside dutch that burns bright, something vengeful that needs an outlet. she's reached for a gun by instinct more times than she can count and her memories of a life as a killjoy are too real to be a dream, a hallucination or the outcome of head trauma. there are too many details —

something is very, very, very wrong here and dutch might not yet know what, but the surveillance cameras and the general disposition of everyone to not talk about things is putting dutch even more on edge. in the absence of a badge that lets her beat people up for answers, she decides to go to the one place where she can beat people up for fun and money: crossbones boxing.

soon enough, she finds a half-empty ring. ] Looking for a partner?

[ if you'd like a different starter or to hash out any fake memory deeds, feel free to shoot me a line at

abiosis ]

May 2, Police Station

After getting out of the hospital, Danny hadn't had a clue what to do next. For lack of any other ideas, he'd just followed the suggestion to pick his stuff up at the police station.

Which was why he was now sitting outside the station and staring at the contents of what he assumed was his school backpack.

He takes out a battered thermos from the pack and turns it around in his hands with some confusion.

"So I guess I must really like soup?"

May 2, After dark, the lawn in front of Danny's house
Danny had no clue what was going on right now. He didn't know why he didn't remember much of anything at the moment or why the memories he did have made no sense. (Seriously, what was up with the boxes?)

But he was almost certain that he liked astronomy. So maybe it wasn't a surprise that he would find his way out to the front lawn on his first night in his house. Dragging out a blanket from his house, he spreads it out on the grass and starts setting up for a night of quality stargazing.

May 3, Main Street
The trip out to Main Street went great for a while. He'd found the movie theater, and they had an awesome collection of terrible monster movies. Not to mention the donuts and coffee shops.

Now if only he could figure out what he kept tripping over. He'd nearly fallen half a dozen times this afternoon, but there was nothing there. He'd checked.

Maybe he was just a klutz?

May 5, Bake Sale

To be perfectly honest, Danny was just here for the food. After picking out a few things, he makes his way away from the crowd around the tables and starts looking for an empty chair.

Edited 2017-05-01 21:15 (UTC)

{ may 1st: after the accident: closed to stefan }

It felt like hours had passed since she’d woken up in the hospital, but perhaps that was because she still couldn’t remember. Not the accident, not her name, nothing. Well, there were a few things, but nothing that was actually helpful. The nurses had assured her that it was all normal – she’d been in an accident, her memory would return with time. Perhaps it was the tiniest speck of knowledge that she, too, was studying to be a doctor that made her trust them, convinced her to listen when the doctor told her to rest and stay for observation, instead of leaving and trying to figure out what had happened to her. It would hae been easier if the nurses would give her more information, but so far they hadn't even told her her own name.

Her name. There were so many things it could be, and the only thing she knew was what it wasn't. Katherine. She was not Katherine. But beyond that, all she could find was fog and a headache that got worse the more she tried to force herself to remember.

So she waited, either in her room or out in the hall to see if there were others like her around. (There were, of course.) She picked at the breakfast tray that was brought to her room, but didn't eat any of it, her stomach in knots of anxiety. And then a nurse told her that someone had been called to come take her home. A family member. He'd be there soon.

{ may 5th: pta bake sale: open }

It felt right to be involved in something at the high school. Elena didn’t yet remember going there, but she’d been told by countless people that she’d attended and been an excellent student, always participating in extracurriculars and town activities. Apparently she’d even been a cheerleader? Everything was still a lot fuzzier than she’d like, but just because she didn’t have her memories didn’t mean she couldn’t help sell some cookies. And with her husband being associated with the school now, she really didn't have an excuse to not be there.

When she wasn’t manning a table that was overflowing with snickerdoodles and peanut butter chocolate chip delights, she was wandering through the crowd, hoping that the sight of someone there would help spark some recognition.

If only everyone would stop mistaking her for Katherine. It was so weird, the way she bristled every time it happened, when she knew that she and her sister had dealt with this all their lives. There was just something about it that bothered her. Elena loved her sister, they were friends as well as siblings, but she just hated it when people confused them for each other.

{ Want a specific starter or to chat about fake memories? Hit me up via PM or

taintedcrimson }

Edited 2017-05-02 02:52 (UTC)

ᴍᴀʏ 2 - ʜᴏᴍᴇᴡᴀʀᴅ ʙᴏᴜɴᴅ - ᴄʟᴏsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ɴʏx

( continued from here )

Ugh Jyn hates offering her name, which is seemingly absurd because why does she hate it so much?? IN ANY CASE, her nose scrunches but at least he didn't offer to shake her hand because she wouldn't be here for that either.

There is a lot of stuff Jyn isn't here for.

"Jyn. Are accidents with memory loss common here?" Do they need to have a trained medical professional come in and Erin Brockovich this memory loss like it's dirty water?

ᴍᴀʏ 5 - ᴘᴛᴀ ʙᴀᴋᴇ sᴀʟᴇ - ᴏᴘᴇɴ

After having a load of gift baskets shoved in her arms by a tall, willowy blonde in matching pastels and after shoving them under Cassian's shop's table (what do you mean it's not Cassian's shop? That is all the context she has for the tea shop. Sorry, Jefferson.) instead of passing them out to who they're meant to go to, Jyn parks herself at that table because it means that all of her conversations will be about cupcakes and tea and coffee and Jyn's judgment of coffee.

Occasionally, when she gets restless, she'll mill around aimlessly, looking at all the booths and trying valiantly to avoid Offical PTA Adults because she is not here for sweater sets and perfectly coiffed hair when she looks like a street urchin and the scrapes by her hairline are still visible even under her bangs. She doesn't Fit In.

But! If there is a dog, she will be petting it, so at least she's found something she likes.

Edited 2017-05-02 06:08 (UTC)

may first, hospital

[Johnny is hurt, but he's been hurt for a long time, and he needs to get the hell out of this hospital.

Some might argue that he doesn't need to, that his burning desire to get out is just a want, but the two concepts aren't mutually exclusive, especially to someone whose brain is scrambled enough that the words mutually and exclusive are hard to parse. It's claustrophobic and confusing, and he wastes no time in securing himself a wheelchair and slipping out of his room.

Unfortunately, the building outside of his room is even more overwhelming, and while he's easily able to wave off concerned nurses, getting out provides a bigger challenge than simply wheeling right out the door. It's not especially large, but it's larger than anything he's used to, and the machines...there is nothing that he's able to recognize in this uncomfortably sterile place. Or, rather, he does recognize some, he can name them and know what they are, but the experience is oddly detached. Has he ever seen a computer? Maybe. It's awful to answer an objective question like that with a "maybe", but it's all he has.

