( february 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

Outside, the birds sing a joyful song, and though the air is awfully crisp to be wandering around in your hospital gown, the sky's as sunny as you've ever seen it. It's bright enough to make you squint for a moment before you feast your eyes on the quaint little town of Wayward Pines, though that might be in part because of the glare off the scattered patches of snow along the sides of the street.

Trees line the street at regular intervals, carefully manicured. 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 first newbie mingle log! We apologize for the minor 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

Corstine | Original | OTA

[ratkingcole]

Waking up.
[ When Corstine's eyes snap open, in this strange and alien place, she doesn't take the time to question where she is, or what happened, or any of the other pertinent questions. They don't even come to mind, at first.

No, the first thing to come to mind was 'oh shit, I was asleep.'

Followed shortly thereafter by 'oh SHIT. How long was I asleep?'

She bolted upright in the strange bed, straining the still-healing wounds on her body slightly, and began desperately searching for her belongings. Under the blankets, under her pillow, on the bedside table - but the item she was looking for was nowhere to be found.

So she started yelling. ]

Hey! H-HEY! WHERE'D YOU PUT MY SHIT?

[ She isn't even sure who she's trying to attract the attention of, honestly, but she's the sounds of other people out in the halls. ]

There should be a flute here, somewhere! Where'd you put my fucking flute?

[ Her eyes are wide, and she's out of bed now. She can't remember much - not how she got here, or what sort of place this is - but one of the few things she understands deeply in her soul is that she needs to get her hands back on that instrument, or else something terrible will happen to her. ]

Hey you! Y'seen a flute anywhere? S'bout yea long? I think someone here took my shit, and I need to find it quick.


Items Reclaimed

[ Once someone managed to explain to her that her items could be found at the sheriff's office, Corstine didn't waste any time running there. Barefoot, outside in the cold, wearing nothing but a hospital gown. The only pauses she took were to get her bearings a time or two, and even that was only for a moment.

The look of relied on her face when she gets it back from the sheriff, though, is palpable. She doesn't even waste time putting her clothes on before she snatches the silver flute from the deputy's hand and played a few bars.

She honestly isn't sure why she had been so close to an anxiety attack. She just knew, in the pit of her stomach, that she was so much safer now that she'd managed to get her hands on her instrument.

It's only after that, that she throws on the clothing provided by the sheriff. Bots, a cotton shirt and breeches, a vest made of fur, and a simple iron breastplate and helmet. A bit different than what everyone else had been wearing, but it was a hell of a lot warmer than that gown had been.

And besides, if she really had been in danger, a little bit of added protection couldn't hurt, right?

And so, not even an hour after that display of screaming and panicked running, Corstine can be found walking down main street, away from the sheriff's office. Fully clothed, and far more confident. The woman brings the shiny silver instrument back up to her lips and plays.]

Waking up

[humanitarianherbalist]

[The Griffin did stay still for a bit as he tried to figure out if he'd actually been injured, but soon figured that whoever had been looking him over had no idea how to diagnose injuries. So now he's walking down the hall, still trying to get his bearings. He stares at the screaming woman.]

I have not, although I admit I have not been looking at whatever small objects might be left around here.

[oncekind]

Waking up - visiting other patients

The explanations from the nurses leave much to be desired but the pain in her back and neck, along with the scrapes on her face and arms must mean she's been in an accident. Could what they say be true? Did she just forget?

After lying in bed for an hour, she decides enough is enough. With the doctors and nurses distracted, she slips out of bed, bare feet touching a chilly floor, and pads out of her room. She keeps her arms wrapped around herself, both from the cold and from how alone she feels. She remembers a family - a baby girl. Where are they?

She begins to visit every patient's room, knocking politely before giving them a worried but friendly smile.

"Hey. I'm sorry to interrupt but I needed to talk to somebody. Do you mind if I come in?"


Items reclaimed - asking directions
She excuses herself quickly upon receiving her items - her clothes and what appears to be a triangle of three coins. The gaze and words left by the sheriff and personnel unnerved her and as soon as she's changed, she leaves, not bothering to pick up the hospital gown after her.

She walks along Main Street, looking around, trying to jog her memory but the more nothing clicks, the more her frustration shows in a furrow of the eyebrows.

She browses the shops, idly running her fingers across the glass windows, pausing when she sees something of interest. Mostly, she can be found in front of the school and while searching for the house assigned to her.

"Excuse me, do you know which way to--" she indicates the address written on a piece of paper

Items reclaimed - injuries
She grimaces as she walks along Main Street, shoulders hunching suddenly as a sharp pain shoots up her spine. She tries to cover it up but after a few more agonizing steps, she has to come to a sudden stop against a lamp post, leaning heavily against it as she tries to catch her breath. The nurses did say to take it easy but she didn't think it could get this bad.

She shuts her eyes, trying to ignore the feeling that there are people staring at her. This pain is the least of her worries. She has more pressing matters.

So she tries to take a step and this time has to bite back a cry. Looks like she's going to be friends with the lamp post for a while.

[immoderation]

The doctor has already come and gone -- taking with him Stefan's last hope of getting any of his secondary questions answered. He's currently sat on the edge of his bed, eyebrows furrowed as he reads over the discharge paperwork that had been hastily thrust at him, attempting to gain some more clues about whatever had happened to him. All he can remember about the so-called accident is the sound of crunching metal and a blinding white light.

At the sudden sound of a knock, he glances up in quiet surprise to be acknowledged by anyone -- although from the look of it, she is a fellow patient here. "Sure," he nods after a moment.

Aranea Highwind | OTA

[unweaving]

heading outside

[ Even making her way out of the hospital, her head is still full of the blare of alarms as her ship lost altitude. Her ribs and the back of her head ache; that lines up with the clear memory of being smashed against the ceiling as it plummeted. She tries to slot it all into place in a wider context, and finds a whole lot of nothing when she reaches for it. But the nurse bustled off without giving any satisfying answers and Aranea wasn't about to wait around for the doctor, so... off for the sheriff's office. When the doctor's seen you and you're feeling up to it, the nurse had said, but nothing's going to make her feel more up to it than being in something other than a crinkly hospital gown.

The town is weird. Bright enough to make her shield her eyes, all full of little cookie-cutter buildings and trees that've been told how to grow. Even with the scattering of snow there's a warm, cozy air about it -- but that does fuck all to help her feet, which are freezing.

The faster she makes it to the sheriff's office, the faster she's dressed. That's enough to propel her along at a speed that means she misses a lot of what's around her, hand occasionally straying to her banged-up ribs, the occasional un-neighborly curse dropping from her mouth. ]

items reclaimed

[ Back in black. There's more, but it's hard to be too angry about it when she's finally dressed and has some damn footwear. Better to find this house before she kicks off about it; a house means somewhere to keep her shit. Raising a fuss means risking not getting the shit at all, and possibly having the offer of the house rescinded. She heads off in the direction advised, her posture totally different now she's back in her own gear; not hunched and hurrying, but shoulders back, hips forward, the heels of her red boots ringing in her wake.

