pineslog | ( march intro ) WELCOME TO THE PINES!

( march intro ) WELCOME TO THE PINES!

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ At the mention of his surname, Izumi's eyebrows arch higher under his fringe. That's a surprise. The man exudes a familiar vibe, although he's yet to place why. With a curt nod, Izumi slips one shoe off to get a foot in the door before removing the other shoe. ]

Thank you.

[ With his shoes hooked on his fingers, Izumi straightens. There'll be no flakes of snow in this home. He cracks a crooked smile, his next exhale colored with mirth. ]

I'm sorry, but I got out of the hospital earlier today. I'm having trouble remembering things. How do we know each other?

[ If you ask him, it's a little too cold for that, but Steve's not gonna tell the kid he can't be polite. He's been accused of the same once or twice. He just shuts the door as soon as Izumi's clear of it and nods toward the bench nearby. ] You can leave 'em there, if you like.

[ He doesn't wait to check that Izumi does — it's up to him if he wants to keep them close to hand and foot, given that Steve's house is essentially a stranger's to him. Instead he says, ] It's warmer in the other room, [ cocking his head slightly to indicate the direction before he turns and starts to walk to the other end of the foyer, answering Izumi's question as he does so. ]

I teach at the school. Art.

[ Without much thought, he leaves the shoes behind as advised. Everyone is a stranger to him, and Izumi doesn't have much in the way of natural wariness to make him suspicious of people's intentions. As far as he's concerned, this is someone offering a comfortable, warm place to talk. ]

Art? [ He echoes with a stifled chuckle. ] I wasn't expecting that! Am I in your class? How do I draw?

[ Lousily. He probably needs a ruler and protractor for everything. ]

[ If he's the type of kid to use a ruler and protractor in art class, that probably explains a few things. ]

Exacting, if I remember right. [ There's a chance he doesn't; completely aside from whether or not his impression is an accurate one for the person actually now in his house, Steve's supposed memories of this place are sometimes stingy on details. But he's glad to keep it that way if it's not the truth. He'd rather give Izumi the chance to prove him wrong. He gives him a wry tug at the corner of his mouth — he'll explain what he means soon enough — and leads them into the living room. ]

Have a seat. [ As for himself, Steve sits back down in front of the spread of books and notebooks on the table, though they aren't what have his attention right now. ]

[ It's the last-ditch effort of a boy who can't draw, but who still tries for the sake of his pride.

Izumi's gaze drifts to nowhere in particular as he thinks about it. "Exacting," huh. Maybe he's that kind of person. With his muddled memories, he can't confirm if that's true, but so far he trusts the man claiming to be his art teacher, of all things. For that very reason, he takes a seat by the table when asked. His eyes roam the living room before settling on the man again. ]

So, about my parents . . . [ He trails off, interrupting himself. Why would an art teacher have insider info on a student's parents? Sibling makes more sense. ] or is it my sister? I haven't seen any of them all day.

[ Steve shakes his head slightly. ]

I don't know them.

[ There's an apology in the press of his lips, and he takes a moment to find the right words, his eyes going (perhaps a little inexplicably) up toward the ceiling a few feet to his right before returning to Izumi. ]

They might not be here, Izumi. A lot of us have memories of lives here that we can't really trust. Family, too.

[ The bomb has dropped. With the lack of context, all Izumi can do is blink. For the first time since waking up in the hospital, he senses that something is amiss. ]

What do you mean, "can't trust"? And if they're not here, where would they be?

[ Moreover, does that mean his memories of the aforementioned family are unreliable? ]

That's what I mean. What you remember about your family may not be real.

[ He pauses for a moment, watching for how Izumi's taking that. It's not an easy thing; he knows well how the memories feel. They feel real, even if they aren't. ]

You said you're having trouble remembering. You woke up in the hospital like that, right? The same thing happened to me a month ago. And a lot of other people here.

[ He nods when his "art teacher" mentions trouble with his memories, but otherwise listens with a neutral expression. There's a lot to parse from that answer, and he focuses more on piecing the alleged puzzle together than on feeling any sort of distress. Following the story the man has laid out, he asks what he thinks is the most logical question: ]

What happened last month?

[ Good. They're of the same mind then. ]

They told us we were in an accident. Got knocked on the head. That just gets harder to believe the more people they tell it to. Especially when no one seems to remember the same accident.

[ His immediate thought is to consider the possibility of multiple accidents—but even then, the frequency would be uncanny. ]

Jeez, is this some kind of a prank by the town?

[ That's said more to himself than anything else as he rubs the back of his head. He doesn't doubt what Steve has told him, and for that reason he adds: ] Sounds like a conspiracy theory.

[ He gives Izumi a wan smile at that; the thought had occurred to him. ]

How do you think it feels to say it?

[ With a sharp exhale, Izumi breaks into a grin. What an eye-opening rhetorical question! ]

Weird, I'd bet.

[ The tension draining from his shoulders, he leans back until he hits the back of his seat. ]

But that's a relief. I was beginning to think something had happened to them—my family, I mean.

That also explains why I thought I live somewhere else. It's not that I'd moved or anything, but that I was brought here, right? [ He chuckles. ] For some reason.

[ He's a smart kid, and Steve nods a bit; that makes it easier. ]

I can't say what the reason is. [ Literally. ] Don't know it and not supposed to talk about it either way.

[ He remembers the signs plastered all over town. They're not supposed to discuss the past, although past is such a loaded word. ]

So what are we supposed to do now? Play along?

I can't decide that for you. [ Won't, more like. ] But I thought you should know.

I have to figure it out myself, huh . . .

[ He trails off, gaze averted, before his attention snaps back to Steve with a faint, casual smile. ]

Thank you for telling me. Is there anything else I should know?

[ Rather than answering, Steve pushes up from the couch and walks over to the corner of the room where he'd glanced when they'd first come into the room. He reaches up for the smoke detector there and pulls off the cover easily, revealing rather more wires than one might expect and a small but unmistakable lens. ]

Just that if you choose not to lay low, someone's gonna know about it.

[ Glancing over his shoulder with an arm wrapped around the back of his seat, Izumi makes a face upon seeing the lens. Paranoid, much? This town's crazy. ]

Jeez, what a pain. Does that smoke detector even work anymore?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( march intro ) WELCOME TO THE PINES!

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