He may stop several people, looking to be on the verge of frustrated tears in his hospital gown.]

Hey, have you--have you seen...um, shit. Do you know the way out of this place?

[There's a name in his head, Gyro, but he can't reconcile that memory with this new (is it new?) locale, so he decides to shelve it for the time being.]

may third; café

[Johnny can be found in the café for hours at a time, oddly unmoving, with the only indication for how long he's been there being how empty his cup of tea is. Chamomile, to be specific--there's an odd, insistent part of him that tells him that chamomile is necessary, for some ungodly reason he only half remembers. Whatever. It tastes fine, anyways, so he's not complaining.

On the table in front of him is a metal sphere, a few inches in diameter, that he gently rolls from hand to hand nearly constantly, only pausing in his odd task to take a sip of tea. There's an odd look of concentration on his face, like he's trying to remember very badly what the hell kind of sport uses a metal ball.]

5/1-5/3. hospital

The downside of waking up is definitely the part where pain becomes a thing again, Alex decides about five minutes into consciousness after forcing himself into a sitting position in the hospital bed and taking a cursory look around the room. The movement pulls uncomfortably against his chest and shoulders and one glance down quickly confirms the presence of a swath of bandages across both. Further self-examination reveals a thickly bandaged ankle as well.

He doesn't remember how he got here, but whatever it was must have been bad.

A nurse bustles in to check on him, points out the crutches resting next to the bed for his use and apologizes for the lack of proper pain medication in light of the unusually high levels apparently already in his system and Alex nods politely through the explanation as he tries to work things out in his head. He shakes himself out of his thoughts just long enough to smile and thank her when she leaves again, but it's a thoughtless gesture, rote. He's used to this song and dance already, even if he can't remember why.

Eventually, Alex decides that brooding over the few sparse details he has isn't doing him any good. He simply doesn't have enough information to decide anything, other than perhaps the fact that he is apparently a very clumsy individual, to wind up in the hospital as often as he seems to remember. He sits on the edge of his bed long enough to flip through his own chart, as well as let any sudden bouts of dizziness from the shift in altitude to pass, but the information there is disappointingly clinical and strangely lacking in any previous medical history.

Obviously there's nothing for it but to do a little bit of legwork, which he's sure is going to be a nightmare with the crutches but he can't just sit around and wait for the information to come to him either, that's not how the world works.

He's sure of that much at least.

Alex takes a few laps up and down some of the less busy hallways until he's sufficiently competent with his crutches, but eventually he'll be seen just about anywhere in the hospital that patients are allowed (and maybe a few places that they aren't, staff only signs don't prove to be any sort of barrier for his curiosity, they don't even seem to give him pause) quietly observing and collecting information.

Information for what? Alex hasn't a clue. It seems like the right thing to do though.

5/5. bake sale

His house is too large and too empty to stay in for long without getting antsy, so despite the fact that Alex doesn't have any real craving for sweets at the moment (and he had been advised by the hospital to start eating light, regardless, apparently his weight was a little low and he might have a bad reaction to heavy foods right off the bat) he decides to set off for the school bake sale he's been seeing advertised all over town.

Alex lingers along the outskirts of the excitement and noise for a moment, feeling a bit lost, before a well-meaning parent (he assumes) snags his elbow and invites him to sit down at their table. He can't even find the energy to argue with them, and the idea of getting off his ankle is a rather nice one so he settles agreeably into the proffered chair, tucking his crutches carefully out of the way of passing feet and decides, well, if he's here he might as well help them sell, right?

At the very least, he figures, he owes the hospital a bit of effort for how often they've apparently had to deal with him.He smiles up placidly at the next person to pause by the table and asks in a soft London accent, "Would you like to support the school and hospital today by purchasing something sweet to eat? It's all for a very good cause."

That's how this sort of thing is done, right? He honestly can't remember, the hospital had felt fare more familiar to Alex than this school. He's trying though. He's trying.

[if you would like a different prompt or are interested in hashing out any false memories, feel free to talk to me at

spotters_guide!]

Edited 2017-05-02 03:08 (UTC)

one; may 1st

I said I'm fine.

( the nurses had rushed in nearly the moment he'd regained consciousness, taking vitals, shining lights in his eyes that irritated the already irritating headache that had blossomed behind them. but he's not fine, is he, with all of those bruises and scrapes and healing abrasions that hadn't been there before he'd been knocked out?

nope.

he remembers the crash, or at least he thinks he does, the sound of screeching tires and crunching metal, of approaching sirens. the smell of burning rubber, gasoline, acrid to the point of stinging eyes and nose and making it difficult to breathe. there had been voices, distantly at least, and while he tries to remember what they'd sounded like, the harder he tries, the more they sift back into a nebulous mess of background noise that does more harm than good.

it makes his headache worse. pair a building bit of restless energy with the fact that he can't recall much of anything beyond his name upon waking and you've pretty much got a prime recipe for impending disaster, but it doesn't really look like he's going to be able to do anything about it. not … right away, anyway.

they don't keep him when he tries to leave — hell, he really would have liked to see anyone try to keep him — and once he's retrieved his belongings from the station ( phone, a book that looks like it might have seen better days, a shield nearly half his size and half a pack of gum ), there's really nothing left to do but check things out.

right? right. )

two; may 2nd — 3rd

( if he gets a few looks while wandering through the pines, it might be because of this thing known as an allergy to shirts. bare-chested, jacket hanging open with not even a shred of modesty painting his expression, he walks the whole stretch of distance between himself and his. home. ( but he's used to walking, or at least it feels like it. his mind's still a bit fuzzy, and it might have been something they'd dosed him with back at the hospital. easy enough to blame it on that, or the accident itself. )

there's beer in the fridge when he opens it. he cracks one open, meanders back into the living room, sips it as he kicks his boots off into one corner and leaves them there. makes his way through the rest of the house. it feels familiar, looks and smells familiar. comfortable. like home should. but something still feels a bit off, and again, easily attributed to any lingering effects from a head injury. that damned headache just won't go away.

might as well get settled in, then. )

three; may 4th

( it isn't the delectable scent of noodles that lures him out of the house, but of something much sweeter, and while he's never considered himself much of a sweets guy, there is no denying that there is some seriously tasty things going on outside. it gives him reason enough to get out, wander around even more — maybe bump into some people he hasn't seen in a few days.

or get his hands on a brownie that he seriously doesn't need, but is inevitably worth it. so worth it. )

( ooc; wanna hash out fake memories, or request a starter, whatever, hit me up over at boldly )

Edited 2017-05-02 02:52 (UTC)

May 1

Carl knows something is missing when he woke up. He paws at his bandage covering most of his face, groaning at his throat being dry. A nurse comes in, speaking to Carl in soothing tones, explaining that there was a car accident, he lost his eye from it, he was very lucky to have survive at all, he lost so much blood: so on and so forth, and Carl can only look at her with eyes that are distant and suspicious, ice blue eyes laced wth coldness. His body is so stiff nurses couldn't do their work, and all the while, he doesn't say a word. He's not sure if he could really speak, not really. Silence is easy for Carl.