Her ribs still hurt like a bitch, but you wouldn't guess it from her face. That's mostly devoted to giving sideways glances to all the creepily cute trappings of the town. ]

Items reclaimed

[oncekind]

[It seems Aranea isn't the only ones hounding the sheriff. Jiaying is there, waiting her turn to be seen as she stands in her hospital gown, looking a little pale as she crosses her arms in front of her. She looks up when the other woman enters and offers her a tired smile]

There's a bit of a wait.

prompto argentum / OTA

[failtography]

a » items reclaimed

( the temperature, while not low enough to be frigid, is felt extraordinarily keenly all the same - while the hospital gown provided little to no guard against the cold, the blond is a hundred percent sure he was never dressed for the weather to begin with. rubbing at his upper arms is the only way to attempt generating some meagre bit of warmth, and as he wanders around trying to find his bearings he can't help but marvel at how perfectly quaint the town looks - like something right out of a postcard, and in the time prompto's taken to cross two streets he's already come up with six ways to frame this snow-covered suburb.

welp, he might be looking for his place, but there's no time like the present when it comes to photos. besides, his camera's got some battery in it, and if he doesn't do it now then variants on lighting and weather conditions on other days might mean he'll miss the chance altogether. he'll just be clicking away, then, despite the cuts and abrasions and bandages wrapped tightly around his left wrist. in clothing entirely inappropriate for the season, he stands out like a blot of grey and gold in a sea of white. )

b » wildcard!

( prompto will likely be taking pictures around the town and ducking into cafes and shops for warmth before popping back outside. feel free to run into him if you feel like doing other stuff that isn't listed! if you have an idea in mind, lemme know and we can plot something c: )

[ratkingcole]

[Corstine all but sneers when she sees Prompto meandering about town with his camera, snapping pictures at everything to cross his path.

Honestly, she doesn't really recognize the gadget in his hand, or what he's doing with it - a part of her wants to say she's never seen such a thing, because of how unfamiliar it is, but that's a tough claim to make when she can't remember most of the things about her life.

Still, she doesn't like the idea that he's doing... whatever it is that he's doing in her direction. And she doesn't mind saying so, either.]

What the hell are you doin'? Don't point that thing at me.

[ Yeah, that'll show him. Snapping at a complete stranger because of her bad mood is definitely the right thing to do in a situation like this.

If Prompto decides to ignore Ms. Grumpy, of course, he could get away with snapping a few more pictures of her. It's not like she can really do much about it.

If he does, however, he may notice that any picture with her in the frame just... doesn't show up on the camera when he tries to bring it up. Instead, the entire screen is just black - the camera seems to know that a picture was taken, but it didn't seem to capture an image at all.

Of course, it'll go back to taking pictures normally if he tries t on something else. It's just when he tries it on her, that there's an issue.]

Damon Salvatore l OTA

[unforgivably]

waking up, in room ]

[ Vampires tend to jolt upright, regaining consciousness being a sudden action. The grogginess is unwelcome and unfamiliar to Damon, as are the brief aches from blunt forced trauma he's told he endured. When he comes to, all at once he has two thoughts - where is he and where is his brother. Throwing the blanket aside, he seethes when his arm passes a beam of light, leaving remnants of the momentary sizzling in the air. Immediately knowing what this means, he brings his left hand up. His middle finger bare, he gives a quick look around, but before he can do anything he's accosted by nurses and, maybe a doctor. He's weaker, probably from whatever accident had occurred, and maybe that's why he doesn't send the nice orderly flying. Playing along, he takes snippets and files them away.

He's in a place called Wayward Pines, and he needs to make a recovery. Or, he will.

The doctor tries to check his pulse and his wrist passes another beam of life. Damon flinches, yanking his arm back. The doctors converse and as fast as they swarmed on him, they're gone again.

Two things now are on Damon's mind: finding his brother and finding his daylight ring he knows he needs.

He pulls all the wires and the IV that's in him out, tossing them to the ground. Sliding out of bed without hitting the beam of light streaming through his window is a task, but he manages it. Now if only he weren't stuck behind it. ]

hospital hallway ]

[ When the angle of the sun becomes more forgiving, Damon doesn't hesitate to storm right up to the abandoned nurses' station. ]

Hello. [ He calls out, looking around himself. A nurse catches him, intercepting as he rounds the desk. ] Discharged or not, you can't keep a man's personal belongings from him. They aren't in my room. [ begins to scold him, trying to usher him away, but she listens to an inaudible page and she's off again. ] Hey. Personal effects. Effects that remain on someone's person!

[ Eyes narrowing, he rounds the nurse's station to find any information he can, like his chart, or where things are kept after they're cut off of someone. Because, logically, he's in a gown, his clothing must be in shreds. The first thing be notices is the computer. The manila envelopes. The familiarity of the decor and taking in the machines that had been plugged into him. Ransacking the desk completely, he tries to find evidence of the date. If the year is 1994 he is going to flip his shit.

More than he already has. ]

heading outside ]

[ It's not until night that Damon even makes it outside, and screw anyone who thinks he'll be found bare ass naked in a hospital gown. No, no, he'll be clothed by then, wearing all black. He finds himself down Main St, the lights of the closed shop garnering his interest. Damon's always been a curious one, but something else fuels his curiosity and sheer not having any of this shit stuck in the dark bull.

One storefront gives him pause.

Lagomarchino's, the confectionary and deli, seems to speak to Damon's Italian roots. It's as if, in looking at the menu provided, he can taste some of their sandwich selection. It's on the tip of his tongue even. Inexplicably, it feels like he's been here, mostly for lunch and in passing for a mid-day/late-afternoon snack. None of this tracks. Damon knows five things. One and two, he's a vampire without a daylight ring. Three, if it comes down to it and he needs to drink from the vein (from someone), he knows better than to let them go without erasing their memory. His brother Stefan, also a vampire, is here. And, he spent a significant amount of time in a town like this one, reliving the same damn day in 1994. And maybe that's what's making everything so familiar, just that experience. ]

in room

[oncekind]

[Jiaying is exploring the hospital, curious to see what exactly is keeping the hospital staff so busy. She walks along demurely despite the hospital gown though no one seems interested in stopping her. She casually looks into Damon's room and is surprised to see him up and about as well]

Are you all right?

[It seems right to help. After all, the staff certainly aren't]

Emily Grey | OTA haha it rhymes

[greyaria]

waking up/heading outside

[Hospitals always have closets full of scrubs. Emily's not sure how she knows that, but she knows it. The metacognitive implications of the matter keep her occupied for a good minute, minute and a half while she's in a linen closet, "borrowing" a set, and a pair of those socks with the grippy bits on the bottom. (Obviously it's not theft if she fully intends to return what she took.) Then she remembers that of course she knows where they keep the scrubs, because she's a doctor. Not at this hospital, though. Everything about it is off to her in a way she can't place, and she stares blankly at a folded stack of tops (green, XXL) while waiting for something else to surface.

Nothing does, and she can't stand around in the metaphorical (and literal--it's a closet) dark all day.

