( march intro ) WELCOME TO THE PINES!

[officialnotice]

INTRODUCTION LOG

waking up

There was an accident. That's basically the only thing you know for certain. Maybe a car wreck - metal and broken glass everywhere, and the sirens and the screaming. Or maybe there was an explosion. Maybe your bike hit a rock and you careened uncontrollably off a mountain path. You can't can't quite make out the details, not who was at fault or why. Try as you might, the chaos is all you can remember.

It's also the last thing you remember from before you wake up here.

When you open your eyes, the accident is gone. Instead, you're in a hospital bed. You're sluggish, covered in a scattering of minor injuries you only vaguely remember getting, not to mention the vaguely-healed remnants of any wounds you might've had before.

It's a shame you won't be able to tell the difference between the two. Your memories are an indiscernible fog if not absent altogether, only a few standing out in your mind with any kind of certainty.

Whether or not the room's 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. Welcome to Wayward Pines, 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. The hospital's population is quadruple the usual, and you get the impression the nurses are working themselves ragged just running damage control. You can even leave your room without much fuss - whichever doctor or nurse intercepts you gets called away almost immediately to deal with something even more pressing.

Mingle, visit your fellow patients, even poke around for a few basic answers. Or maybe, maybe just stroll right on out the front door.

heading outside

One step outside and it's perfectly clear that your hospital gown simply isn't going to cut it for long. the sidewalks and buildings covered in snow and a crisp winter wind whipping at you through the thin cloth. It's like a scene out of a holiday greeting card or a snow globe, picturesque and nearly untouchable. And yet you're here. Touching it all. Dressed in nothing but a hospital gown. You should at least think about getting some mittens if you're going to keep, you know, touching it.

Trees line the street at regular intervals, carefully manicured and coated in a thin layer of pure white snow. Cars cruise by at a safe and respectable speed. Pedestrians spare you glances, some wary and some concerned.

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 and one that you might: Wayward Pines Police Department. Whether you asked for yourself or simply overheard, you've likely caught wind by now that all of your earthly possessions now lie with the Sheriff until you see fit to claim them.

Might as well head that way, right?

items reclaimed

So you've visited the Wayward Pines Police Department and reclaimed... well. Most of your stuff, anyway, though you can't quite remember what's missing. Best to put it out of mind, as you head down the steps toward the Main Street sidewalk. At the very least, pedestrians have stopped looking at you like you're sick or crazy. (Then again, depending on what you're wearing, maybe it's gotten worse.)

The sheriff also forked over what looks like the key to a house ("A cozy place to stay while you're here in town."), plus the address that it belongs to. You could check it out, see what kind of digs they're putting you up in.

Or you could stick around Main Street and sight-see a little. Also a perfectly viable option. Hell, maybe it'll jog your memory a little. A few of the shops do feel inexplicably familiar...

( ooc notes )

Welcome to the second newbie mingle log! We apologize for the delay.

This log is meant to cover characters' first day in Wayward Pines. For the most part, only the five memories detailed in your character's application are remembered throughout the duration of this log, although the first couple of false Wayward Pines memories might begin to surface (in those who've opted to utilize this mechanic) as the day 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.

Any questions about the log or its contents can be addressed to our FAQ or the intro log's designated Plurk.

Comments

Kenzi Mailkov // Lost Girl

[onteamdyson]

A) Hospital Escape Artist

The nurse has been and gone. An accident, she said. Head trauma. Bullshit, she thought, but then she couldn't really remember either way. Her initial reaction was just to object to everything the poor lady was telling her as she tried to get up and out of bed despite feeling like a mushy slice of banana that fell into a bowl of oatmeal.

It's scary waking up in a hospital when you do have memories, waking up covered in bruises and cuts surrounded by beeping machines with your entire mind drawing a blank on literally everything about yourself is downright terrifying. No, not everything. There's a few things she knows. Minor details, shuffled-up and broken fragments in a sea of void. A hospital isn't going to help her make sense of anything! It's just making her heart race and her breath come a little too quickly.

As soon as the nurse is down the hall, paged by another patient, Kenzi hops out of the bed and slips out of the room. Bare feet, thin hospital gown, tangled hair-- oh shit, what does she even look like? She doesn't even remember what she looks like?! She almost trips over a man in a wheelchair and bumps into a porter moving a patient on her way to find-- what, exactly? A disguise? Clothes. Nurses station? Maybe the floor of the hospital where the OR is. They have to have scrubs. Don't they have extra scrubs? Like for when a baby is born and the dad wants to be in the room or-- ... masks. Scrubs and a mask. That's what she's looking for. That'll get her out of here with no questions asked.

B) Dude, that's my stuff.

So, it turns out that mess with the scrubs wasn't entirely necessary. Did help with the cold, though. Kenzi shivers as she makes her way to the police station, which is a place she never thought she'd go to voluntarily. People in her line of work don't get along with the cops. Which is to say people that steal for a living instead of working and have gotten caught a few times have a rap sheet and that's not something she wants these guys looking at.

Unless it'll have some more information about who she is? Shit. That's brilliant. Good job, Kenzi, you're so smart and graceful and-- you just walked into another person. Wow. She must have hit her head really hard in that mystery accident because her balance is all kinds of off.

"Shit! Sorry. That was my bad, I'm sorry." Also, is this your wallet? Watch? Treasured pack of gum? It's called muscle memory, stranger. She tends to take things when she bumps into people. Habit.

C) I live here?

If the key fits... this must be her house?

She's ditched the scrubs and gotten her clothes back, but the looks people were giving her on the street made her feel all kinds of self conscious. She wasn't sure why this place would just give out houses if she hadn't already been renting it or ... squatting there or-- Whatever, maybe there were some clothes she could change into. Standing out in a crowd doesn't help her lift wallets. It really puts a damper on a getaway when someone can just point at you and shout "STOP! THIEF!"

But this was the address! The door opened! The living room was... huge. Holy shit. There's no way she could afford this by herself. Was there? Unless she was a jewel thief, but that's probably something she should remember! Maybe she has roommates?

"Hello?" Great, Kenz. That's the first thing the girl does in the horror movie before she gets stabbed to death. Nice. Better take a more cautious approach as she starts to explore the other rooms...

B

[smuttywitch]

"Crap on toast!" the words are flying out of Rachel's mouth before she can even think about them. She'd been digging through the big handbag the cop had said was hers, trying to make sense of its contents (handcuffs and needles? what the hell) and moving while she did it because while the leather was sexy it really wasn't doing anything to keep her warm, so really she can't be too surprised she ran into someone.

She's lucky she hadn't hit her head again. Or...whatever had happened before she woke up in the hospital. No, she just drops her big, unfashionable bag so all the crap inside it spils out onto the sidewalk. At least she'd put the jewelery on before she'd started running into people like a ditz.

"Ugh, no, I'm sorry, all my fault," she rambles while she kneels down, trying to get everything scooped up quickly before the stranger decides there was something wrong with her and she needed to go back to the hospital. She really hates hospitals. Which is...one of the few things she knows for sure. Well, it had gotten her ass moving, anyway. Her hands hover over the absolute mess of tissues, chapstick, slick black business cards and wooden charm necklaces, trying to remember just what all had been in there to begin with. "Really, don't worry about it," she smiles, maybe a bit too much, hoping this person will just get a move on before she has to explain the handcuffs, because she can't.

A

[oncekind]

Jiaying doesn't know there'd be more arrivals. She has just been checking the hospital periodically (at least until the nurses decide to call the sheriff on her) to try and see if there are any signs of the baby daughter she isn't supposed to talk or ask about.

She hears the slight commotion before she sees it. And when she sees the hospital gown and the confusion that colors Kenzi's face, well, she immediately steps forward. She doesn't look like a nurse but her voice is warm and friendly. She figures it doesn't hurt to sound like someone who cares.]

Can I help you? Did you just wake up here? Were you in an accident?

C.

[comesfrompain]

The cops were nice enough to let Rumlow change in their bathroom, once he's gotten his gear back. Even let him have the mag for his sidearm, though that itself was missing. Kinda useless to have bullets with no gun, but he'll be on the lookout for a replacement. Rumlow figures he can handle whatever this podunk looking town can throw at him with his fists for now.