Sneaking out is not so easy, not when he's trying to navigate in a busy hospital hall with only one eye. Several times he got caught going out. Fifth time, he managed to sneak out, but it was approaching nightfall when he did. By that time, the townspeople were closing shop or getting back home. In his hospital clothes, stiff legged and half-blind, Carl walks down the road.

He overheard someone saying people who got sent to the hospital had their things taken and are being held by the police department, waiting for the owners to claim them. Without any better option, he heads toward there, thinking maybe the clothes he wore during the crash might help him jog his memory. A long short, probably.

A fierce looking teenager at night with only one eye and wearing hospital clothes walking around at night, however, makes a lot of townsfolk nervous, like they can tell that something is wrong with him but are too polite to say it. Perhaps they are right - Carl is in no mood to be friendly.

May 2 - May 4

Carl feels like he's being targeted. Perhaps it is because he's living in a part of town where there are nice houses and in the middle of it is a rather plain, small trailer that Carl is assigned in. It makes him feel like there extra eyes are on him for that oddity alone, like how dare he be so unusual in both appearance and in dwelling.

For that, he doesn't stay in the trailer other than sleeping. It's so empty there, it's unnatural. Like he wasn't made to be alone. Like he wasn't supposed too. He recalls of a time where he's always with a group, but he doesn't remember their faces. Or their names. The idea that he can't remember anything out of that horrifies him, but he can't put on why it is terrible in the first place. It's only when he found a bag and start putting in things - a small box of medicine, a spare shirt, a knife from the kitchen - does he found comfort in such a routine. Like getting ready to move at any time is more normal to Carl than living in a nice house in this neighborhood.

Which is why he goes downtown, to get food and some supplies. Food, mostly. But also to see what kind of stuff he might get from the stores in case of emergencies. Again, he doesn't know why he needs to think like that, but it feels urgent to know such things. And comforting at the same time. He goes past the various stores, each with their own charm. Crossbones Boxing, Go Ask Alice, The Vinyl Destination, so on: stores and complexes Carl might need to go to one day.

He'll go into one store, looking around and blinking. What to people do in this kind of store? He has no idea, and he's blocking the entrance.

May 5

It's the free food that called Carl out of whatever remote corner of the town he was hiding in at the time. He's insecure of the crowds gathering, and he's less then enthusiastic at the idea that he might have to go to school there soon - there's just too much stuff Carl is willing to handle. Maybe he'll try to get a job somewhere instead.

He's been picking out a blue-topped cupcake with yellow star sprinkles when he bumps into someone. It was bound to happen, with him being half blind, but it's still annoying when he collided so hard he dropped his cupcake to the ground, where bugs almost immediately attacked it. Carl has a rare moment of being disappointed. Now he will have to buy another cupcake.

[ Want another starter? Want to hash something else out (Carl has no fake memories of this place fyi)? PM this journal or message me on plurk at

devimelete

Edited 2017-05-02 03:43 (UTC)

MAKING MY WAY DOWNTOWN - May 1

( The accident theory isn't hard to believe at first. Rey is stiff and dazed as she half jogs, half runs out of the hospital ( heaven's forbid she might wait to be properly discharged ) and when she heads out of the doors and onto the street even throwing a hand up to block the glare of the sun is something of a chore.

...But the sun's not actually as bad as she initially thought. She's used to far worse-- feels as if she's used to far worse, anyway, and as quickly as the hand shot up it drops back to her side. Strange.

Anyway.

Obviously the sheriff's department is her first stop. If there are things that belong to her, she wants them, and she's quickly protective as she gathers up her bundle of items. Still in the hospital gown, holding her bundle of clothes and odds and ends like a lifeline, she heads into her new life with as much apprehension as you would expect from someone who's walking down the street in a backless dress.

Of course if anyone stares too much she'll scowl, and eventually she loses the grasp on whatever patience she might be clinging to. Her belongings get clutched tighter to her chest and she sharply glowers at the next person to hold their gaze on Rey just a little too long. )

What?

( It has yet to occur to her that maybe changing out of the hospital look might be the easiest way to avoid this. )

WALKING FAST, FACES PASS - May 3-4

( Thankfully, she does get dressed. Less thankfully, she honestly doesn't look that much more welcoming out of the hospital gowns. The goggles remain off her face, but they don't leave her head as she starts to explore the town, and her quarterstaff doesn't leave her side, either. All in all she's a relatively imposing figure, stalking up and down the streets with a curious expression and a hardened posture.

The stalking breaks when she comes across anywhere that sells food. Rey quickly heads into diners, cafes, anything that looks good basically, and starts ordering the first thing she sees off of the menu. What results is usually bizarre combinations that she tears apart and dips and dunks without concern -- think muffins into the coffee, sandwiches with syrup drizzled on top. She's certainly enjoying herself though, and the way she looks as she's eating, you might think it had been days since she'd properly eaten. )

There's so much!

( She doesn't know why this shocks her exactly, just that it does, and she very generously and happily offers up a portion of her bizarre little concoctions to anyone who might pay even the slightest attention. )

AND I'M HOME-BOUND - May 5

( The noise entices Rey over to the Bake Sale. It's all fascinating, honestly. Everything feels just a little wrong to her, but it's hardly a bad thing. It feels new, too, and that's exciting. This is exciting, and the face coverings have been ditched by the time she makes her way up to the loud event in the park. She's even smiling - but that dies quickly when she sees prices listed and she starts rooting around at the bags slung around her hips. There's a lot in there, but a wallet or purse isn't one of them.

Some time is spent digging through the objects kept in her bags, but aside from spare parts and pieces there's nothing much of value in there. Still she tries, holding up what looks like something caught between pliers and a screwdriver with a hopeful expression on her face. )

What can I get for this?

( actual current footage of rey )

( anything not covered here that you'd like to work with? surprise me with something new, or else buzz me at

sharknado and i'll tailor a fancy starter of your own just for you! )

One: May 1st, Hospital

When she wakes she groans, lost in a remembered haze of broken machinery and blood, nothing seems to make sense. Something she was riding, a motorcycle maybe, or something else, but as much as she hurts it all seems superficial. She rolls out of bed, clutching her side until she's upright. Why doesn't she remember? What doesn't she remember?