Now in a condition to avoid arrest for indecent exposure, Emily pads on out of the closet, and then straight out of the building, stuffing her hospital gown into a laundry bin as she passes. With only a glance at the helpful sign, she's off towards the police station--who can't figure out gridded streets, really? She looks reasonably like she belongs, as long as you don't get down to her unshod feet. Confidence can sell just about anything, and a person in surgical scrubs isn't a hard sell a few blocks from a hospital.

Progress towards her goal is impeded by the fact she keeps stopping to pet people's dogs and then getting drawn into small talk with the owners. Any eavesdropper will be able to tell she has the same amnesia as so many of them...but she's very cheerful about it, at least on the surface.]

items reclaimed

[It's very kind of the desk sergeant to direct her to the bathroom, and Emily tells him so. She goes in wearing scrubs and carrying something black and shapeless draped over her arm. She comes out a few minutes later covered in a chin-to-toe, skintight suit and a holding neatly folded stack of scrubs, now looking wildly out of place in something straight out of science fiction. The impression is only strengthened when she drags a large plastic bin over to the bank of chairs on one side of the lobby...and starts fishing armor plating out of it.

It's odd. Emily knows the armor is hers, but she doesn't remember how to put it on, and she certainly doesn't want to lug the set across town when wearing it would be so much easier. A simple enough problem; there are only so many ways to protect the human body, and the contacts on the pieces will have to line up with those on the skinsuit. Once she gets a boot around a foot, her hands move on their own, snapping the connections into place and reaching for the next pieces to fasten them around her lower leg.

Then Emily realizes what she's doing and everything becomes awkward again as her conscious mind gets in the way.]

Ugh, procedural memory.

["Not thinking" is the one mental feat she can't perform, and for a moment she's at a loss until she remembers another detail...and starts singing quietly in Italian, occupying just enough of her mind that she stops getting in her own way.

So yeah, there's a woman in the police station singing opera under her breath while putting on high-tech space armor; welcome to Wayward Pines, maybe you hit your head harder than you thought.

Having reached the breastplate and collar assembly, Emily looks around for help. She's pretty sure there's supposed to be a rig for this.]

Excuse me! Would you mind giving me a hand with this?

OOC: Feel free to run into her at any point during her clothes-stealing/dog-petting/armor-donning adventure--idc if she meets five people in the linen closet or whatever; it's a game and that's what handwaving's for. Also I'll match format if you prefer prose, and this is just...basically prose with brackets around it. >_>

armor donning

[oncekind]

[Jiaying on the other hand hasn't considered clothes stealing so she's entering the sheriff's office barefooted and in a hospital gown. The singing and the sight of the partally armored woman is... interesting to say the least and Jiaying finds herself touching her forehead slightly to make sure she isn't losing it. Only briefly though because the woman is looking and it's rude to keep them waiting]

Of course.

[she comes over, stepping carefully and elegantly, mindful of the aches and pains in her body as she reaches for the hopefully not-too-heavy armor.]

What would you like me to do?

Ardyn Izunia | OTA

[starscourged]

items reclaimed;

[ There is a man. He is a tall man, well-built, with long, slightly unkempt red hair. It's hard to say exactly how old this man is, but he's walking around with the air of someone who is politely baffled by absolutely everything.

He also does not have shoes.

He has some clothing slung over his arm -- his, that he picked up from the police -- but he hasn't put it all on yet; he has slung his coat on over his hospital gown, but he has yet to find shoes. He is not sure why he wasn't wearing shoes when he was caught in his Accident, but he wasn't, and for the moment, he'll assume that makes sense.

It doesn't, but he doesn't have that much to go on, at the moment. He doesn't seem bothered too much by this. ]

A dozen shops at my fingertips and not a single shoe store to be seen.

[ Not that he has any money, actually, but. He gestures at the shops with something like exasperation.

Is he talking to you? ]

[pungi]

The police station didn't give you back your shoes? [They didn't give her back her knife, or a pendant pretty important to her. But keeping someone's shoes seems a bit more in the realm of odd.]

Or you... lost them all? [Hey, also an option. She isn't judging.]

Steve Rogers | OTA

[paragon]

[ Steve's fine when he wakes up. Not a scratch on him, though he remembers — barely — the accident they tell him put him here. His body being jarred from his bike, nothing between his legs where a second before there had been engine and the familiarity of fitted metal, then momentary gratitude that the crunch in his ears wasn't his bones. The nurses who come to check his vitals say he's been unconscious long enough for his wounds to have healed completely, though they also make mention of some scar tissue on his leg, which he can feel when he maneuvers his hand under the covers and touches his fingers to the back of his thigh — he already knows where to press because the skin feels stretched when he shifts. It feels wrong, but what does he know? Not a hell of a lot, apparently, and waking up with a scar where there wasn't one before is probably supposed to feel strange.

(He does remember a fight, being hurt by that, too. Remembers Bucky. Bucky, who wasn't who he was supposed to be. He doesn't think it had anything to do with this, if only because he can remember it somewhat more clearly despite how many hits he'd taken. Steve wonders how long it took him to recover from that. Wonders how.)

He asks, of course, anything to fill in the gaps, but doesn't get many answers. It's only the nurses telling him anything, though. When Steve asks one of them to get him a doctor, the man nods with the acquiescing desperation of someone just given another task on top of a dozen others. He leaves and doesn't come back, and a doctor never comes into his room from the busy hallway.

When it gets close to the hour mark he's not willing to wait much longer. He'd looked fine when he'd thrown the covers back and taken stock of his body, and he feels fine. His eyebrows go up a little at what he sees when he steps out of the bed to go look out the window; for all the urgency of the staff, he'd expected a city, something to easily explain a hospital apparently overwhelmed by patients. But the streets below are quiet, the bit of town he can see beyond them small and picturesque. Steve turns away, reaching behind his back to make sure the hospital gown is at least cinched as well as can be expected, then pads out of the room on bare feet.

He's not stopped, but he doesn't head for the door right away. Not that he actually knows where to find the exit, but he hangs right like he knows where he's going (or is simply determined enough to get somewhere that it amounts to the same thing). He walks down the same hallway his own room is on, turning his head toward open doors, hoping to catch a glimpse of the other patients here. He's unobtrusive in his search, and if he were a smaller man (and he thinks he was, once) it might make him inconspicuous, but as it is the loose sleeves of the gown just skim the tops of his biceps, and there was only so much he could do to cover his backside. ]

[immoderation]

[ Stefan is bored and becoming increasingly more restless; the remaining hours until the sun finally sets are whittling by at what feels like an inordinately slow pace. There is only so many times he can flip through the pages of the magazines in one of the family rooms, hidden safely away from the uncovered windows and the scalding pain they bring. His insistence on hanging around inside the hospital in his patient's gown when there's clearly nobody keeping tabs on his whereabouts might be odd if anyone was paying him even the slightest bit of attention. But Steve is the first person to so much as glance his way since he was officially given clearance to discharge. ]

Noah Czerny | OTA

[smudging]

( heading outside )

[ The more that Noah asked about "The Accident", the less information that he actually received. He felt like he was being led in constant circles, like all of the doctors and nurses in the hospital were only allowed to give him a specific set of answers and nothing more.