Weirdly though, more than anything else so far is that they give him a key. It registers as odd until Rumlow's standing in front of the place, which is about when it sort of hits him. Yeah, I live here. He goes up to the front door, tries the key. Go figure that it works. Inside, it seems pretty nice, even if the style seems off somehow. He can't quite put his finger on why.

Everything seems to be in order, anyway. Which, again, feels at odds with his thoughts. Is this a safe house? It must be. Why else would SHIELD have him here? Rumlow starts exploring, looking for signs of something familiar -- other than the strange sensation that it already is. He's checking out one of the bedrooms when he hears the front door, followed by a voice. He turns, brows furrowing and quietly moves towards the living room. Turning the corner, he spots a girl standing there looking lost.

"Kenzi?" he asks, the name coming off his tongue so easy and suddenly he knows exactly who she is. The reason this house is so big: it fits two. Rumlow and his wife.

b → c?

[paragon]

She doesn't run into him. Steve stops her with a hand on each shoulder, halting her momentum before she can get that far — and before she can make any unconscious reach for anything on his person, though he doesn't know that. Just has long arms. He still doesn't look like he was expecting the encounter any more than she was and shakes his head at the effusive apology, says, "No harm done."

He's frowning down at her scrubs even as he lowers his hands to his sides, though, and not necessarily in the way of someone wondering why there's a girl wandering through the streets in hospital scrubs with no jacket and only slippers and booties to protect her feet from the snow — more of someone who's seen it before and is coming to a not insignificant realization about it.

The furrow remains in the lines of his forehead when he looks back up at her again; it's really only a brief glance in the first place, not lingering. Whatever conclusion he comes to doesn't seem to have an effect one way or another on his next action, which is to shrug out of his jacket, brown leather and warm inside from his body heat, if she takes it as soon as he holds it out. "Here, borrow it. You know where you're goin'?"

Katherine Pierce | OTA

[abetment]

waking up + walking through a hospital hall and into the lobby.

[ The clinical scent of the place floods her senses, followed by a barrage of sounds that only a hospital would have. Katherine's brown eyes snap open, hands clutching sheets as she tugs at any of the wires they have her connected to. There's resistance, so she stops and gets herself free of them. Her head hurts, one hand rising to rest at her temple as she gives a groan. She moves over to the door of the room as soon as her bare feet fit the floor. Hair straight as a reed swishing over her shoulder, she gives an uncertain look up and down the hall. It's bustling with activity, but no one seems to be paying her room any mind.

Oh, she can fix that. ] Hey. I need some help over here. Now. [ It's said loudly, enough to receive only a cursory glance from someone in scrubs, leaving her to huff. She starts to step out, toes stopping just in time to not be ran over by a cart. She scoffs, head still threatening to throb, giving a look to a orderly with an apologetic countenance. ] HEY -- watch where you're going. [ But he's gone, and she's turning to yell out again before someone in pink scrubs is standing there, smiling kindly at her. She gives them a hard look, nearly grumbling something about them sneaking up on her before giving the timely person a once over, lips pursing down. She steps back inside the room only upon gentle instruction.

Then she stays standing, arms crossing over her chest as she gets the run down. None of which she's wanting to believe, but the details threaten to blend in with the tiny amount of memories -- not really memories, more like awareness -- that she actually has. There are glimmers of recognition of being hurt, being in an accident, but it's fuzzy. More than paying mind to the mere words that she'll recover soon, she eyes the clipboard that the nurse finally puts sets back down.

Whether the nurse is acting in a fashion that should call for true suspicion, Katherine decides that she'll find answers herself and lets them leave after giving them a nod of well-played (fake) acceptance of the situation. She snatches up the clipboard (not like she can't read about herself, right?), brows going together as she assesses the situation. She lets it fall on the bed. ] Well that clears up nothing. [ At least she knows her name, which was alarming to not know when she first woke up. She begins to examine the room, fingers running along the blanket of the bed as she starts over toward the window.

A shame she doesn't have more memories, yet. The shade is drawn nearly all the way down, a thin stream of sunlight shining into the room. Her foot comes into the light first, causing her to cry out in pain, buckling down to grab over the pained spot all while that same beam spreads over her face. She's scooting back, way against the wall, wind knocked out of her from moving so fast (by instinct.) Pain radiates over her skin, but the marks made have already vanished to leave her with that same clear, bright, healthy skin. ] What the hell? [ Softly said to herself, and then she recalls then that she's a vampire. Immediately thereafter, three seconds too late, she wraps fingers around her wrist and realizes that she isn't wearing the bracelet that's meant to allow her to walk in the sun. She slowly stands, glaring over at the sunbeam. ] Won't be going out then. [ Until dark? She gives a look down at the hospital gown she's in. ] This...isn't gonna fly. [ It's unflattering, plus it's annoyingly drafty. After a quick, careful, search and finding nothing in the way of clothes or any other items that might belong to her, she's left to leave the room.

Slowly peeking out, she's cautious at first, wondering if someone is going to peer over at her and stop her from going any farther. No one does, so she shrugs to herself and starts walking at a slow pace down the hall, on the lookout for any room that looks like it might be specified for staff. Where there's a staff room, there's a chance for clothes to steal.

There's virtually nothing she can remember, which is disconcerting as hell, yet she feels the need to be in something that actually covers her ass. She passes by an empty room, looking in, catching her reflection in a mirror. She stops, the image of herself carrying a heavy feeling. Elena. That's not her name, she knows, but it's who she should be telling people she is.

A secret identity? What the hell is she? A vampire spy?

As she rounds another corner, her feet still when she spots the lobby. First floor room -- how sweet of them. No one is paying her much mind, and she stands against a wall beside a chair, feeling and looking out of it. Her eyes are cast down slightly as she listens to words spoken by someone she doesn't recognize, details about a sheriff station cropping up. Yet, there's the sun, pouring in through the windows. Lovely. ]

[unforgivably]

[ It's been one month. Two weeks of daytime isolation thanks to the Packrat's recurring five finger discount, and two weeks of playing the part of the affable local mechanic. Or, was he the brains of the operation? He definitely kept the books. But his own knowledge of car parts had returned to him when everything else had. It took a few days for everything to slot into place including his guilt over lighting Elena's coffin on fire and Enzo's reveal that he hadn't. That hadn't been Elena. With his best foot forward, he blends in. He shows up to work daily, takes his lunches every day, visits a local watering hole he remembers but shouldn't (everything he remembers here he shouldn't). It's routine. Something Damon is not accustomed to, but he managed in the prison world from Hell. He doesn't have friends per se, but acquaintances. Most he can stand which is something. Not that he's seen the girl with the eye problem since his first day. He's really only as social as he has to be, until he realizes that being social might lead to actual answers. So, he starts small. Saying hi to familiar faces. Asking Bucky to lunch. It helps avoid an Elena-sized elephant in the room, with just enough for the Caroline-sized elephant to reside in the corner.

Getting snowed in proves difficult, but they're nothing if not brothers. Unfortunately, it gives Damon time to think and drink. Something that always goes well. No fires are set and they escape the blizzard unscathed, finally able to return to the outside world.

Damon Salvatore has never had a problem doing what he has to. And for once, what he has to isn't actually hurting anybody else. For once. So far. Score one for brother who condemned his brother to run for an eternity, right after his girlfriend gave birth to magical gemini twins.

Yeah, he's no less a dick here. It's just in a different context. Even if nobody sees it.

Practical things, he does when he can - and unsuspiciously. One day he claims he's organizing a blood drive for the locals, and the packs are handed over easily - with a suspicious but friendly smile. When he's confronted about that, he sticks to compulsion should he encounter anyone. By the end of month one, he has the hospital down to a science. He's tipped off to another round of accidents, having overheard something walking to his car. The people in this town are quite the gossips. He figures now's as good a time as any to go for another blood run. On the one hand, sociologically he'd judge the fuck out of the nurses and doctors who were overwhelmed the first time this happened, and on the other he hopes they're still inept, in over their frantic heads.

He doesn't acknowledge the other reason he goes.

Last time this happened, he woke up here. Stefan woke up here. Who else might.

Elena isn't at the forefront of his mind, because he still has it in his mind that she can't. She's in a coma. But, anything's a possibility. And it's better than sitting around the shop he has a fondness for he can't explain. Frustrating.. He parks near the entrance, having committed the path to the blood supply room to memory. He passes someone who emerges, someone he doesn't recognize and he doesn't have time to fill in. He gives a cursory glance around the room, one due discussing the sheriff's station - and that's when he sees her.