It's frustrating. Aloy (slowly) makes her way down the hospital corridors, frowning deeply, until a nurses notices her and attempts to guide her back to bed.

"What sort of accident?" She can be heard demanding this of a nurse, her voice raised just below what might be termed a 'yell.' Her whole body is taut with adrenaline, ready for fight or flight. "If you can't tell me, who can?"

Two: May 2nd, The Park

Release comes the next day, by which point a lot -- though not all -- of Aloy's anger has faded. She's supposed to take her things and go home, and presumably quietly finish recovering. Which, she has to admit, would probably be a good idea. She has too many questions, though, and no easy answers. After changing into the leather tunic and leggings that she'd had returned to her at the Sheriff's, Aloy is certainly not about to blend in, but she hasn't quite decided to go find out what "home" is yet.

Is this familiar or not? She isn't sure. The 'belongings' they returned to her seem to have little connection with this place (a bow? The spear which for some reason they won't return to her yet?) Most peculiar of all is the small metallic triangle that rests in her palm. No one else has something like that. She has a sense it's important, but not quite why, yet.

Camped out on the bench, with her little treasure trove spread out beside her, Aloy lifts the bow carefully, pulls back an imaginary arrow on the string to see how it feels.

"Why can't I remember?"

Three: May 5th, Park

Aloy has followed the flyers to the bake sale, just like everyone else, it seems.

She's opted not to wear her leather, as right as it feels. No, in this case it's better to blend in a little, while her memories come back or she works out what's going on, whatever the truth happens to be. Instead, she went through the clothes in her home to find a pair of faux leather leggings and some layers in warm neutral colours, along with a pair of heavy, practical workboots. The little metal triangle, well, she's worked it out. It rests on the right side of her face, just in front of her ear, and it's called a Focus. It points out the eyes everywhere she goes, helpfully labels them "cameras" where only she can see. And it's definitely not something that fits in this town, so this is just one more thing to figure out.

What she's doing is watching, more than anything else. Gathering information. Learning. Pretending she belongs here until she knows if she does or not. Aloy deliberates over a choice of cookies at a table, while keeping an ear out for other conversations.

GETTING USED TO HOME - May 3rd - 4th

OPTION ONE: Leaving the police station/heading into town (May 3rd)
[ Three things happen when Jesse turns up to the Sheriff's office to collect his belongings.

The first thing that happens is the Sheriff, despite being quite polite, seems particularly leery of Jesse. Jesse picks up on the vibe of suspicion being directed at him immediately, and it really gets on his nerves. The second thing that happens is Jesse, while having no recollection of disliking authority figures in general, finds himself instinctively disliking the Sheriff based solely on the fact that he's law enforcement. Being treated with suspicion doesn't help matters, at all.

(The reason for said suspicion: a baggy of blue meth that was confiscated from Jesse upon arriving in The Pines. Not that Jesse knows about that.)

The third thing that happens is that after being handed his belongings - a photograph of a woman and kid he doesn't recognise, filthy clothes neatly folded up, a pack of smokes and keys to his house - Jesse tries asking the Sheriff questions about what the hell happened. What kind of accident was he in? When did it happen? How did it happen? Why is his face all busted up? Why are his clothes so tattered and filthy? Why is being given a photograph of a chick and a kid he doesn't recognise? There are so many confusing gaps in Jesse's memory; it unnerves the hell out of him, and the Sheriff is as infuriatingly unhelpful as the hospital staff were.

Anyway. Jesse is so close to giving the Sheriff callous smartass attitude. The cameras watching him from the corners of the room are what stop him. A gut instinct to play nice despite seething with disrespect for the Sheriff stops him, too. So, that's what Jesse does: plays nice.

Until he steps out of the police station into the sunny afternoon. Dressed in the filthy clothes the Sheriff handed him (because no way is he going to wander around town in a hospital gown), Jesse finally lets his contempt towards the Sheriff seep out by bitterly muttering, ] Eat me, asshole [ under his breath as he pulls a cigarette out from the crumpled pack of smokes and brings the it up to his lips.

Not that Jesse has any recollection of ever being a smoker. Wanting a cigarette is like… instinctive. An insatiable, nervous, desperate craving for nicotine that's clawing away at him. It's yet another inexplicable thing Jesse can't quite piece together about himself. God, he feels so disoriented, so unlike himself in ways he can't put his finger on. It must be concussion, right? Given how busted-up his slowly mending face is, concussion is the only conclusion that makes any sense. Right?

And the only thing that's going to take the edge off is a cigarette. Except as he reaches into his pocket for a lighter, an action that's as inexplicably second-nature as wanting to smoke, Jesse realises he hasn't got a lighter. With an exasperated sigh and a frustrated roll of his eye that isn't swollen shut, he snatches the unlit cigarette from his lips. He trudges down the police station steps onto the street and starts in the direction of the town centre, and as he approaches a person heading in the opposite direction, he slows to a stop to ask them: ]

Yo. Sorry to bother you, but, uh. Wondering if you've got a light. Seem to have lost mine.

[ Quickly flashing the unlit cigarette pursed between his fingers to indicate what he's after. ]

OPTION TWO: Java Joe's coffee shop (May 3rd)
[ This town, man. There's just something about it that's niggling at Jesse, but he can't for the life of him work out what it is. The town, the streets, a lot of the people - everything is all completely familiar, because he's certain he's known this place and all the townsfolk for a long damn time, yet his surroundings and something about everyone he meets just seems… off. Like there's something missing amongst all the familiarity, and he just can't work out what it is.

Must be the concussion, though, right? That's the only explanation that he keeps returning to, because it's the only one that makes sense. Must be the concussion. The more he thinks about how busted up he is, however, how filthy his clothes are, the more that leaves him unsettled. Because, seriously, what the hell happened to him?

He's seated at a table by the window in Java Joe's, leg jiggling with anxious, restless energy while staring down at his mug of black coffee that he's stirring with a slightly trembling hand. There are dark bags under his eyes, and there's something haunted and dead inside about Jesse, and not just because his face is a bruised mess. He stirs the coffee, stirs it and stirs it, around and around, lost in thought, feeling all out of place and finding himself thinking about Mike. Finding himself thinking about hanging out in diners with Mike, drinking mugs of black coffee just like this. If Mike was here, he'd probably have the answers. He'd probably know what to do. Mr. White - he'd know what to do, too. But, shit, that's from a previous life Jesse isn't allowed to talk about. Not even supposed to be thinking about.

