JULY 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 a quiet, pensive look and a gentle suggestion that you avoid trying to force any memories or hazy impressions, that everything will be explained in due time, after you've had the chance to sufficiently recover. 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. Of course you have those things. And of course they already remember you being here, remember visiting you in the hospital while you were still unconscious. You've lived here much or all of your life....
As far as you can tell, anyway.
Either way, the hospital's population is busier than you'd expect in a small town, 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.
JULY 1ST - 5TH | GETTING USED TO HOME AGAIN |
However you get there, outside the birds sing a joyful song, the sky is clear, and the warm sun on your skin is a pleasant contrast to the pervading chill of the hospital now at your back. 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.
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. Or maybe that has more to do with the fact that this once idyllic, peaceful community appears to have just suffered from some sort of full scale invasion.
Once carefully manicured trees lining the streets now each have their share of scorched or shattered limbs, even one or two instances of deep dragging claw marks in the bark, for the more keen eyed individuals. The streets are mostly empty, the few cars that cruise by at a safe and respectable speed looking like they've been used as a battering ram recently, or perhaps been on the receiving end of one. One building in the periphery appears to have
exploded even, if the crater of splintered wood and foundation is any indication. What exactly happened to this place while you were in the hospital, anyway?
This isn't even the once 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 help clear up some of those conflicting memories), 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 you'll have plenty of time to try and sort through your confusion and misgivings. Maybe your friends and family in the town are just as confused and unsure as you are, maybe their familiarity is jarring, but somehow still some sort of comfort when
so much still remains unfamiliar and strange to you. Or maybe they take you aside with a knowing look in their eyes and start to explain. The memories and the destruction and the confusion.
Either way, it might be a good idea to get out and finally visit Main Street (looking just as battered as the rest of the town) if you haven't already. Maybe you even remembered that you work in one of the more familiar sounding shops, or elsewhere in town. Whether you trust those memories or not at this point, it probably wouldn't hurt to get back to work some time soon. Your co-workers might have some explanations for you as well, after all, and you have to be able to put bread on the table
somehow.
If there's one thing to be said for Wayward Pines it's the town's resilience and staunch refusal to give up on the image of a picturesque little town, and July 4th this year has the community putting it's best foot forward in this regard with its annual 4th of July picnic and fireworks spectacular.
To hear anyone (Linda) familiar with the town talk (complain), this year is a much more sedate affair than any of the years prior, but in a lot of ways today is a very good opportunity for people to reconnect with their neighbors; chat quietly at a table, share a recipe, play some catch, or argue with Jerry over the proper way too cook a burger. Jerry never listens, of course, but thankfully the whole event is a pot luck so there are plenty of other, far more edible options for those with a more... discerning palate.
The day passes pleasantly, and the night? The night brings the fireworks. A beautiful cascade of bright colors and lights in the sky. Sparklers are handed out like party favors while everyone is strongly encouraged to play safe by a long-suffering and weary looking sheriff. After all, the town has had quite enough excitement by this point, don't you think?
MOD NOTES
Welcome to our sixth 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
4th, 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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pineslog2017-06-30 08:52 pm
INTRODUCTION LOG
no subject
though, of course, he cannot shake the feeling of... responsibility, of destiny. he knows that he's meant to be doing something besides acclimatizing to his job at a sandwich shop and working through the recent reminders of childhood trauma, but he's not. he's not even doing those things currently, and he's not going to allow himself to feel guilty about it tonight. or, at least, he'll attempt not to feel guilty. the sparkler, inasmuch as it is something of an odd invention in his opinion, is a good distraction.
as is the man next to him. his bright jacket alone is something of a speed bump for noct's thoughts. his eyebrow quirks, chin cocking to one side just a touch. ]
You set things on fire before?
[ he asks the question and thinks hmm, i think i have. that's interesting. ]
no subject
[Dirk adopts an appropriately world-weary and apologetic expression.]
Well, a few times. Well, once in particular. There's a difference between just setting things on fire and actually burning things down.
[And now, sagesse: as of someone who knows the difference intimately. Which Dirk does, thank you very kindly. Wait -- that sounds bad, doesn't it? As abruptly as it came, the expression is gone, replaced by earnestness.]
I didn't mean to. I'm not some kind of mad arsonist. I don't think I've ever wanted to burn anything down.
[A lie, but that's a part of himself he doesn't relish and will not, therefore, entertain. It doesn't matter what they did to him -- stooping to their level only means they've won. Sometimes he wonders if any of the others know that. Bart certainly didn't seem to, but then Bart was... complicated. Even as brief and frenetic as their meetings were, Dirk could tell that much.
Sort of like he can tell know that this fellow, for all that they've never met before, is wandering some of the same paths he is. He knows that look: I don't remember, but maybe. He's been wearing it nearly daily lately, even as more and more of his memory returns to him.]
Have you? Set things on fire, I mean. If you recall.
no subject
Uh. Right. [ if it's any consolation, dirk doesn't look like a mad arsonist in noctis's opinion, and so that part he's inclined to believe. ] How bad was it?