All bravado seeps out of him. Annoyance and determination go up in smoke. In their place, disbelief - and relief, to an extent. ]

Elena?

[ He doesn't clock her change of outfit because like everyone else she's wearing the Winter Wayward Pines collection: draft-ass hospital grade gown.

He doesn't move. He can't. He's not prepared. What is he supposed to do here? ]

[bulletfool]

a. heading outside

[His shoes weren't at the hospital. Ergo, Izumi leaves the hospital with three pairs of socks on his feet, and he looks ridiculous. He hugs himself while shuffling down an unfamiliar street, rubbing his bare arms for the blissful warmth generated by friction. This is the Ninth Circle of Hell.

Eventually, because enough is enough, he flags down a passerby.]

Excuse me! Do you know where the Sheriff is?

b. items reclaimed (java joe's)

[After a most warm welcome – maybe his family had recently moved in? – Izumi wanders the house. Nobody is home. This is weird. Where are his parents, his sister? His mobile phone is dead and can't help him, so he leaves to kill some time outside.

Wandering Main Street in wonderfully warm casual wear (the most important pieces, a pink jacket and sneakers), Izumi peruses the sign plastered on every building before coming to a nostalgic stop in front of Java Joe's. There's yet to be that faint rumble of a dissatisfied stomach, but he's famished. He digs through his pant pockets, his jacket pockets, then pats his pant pockets down, and scowls.]

I don't even have an allowance? Jeez, what kind of a kid am I?

b2. (504X residents)

[Once the day has worn on, Izumi returns home to find it empty, still, with no message or note in sight. Deciding to be proactive, he goes outside to knock on the doors of each neighbor. Should there be a resident present to open the door, he offers a short bow.]

Excuse me! [He's said that a lot today.] Sorry to intrude this late, but I'm looking for my family. Are you familiar with us? We live in 5043.

a.

[overfivethousand]

[Usually, 10K only hits Main Street when he needs to: groceries, odd jobs here and there, working with Lantar at the bar. Mostly, he sticks to the woods, exploring as far as he can, only really stopping back at his house to sleep. Today is one of the former, though, stopping in town to put up a few more flyers about shoveling and picking up a few necessities. But that doesn't mean he doesn't have time to help someone out, especially someone who looks like they're about his age and...fresh out of the hospital?]

Uh, yeah. I can walk you there, if you want, it's not far. Was there another accident?

[He's been stopping by a few times a week for the last month, and he hasn't seen anyone else wandering around in hospital gowns since that first week.]

B

[oncekind]

[Jiaying just happened to pass by as he speaks and she comes to a stop]

Do you need help?

b2

[paragon]

[ Steve's pretty sure their doorbell is working just fine, so he looks up from the lesson plans spread over the surface of the coffee table with a frown before getting up to answer the knock. He glances through the peephole before opening the door, letting the chill into the house and undoing the last couple hours of effort from the fireplace to warm it. They've found using the thermostat tends to heat the second floor more effectively, but despite Izumi's apology for the hour, it's too early for bed.

Steve's brow is still a bit furrowed after he listens to the rest, but his mind must be greased for it after having his head buried in lesson planning because after a moment he realizes he does know how to answer. He lets out a quiet sigh. ]

Sure, I know you, Izumi. [ He steps to the side slightly. ] Why don't you come on in.

Skye | Agents of SHIELD | OTA

[morethan084]

[Waking Up]

[The last thing Skye remembered was falling out of a flying car and then she woke up in a hospital filled with people that did not look remotely familiar, not exactly the type of situation anyone would enjoy being in. What made her really panic though, was her lack of any solid memories. Save for a few, but were those even real? The nurse talking to her assured her that this was normal, that she had some head trauma from the accident. Not really reassuring to know your brain is messed up.

Feeling antsy, Skye ignored the warnings to stay until a doctor came in to make sure she was okay to go and left her room. Hand holding the hospital gown shut, despite the fact that it was tied Skye wasn’t very confident that if a sudden breeze flew past no one would see anything. Turning a corner, she nearly jumped out of her skin when she almost knocked into someone. They looked just as confused as she did.]

…Did you get in an accident too?

[Heading Outside]

[The cold air was nice for about two seconds before she was quickly reminded that, yes, she was only wearing a hospital gown. It would’ve made way more sense to just turn around and go back inside, maybe ask for her actual clothes back. They had to have them, right? Except a part of her felt it was better to keep going and not go back inside. Maybe that was the ‘head trauma’ or maybe it was something else. Either way she still felt very much out of it and it seemed others noticed. Or maybe it was the fact that she was outside wearing essentially paper.

The white snow on the ground with the snow reflecting off of it was blinding and Skye had to squeeze her eyes closed for a moment before opening them when someone asked her, politely, to move out of the way. Her eyes had just caught the signs telling here where not only main street was, but also the police station. As she was reading the sign, Skye overheard someone talking about how the police station was holding their stuff. Brows knitting together, Skye turned to them.]

Shouldn’t the hospital have that stuff?

[Items Reclaimed]

[With her belongings back in her hands, Skye is left feeling still very much confused. The clothes she was wearing didn’t trigger anything. The computer, however, did. She felt excitement/relief at seeing it here and then immediate annoyance when she realized it didn’t work properly. There was no internet. Throwing out her hospital gown, and now dressed a little bit more warmly, Skye stepped outside. Backpack slung over her shoulder and key to a house that didn’t belong to her, Skye shoved the piece of paper with the address into her pocket for now.

Looking around to see if anything, or anyone, looked familiar, Skye’s eyes fell upon a cafe called Java Joe’s which triggered another familiar feeling in her. Or maybe it was because it was freezing and coffee seemed like a really good idea right now. Either way, after looking both ways, Skye crossed the street to go inside. Thanking the person in front of her when they held the door for her after they stepped in.

The smell of coffee was warming enough on its own. Unsure of what to order as she didn’t remember what she liked, or hell, if she even liked coffee, Skye finally settled on whatever the barista felt like making. Once she had it, she moved over to a small empty table. Taking out her laptop again, Skye set it on the table and reached for her cup of coffee as the screen came back to life. Looking through files, Skye’s heart sank a little as she was reminded suddenly of what she did on this computer. Highly illegal things. Hacking into government agencies even. Looking around to make sure no one was actually looking at her screen, Skye caught someone staring right back at her. Gnawing at the inside of her cheek, Skye quickly looked away and closed her laptop as she reached for her cup of coffee and took a sip.

Yep. That was disgustingly sweet. ]

[Wild card]

[Wanna do something that's not on here? Feel free to start something or shoot me a message on plurk punkchica321.]

Outside!

[overfivethousand]

[He doesn't really snoop, exactly; his parents taught him better than to listen to peoples' conversations, to keep his head down. But he's got sharp ears, and a good heart, and he was just like that a month ago, wasn't he? So here's a tall, awkwardly skinny teenager wrapped in a warm parka, hands tucked in his pockets.]

I dunno, the hospital gets a little crazy. When I woke up there, they told me the deputies were checking my stuff for evidence. I know where it is--do you want me to walk you there?

Nyx Ulric | FFXV

[sirnyxalot]

A) Hospital

[Nyx has never woken up in so much pain. He thinks. Certainly can't recall another time where it's been worse. He gasps like it's a miracle to even breathe, and it's almost too hard to focus on why. He remembers fire? Maybe? There'd been a lot of fire, and noise.

The nurse bustles in as he tries to sit up, pushing on his right shoulder to get him to lay down again. It's almost pathetically easy. His body has no strength in it. Hurt and slow. Fear curls like a monster in his gut as he looks up at her. He's dead, he has to be. There's no way he could be alive right now. But how could it hurt so much if her were dead?]

Libertus...?

[His voice croaks, and the nurse shushes him, placing a glass of water beside the bed. "Is that your name, sweetheart?" she asks him. He draws in a breath, shaking his head. That's not his name. His name is...]

I'm...?

[The world slants on him as he tries to fill in the blank, pain fading into nothing.

The second time he wakes up is easier. Doesn't quite hurt so much. The nurse takes a little longer to arrive than she did before, a soft expression on her face as she realizes he's awake. She helps him to sit up and he finally gets the opportunity to try and take in where he is. The room looks unfamiliar, but she tells him it's a hospital when he asks where he is.