He winds up reaching into his pocket to pull out the photograph of the chick and the kid. He peers down at it, wracking his brain, trying to work out who the woman is, who the kid is. The fact that the photograph looks like someone had stealthily snapped it while neither the woman nor the kid were aware stirs a churning, ominous dread in Jesse's gut. Is this the girlfriend Heisenberg had watched die and did nothing to save? Is this the kid Heisenberg poisoned? Did Heisenberg take the photograph? Did Jesse take the photograph? Fuck, so many questions that Jesse doesn't have a single answer for. He winds up setting the photograph down on the table and smearing a hand down his face with a chagrined sigh before he resumes uneasily stirring his coffee.

Anyone in the coffee shop or passing by the coffee shop who may recognise Jesse (FAKE MEMORIES!!) is more than welcome to interrupt and join him at the table. ]

OPTION THREE: Weaver's bar (May 4th)
[ It's weird. There's been this niggling, itching desperation inside Jesse to get high. As far as Jesse can recall, he's never touched a drug in his life (HAHA)… but, man, is there a deep, thirsty pull towards getting blitzed out of his mind. It's as if all the solutions to dealing with what's troubling him would lie in the very act of getting high, if he actually could.

(If only the Sheriff hadn't confiscated that baggy of meth. If only Jesse even knew about that baggy of meth. If only he could rail lines of meth if he knew about that baggy of meth. Alas.)

So, it's evening, and Jesse has wound up at Weaver's. His face is still kind of busted up mess (the swelling on his cheek and eye is going down, though), but at least he's not dressed in those filthy clothes anymore. He found some casual clothes buried away in his wardrobe at home, rather grey and drab, and he's got all this shit whirling through his mind, and he's trying to dull it all with booze.

He started off with beer, but he's moved onto harder stuff now. He's slouched at the bar, numb but not numb enough, buzzing with alcohol but the buzz is nowhere near satisfying enough. While sipping his drink, he throws the occasional scouting glance around the bar, particularly at any ladies that might be hanging out. There are other ways to get high, after all. Other ways to forget for a little while. Other ways to kill the bottled up, dead feeling caught inside him that he doesn't know how to break free from. ]

BAKE SALE - May 5th

[ Jesse had scrunched up the flier about the bake sale that he'd found in his letterbox after skimming it over, and had tossed it in the trash. No way was he in the mood for crowds, for playing nice, for doing mundane, lame shit like hanging out at a bake sale.

While he'd sat at the garden table in his backyard, staring at the pool while chain-smoking, a niggling thought had begun to take form in his mind. A niggling thought that seems almost ingrained in him, conditioned in him, though Jesse couldn't for the life of him pin down why. That niggling thought being: the importance of blending in. Hiding in plain sight. Presenting the appearance of just being a regular douchebag to avoid suspicion, to keep your friends close but your enemies closer.

Not to mention the damn cameras always watching.

So, stubbing out his cigarette, Jesse had gone inside the house, dug out smart casual clothes from his wardrobe, and set off for the bake fair. Along the way, he stopped at the grocery store and purchased two big platters of cookies. No time to try cooking something.

(Which is another thing that's been niggling at Jesse: he knows he's a cook. He knows he's a good cook. He has memories of spending hours cooking up batches of stuff that required immense amounts of precision and accuracy, and he remembers he had it down to a fine art. His shit was top quality, sought after shit. Think he can remember exactly what that top quality, sought after shit is, though? Nope. He can't remember a single thing. That's something he'll have to try and figure out later, though.)

And so, now he's at the bake sale, standing at a small stall with the large platters of cookies set down in front of him. His busted up face is considerably less swollen and bruised than it was a few days ago, though there's still something haunted and lifeless about him. Maybe it's the dark bags under his eyes, or maybe it's the way his attempt at friendly smiles don't really reach his eyes whenever he spots someone he knows.

But at least he's here, doing his bit. Ingratiating himself into the community, while closely observing the people around him in case something might clue him in on why this town leaves him feeling uneasy despite how familiar it is.

Pulling his mouth into yet another perfunctory attempt at a friendly smile at someone who's approaching his tiny stall. ]

'Sup.

[[ ooc; I WOULD LOVE TO WORK OUT SOME FAKE MEMORIES FOR JESSE, so if you're wanting your character to have fake memories of Jesse or would like to work out your character and Jesse sharing a fake memory of each other, please feel free to either PM me, hit me up at his memories post, or hit me up at

nanageddon! ]]

Edited 2017-05-02 13:26 (UTC)

Option one: welcome to wayward pines.

[The hospital is weird and Leia knows it. The nurses are wrong, and she touches her head trying to put things together like just what, exactly, a car was. (Had she really been inside a car and not a ship? Was a car a type of ship?) But she only allowed the nurses a minute to baby her before she pulled herself up to her proper height, and stared the head nurse down, despite being in a hospital gown. They'd given her clothing and released her post haste, giving her a slight smile.

Telling people what to do was something inherent in her, and the nurses responded to it.

When she was walking to the house, things started returning to her, and Leia found her feet going along a familiar sidewalk to the home that she shared with her husband, and that her son had grown up in. Neighbors waved and Leia waved back with a smile, asking about their family as a reflex. It was something that someone had taught her, but she couldn't say who or what. Instead, she let herself be greeted, and answered questions about the school (as she was the vice-principal) or the model UN (that she'd set up and advised) mostly though, Leia tried to place them and find out what their importance to her was. If there was any. ]

option three: PTA BAKE SALE
[Leia Organa was not domestic. She didn't bake, mostly because she didn't have time to do it. Of course that meant that when it came time for things like the PTA bake sale, she left it to Han to pick up the order that she'd placed weeks ago for fancy cupcakes that would probably be sold at half the price they paid for them. It was funny really how her salary tended to find it's way back into the school's pockets from time to time.

As the vice-principal, Leia sometime had a hard time with students because they were sent to her when they acted out. She tended to be able to figure out what was going on with them without thinking about it; Leia just knew. Mostly, she gave them the disappointed talk and it tended to work. Sometimes. Now though, Leia had set that face aside and greeted them like old friends, asking about classes and how they were. When parents stopped and asked about their children, she smiled and said that they really should ask their children that.

But she stopped at almost every table and paid for something, asking for them to hold it until the end of the sale. If nothing else, no one could ever say that Leia Organa didn't support their school.]

one: may first: [ See, it's that whole 'opening your eyes' thing that gets him. One moment, he's drowsing, half awake, and the next second there are giant beams of ruby-colored light blasting out of the window of his hospital room before he shoves his eyes closed and does his best to remember the most important thing: breathing.