[ he's hesitant to ask—razing a building to the ground doesn't seem like a situation that has much room for positives—but it seems polite-ish to allow dirk more room for explanation.
as for his own adventures in setting things on fire, there is a strong feeling of intention that comes with the vague memories of flames in his hands and then watching them spread and catch in front of him. definitely not an accident, though there is an image of skin covered with ash and that he does not feel any sense of accomplishment over. the rest, though... whatever he'd done felt necessary.
noctis's mouth twists into a frown, eyes shifting off to the side as he searches for context in his head. he's only coming up short. ]
I think so. [ he says, even though he knows. it's possible he's also worried about giving his new acquaintance the wrong impression, but in an attempt at honesty: ] More than once.
no subject
[That mournful, sympathetic expression again, to accompany his matter-of-fact delivery.]
Self-defense! And I'm actually still not sure how, exactly; it was all very confusing and not entirely intentional, though I suppose it did all work out in the end.
[As much as he can remember, anyway. It's almost all come back to him now, he thinks, but that hasn't served to make anything any clearer. Fortunately, he's also remembering that that's to be expected in his line of work -- and, indeed, outside of it, in his life in general -- so that isn't as disappointing as it could be. Actually, he's feeling pretty good about it all. Certainly there are... other memories, tangled up in the ones that seem to make more sense here, except that they absolutely don't, that he relishes far less. Hence the blossoming of another smile.]
Actually, it's a bit of a funny story. Arson, breaking and entering, murder.
[Wait. No, that absolutely came out wrong.]
I didn't do the last one.
[He shoves his hands in his pockets, looking sheepish.]
no subject
so. empathy. noct's attempting that as dirk explains, nodding along with an expression that could be deep focus or deep confusion or a healthy mix of the two.
he's prepared to ask who exactly it all worked out for when dirk smiles, suddenly bright and pleased again. he seems to like his conversations about five times faster than noct does, but noct is doing his best to keep up here. the whole funny story and murder thing is a bit of a speedbump, however. ]
Not really my idea of funny. [ he says like maybe it's a question, looking rather sheepish himself. again, dirk doesn't seem like the kind of person capable of arson or breaking and entering. ]
Should I even ask?
[ noct is inclined not to based on dirk's tone, but what does he know, really. ]
no subject
[It escapes him with perfect, somewhat guilty sincerity, slipping through a crack in his otherwise breezy demeanour.]
I'm a private detective. I was hired to investigate the murder. It was mostly that quite a lot of what happened before it and then after it and then before it again was quite funny. Um, in a way.
[Well. This is awkward. Dirk licks his lips and clears his throat.]
I'm realising it's actually quite a long story, and a bit involved, and maybe you're not actually interested -- which is fine! -- and maybe it's one of those sorts of 'you had to be there' things, but between all of the nearly dying and the some people actually dying and the... arson, it was very funny, I promise.
[Helping? No. Not helping.]
I've got quite a lot of those, I think.
['You had to be there's, funny stories, or the more alarming items in that list? Trick question: it's all of the above.]
Er, but what do you do?
[Is this how you small talk? Hell no. Hell fucking no, but he's trying. He's trying so hard, and it's obvious in the slightly desperate expression on his face, a look like a man might wear if he's suddenly awakened somewhere and found he has no memory of how he got there.]
no subject
there is a stirring in his stomach at the idea, like maybe if he were someone else or somewhere else he could live a life like that. still, after a moment's thought noctis decides that he'd prefer the life he was now, where the hardest decisions he has to make revolve around the more standard struggles of growing up. they're tricky enough to navigate on their own.
but he's not uninterested! ]
Just trying to keep up. [ still sheepish, but managing something closer to a smile this time. ]
With your job, that doesn't really surprise me. [ he says in regards to both 'you had to be there' funny stories and life or death situations, because honestly he can see both being prevalent. but it's possible he has somewhat skewed expectations of what being a detective actually involves. dirk is not doing much to correct that, either. by no fault of his own.
it's obvious dirk is adamant about steering this discussion more or less onto some undetermined course, and noct obliges. belatedly, he remembers the sparkler in his hand, almost burned down to the end, and gives it a little twirl. ]
I work at Lagomarcino's. [ a shrug here, modest. or... unsure? anyway: ] Sandwich shop. They've got damn good candy.
no subject
[Hello, magic word. Candy. His face has lit up again, the effect almost instantaneous.]
I'm. Well, very much between cases, at the moment, so technically I work at Thistle Do Nicely.
[A pause, accompanied by a slight wince.]
I didn't name it. Not that it isn't an excellent name. Probably.
[Anyway, the point he's stabbing vaguely in the direction of is that really, he's just one of the fellows. Just a normal man. A normal detective man, with a normal day job, doing normal things. Sort of.]
A lot less flammable though, selling plants. Though I suppose if one were particularly determined and given unsupervised access to the dried herbs one might make a good go of it.
[He's not entirely sure that's not an invitation. It isn't that he hates the shop, exactly, more that he hates some of the things he's strongly encouraged and occasionally paid to do there. Demeaning things. Things like... palmistry.]