He can't answer her questions. His name's a blank. He knows a few, but they all belong to people already. People who're going to be worrying about him. She tells him he took a hard hit during the accident. Tells him to stay put so his injuries don't get worse. He nods as she leaves.

It's sound advice, he realizes belatedly, as he takes the chance to look down at himself. His left arm is bandaged from his fingertips to across his chest, supported entirely by a sling around his neck. His hand trembles as he tries to clench his fist, and a lingering note of pain rolls through the limb in response. His other arm seems mostly fine, if covered in scrapes and bruises. He remembers fire, if nothing else.

How the hell is he alive?

Groaning deeply, he swings his legs out of the bed. It was a chore to get up. His legs were almost as shaky as his arm, but he couldn't see any serious bandaging on them. It took longer than he'd like to shuffle to the attached bathroom, and looking in the mirror didn't help his confusion. The bandages ended at his neck, partially healed scars arcing up from underneath it to stretch along his face into his hairline. Did that come from the accident?

His head remained frustratingly numb trying to remember. It was no use. He needed to find his friends and let them know he was okay. Ask them who the hell he is.

That decided, he leaves his room to try and find a phone or something.]


B) Items Reclaimed

[He shouldn't have left the hospital. Whatever medicine they'd had him under was beginning to wear off, and getting dressed at the police station had almost been agony. Nyx doesn't even put on the coat all the way. Just puts his arm back into its sling and pulls the coat over top of it. He's grateful for the warmth, but just getting his shirt on was enough, thank you.

He wouldn't have even known the clothes were his, except that the other coat was damaged. Missing a left sleeve entirely, the edges burnt to a flaky crisp. He noted that it looked like a uniform, but the Sheriff told him the insignia was custom made, so it didn't help him. Nevertheless, he took the bag he was given and the key and released back into town with a firm suggestion to get some rest.

The town looked kinda familiar as he slowly backtracked up the street. It was better than anything else he's tried to remember so far. The unease that had stuck with him for the last hour or so was beginning to fade in the wake of that familiarity, and he stops in the middle of the sidewalk for a moment to just breathe in the sharp chill of the air.]

b

[ouzel]

[ Cassian had noticed the man when they were both in the sheriff's office at the same time - also because his uniform was like Cassian's in that it was very different from the sheriff's. Maybe he knows this person? The town is small and if he's been here more than a hot second, well, then it seems reasonable to assume...

Anyway. The guy stops and Cassian would jog closer, but jogging makes him hurt and this guy doesn't look much better, so he walks instead. ]

Hey.

[ Great job, Cassian, great start. But what the hell do you say as a greeting when you don't remember anyone or yourself? ]

caroline forbes » the vampire diaries

[coy]

[ It’s a lot to take in, the flurry of sounds and lights. Everything is intense. It feels like a migraine except a hundred times worse. And she swears she can hear the steady beating heart of the nurse who comes in to check on her. Of course, it must be the head trauma, from the accident. Isn’t that how concussions work? You see things? Hear things? Everything feels intense and fuzzy at the same time, it's hard to concentrate?

There was an accident. At least that’s what she was told, that there was an accident, that’s why she’s in the hospital. Her memory’s still fuzzy, she vaguely remembers falling off the ladder, hands reaching out uselessly to try and grasp at it and the hard collision of her body with the ground. Although that doesn't explain why the sickly, sweet smell of blood seems to haunt her every step in this place. Has she always been this sensitive to smell?]

Seriously? [ You might hear her exclaim upon seeing how busy the hospital is. Did everyone decide to get hurt today? What was the deal? The nurses and doctors barely paid attention to her and she saw more than a few dazed patients, like herself, wandering around.

Caroline moves slow, like molasses. And her memories come back just as slowly. I’m Caroline Forbes. My parents are Liz and Bill Forbes from Mystic Falls. But there’s another memory, one that pushes forward almost immediately, one that she tries to convince herself was just a dream, just something that’s the result of the brain trauma. Because it can’t be real, it couldn’t have actually happened.

She looks down at her hands, half expecting there to be blood all over them. Her stomach lurches both at the idea of blood and then again at the hunger it illicits. But Caroline, no matter what she does or doesn’t remember, is the queen of denial. She decides to chalk it all up to the fact that she hasn’t eaten in a while, that she hates hospitals, that everything feels weird. And maybe that she doesn’t have her lucky ring, the one that her brain tells her that she needs to get back on her finger and pronto.

Luckily, by the time she feels comfortable to leave the hospital, the sun’s gone down. However, she’s feeling an ache in her gut and an even worse on in her gums as she wanders down the street. Any normal person would be shivering, walking down the street in nothing but hospital scrubs (she’d managed to compel charm a nurse into giving her some) but she’s not, although she does feel that it’s cold, she isn’t cold, herself.

Instinctively, she starts moving towards the Police Station, she knows where it is because she lives... here? Yeah, this is her home. And she suspects that’s where her things might be. It feels very important to get them before she treks back to her house. Oh right, her house. She knows where that is, right? Yeah, right, it’s on….

Again, on instinct, her arms wrap around her torso because it feels like something she should do as she mutters to herself—]


God, I’m starving.


[ ooc: feel free to have your character approach her in the hospital or on the street.]

[immoderation]

[ It's been a whole month since Stefan woke up in the very same position that Caroline has now found herself in. The memories of his incredibly long life had slowly filtered back to him with the passing of time. But mixed up among those increasingly less hazy recollections are other, inexplicable flashbacks of a completely different existence he's certain he's never experienced firsthand despite how discomfortingly real they feel. Fortunately, Damon's remembrance corroborates perfectly with his own. It's good to know he's not crazy.

But whereas he can summon to mind every sordid detail about his past in Mystic Falls, his retrospection on the extent of his activities in Wayward Pines still comes in stingy spurts, usually triggered by a physical experience -- such as standing in a certain spot or bumping into a particular person that's like lifting a curtain inside the theatre of his mind, revealing some subtle nuance about them or this place that he has no business in knowing.

It's why he likes to wander around the town so much under the guise of exercising. It just takes being in the right place at the right time to elicit these tantalizing hints of familiarity. He's constantly on the look out for them.

Of course he isn't expecting to run into his beautiful best friend-- almost literally. He actually freezes up at the sight of her standing there. ] -- Caroline?

cassian andor | OPEN TO MANY AND ALL | prose or brackets welcome

[ouzel]

[ hospital: "I want God to come and take me home" ]

[ His first thought is simply to get out. Get out of the bed, find his clothes, get out of this place.

His head feels like someone put a bandaid on a trainwreck and his body isn't feeling much better, but he doesn't like hospitals. Apparently. See the problem is that he can remember his name and a few choice things but the rest of it is some fog-of-war type nonsense he can't manage to make through and when he asks about it, he's told that it's just residual. "From the accident."

Okay. That means he'll be fine, apparently, so what is he waiting around for a doctor for?

He isn't, that's what. So. Out of bed. Rooting around for his clothes, which aren't...in the hospital room. What? Fine. He'll work with this, whatever this is. He will just...waltz right out. Into the fresh air. In a hospital gown.

Yep.

He'll even hold the door if someone else wants to wander on out too. ]

[ around town: "because I'm all alone in this crowd" ]

[ Finding the Sheriff's office wasn't too difficult. Neither was getting his things, but his uniform is a wreck; full of holes and tears and blood and more to the point, he can't figure out what it's a uniform for when there's clearly no base in town, no other soldiers. At least the jacket and gloves are more appropriate than his bare-assed and nearly barefoot parading around in order to get them but no one's arrested him for decency yet.

Must be a good start.

Something tells him a bad start would be worse than whatever is happening right now, weird signs in town be damned.

Instead of taking the key and figuring out just where he lives (or with whom...his best friend is Kay but he can't muster a single mental image of that person, and that's stressful isn't it? What kind of friend forgets what their best friend looks like?) Cassian wanders the streets, settles into a coffee shop, and gets a hot chocolate. Proceeds to pour the entire container of cinnamon into it.

Tastes it. Decides this is acceptable. Immediately starts scanning faces in the room trying to figure out if he knows any of these people, but there's no bells, no sudden realizations.

Well. Shit. ]

around town!