All the hospital had given him was a lot of nothing. They hadn't even given him his things! They'd sent him off to the Police Department for those.

It was frustrating. He wanted answers, he wanted to know what happened, everything in his mind felt fuzzy -- as though he was looking at all of his memories through murky water, unable to discern one from another. -- and trying to decipher anything in it made his head hurt (which also made the nurses give him a startled double-take.). Were his friends okay? He could remember them, their names right on the end of his tongue, but Noah couldn't manage to make them form any further. They had been going somewhere. Was that when The Accident happened?

His thoughts raced, Noah's attention focused on the sidewalk beneath his feet and causing him to completely miss the turn for the Wayward Pines Police Department... and the sign that had indicated it.

The road continues for block after block, Noah becoming more and more visibly confused and worried -- and perhaps just a little less visible as a result.

Weren't there supposed to be signs? The nurses had told him there'd be signs. That he couldn't possibly miss it. ]

Uh, hi. Sorry, but the police station is this way, right?

[ Because why wouldn't someone talk to some rumpled looking teenager dressed like an escaped hospital patient? ]


( items reclaimed )

[ By the time that Noah gets to the sheriff's office, he still doesn't understand exactly why his things weren't with him in the hospital. He'd attempted to politely ask a few of the townsfolks to explain and they all told him the same thing.

"You're coming from the hospital?"
(Where else would he have been coming from? Still dressed in the scrub-style "pajamas" that he'd been given.)
"All your things should be with the sheriff."

It was said in the most helpful tone that Noah could have ever imagined, and was anything but. He already knew where he could get his things, he just wanted to know why they were there.

And where he had hoped the sheriff would be helpful, would explain the accident and fill in some of the gaping holes that Noah felt in his memory. He didn't.

He didn't.

The sheriff asked for Noah's name, had him sign a few forms ("Press down hard, son. Five copies.") and after a few minutes of searching, unceremoniously dropped the teenager's things on the wood countertop.

Immediately he spotted the Aglionby crest on the flap on his messenger bag and it was as though something clicked together in his head. He remembered something.

Aglionby.

He looks between the sheriff and the embroidered spot on his bag and just as he goes to ask a question, the man ushers him away -- there's a line already building behind Noah, just like the hospital it seems to be an unusually busy day at the Wayward Pines Police Department as well.

After a stop off in the restroom to change into his clothes (which Noah immediately recognizes as his school uniform. The very same crest from his bag on emblazoned on his cardigan too.), Noah finds his way back out onto the street, stopping a few people passing on the street and questioning them about the school -- and each one hurried of nervously before Noah could get more than a few sentences out. ]

Excuse me, [ He's nearly about to give up and go check out the house he'd be given (which was pretty strange, admittedly. What sort of town just gave out houses?), but what the hell? Why not give it one more shot. ] Could I ask you just a couple of questions...?

[ His voice is quiet and the slightest bit nervous, his appearance typically smudgy, but there's something... off about Noah, like he's slightly faded around the edges. ]


( wildcard )

[ want something else? throw something at me and I'll go with it! ]

Items reclaimed

[oncekind]

[Having braved the sheriff's herself, Jiaying is wandering Main Street. She doesn't remember her name and no one can tell her about her family, so when someone who seems as lost as she is asks a question, she's more than happy to reply.]

Of course. But I have more questions than answers myself.

Malia Tate | OTA

[singly]

waking up.

[ Plenty of accidents happen in, oh, wherever Malia comes from. She wakes up with a start, a gasp, and a quick rise in a bed that could use a little more comfort. There's no sign of wounds, only hair needing to be brushed, and wild brown eyes demanding to know what happened from the only other person in the room. A doctor? Nurse. Whatever. She gives the start of their vague explanation of an accident a low growl and is answered only with the suggestion of asking for a bite to eat if she feels up to it. Malia stares blankly at them -- are they freaking serious? She doesn't remember being in a place called Wayward Pines, ever. Then again, she can't remember any of the places she's been...

Maybe that head trauma comment holds weight. She brings a hand up to the back of her head, annoyance softening into a perplexed gaze as she's gently told that a doctor will be in sometime shortly to clear her. Then the nurse leaves, Malia staring after them.

She can clear herself, thank you very much. Nothing that she's attached to is any risk for her, she knows that. She can handle any pain, and everything that's there isn't enough to hold a werecoyote down. Which, is what she is, she remembers. She yanks an IV out of her wrist, tossing that down, feet hitting the floor, and she walks out of the room.

With the bustle of staff moving around, she tucks in close to the wall, looking around and walking slowly, one half step at a time, palms flat on the wall. When she sees someone who looks like another patient instead of a staff member, the question falls out of her mouth. ] You know which way the elevator is to get outta here?

items reclaimed + main street.

[ Well. All of the stuff that's given to her sure smells like herself. And, uh, someone. Something. Somewhere else, but she...can't connect the scents. It makes sense that they do -- even if she can't remember more than a few basics (the head trauma. werewolves, etc, can suffer from that...apparently), it's not like she's been alone.

Her dad, friends (everybody's got 'em, though most people can at least jot down a list of their names), and...she frowns at the items she's been given that aren't clothes. She can't remember the clothes either, but everyone wears clothes. ] Why do I need these? I'm not...gonna go to school here. [ Because she did, evidently, she remembers a glimpse or two as she clutches one hand around the brown backpack and waves the two highlighters, red and yellow, up at the sheriff. Maybe that comment comes from some other part of her -- maybe she does go to school there...

She makes a disgusted face at the key. ] That's not mine. [ But does he care about that? Well. Not so much. She's left with those items and giving a look around where she stands, she snatches the clothes up too and moves to a nearby chair. Tosses the bag and markers down, then proceeds to pull the denim shorts on, letting the hospital gown slide down to the floor with an unabashed couple seconds of nudity from the waist up, sports bra before a plaid button-up that's huge on her, before she's covered up and slides dark brown leather shin boots on.

She exits the station and peers around, putting the markers in the bag (why was she carrying around an empty backpack?? or maybe she wasn't. who knows -- not her!) She spots a map and moves over to look at that, standing there, head tilting as she pulls out the address for the key she's been given. Turning around, she says aloud to absolutely no one in particular ] Yeah, I'm...pretty sure this isn't mine... [ She starts to crumple up the paper before realizing she maybe shouldn't. She starts to wonder if, maybe, it belongs to her dad. She has one of those. Where the hell is he? She's not expecting an answer to that resoundingly insightful comment (but she'll stop if someone does try to talk to her.)

Walking down the street, she reads the sign names with no recognition, going and going, stopping only once she gets to a park. A dog's being walked past it, and she peers over at it. It's not unthinkable to see a kid in a park, but the brown-haired girl that's there makes me her start over, feet moving more quickly. Once her feet hit grass, she raises a hand, lips parting until her jaw closes. She...can't remember names, but there's a connection she assumes means she has a sister. A little sister. She calls out loudly. ] Hello?! [ Being there, it's getting disconcerting faster rather than making her feel more settled. What's that they said about full recoveries? ]

[oncekind]

[Jiaying has bandaids laid across a couple of the criss cross of scars on her face and bandages around her arms. She's walking the halls in her hospital gown due to the lack of anything proper.