The memory of what those things are, of what he is, comes a moment later, a big red blaring stop sign that has him reaching out to his bed side to look for, dammit, where are they, are you fricking kidding me, it should be- YES. There they are. The glasses get shoved on his face about the same time as someone comes careening into the room to see what's happened. ]

...uh, sorry?

two: home again: [ ...this is some full scale, 100%, no doubt, epic level bullshit is what this is. At least, that's what Scott is thinking as he walks down 'Main Street' heading for the sheriff's department. Apparently, his backpack is there with some of his stuff and he has to go there and get it (even if you'd THINK they'd bring the stuff for him, considering he'd been in an accident and all). That would be bad enough, except that he doesn't remember half of the stuff they'd told him at the hospital.

Like that he's EVER LIVED HERE. Nothing is familiar. Nothing. And there's no arcade? Well, he sees a movie theatre, so all is not lost, but none of the titles look familiar to him. It's weird. And while he knows he has a foster parent (because kids don't generally live on their own), the name 'Pepper Potts' had brought up exactly nothing in his mind.

Which was great. He's got force beams in his head but no useful information. Fricking. Great.

So if you see the pissed off looking kid in the Ray Charles specs making his way down the road, well... good luck. ]t

three: bake sale: [ He still doesn't remember much, but for some reason, the whole near miss for detention feels entirely too normal for him. This time, the near miss comes in the form of 'volunteering' for the PTA bake sale, so he's here, helping shell out brownies for-

Okay, he feels a little bad about the window, so maybe he's a little more helpful about working once he hears that it's to benefit the hospital. ]

Edited 2017-05-03 01:40 (UTC)

3rd may; general wherever + the house of M el & el (open AND closed, isn't it incredible):

1A: OPEN }

Via delightful curriculum of frequently unpleasant lessons, Eliot has learned that when persons in Authority are murmuring things in calm voices at you, it's best just to do what they want until they go away. Then you plot your escape. Or in Eliot's case just wait it out until he's officially discharged, then discover via sheriff's office he has A) fabulous taste (this here getup) B) possibly an alcohol problem (a flask that doesn't seem to empty?? ever????) and C) ....more possibly cosplay as a hobby (because why else would he have a crown).

Maybe it's for roleplay. Sexy roleplay. That sounds like much more his speed, he's pretty sure. Of course, he's also pretty sure he can do magic, and equally sure he remembers killing a guy with a bus - not on purpose! though no less viscerally, viciously satisfying - which. Would sound perfectly normal, if not a bit um, murdery, except he also definitely, for really truly definitely, remembers moving the bus with his brain.

So. That's been his week so far, some catastrophe just out of reach of his mind's eye, one that despite what he's been told seems too laden with pathos to have been anything as mundane as an accident, a headache that doesn't quit until he's downed a few swigs from the flask, and apparently, his very own house?? Or not, considering his name is engraved on the key, and that seems unnecessary if he lives alone. But such deductive reasoning can wait until he confirms this house business, which as the internet would say sounds fake etc, and so he sets out: a crane-like creature with lustrous curls meandering gently upward as if they are perhaps trying to escape from his head, carrying his coat by two fingers crooked over one shoulder.

Occasionally, tiny coincidental things may happen around him. Things that were probably caused by the wind! A stop sign whanging a little bit, a low hanging branch dropping from a tree...nothing all that inexplicable. Feel free not to comment on this, since we are in a perfectly normal little town here.*

1B. ELEANOR }

Eventually he finds this mystery domicile, just bearably not a suburban cutout horror enough that he'll deign to step across the threshold (why he has such a problem with the idea he doesn't know, but--honestly), wherein he is greeted by GOOD) a bar that makes his burgeoning little addiction demon dance in delight BAD) an absolute surfeit of clowns. Actually, Eliot reflects, in stalking from painting to painting to a lamp shaped like a barber pole, complete with quartet of clowns at the base, is there a word for a venery of clown?

A shitshow, possibly. Aloud: "What the everloving, all encompassing fuck..."

He's peering at a painting of a clown gardener watering a cabbage patch where the heads of the cabbages appear to be babies in clown makeup. And wondering if he's going insane. Crown, coat, and house keys all remain on the coffee table where he draped them and promptly forgot in favor of like, all this.

* that's a lie, totally comment on them

4th may; weaver's (ALSO both open and closed because damn i'm versatile.)

2a. LANTAR }

At 11 in the morning or so on the 4th, Eliot bestrides out the door of his and the lovely Eleanor's house to find ...something. He's really not sure what, but he'll know it when he sees it! Maybe it will be something that makes all of this make sense, or it will be a place that sells vintage ties! Either seems like it would make a fine addition to his morning.

As it turns out, it's a bar.

That actually shouldn't come as much of a surprise, given that since he woke up he's come to realize his continued physical survival - at least a survival that doesn't involve clawing anyone to death - triangulates between cigarettes, coffee and alcohol, but then he's not sure he drinks here even if the memories are flying by like bullets. It takes a palpable couple of seconds where he just stands on the sidewalk, shading his eyes to stare the building down like an explanation will materialize in the air, and then--that's it. All his memories are from the wrong side of the bar, so he's ...that can only mean--

Oh no.

It means--

"Ex...cuse me," he manages, approaching the first person he finds inside the bar, still floppy haired and vesterly begarbed, stupidly tall, "this may be the silliest question I've had to ask since yesterday when a very nice nurse explained why I wasn't wearing pants, but--erm. Do I." Gulp. "Work here?"

He has a job. How did this happen.

2B. OPEN }

So. Apparently he has, indeed, fallen into the sticky sticky web of gainful employment, which is frankly more confusing than anything else he's remembered so far, and he just made a glass fly to him from across the room. That is the scale he is working on, and it is annoying. Yet it turns out, as he familiarizes himself with the space behind the bar, the more he pokes around the more he knows. What regulars like. Where to find bottles and stirrers and maraschino cherries he eats several of, mostly out of spite. Spite which turns out to be sort of great, since he discovers he can tie a knot with his tongue. A useful skill if ever he's learned one!

Not that he remembers what skills he's learned, really, besides apparently telefuckingkinesis and functional alcoholism.

What this amounts to is that he can be found behind the bar for the duration of the evening. Do you have like, so many memories of drinking here? Has Eliot ever sympathetically cleaned a glass while listening to your woes? (Less out of actual sympathy and more because he's imagining himself in Casablanca or something, but.) What about terrible advice, ever get any of that? Did you follow it? Are you here to throw a drink in his face as a result?

The delicious possibilities are both endless and terrifying.