[overfivethousand]

[Disheartened from his search for his friends, letting go of the hope that he'll see Doc or Cassandra again anytime soon, 10K finally leaves the police station around lunchtime and decides to head to Java Joe's for lunch. A coffee and a sandwich sounds like a good way to counteract the cold, and he's already anticipating it when he walks in the door. Whatever he's doing here, it's good to finally be able to eat without worrying about rationing, or where the next meal is going to come from.

He's standing in line at the counter when he happens to glance to his left, and something familiar makes him do a double-take. He knows that hair, the intent set of those eyebrows just like his mom's--]

Uncle Cass?

[Wait--uncle? Why did he say uncle??]

Brock Rumlow | Marvel Cinematic Universe | OTA

[comesfrompain]

A. Get the Hell Out of Dodge

[When you're born suspicious, being told you're in a strange hospital for an unspecified accident means something ain't right. That skepticism only grows worse when the staff are all so busy, they hardly give attention to your questions, dismissing them as a condition of your head trauma. Rumlow supposes he can't pretend like that part's a lie when he feels like fucking garbage. His head feels like it's stuck in a thick fog, rendering his thoughts scattered and vague. He tries to gather them, looking around his room for something, anything familiar. There's nothing, not even his clothes, stuck in a hospital gown and a pair of socks. Least they gave him those, he thinks distantly, scanning the room.

He's supposed to stay here until the doc gives him an okay, but Hell if he's listening to that. He's got shit to do -- doesn't he? He reaches up, rubbing at his eyes as he tries to recall the last thing he'd been doing. Flashes of light and the wrenching sound of twisted metal are about all he's got and he grinds his teeth in frustration. It's gotta be drugs, he thinks, got him on some painkillers that have dulled his mind. He needs to get out of here. Flush the drugs from his system.

Rumlow shifts in the bed, legs hanging over the head before he lets them hit the floor. He stands, steady enough and starts to take a step forward. Oh. There's the head rush. He sways, takes a breath and straightens out. All right. He's got this.

First thing is he's gotta find a phone. Call into SHIELD HQ. Request an evac and get the fuck out of this place, wherever it is. A quick look around the room tells him he's gonna have to broaden the search, and Rumlow starts towards the door. He pushes it open to see scrub wearing employees trafficking around the halls. Rumlow sets out, scanning the halls for some kind of payphone. Just gotta get there before someone stops him.]

B. Into the Freeze

[What the fuck kind of hospital doesn't have a goddamn phone for public use? This one, apparently, but that doesn't stop Rumlow from continuing in his search, even if that means he's got to brave the outdoors. He's spotted the snow from windows -- unusual, given that one of the last things he remembers is the ambient humidity he'd felt when he was searching for something. He tries to recall more, but that's all he's got. At least someone dropped the info that his shit's being kept at the police station. Odd choice, but Rumlow figures it's got something to do with it being tac gear.

Whatever. He needs it back. He stands in front of the door, peering out into the snow covered town. Taking a breath, he opens the door and is thankful once again for the socks. Fuck, it's cold. No part of him likes this, but at least the station isn't far. Running probably isn't smart with potential head trauma, but neither is freezing and getting hypothermia, so Rumlow takes off. Socks don't have the best traction, but he manages not to slip and give himself another concussion.

His lungs burn with the cold air, every exposed part of his skin (which is to say, a lot), tingles and he's eager to get inside. He reaches for the door handle and yanks it open.]

B

[overfivethousand]

[He knows they aren't supposed to ask questions here. Part of the rules, and he's heard enough silences after asking about the penalty, seen enough looks to instinctively shut him up. But after seeing the third person in a hospital gown making their uncertain way down the street in the snow, 10K decides he's gotta head straight to the source. Only the hospital is too overloaded to actually tell him anything. He doesn't give up and go home, instead heading for the station to see if any of them turn up for their belongings. If Warren or Abby turn up, if Cassandra comes, or Doc...Doc. 10K's gotta check, right? So far, though, four hours later, no dice.

He's decided to go get lunch and is just about to push the door open when it opens on his own, and the gangly teen pulls himself up short, barely avoiding running into the guy entering the building and taking a step back and to the side.]

Sorry about that. Are you okay?

[illustrious]

a:
[After making a fuss at the hospital ("Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey," fellow patients may have heard him call down the hallway. "I'm actually famous, you know. Are you sure there's nothing you can tell me?") and reclaiming his things at the police station, Rohan ended up at the local used bookstore. Although the nurses insisted his wild claims were due to head trauma, the items that were returned to him seemed to line up with one of the few things he could remember—he was definitely an artist. But if he was famous, then surely he could find some trace of himself here, right...?

So there Rohan is in the bookstore, a frustrated look on his face as he flips through comics and art books, hopelessly looking for something that resembles the works in his sketchbook. It isn't hard to glean that he might be new—he's wearing short sleeves and doesn't appear to have a coat in sight—but he doesn't seem concerned with newness. All he cares about is finding something familiar, and so far, he's had no luck.

The longer he's there, the more likely it seems like he might start tearing pages...]

b:
[Rohan leaves the bookstore with no more information than he started with. The only other hint he had was a name, and while there were not positive feelings associated with it (far from it, in fact), it was the only thing he had that was very clear and specific. It was probably a long shot, but...

As he heads to the address he was given by the sheriff, he approaches anyone he might see out and about in the housing district.]

Hey... Maybe you can help me. Do you know who lives around here?

a

[oncekind]

[Books. They're one of the few things aside from the telly that helps while away the time. She doesn't visit often but she is there today. She catches sight of Rohan, notes the look of frustration on his face, and can't help but wonder if he's one of the new patients from the hospital. It's hard to tell so after shooting a glance at the store owner to make sure they're not being watched, she steps closer and asks in a friendly but soft tone.]

Are you looking for something?

lydia martin, ota ❧

[banshe]

hospital ❧

[ She hears the beeps of the machines like sirens. The persistent high pitched press of noise had jolted her awake, sitting up in the bed, her palms tightening over her ears to make it stop. But it only gets louder and louder, like the ticking incline of a bomb. With her eyes clutched and closed, her mouth parts as if readying a scream. Breaths quicken and she knows it's dangerous — the scream of a banshee — but she feels it bubbling up inside of her, the beeps counting down towards the explosion of it.

— beep, beep, beep, beep, beep —

But then it doesn't come. All the noise around her returns to normal volume and nothing escapes her mouth. Fingers shaking and her heart pounding in her chest, she opens her eyes.

A quick glance around shows she's in a hospital, not that the memory of why rises. But somehow it isn't foreign to her, like she's always been checked in for something or other. A faint echo in the back of her head gives her the feeling like she's been in a hospital forever. Maybe she has.

But she doesn't want to stay. Not this time. She pulls any lingering wires from her arms, fingers urgently ripping them off as she scuffles to untangle herself from the bedsheets. A race to the door has her peeking out. She notes a few nurses pacing around but no one draws their attention to her. Good. She needs to get out. Something feels like she's been trying to escape for a long time. Like she's tried before and hasn't succeeded.

And so she runs, down the hall and simply away, without any real knowledge of the way out. Panic has her constantly glancing around, eyes darting through her surroundings to make sure she isn't being followed. Her lack of focused attention, also credited to the grogginess of her recent wake, prevents her from really looking forward sometimes.

At this rate, she's bound to run into something. Or someone — ]

streets ❧

[ The cold hits her like a piercing knife. It's a sting that pinches at her cheeks and nose immediately before she feels it everywhere from her arms to her toes. This isn't safe. Bare feet on wet frozen ground is never a good idea. But Lydia just wants to get away, like an urgent need that she knows is there even if she isn't certain why.

She clutches at her arms, her lip quivering from the chill, but she paces forward and away from the hospital. There's a few people on the sidewalks but they looked panicked at the sight of her. Of course they would, seeing as how she's dressed. While they're draped into their winter coats and boots, she's in a hospital grown with her hair frazzled in a tangled fashion that puts her to shame. And her feet, the more she runs, the more she feels it. She needs to get out of this sooner than later.