She notices Malia as she creeps closer and she shakes her head at the question]

I'm afraid not. I did see an exit down the hall. [she gestures] Are you- were you in an accident too?

stefan salvatore | ota

[immoderation]

[ Stefan jolts awake, a twisted tangle of limbs and sheets as he nearly tumbles sideways out of the bed and onto the hard tile floor of the hospital.

Salvatore. It's the one piece of personal identity he can grasp onto in those first hazy moments. His brother's name is Damon Salvatore.

The next 20 minutes pass by in a complete blur. His sudden thrashing movements attract the attention of the attending nurses and they rush right over to try and soothe away his worries. He was in an accident of some kind; a real terrible tragedy at the time but he's all recovered now. Free to leave, even, as soon as the doctor comes by again to authorize it.

As far as explanations go, it leaves a lot to be desired -- raising far more questions than it really answers. How does a vampire end up unconscious at an ordinary hospital? How long has it been since he last fed? Why are they just kicking him out when he can barely remember anything? Where is his brother?

But the nurses don't stick around long enough for him to try and press them for more useful information. They practically scamper off, to see the next patient he supposes.

The doctor, when he finally arrives, is not any more helpful -- barely even glancing at him before signing his discharge paperwork. Although it is strongly suggested to him that his next destination should be the police station where he can reclaim his personal effects. Including his clothes, it seems -- another oddity to add to the growing list of things that don't quite make sense.

Stefan doesn't make it as far as the lobby before he encounters his first floor-to-ceiling window, sunlight bright and streaming down the entire hallway, effectively blocking his path. Ordinarily, he knows that he wouldn't think twice about proceeding as normal. But something in his brain is all but screaming at him to remember and that's when he realizes that his right middle finger is conspicuously missing the weight of his daylight ring. If he takes another step forward, he will burn. Won't he? For a moment, he is suddenly plagued with doubt. Only the painful sizzling of his skin when he lets his hand creep forward is enough to reassure him that he isn't crazy on top of everything else.

And so he's stuck waiting there for night to fall. It's obvious that he's a patient rather than a visitor from the way he's still dressed for lack of a better option but none of the staff seems to pay him even the slightest bit of attention now despite the fact that he was supposed to be gone hours ago. ]

[unforgivably]

[ Damon knows two things for certain, one, because of something he inherently knows, and the other, thanks to the chart he finds. His brother's name is Stefan Salvatore. And his name is Damon Salvatore. Armed with that information and the remnants of other aspects to himself (almost all having to do with what he is), he mostly sticks to himself. He searches first to where they keep their blood, but finds a locker room. It's not hard to slip into someone's reject flannel and jeans, remaining barefoot for the time being. This person is still wearing their socks and shoes, but it's something preventing a drafty ass.

Unlike his room where the beam of light blocked his path indefinitely, it's easy for Damon to stick to the shadowy parts of the hospital corridors

He too finds his way to the main lobby, spotting somebody unfamiliar. One friendly person found him in his room, but he's not sure everyone will be - or why they should be. He's really not sure of anything, but he stands, wary of this stranger before him. ]

[overfivethousand]

waking up:

[Consciousness comes all at once, and it isn't friendly about the visit. His eyes open wide at the sound of a door opening, and he scrambles to sit, wincing at the sudden, sharp pain the movement brings in his abdomen. Where is he? What's he doing here? Eyes lock on the...nurse? Entering the room. Can he remember his name, she asks, and that's when he realizes he can't remember anything else.. Ten Thousand, he tells her, and he doesn't get more than a single other syllable out of his mouth before she's explaining where he is and what's happened. He's been unconscious a few days, he was brought in after an accident--hunting accident, they say, to explain the ache in his abdomen, the ache in his head. He should lie still, he'd been shot in the stomach, unconscious for a few days now. Don't worry about the lack of memories, you had a concussion, you'll be fine. It'll all come back but it's better to not talk about it. Don't worry.

It takes all of five minutes after she bustles back out of the room for him to decide he isn't staying. There's someone he has to find, something important he was doing, and besides, being in a hospital is a bad idea. He vaguely remembers something his dad told him, the words 'big pharma,' but nothing else comes even as he strains. He keeps trying as he climbs out of bed, pulling the IV out of his arm and moving carefully. Nothing comes. Nothing except one thing, a name.

There's another person dressed like him ahead, another patient, he guesses, and that's as good a place as any to start. The nurses are too busy to force him back to his room right now, but that doesn't mean they won't if he starts asking questions and getting in their way. Pushing a hand through black hair already standing on all ends, he asks the other patient:]

Sorry--do you know anyone named Cassandra? I have to find her.

post-item reclamation

[Frankly, he hadn't even been sure what they handed him inside the Sheriff's office was his at all. The clothing looked like it had been through a war; worn boots, cargo pants dusty and worn at the knees, a vest with one arm ripped off, and was that....a license plate? Shoulder pad?? One thing's for sure, at least, he feels more himself once he's dressed (pants are a definite must, things have been a little too breezy under that hospital gown), and even better once he reclaims his slingshot, tucking it into the waistband of his pants where a little groove in his belt suggests he's carried it for a while. Not that he needs weapons in a place like this. There aren't any...Any what? Any dangers, maybe. He isn't sure how the rest of that sentence was supposed to go, only that he's sure that this isn't everything he had.

He's only more sure as he steps outside to take a better look at the town and one hand lifts to his shoulder to adjust a strap that isn't there. Didn't he carry something there? Maybe the rifle to go with the scope that's in his pocket? Someone else is standing not too far away, adjusting the rest of their belongings, and he ventures yet another question.]

Did they keep any of your stuff? Not give it back to you, I mean.

[greyaria]

[In Emily's case "adjusting her belongings" involves figuring out how to use the heads-up features of her helmet's interface, all of which feel frustratingly familiar. When he turns to her he sees...a strange set of futuristic armor, which looks much less dangerous than it might, because the wearer has her arms folded and is rocking back and forth from heel to toe. Hard to say what she's looking at, if anything, but the body language suggests whatever eyes are under that helmet are probably focused on nothing.

And yet, when she turns her attention to him, it's with no hint of surprise (Motion tracker is cheating, Emily.) Her hand goes reflexively down to her hip...where a gun would be. Still, her body language remains unthreatening, the gesture more like checking pockets for a phone or wallet than reaching to draw a weapon.

To the astute listener, the very perky voice would also suggest a lack of hostility.]

I'm fairly sure they did, yes! Though I can't for the life of me remember what I'm supposed to have. Probably a gun!

[She can't remember at all, but what else would you keep...strapped?--no, it's probably magnets--to the thigh of your power armor, really?]

Jefferson | OUAT | OTA

[royalpassport]

i. wandering in a daze
[ He'd been hit by a car. That's what the nurse says, at least, when Jefferson comes to in a hospital bed. Her tone's more than a little scolding as she explains that jaywalking had been involved, and that he's lucky his injuries were so minor... Physically, anyway. His head's another story. That much becomes clear soon enough, when he can barely answer any questions during his check-up.