MAY 1st (Closed to Clary (1), Magnus, & ultimately Alec (2)

1. Continued from here.

"Seems only natural after an accident." Izzy muses, wondering how there can be so many accidents in this place; considering appearance alone, this place looks like a peaceful place that you don't have to worry about. The accidents, though, make for a bit more...alarm. Maybe, though, it's just coincidence. Maybe she's thinking to much about it? Not remembering everything is definitely not making it easy for Izzy to just settle in here. And obviously she came here to just...settle in because what else does one do in a place like this?

Shaking off her thoughts, Izzy grins at the tabby Clary gives attention to, nodding and ignoring the way that her hair shifts with the movement, curls falling forward. "They are really cute. So, I'm pretty sure you can't go wrong popping in here." Plus, the familiarity she feels toward Clary only makes her curious...despite the discouragement toward all things in relation to being curious.

Holding her smoothie, Izzy slips a second sip in, grin still firmly in place on her mouth. "Well, I think you have a leg up on actually finishing that list working here because you'll get plenty of chances." A small laugh bubbles up and escapes as Iz nods again. "I know exactly what you're talking about, a bucket list. Pretty sure everyone has at least a tiny one in the back of their head." Does she have one? She can only assume so, but at the moment nothing is coming to mind all that quickly.

2. Continued from here.

Well, that just makes you one half of something very special. [Izzy can't quite help the supportive comment. She knows that her brother deserves to be happy, and Magnus does too, obviously. The fact that they both found that with someone of the same sex shouldn't matter to anybody. Really, it isn't anybody's business but their own...and maybe her's considering she's family and cares, but still.

Nobody has a right to really say anything as far as Izzy's concerned; she just knows Alec has faced too much of that already. He deserves to be left alone to just be happy and content for a while.] And, it's better to stand out than blend in, anyway.

[That's, pretty obviously, Izzy's philosophy. She doesn't even question that for a moment. She feels comfortable with people looking at her, she's not sure if Magnus feels the same, but she can encourage either way.

Nodding, Izzy grins.] Exactly, I'm not my brother. Any of them, for the record. [Izzy winks, jokingly.]

Disgustingly? Say no more, then, I don't want the details, but I'm happy for the both of you. [A part of Izzy can feel that, somewhere buried deep, she wishes for something like what they have. Obviously she's not married, considering the lack of a ring, and she's pretty sure that'd be something she'd remember.] I beat him to it, so I guess we think a little more alike than either of us thought about.

4. May 5th: Bake Sale

[Izzy's a little bit jealous as she walks around the bake sale, taking in the different smells and the baked goods that actually look delicious...rather than like hockey pucks or science experiments gone wrong. Her own baking had definitely not turned out anything like the fair that was set out to peruse in various places. The only problem was that Izzy couldn't figure out if her baking failure was in relation to the accident or if she was just always terrible at it.

She's already made a trip to the garbage can with her brick-like muffins to get rid of them before anybody can get hurt, complete with her murmurs of 'Such a waste'. She didn't linger long, not exactly happy with how it turned out. She is trying to integrate herself here in Wayward Pines, though, it's just easier said than done when she can't quite banish the curiosity that she feels.

Reaching up and over her shoulder, Izzy rubs a sore spot that she can only assume came from the accident for a moment before forcing herself to stop, knowing that it probably won't help to fixate and focus on it. Plus, it's probably in her head, considering how much she's in her own head since the accident. Forcing her usual charming smile, Izzy continues her saunter as she toys with the serpent bracelt sliding about on her wrist, shooting passerby and those manning booths smiles. After all, even baking bricks can't make Izzy lose her confidence...not completely anyway.]

{OOC: I would love to work out some fake memories, and am willing to come up with more starters and the like if anybody would like Izzy for something! I'm reachable at

schmer!}

Edited (html fail) 2017-05-03 02:22 (UTC)

one: waking up: [ Kal wakes up about three feet above his bed, and that's just the beginning really.

He's as cordial and cooperative as he can be to the nurse's, as much because of a natural inclination as because he can see that they're nervous, and at first he thinks it's around him. Once he's watched long enough to know different, he doesn't feel any different about being kind and they're all very helpful in telling him about his job and his home and his place here in town.

It sounds... almost right. Almost. There are still questions, but he'll wait dutifully for a clean bill of health even if the sunlight seems to have gotten rid of all of the small knicks and bruises that he'd had upon coming here. ]

two: making your way downtown, walkin' fast: [ There's nothing quite like deja vu, is there? Or maybe there is?

Ha. It's a terrible joke, but he figures he's an old man. Old men are supposed to make terrible jokes. It feels about right. Much like this place: it feels right, like coming home, but it's a home he's not sure he should have. Had? It's strange. The size of the town feels right, and he can easily imagine growing up here, coming home to- oh, that might be nice to make for dinner tonight. Strange the things that come back to you, after all.

But while the feel is there, the specifics still keep aluding him, and that's almost worse than if he didn't remember anything at all. So instead of just wandering around aimlessly, he's going into every shop on the strip and making his way in to do introductions, say hello, and see if he can reestablish whatever relationship they used to have. After all, it's a small town. Everyone knows everyone and that's the best way for it to be, isn't it? ]

three: bake sale: [ When Kal'd heard about the bake sale being organized by the PTA, he'd insisted much to some of the younger guys' chagrin that the Fire Department should almost certainly assist as well, and if nothing else they ought to maybe bring some drinks for those going around and picking up baked goods. That's why he's got a couple of the boys with buckets of ice, a few others showing the kids playing around the area their uniforms and the helmets and all the neat parts of being a fireman, and Kal is manning a small booth with a selection of pies that he'll be adding to the pot for the PTA's sales.

Blueberry, apple, rutabaga, pecan, lemon chess, and a few others... there's something for anyone and everyone if you'd like a pie. ]

i. may 3rd. getting used to home again.

[ It takes Percy a couple of days to recuperate when all he wants to do is sleep, fading in and out of the most vivid, weirdest, terrifying dreams. He doesn't remember a whole lot about them, only that he would wake up exhausted like he'd been fighting all night or something, and there's an image in his mind of a swath of orange fabric with the words 'Camp Half-Blood' written across it, flapping in the wind.

None of it makes any sense.

The nurses remind him of his name, which he knows with certainty (of course he does, it's his name), and then they start to ramble on about the little park area where he lives, eventually coming around to inform him that he wasn't the only one caught up in the accident; there were others but everyone's all right and he's lucky that he made it too.

He thinks briefly of work and his small trailer, a crappy little space he plans to move out of as soon as he can make enough money, and when he's finally released from the hospital, he thinks of how much he's looking forward to heading back there. Hospital food is really gross.

Release papers in hand, Percy steps out into the sunlight dressed in jeans and the t-shirt they'd found him in. Strangely enough, it doesn't look like it'd been torn up or damaged in the accident. It's plain and purple, not really his colour, but the nurses assured him that it belonged to him, so. Okay, sure - yeah, who was he to argue?