If someone doesn't stop her in the street, which is entirely possible and expected, really (she does look like someone on the run who should be locked up), she rushes into the nearest building she could reach. Some sort of business, she thinks. She didn't quite read the sign, with her priorities elsewhere. She simply runs in her, her breath shaky, white air still escaping past her lips. ]

Excuse — [ Her voice is scratchy, immediately clearing her throat as she shakes her head. ] Shoes. Do you have shoes? [ And a jacket. And clothes. A brush. Just everything. ]

streets ❧

[overdraws]

[ Allison's at work. The electronics shop doesn't see much business, mostly repairs and the occasional buyer, looking for a radio or a television, theirs broken beyond repair. Allison mostly works the register, and helps people find what they need, if they need anything. She doesn't look up right away when the bell signalling the door jingles, but she does when the person starts to speak, doing double take when she not only recognizes the voice, but also the person.

She drops the pen in her hand, almost trips getting off the stool she's sitting on and again as she whips around the counter, eyes wide, horrified. ] Lydia!

[ She grabs her, yanks her into her arms, mind racing. Oh my god. Oh my god. She's freezing and dressed in nothing more than a flimsy hospital gown, but all Allison has on her are the clothes she's wearing and her winter jacket, hung up behind the counter. She can give Lydia the jacket, but she's got to take her home. Make sure she's safe. ]

[comic_relief]

I. Hospital | Day 1-2

<sub>[The nurses say he had a close call, and he believes them. There's no reason not to. The proof is in the blurred snatches of memories he scrapes together--of blood drying on his fingertips, eyelids growing heavy, feeling a cold, mortal exhaustion creeping over him. His battered body backs the story up. His shoulder aches something fierce, he sports half-healed cuts and gashes, his joints complain like shards of glass are being ground into them, and he's so damn tired he can barely keep his eyes open.

He falls back asleep almost as soon as he wakes. Emptiness hollows him out--it's more than just missing time, missing memories. It's something physical that leaves him yawing, obedient putty in the nurses' hands.

A wiggle of fingers and toes, an eye test, a listen to his lungs. Check, check, check. He's doing much better, they say. The best course of action is to let his absent memories sort themselves out in their own time, they say.

The doctor knows best, right?

At first the blank space in his head doesn't scare him as much as he thinks he should--the hospital staff are kind and he wants to believe them when they tell him everything will be fine. He feels a bit like a jar of cluttered odds and ends that's upended on the table, needing to be sorted at a time, a jumble waiting for a little order to be applied to it. Every new thing he finds out about himself is carefully considered and put back in the jar. A woman's drawl and confident hands--that's one piece. The flicker of firelight illuminating young faces, boys and girls in identical uniforms. Classmates? Friends? More pieces.

Eventually he runs out of clues as to who he is and needs more. When he's steady enough to walk, an illicit trip to the police station to collect his belongings (accomplished by sneaking out a side door when no one's looking) doesn't help explain things in the way he'd hoped. In fact, it generates more questions than answers.

Something's not adding up. They said he was in an accident... but some of the rips in the uniform he gets from the police--his uniform, for an institution he has no name for, worn for a reason he can't describe--are oddly deliberate. Not tears or burn holes, but straight-edged. Like from a knife or something sharp slicing through cloth. They line up with the wounds on his body. The more he looks, the more it seems like he was in a fight, not an accident. But why would that be? And why wouldn't the doctor say?

Alone in his hospital room, his thoughts chase themselves in circles. To escape the uncomfortable black hole that is his own head, Jack plunks down in the middle of one of the hospital's seating areas, surrounding himself with the noise of people navigating congested halls. Rubbing his thumb along the bloodstains staining the uniform had brought to mind confusing images, and every time he closes his eyes he sees it all over again. A red sky. Streets red with blood. Red capes. Red behind his eyelids. The entire world is red. His heart is a panicked throb in his throat, his nose is filled with acrid smoke. There's--something. Something there he needs to grasp onto, remember. But his memories are dark, he can't see what he's looking for. (And part of him wants to forget what he half-remembers.)

It's a relief to open his eyes and see cool tiles and bland sofa cushions. Jack shivers in the sunlight streaming in the window beside him, and the tucks the blanket he'd pulled from his bed tighter around his shoulders to resume watching the crush of people.

Every face is pretty much a new face to him--he stares at them, willing them to become pieces he recognizes to add to the jar.]</sub>

II. Outside hospital | Day 3-4

<sub>[Jack sleeps a lot in the early days, soaking up rest like a sponge. The more he rests, the more he can feel his strength returning, able to leave his room for longer and longer periods without feeling like a truck rolled over him. To his shaky legs, the stroll to the police station and back to get his things had felt like the equivalent of a ten mile hike.

But bed rest is the natural enemy of curiosity. Fresh air is calling. Like the nurses say, Jack needs to hurry up and get well so he can go back to his life... whatever that means. At the bare minimum, figure out how the kind of person he is (was?) to land him here. And where here is. And why he remembers things that loom just out of sight in nightmares. (Everybody's dead. Everybody--)

A firm head shake. Nope, not going there.

If he can get a grip on the past, maybe he can stop the flashes of memory fragments in the present. Give them context? If such a thing is possible when his mind's eye shows him mangled corpses. He's not sure what he wants more: for something terrible to have happened to validate remembering something terrible, or for nothing to have happened and chalking his demented memories up to the misfire of neurons. Neither are ideal.

Washing the stains from his clothes as best he's able gives him something to do, and he shrugs the black uniform top on over his undershirt, cape tied over top. He feels... better like this. Protected. Why is that? he asks the tired-looking boy in the mirror. I wish you'd tell me.

Having haunted the hospital's halls enough already the last few days, he goes further afield, making himself a presence in the hospital courtyard and the block of neighborhood around it, an explorer in a new world. He's eating a pudding cup from the hospital cafeteria, an unopened one in his hand. A consolation prize, if you will. "If I scare your kids because I'm dressed strangely, and don't remember squat, and make a poor conversation partner for the above reasons, take a free pudding for your troubles."

And if he gets hungry first, he'll have an extra pudding. So there's that.

It's not long into his walk before Jac finds another of those weird "official notices" that litter the hospital bulletin boards. He stops to read it again, but like his memories, it still defies sense.]</sub>

How are we supposed to figure out what life before was like if we can't talk about it? They sure don't make it easy...

III. Eggward bound | Day 5-6

<sub>[And as if he doesn't have enough question marks sprouting over his head, there's another big one: the egg.

The pristine, football-sized, completely mystifying egg, the presence of which in his box of personal belongings posed no small amount of confusion. Consider the facts: he's a teenage boy (... probably. He doesn't know his exact age, but he looks young, so he's probably young. He should have asked Nyx if he remembered his birth date, maybe) and it's an egg. It's weird no matter how you spin it, right?

He has no clue where it came from or why he'd want it, but it's a clue to his identity, however small, and Jack had felt uncomfortable with the thought of giving it up, much like his uniform that's seen better days. Maybe it's important? Maybe he's holding it for someone? Maybe he'd been trying to set the world record for biggest omelette. Maybe he'd found a golden goose... or a radioactive sewer monster and stole its egg baby. Is that really any weirder than a town full of mysterious mass accidents? After a nurse had taken pity on boy and egg, the latter had ended up snug in a cooler on top of a heating pad, poised by his hospital bed like a much smaller patient under the advice he check in at the farm about it.

That's a good idea! Farms have chickens. Chickens lay eggs. If Jack's going to find someone who knows what to do, it'll be there.

It's decided. Once he's cleared for travel, into a warm coat Jack goes, into a grocery bag the egg goes, and off they both go. A recent patient lugging around a tote weighed down by something that looks like it was birthed by a brachiosaurus probably isn't the strangest thing you've seen in this town so far. Probably.]</sub>

II

[unweaving]

[ Aranea's left her store in search of lunch, so things are going to have to be pretty interesting to distract her from the sandwich she's envisioning. Turns out a kid in a cape and a lost expression is kind of interesting, today. He looks a little like a hopeless case, but hey. It's only a month ago she was wandering around in a hospital gown, forgetting damn near everything about herself. If the kid managed to dress himself he can't be too bad off.

When she hears him talking to himself as she passes, she pauses to lean in conspiratorially. Hopefully he's not the jumpy type. ]

Why talk about the past there's more interesting stuff to dig into? Like the fact that you're wandering around with what looks like a hospital pudding cup. I always figured one of the best things about being out of hospital was no more hospital food.