'Daughter-- where's my daughter?' is all he can ask at first, because it seems right, to him, that he'd have a daughter. All that earns is a look of pity, a reminder that he doesn't have a daughter. Must be some head trauma from the accident...

There's something maddeningly familiar about it, about being told that his head's wrong. ('You've been hospitalized before,' he reminds himself, as the memory pushes through the fog in his mind. 'When you had your breakdown. When you had to leave the city behind for... where was it, again?') That familiarity makes his skin crawl. It's what gets him out of his bed the moment the nurse leaves again. He's shaky, at first, weak from lying in bed for who knows how long, but luckily, the hospital staff are too preoccupied with other patients to pay him any mind as he moves around. He manages to swipe a pair of slippers and a robe from another patient (a new mother, too busy nursing her child to notice) before he makes his way out the front doors.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sunlight, and the robe and gown don't provide enough warmth for this weather, but soon enough, Jefferson's heading along Main Street. He's not so sure about going right to the Police Department-- it just doesn't sit right with him-- so he takes his time, wandering and taking in the town he's told he lives in, but can't remember.

And he makes a bit of a sight, with his mussed up hair, several days' worth of stubble on his face, the fact that his stolen maternity robe has a very stylish floral pattern, and the fact that he's got a very conspicuous scar that goes all the way around his neck.

Obviously, you should go talk to him.

(Alternately, you can find him after he finally speaks with the sheriff to reclaim his clothes. At least then he'll be dressed more like a relatively sane person-- still in the slippers, though. His shoes, somehow, went missing.) ]

ii. home, sweet.... oh no........
[ Eventually, Jefferson makes his way back home-- and it's weird, but as the hours passed and a little more started to come back to him, home started to sound and feel about right. There's still a little apprehension in him as he turns down the street and heads up the sidewalk towards the house-- keeping an eye out for the numbers 5021, though he doesn't quite need to, because he knows it when he sees it. Jefferson stops on the sidewalk, staring at the house for a moment.

It's… cute. Homey. Smaller than he's used to, but not actually all that small. Growing up wealthy, he supposes, must have skewed his perception. After all, that's another thing he remembers now: money-- and… living in a mansion.

Jefferson blinks, draws in a sharp breath as if bracing himself, then walks up to the door to just get it over with. The inside of the house, at least, feels more familiar. Some of the décor, the style of furniture, seems right to him, like it's to his taste. Others? Not so much. He explores the house, room by room, noting the odd little… science projects here and there. The toaster, even, is in pieces. It sends a pang of annoyance through him-- sharp, intimately familiar-- and he lets out a huff before he continues his tour of the house. If any neighbors come knocking, he'll greet them.

Eventually, though, he's going to make his way to the master bathroom and have a luxurious soak in that tub.

DO NOT DISTURB. ]

i. Main Street

[singly]

[ Malia's gone through the motions of picking up her clothes and putting those on. The key she's been given rests in her pocket along with the address it belongs to: she hasn't been there, and the thought of doing so weighs heavily on her. When she finally goes, it'll lead to acceptance of the situation, and she's not sure if she's ready to accept.

She may even be blending in with the locals a bit, over sized plaid button-up shirt, denim shorts, and shin high boots on. She hasn't bothered to look in a mirror, much less find a brush though, so she's got bedhead rocking too. There's a backpack slung over her shoulder, containing close to nothing.

She's not feeling this place, at all, and she's hardly close to being a helper of others but when she sees the sight before her, it makes her approach. Brows together, she frowns at him, waving a hand over him. ] I bet there's clothes for you at the police station, unless...that's...what you...wear. [ Awkward. She blinks once. ] Or you live here and walk around like that. [ Maybe. That thought spurs another, her expression growing pressing. ] Do you live here? [ He looks pretty comfy and settled, if not disoriented. ]

stiles stilinski | ota

[de_void]

waking up.

[he wakes up in a hospital bed and it feels wrong, wrong wrong.

stiles jolts up in bed with a gasp, the sound of screaming metal and shattering glass tumbling through his head like a handful of stones without any context to help them land, leaving him with an aching head and no idea what's happened to him.

(he looks out the window by his bed while a nurse takes his vitals and tells him about the nasty accident he was in, and he sees the sky and it's wrong, wrong, wrong, so he looks at his hands instead and counts his fingers until she leaves again. it doesn't help.)

with the muted cacophony of the hospital beyond his door as a surprisingly steady thrum to regulate his breathing to, stiles sits up in his bed and tries to run through what he knows. it's a distressingly short list: he was in an accident, there are werewolves, there was a nogistune, and he was in space.

..........wasn't he?

he counts his fingers again and sighs.] Ten. Of course. I don't even know what I was expecting really. Is this supposed to help somehow?

[he counts them again anyway.]

heading outside.

[it's embarrassingly easy to sneak out of the hospital without the doctor's permission.

to the point that stiles actually sneaks back in a second later to leave them a note pointing out as much at the front desk along with a few tips in how to fix that issue, and also to steal a pair of hospital scrubs because for some reason the hospital hadn't had his clothes (they were at the sheriff's for some reason??) and it's way too cold outside to wander around town in a hospital gown.

by the looks of some of the other poor souls wandering about looking battered, confused, and more than a bit drafty, not everyone had the same idea as him.

stiles makes a face, heaves a put upon sigh, and heads back into the hospital one final time to steal a couple more sets of scrubs, just barely managing to avoid getting conscripted into helping with a patient, because apparently the poor hospital is so overrun right now they'll look at a someone like him--he got a look in the mirror before he left, and there's simply no avoiding the fact that he's scrawny, pale, and looks like he made close and personal friends with the asphalt very recently--in his dubiously obtained scrubs (with a name tag that reads: DEBBIE) and thought, 'good enough'.

once he's back out of the hospital for the hopefully final time though, he starts to make his idle way in the direction he hopes the sheriff's office is, offering slightly wrinkled scrubs to any poor soul in a hospital gown that he passes with a deceptively cheerful:] Do yourself a favor, do us all a favor.

back inside, upon his return round-up for more scrubs.

[unforgivably]

[ thanks to the friendly neighborhood stranger who believed in his story of soreness, Damon makes it out of his room and even learns his name. unfortunately, he doesn't learn much else besides inherent facts. what he is, what he lives off of, and the circumstances by which he could obtain it (as well as a caveat there) and his brother's name. somehow, his one vivid memory is being trapped in a place quite like this. maybe not this building, he can't know about this building, but he recognizes some of the not-so modern technology. somehow, he can't remember using a computer like the one he finds at the nurse's desk, but he knows it looks out of place.

quickly, his second priority becomes blood. and seeing as he encountered two people and neither were in private, he's on a new search. he has a name. and his brother's. now he needs blood.

in trying to find the room they keep blood in (because he reminds himself, he's a vampire who needs blood.), Damon finds one of the locker rooms. this is the second best thing, at least as the hospital gown has gotten old. it's not the free show he gives people from the back. he doesn't care about that. it just feels wrong. and foreign. and it reminds him of trauma he can't remember. he doesn't know, but being a vampire should've afforded him something, if not the absence of head trauma?

ripping off one of the locks, he opens the locker and finds a dress. well, he's a guy with guy parts, so he at least knows to pull another pad lock out, opening that locker. ]

Flannel jackpot.