The rest of the afternoon is spent at the Sheriff's department where he'd been told to go to pick up his belongings, everything fitting into one small-ish plastic bag. Money, wallet, keys, a pen, and a small bottle of something that he identifies as probably whiskey. Maybe something belonging to Charlie or Peeta. He can't be sure. After that, he takes his time getting back home.

He'll stop along Main Street, his head still a bit foggy, limbs still sore and stiff, but the fresh air and the exercise helps. He feels better than he had, anyway. So that's something. Feel free to stop him at any point along the way - either at the hospital, on the street, or on his way back to the L-block, where he lives. ]

ii. may 5th. pta bake sale. (recycled from the test-drive.)

Chocolate chip blue-kies! Get your chocolate chip blue-kies right here.

[ Okay, seriously, who wouldn't want to try a blue-coloured cookie, right? (Even if the name could use a little work.) There's something immensely satisfying about seeing plates of wildly coloured cookies amidst trays of the normal stuff.

Percy isn't going to think too hard on the fact that he doesn't remember making them, isn't sure he knows how to bake, or why he's here at all, because cookies are great and they look (and taste) legit. He's got an apron on, he's got this ... money box thing ready to go, he's already sold like, at least two dozen of these bad boys.

You're welcome, school-he's-probably-gonna-get-kicked-out-of-at-some-point. ]

ONE | MAY THIRD

[ Déjà vu shouldn't be so easy to pull off without memories. But that's what it is, déjà vu from start to finish: waking up in a hospital, disoriented. Missing the how and the why or the where, exactly. The nurses in his personal space are familiar in a way that makes his hackles rise, and the part where he sits up and tries to fend them off in a way that's one part urgent, two parts polite (too polite to be effective) — that's familiar, too. ]

No— no, that isn't necessary, none of this is— I'm fine.

[ He has no idea what definition of "fine" he's working with. A very loose one, though; he knows that much. He feels a flash of guilt in response to the way the nurse is frowning at him, but that doesn't stop him from sliding off the bed and sidestepping past her on his way towards the door. ]

Sorry. Thank you, I mean it, I'm—

[ Not looking where he's going. David's got his eyes on the nurse as he apologizes and backpedals through the doorway, and he slams directly into whoever's unlucky enough to be walking by. ]

TWO | MAY FOURTH

[ The hospital's the worst part. The rest of it is fine. The rest of it is actually kind of nice, even if his memories of it are patchwork. David gets his clothes, finds a house (his house?), has a shower and feels fifty-percent less skeeved out. And he doesn't need memories to know that Main Street is sort of cute in that quaint Americana way, or to figure out that he likes exploring the woods — the completely legal and open to the public woods, specifically.

The woods are quiet. Or quieter, at least. The voices don't make it far past the edge of town. David knows what they are, and he knows what he is, vaguely. Knowing doesn't make the reality of it less annoying. The second he finds a way to turn down the volume on the white noise, he leans into it, hard.

In other words: he wanders into the woods on the evening of the 3rd, and he doesn't bother walking home when it gets dark. There's something extra appealing about falling asleep with a glimpse of stars above the looming trees, anyway. If anyone's out for a stroll on the 4th, they're liable to find him curled up at the base of a tree in a dead sleep. ]

( OOC: David's psychic, so hit up this permissions post if you tag in! )

ota; may 2nd, in the hospital

[ Blinking into awareness without a clue in the world where she is or how she got there feels . . . well, kinda familiar, in a way Eleanor can't quite put her finger on as she frowns up at what strikes her as a very white, very blank ceiling. Like there ought to be a little color and a little reassurance up there.

It's probably not that weird. She's sure she's woken up with plenty of hangovers in her life — not that she can actually remember any of them, or like, anything at all, so she's guessing it makes sense she's in a hospital if she's got freaking amnesia — but she knows what hangovers are and the gamut of ways they can suck balls, so it's prrrobably not a reach to guess she's the kind of person that wakes up with them a lot.

There's no telltale pounding in her temples or queasy churning in her stomach as she pushes herself up into a sitting position on the bed, though — she feels perfectly fine, actually, which is weird because one thing she definitely does remember is the rack of grocery carts about to mow her down after she'd bent over a fallen bottle of margarita mix in the grocery store parking lot. She doesn't get much time to mull it over before a nurse enters the room, and Eleanor lets herself be poked and prodded, a little nonplussed despite her quip to at least buy her a drink first. ] But I guess that's how I ended up in here, huh? Okay, second base it is.

[ She flops back down when the nurse leaves (without so much as a quelling look at the joke, which, Eleanor thought it was funny, and she also thinks she's taking this amnesia thing in a whole lot of stride and should get some credit for that), eventually turning on her side to size up the forking huge plant at her bedside — more like a small bush, really — and wait, what? Who the fork says forking, like she's born again or something, much less thinks it.

She frowns at the plant for a very long time, so it's a good bet anyone coming to visit will find her in this state. Though a girl's eventually gotta pee, and maybe, just maybe you arrive right when she lets out a screechy yelp and nearly trips out of her bedsheets at the sight of the clown painting propped against the wall. ]

'go ask alice' employees & loiterers; may 4th, back to the tea mines

[ Well, she can't stare at a plant forever. She won't. Even if it's not all bad, because Eleanor doesn't exactly mind thinking about whoever that venti mocha frappuccino of a woman is with the, like, curly slivers of chocolate on top and probably a lot of whipped cream because of the froufrou hats?

(Or something. Where was she?)

It's just that Eleanor's sure she remembers this plant bursting into flames one time, and sure, there are probably a lot of plants in the world that look like just it, but she knows this is the same plant, and she's pretty certain it died because she wasn't very nice to that woman.

Something about that makes her feel sad, and guilty, and she doesn't like it. So it's time to get back to work. Take her mind off things she can hardly remember anyway.

The customer service comes pretty easy — turns out she's pretty good at the upsizing and the add-ons despite really having no idea what she's talking about (she's a coffee drinker, okay), so, cool! She's a people person, apparently. Even so, for some reason the selection seems a little sparse, and she finds herself voicing this aloud as she looks up at the menu. ]

I don't know, I just feel like there should be more flavors, man.

[ It should probably be noted that there's already quite the assortment of flavors. But where's Three-Day Weekend? Unlikely Animal Friendship? Accidentally Laundered Bill You Found In Your Pocket?

—whoa, okay, that's kind of weird. ]

Threaded | Flat

Page 1 of 2

Poe Dameron | Various Dates | Various Locations | Open