[deputise]

outside hospital ;

[ An explosion. Jordan remembers an explosion. It pushes outward and the flames cover his body. They wrap around him and lap at his skin. Overpowering him. It's all hazy. Foggy memories that turn to smoke and ash when Jordan digs too deep. They cut together with Eichenhouse. She's there. Redheaded and about to scream. Powerful. Shattering things around him. Skulls. Walls. But then it flickers out. Mixing back with the fire. The quick flash of pain and finally burnt clothing. Melting rubber. His boots no longer on his person. It's all missing. Holes take over and Jordan stops trying to remember. Stops trying to force it to the surface.

The nurses are quick. Moving around Jordan like bees. Zipping back and forth to check vitals. Hellhound. Banshee. Eichenhouse. Werewolves. The nurses look at him like he's grown a second head. What Jordan arrives at is that he can't stay here. Not when his body seems to be relatively unharmed. No burns. No scorch marks. His body is just hot. Sweat rolling down in beads off his forehead. Once they clear out he throws off the blankets and climbs to his feet. He feels fine for the most part. Warm, but he suspects that's just the hospital. Nothing more.

More flashes. A uniform. A gun. Another uniform. Military. The helmet hanging low. The bomb. The explosion. Jordan pushes it to the back of his mind and pushes forward. The hospital gown isn't a good look for him as he slips from the confines of the hospital, but he can't do much better until he gets out of here. He hits the streets and moves. The police station sign is what draws him in. Pushing him in the right direction to claim what he needs. ]

items collected ;

[ Once he does get his items from the police station they don't do much to fill in any holes. Black charred pants that have long since been turned into shorts. They smell of smoke and ash. A police uniform that he puts on to avoid wandering in the gown any longer. He's more confused than ever, but the memories are there. Lurking under the haze. Once he reaches to touch them though they flee into the depths of his mind once more. Too far out of reach for him to catch up. Down the drain they slip where he can't follow.

The playing card is tucked into the front pocket of his Deputy Sheriff's shirt. The jacket is thrown on over it and Jordan heads out. Hoping to at least find a few more answers. As he moves down the sidewalk another flash hits him. Striding down the hallways of a dark and dirty looking hospital. Or maybe it's not a hospital? But he has a clear purpose. To find someone. Fire licks at his skin as he moves. Flames swirl in his eyes as Jordan fights. It fades out just as quickly as it came into view. Tucking out of sight again.

His hands wrap tightly around the key there. Given to him by the Sheriff. His place. His. No memories creep to the front of his mind as he heads in that direction. All he knows is that he needs to move. Has to find his way. Maybe things will come quicker if he's in a more comfortable and quiet surrounding. ]

for lydia ;

[ A flash comes over and over when Jordan settles into his house. The same redhead. Fuzzy face. A tree stump. Jumps in and out of focus. Like a broken project. Fizzles out. Tries to return, but it never fixes itself. At some point Jordan finds his feet moving. No longer content to sit in the house and try to find memories. Instead he's moving. Walking. Feet dragging him towards the woods. He's not even sure why. It's impossible to ignore the pull though. Memories that leak through the cracks. Soft hands fixing his uniform. Letters being written daily.

Before he realizes it though Jordan stands at a stump. A lone stump in a cluster of lush trees. Not too far in. Bushes and things surround the area. It's a nice little area. He doesn't know why he's here, but it feels familiar. Like home. Still in the uniform he acquired earlier (minus the jacket) Jordan reaches down to run his hand over the stump. The wood is rough and for an instant he can almost see her face. Beauty. Light skinned. Her voice. Hard to forget. Come back to me, Jordan..

A sound snaps him out of it. He stands straight and his head whips around to look in the general direction. Hoping that maybe it's someone with some answers on this spot. Why this area feels special. ] Who's there?

[banshe]

[ It'd been a few days since her stay at the hospital, since she'd run off feeling crazed and confused about what was happening inside of her own mind. Finding Allison hadn't been the easiest, not with her mental state at the time, impossibilities tearing at her wildly, making it difficult to sort what was real and what wasn't. But she'd had time to cool, to recollect herself and come to understand that she was here to get better. The hospital stay was her recovery from a bad experience in her head and she was here to heal, to get away from the banshee inside of her.

And yet it all still gets the best of her. She dreams of a man on fire, no registration of his face or any other lingering details, only the fire and his silhouette, as if waiting. Sometimes in the day, she can still hear the flicker of something burning, that crackling sound like snapping wood and an everlasting burn. Yet it's more for her to ignore, more fantasies in her head.

But that never stops Lydia's feet. Old habits die hard as she wanders about subconsciously, never really knowing where she's taken to. She finds herself slipping in the edge of the wood, not truly grasping the why, but her feet have a set destination in mind even if they don't communicate with her head.

She sees the tree stump first, like a solid old memory, a fresh image in her mind of what's always been there, not a trick, not possibly a trick. But the man beside it comes into focus, a stranger for a split second before familiarity begins to creep in. She knows him. That focused stare of his eyes, the constant ready stance of a soldier who's never really left a war. The memory throbs in her head as soon as she sees him and she knows he's something real. Medium Americano. Black. Yes, he's real.

But her step staggers and as soon as her boot snaps the branch, the rest of it flows through it like a rushing wind. He'd left. He'd gone. The goodbyes, the kiss, the letters, the explosion. He was gone.

Jordan Parrish died.

She suddenly gasps, tears bundling up as her fingers fly to her mouth, simply staring him over. It was the second time this week that the dead wasn't dead, that reality was playing tricks on her, unable to tell what was true and what was simply her own false hopes trying to peek to the surface. But he looks real, standing there just as she remembers him, at the edge of the tree stump they'd both known so well. ]

Jordan? [ She says quietly with a shaky voice, wet around the eyes. ]

Eshkol | original

[bearswitness]

[ A: hello world ]

[ Eshkol hadn't cared to stick around for long in the hospital, and the nurses hadn't cared to keep him there. It worked out well. One of them took just long enough to give him a medical mask, which he assumes has something to do with the way they all have mouths, and he doesn't. He's not sure why that is, exactly. But it doesn't bother him much to wear it.

Another thing that doesn't bother him much is the snow. The people around him are bundled up in thick cloth against it, but Eshkol registers it only as a sensation of chill, one that seems to make him move slower than he was moving in the hospital. That's fine, too.

That's why there's a man dressed in nothing but a hospital gown and a surgeon's mask wandering the street, eerie orange eyes with their wide goat's pupils upturned toward the buildings. Should he notice anyone watching him for more than a passing glance, he might just turn his cold-slowed gait toward them. Silently, of course. Not even his footsteps crunch in the snow. ]

[ B: handwriting practice ]

[ By now Eshkol has visited the "sheriff's office". He wasn't able to pick out any of the belongings they had there as his, and the staff clearly became impatient with his silent cluelessness. He was given a basic shirt, pants, and pair of shoes and shooed out: not quite dressed for the snow, but in more than a flimsy gown. Their good deed has been done.

Since then, Eshkol has realized that, while he may not be able to speak to people as they all speak to one another, he does have a way to communicate. It's knowledge that feels incomplete and shaky to him, though — so he's practicing.

He writes in the untouched snow of someone's yard with a finger, each letter wide and sweeping. When he finishes the word he's working on it's about a foot and a half long, in beautiful, curling letters: ]

Eshkol

b!

[illustrious]

[Rohan isn't really sure what to expect to find at the address he'd been given by the sheriff, but a stranger in the yard vandalizing the lawn isn't one of them...?!

This was the address he'd been given, right? He's pretty sure this was supposed to be "his" house...]

What's this?

[He can see something's written there (a name?), but... Maybe the better question to ask is, "Why?"]

Amy Elliott-Dunne | OTA

[unfindable]

( CW: mentions of murder, domestic abuse )

( one. waking up )


[ Amy doesn't remember an accident -- she's covered in a few scrapes and bruises, but she's unsure of how she came about getting them. -- but it's a good story. Or rather, it's the good beginnings of a story that's easy to spin to her advantage. It's the ones that the nurses wanted her to believe and the more she went along, the less time they spent hovering over her.

The more time she had to think.

How did she get here? Something must have happened somewhere along the road. (Perhaps this Accident story wasn't so far fetched, but why couldn't she remember it? That still bothered her.) And now rather than being somewhere deep in the Ozarks, she was stuck in some small town that seemed stuck decades in the past.