[ something else he vaguely remembers, and only in relation to the series of months he can't define.

either way, damon's yanking off his hospital gown and grabbing for the baggy nineties jeans. ]

clint barton | ota

[hawkguyandpizzadog]

waking up.

[it's like a joke. you ever hear that one where...? but no, clint has almost certainly not heard the one where, because clint can't hear anything at all.

waking up in the hospital with only vague, fleeting memories of falling off a building and wondering why those memories were vague and not terrifying, what the hell is wrong with him aside from the obvious (and then he remembers the avengers and, oh) is made all the more complicated by the fact that he can't hear a word the nurse is saying, catches only snatches of words like 'Accident' and 'Standard Procedure' when she's actually looking at him instead of bustling about the room fussing with charts and curtains or whatever.

which, well, at least he knows he can maybe sort of read lips, but he doesn't even get the chance to ask her to maybe try writing shit down for him before she's out the door again, swallowed up instantly by the bustle of the hospital and ultimately leaving clint to his own devices.]

Well shit. [he says, and it's weird not being able to hear his own voice when he does it but whatever, he'll deal. he's a hero right? he can handle it.]

I hope she wasn't trying to tell me I only had a couple hours to live or something. [............ maybe.]

items reclaimed.

[he's pretty sure there should have been a bow and arrow with his items, but when he insists as much to the clerk at the front desk of the sheriff's office he gets this sort of patronizingly patient look that sets his nerves immediately on edge, and clint doesn't even try to decipher the weird blurred jumble of syllables that this guy puts together and claims to be words because he's sure he won't like the answer one way or another.]

Whatever. [he says with a grumble, turning away and heading for the door with his dog lucky at his heels. he just can't help but toss a parting remark over his shoulder as he leaves though.] Don't think we're done here, buddy, if I get back home and don't find my gear you can be sure I'll be back and I'm gonna want to talk to your manager! ... sheriff, they're called sheriffs.

[the cool thing about being deaf was as long as he kept his back to them he could always pretend that he had the last word. (as opposed to ruining the whole effect by coming across as a middle aged soccer mom at the end) ]

It's all about the little things in life, Lucky.

Reclaimed

[overfivethousand]

[10K is holding the slingshot they'd given him in his hands, studying it and trying to jog his memory, as the loud guy walks out of the sheriff's office yelling something about missing gear. He'd come back for that very same reason, sure something is missing from his stuff. He speaks up as the guy walks towards him, a dog following along behind, and thankfully he's actually facing Clint.]

Are you missing stuff, too?

The Griffin | OTA

[humanitarianherbalist]

Reclaiming Items

[The Griffin had managed to hear about his things being at the "police department." After some asking, he manages to find his way there. Unfortunately for him, there is nothing of his there. But he is sure there should be something...the last thing he remembers, he was gazing upon that statue of himself. He's standing at the desk, his tail tapping on the ground.]

How could you have lost it? If you were able to find me, it should have been there! [They are very contrite, but he is not amused.] Can you not search some more? [Although he doesn't know how they'd have missed it...]

Wandering Around

[Well, all his yelling was unhelpful, but he did end up with a key of some sort, as well as an address. Right now, he's studying the various street signs, trying to figure out how it is all laid out. If he notices anyone else looking confused, he'll call them over.]

Did you also just receive a key from the sheriff of this place? [He sounds somewhat judgmental. What kind of law enforcement just hands out keys like that?]

berserker (ibaraki douji); ota.

[dehanded]

a. items reclaimed

[ hello! lost? confused? minding your own business? too bad. whatever you're doing, you receive a very rude interruption in the form of someone's red gloved hand shoving a house key and accompanying address into your chest chest with a rude tone of voice. ]

Oi, you.

[ she's tiny. not even five feet tall, with the exception of those horns, and barefoot to boot — wait, horns? yeah. horns. red tipped spurs of bone, sprouting from her forehead and framing a bizarre looking pattern in the middle. the pattern continues up into her hair, which an alarming shade of gold that matches her eyes.

over her hospital gown, berserker wears a pretty yellow kimono, untied and dragging on the snowy ground behind her, the long embroidered sleeves beginning to soak. next to her on the ground as well is a bag. she must have set it aside to poke you with the key. inside, there's the tiniest peek of more lavishly embroidered fabric and... a solid bar of gold? no time to look closer, though, she's shoving that key at you again, with more force than you'd expect from someone her size. ]

Take me here. Be useful!

[ ah... that's... not a glove. her hand is actually red — and... so are her feet? ]

b. the beast hungers

[ the local bakery has a delectable display in the front window, and berserker (still in that weird hospital gown/open kimono combo) can't help but push her face up against the glass to oogle all the different kinds of cakes. her claws on her remaining hand scrape against the glass, as she tries to think how she might get her hands on some of that one on the left, with the white icing and pattern of strawberries pressed into the top.

how does one acquire sweets, again? ah... there's a magic word. that's right. ]

Treat. [ ... nothing. she tries again. ] Treat! Treeeeeeeat! Rrrrghh! Even the secret word doesn't work in this detestable place...

[ what are her other options? ah. there's a way humans do this, right? with big gold coins. (money can be exchanged for goods and services). she just needs to get some from a human.

ah, this person walking down the street will do. she whips around, and points a clawed finger at the poor unsuspecting bystander. ]

You! Kuhahahaha! Relinquish your money, and I may spare your pathetic life!

[ratkingcole]

[ It honestly takes Corstine a solid minute to understand what the hell is happening here. Is this child... this tiny, one armed, horned child threatening her?]

What?

[ And then it occurs to her what this kid (young woman?? How fucking old is this girl?) is actually doing. She isn't just threatening Corstine, she's trying to mug her. ]

No. I ain't got money.

[ Sorry, she's not really intimidated by... whatever this weirdo has going on.]

[keephimtalking]

Heading Outside

Turians weren't made for cold. Turians weren't made for anything below 15c. Turians definitely, absolutely weren't made for the kind of temperatures that kept snow around, not even the mostly-gone, pitiable patches of it on the sidewalk.

Lantar barely made it to the station, miserable and shivering in his carapace, a blanket borrowed from the nurses draped over his shoulders. He's still shivering in the waiting room, sitting in a too-small chair, ridiculously long legs folded awkwardly up against his chest.

His current opinion (and first, though he doesn't know it at the time), is that nature? Kinda sucks.

You wanna try and strike up a conversation with a popsicle stick of a spacebird man?

Items Reclaimed

Getting some clothes on was a marginal improvement. For whatever reason, they were pretty insulating despite the rather light weight.

He still keeps the blanket wrapped firmly around his shoulders until he reaches the steps leading up to his...

Home?

Lantar's forgets the cold for just a split second, staring up at the single-story building, trying to find some sense of familiarity. He's still staring as he reaches into his chest pocket to retrieve his keys-

And then an ill-timed, cold-induced fumble sends them flying into a bank of snow.