You've left the incompetent police with clues that point to your husband as your murderer. Instead of ending up off the grid, you find yourself in a quaint little town. What do you do?

a) Run for the hills! Don't let anyone see you, don't tell anyone your name and get back on track.

b) Continue to tell the story of Poor Sweet Abused Amy to these poor saps and watch them jump on the Nick Dunne lynching bandwagon.

c) Stick to the plan, isn't that what Amazing Amy would do?

The name Nancy falls from her tongue in place of her own when the nurses ask for it. Her best New Orleans drawl coming out along with it -- an abstract sort of place that could in no way be traced back to Amy Elliott-Dunne. -- and it isn't long before she's roaming the hallways at night, sneaking into empty supply closets to rifle through whatever is kept stored in them, tucking a few things into the pockets of a lab coat she's picked up.

This person shoving medical supplies into her pockets, this is Amy Elliott-Dunne. The person that will greet you if you stumble upon her, however, is simply Nancy. ]


( two. items reclaimed )


[ It takes Amy some time to convince the sheriff to release her things -- inwardly wondering if they'd been looked over, they were certainly suspicious, after all. She's continuing to call herself Nancy, offering up a puzzled looked anytime someone mentions Amy.

"Amy? I'm sorry, you must have me mistaken for somebody else."

It's been her go-to response since the hospital. It's worked thus far.

Her things have been returned and a house key placed in the palm of her hand, along with a few vague sentences of directions scrawled onto a piece of paper. This was "her home".

Her home, as Amy? or her home as Nancy? She didn't quite care, it was paid for, stocked and waiting for her (three questions she politely asked the sheriff before leaving the police station.). So, she heads off looking for it -- out into the cold winter weather and hardly at all dressed for it (it had been early July last she could remember, not the tail end of winter.

Normal Nancy might not have been able to tough out this kind of weather while making the hike down the long stretch of road to her house, but Amazing Amy can handle anything, can't she? ]


( three. wildcard )

[ anything you'd like, or ping unnideul if you want to discuss things ]

[sensatory]

[ Alfred is already in the house that he shares with Amy. There's an unsettling feeling. It doesn't feel anything like home. He doesn't really remember anything from it, not really.

Not like he should.

The giant gaping hole in his head where memories should be have him anxious. So when Amy comes in the door he nearly jumps out of his skin, standing up quickly and wide eyed. ]

Oh.

[ It's just Amy. Funny, not even this feels familiar in the way that it should. ]

Alfred Graves | X Company

[sensatory]

Waking Up

[ It's weird to wake up and be acutely aware that there are many, many things you don't remember. Perhaps it might be more pronounced in Alfred's mind the way there are empty corridors and rooms that information should be in but it's barred, locked or simply empty to him when it should not have been. It's just a feeling, an innate sense of how one's own mind should work. There's nothing to back it up, when the description is given to medical staff it's scoffed off and so Alfred quickly decides to retain any further concerns to himself alone.

He doesn't remember an accident but, apparently, that is what brought him here. Wayward Pines. It is most odd. He feels fine, though, so he leaves his room. It's not all that difficult, not as difficult as it should have been.

There are other patients but Alfred doesn't immediately make a move to speak to anyone else, instead intently watching -- which for Alfred is more than mere sight. He intakes every scent and sound and more and can feel them tingle over his skin in seal a concrete four-dimensional memory in his head.

There's new rooms to fill now with information. ]

Wildcard

[ Hit me with anything you like. Feel free to poke me at poetanarchy for any discussion needed. ]

Junyoung Cho | Original

[naneunyulyeongibnida]

i. the hospital.

But I am a doctor.

[ First-year resident. Close enough.

Wait to be cleared, the nurse had insisted, that he'd need a doctor. Yeah, well, he'd be his own doctor today.

He sits up, wincing slightly, removing the IV needle from his arm. The chart at the end of his bed tells him nothing he didn't already know: contusions, bruised ribs, cuts. No explanation why, and he can't seem to grasp at the memory of what happened either.

The hospital seems busy, almost too much so. He isn't challenged as he wanders the corridors, casting an appraising eye over other patients--he'll stop to help if he's needed--searching for a way out. ]


ii. the police department.

[ As soon as he's got his scrubs and shoes on, Junyoung all but stomps out the doors. He's usually more even-keeled than this, but he's having A Day. Where is he? What happened to him? Why was he in the hospital? Why do the police have his belongings?

He stops outside the building, dropping his bag onto a low decorative wall, its top just visible under the snow. The wind is biting, and cold; his lab coat isn't going to do much against that but it's all he's got.

He pauses, running his thumb over the embroidery on the breast pocket. It's his name, as it should be, Cho Junyoung, but - 조 준영 - why is it in Hangul if he's a doctor in a plainly American town? It doesn't make sense.

But what else has today? He shrugs the coat on, then opens his bag, taking inventory of the contents: his doctor's kit, all the equipment he needs to work with a patient outside of the hospital.

He glances up at passersby, offering a faint if slightly puzzled smile at them. ]


iii. the 500 block.

[ He lives here. Or so he's told.

Key in hand, he walks the streets until he finds the right block, waving at people in their yards as he passes by. So far they seem wary but maybe he'll run into someone willing to talk.

When he finds his house, he lets himself in, carefully, pausing in the entry way to see if anything happens before he closes the door behind himself. ]

the 500 block and this paranoid fool

[ouzel]

[ The first thing Junyoung probably notices is the sound of the shower cutting off as soon as the door closes.

The second thing he might notice are the little strips of Post-Its positioned in various places. One near the light fixture in the hallway. Another one further down. Several in the kitchen.

Cassian moves pretty quietly through the apartment so it might be a moment before Junyoung notices the man in the doorway, hastily dressed in jeans and a button-up, towel drying his hair. ]

I think your room is the second door on the left.

Rachel Conway | Original

[gotbottle]

i. the hospital.

[ She stalks onto the elevator, hugging herself tightly, shivering. It's too cold for this shit. It's too cold for any shit, really, since she's apparently somewhere with real winter, but she's particularly not impressed with this specific shit, namely, waking up in the hospital with a faint black eye and bruises she can't explain and generally being sore all over.

Rachel starts to reach for the panel, for the button for the lobby, but it's already pressed. She spares a glance at the elevator's other occupant, nodding politely. ]

Getting the hell out of here, too?


ii. the police station.

[ Her belongings hit the waiting area floor with a loud clatter.

Walking here in this real winter with her ass hanging out of a flimsy hospital gown has not helped anything. She's got real clothes on, finally, but she's not sure she trusts that her stuff's been handled well. Time for an inventory!

She picks up items one by one--hair brush, reporter's notebooks, pens, pepper spray, etc etc--organizing everything neatly in her leather messenger bag. Everything's here, but nothing seems to explain what's going on or what happened to her.

Eventually all her things are back in her bag, which she closes securely. She's still cross-legged on the floor. She reaches up, her hand crossing her forehead, one thumb at her temple and her fingers rubbing the other one. ]


iii. main street.

[ Main Street. The center of her town. It's familiar enough, she supposes.

But she has this odd sense of not quite belonging. It's weird. She doesn't know what to do about it.

She walks slowly along the sidewalk, pausing at every window, peering in, reading the lettering on the glass or above the doors. Her arms are folded across her chest, not from closing herself off, but to ward off the chill--her jacket isn't really much of a barrier, it's meant for warmer weather.

Maybe she needs more rest. Maybe she should go home--she has the key, inexplicably given to her at the police station. Or maybe she'll just keep examining storefronts, hoping one of them gives her a clue or shakes something loose. ]

[zymasoldat]

[ He's not sure he'll ever get used to it, seeing somebody for what he's certain is the first time, while his mind assures him that it isn't, that these people are his neighbors and colleagues and friends. One moment, somebody's a stranger, and the next, his mind fills in the blanks in a way that feels so real that it's difficult to separate himself from these newfound associations.

Case in point: when he steps out of the coffee shop, cup in hand, and very nearly bumps into Rachel. He shouldn't know her name, and yet he does. And not only that, he remembers... oh...

The most embarrassing date of his life, leading to the unceremonious and anticlimactic end to a short-lived relationship. ]

Rachel. [ He's not sure if he sounds startled because he knows he shouldn't find her so familiar, or if it's because of the whole... bumping-into-an-ex thing. Something that he can vaguely recall happening more than once back in Brooklyn, in the old days. ]