"Shit!"

Wildcard

((OOC: Hit me up at zapperkat if you wanna plot or something else!))

[ratkingcole]

[ Ordinarily Corstine would let out a loud, obnoxious laugh at the sight of this poor stranger dropping his keys in the snow. Schadenfreude, rude as it may be, is an emotion she feels intimately familiar with.

She isn't laughing now, though. Mostly because she's staring at... whatever the hell this guy is? There are a lot of things that feel unfamiliar with this town - someone had to explain to her what a car is. So maybe this is just another thing she doesn't remember?

Gods, she fucking hates this town. It's so hard to tell what's weird and what's not.]

Hey. Did you just wake up from an accident?

[ She asks, loudly, from the sidewalk. Seems like as good a place to start as any. ]

[flowerida]

Items Reclaimed

No one notices Butch waking up. No notices him disappear. The bed is changed and tidied, the proper paperwork is turned in at the desk. The window he slips out of gets closed with barely more than a silent puff of crisp air to stir the curtains. The cameras barely even catch him, little more than glimpses of bare feet or the top of his frizzy, grey-streaked bed hair.

He doesn't properly reappear in anyone's field of view until he's out of the police station with a rubber undersuit and some random pieces of armor tucked under one arm. He seems mostly unbothered by the cold despite the paper-thin hospital gown and bare feet.

There is a piece of paper that he's looking over with a rather confused expression on though. Wanna help him out?

Wildcard

((OOC: Hit me up at zapperkat if you want to plot a different thing!))

[unweaving]

"Can you read?"

Despite having the kind of drawly voice that makes just about everything she says sound like she's trying to be an asshole, it's a genuine question. He's got what looks like armor with him, and armor tells her military, and while her own experience tells her there's a minimum literacy requirement... this is a place that apparently had an outbreak of vehicle accidents like it was goddamn chocobo pox, so who the fuck knows. She's already grabbed her own belongings, so the hand she holds out to him is encased in a pointy gauntlet.

"Want me to take a look?"

lancer (elizabeth bathory) ; ota!

[dragoness]

a. AN IDOL MAKES HER ENTRANCE;

[ lancer's immediate thought is that she can't stay in the hospital. there's something about it, something clinging to the walls, hiding in the corners, permeating the whole area that sets her nerves on end. it's not the stench of death that bothers her, no, nor the stench of blood that seems to stick to everything. she is fine with the slightly sinister feeling that hospitals carry. no, what she can't stand in her room is the utter emptiness of her room. lancer can hear the bustle of people outside, but the beeping of a monitor is her only friend here. for some reason... it reminds her of the squeaking of a mouse, and she can almost picture their little beady eyes looking at her from the shadows. she doesn't know why, but the fear inside of her is palpable, and all she wants to do is be out there with the rest of the people.

hhhhhaaaaaaah, her head hurts, it hurts, it hurts! it hurts in a way she doesn't recognize, with a piercing throb right behind her eyes and she can't make it stop. her teeth grit as she leans forward, grasping at her head with her claws and shaking her head from side to side as though to free herself of its pressure. this has got to be from the accident; lancer can still hear the screams. through the haze of her migraine, she picks up the sound of a door opening and her breath catches. "you're awake, finally!" the nurse says, harried and strained of voice. lancer is given little time to collect herself before she's all but pulled out of bed and shuffled off into the hallway. since that's what she wanted, she doesn't press the matter....

but you know, her profile is a little odd. those horns must be heavy, and her thick tail is muscular and scaly. it takes her two seconds and two steps before she stumbles and likely crashes into something — something like a chair, which entangles its legs around hers, and sends her flying right into a counter with a loud SHRIEK of surprise. ]

M, mnaw...... [ on the upside, at least her head doesn't hurt anymore. ... mainly because the pain in the rest of her body overpowers it. ]

b. PICKING UP THE MERCHANDISE;

Hey, hey what's this all of a sudden!? [ her loud voice can be heard throughout almost the whole sheriff's office, and there's a loud bang! as lancer slaps her hand on the counter top as she tries to hide away the image card set there. there's a madness in her ice blue eyes, and her claws scrape over the wooden surface. ] A noble is always to look her best, so how can I do that when you've got such private pictures of me?!

[ the person helping her seems taken aback, a key in their hand. they try to explain that it was on lancer's person when she was found, but lancer's having none of it. ]

How dare you accuse me of carrying this around! [ lancer. ] While I admit the underwear looks on-trend as far as armor goes, this shouldn't be seen in public without my Master's permission!

[ how can she hold her head high if someone's impugning her pure image?? please, someone, help these poor people before this dragon starts spewing fire. ]

c. WILDCARD;
( hit me up at bloodfort if you wanna do something specific! also, please have a look at her masters/skills page! )

B

[humanitarianherbalist]

[The Griffin barely gets a glimpse of the card, but agrees quite heavily with Lancer's opinion. Although that "master" bit makes him pause.]

They do seem incompetent. They somehow lost an object that I should have had with me when I was found.

howard stark | ota.

[inventor]

waking up;

( a bell rings. somewhere — far off. his mind strains to place the noise. a telephone, that's what it is. close enough to hear, but far off enough not to see. the ringing continues, incessantly. jesus christ. is someone calling? how long are they going to let it ring? will they ever answer or will he be forced to listen to the bell ring forever? he slips again. the ringing fades, as if echoing through an empty building miles away. when has it ever been quiet and empty enough for that? (when's what ever been quiet and empty? he asks himself. he doesn't know where that... instinctual thought came from, but there it is, bubbling to the surface.) with each ring, a sliver of fear pierces him. after an eternity, the ringing stops but that doesn't put him at ease.

something's wrong. he doesn't feel right.

his mind is fragmented — still reassembling. understandable. slowly then suddenly, at once his mind awakens. there was darkness, now there is light. the shock of consciousness sends a spasm through him and almost jolts his body from the bed. the final veil of fogginess lifts and his vision clears.

he's in a hospital. that much is clear from the machines and the overwhelming smell of disinfectant.

his gasps alerts the nursing staff, who immediately come to his side with soft touches and even softer words. he was in an accident — a very bad accident, but he shouldn't worry because he's fine now so there's no reason to worry. it's a phrase he quickly tires of. he should be worrying. he doesn't know his name or anything really. that's worrying enough as is but the doctors and nurses refusing to tell him his name is even more worrisome. it's not that they don't know, he thinks, it's more like they don't want him to know.

he wants to leave — leave this hospital and this town of wayward pines and never look back.

but he doesn't. he stays. not that he could leave anyways. the doctors and nurses seem to be keeping a close eye on him (paying him more attention than they do the other patients, he observes). he doesn't know where he'd go anyhow. being nameless, injured, with no money, and in a hospital dressing gown is no way to go through life. he stays at the hospital with the hope that he would learn his name in due time.

two days pass and he's nowhere nearer to uncovering his identity. what he does learn is: he has mustache and that, compared to some of the freakishly giant patients roaming the halls, he's not very tall. not that it matters very much because, as he and others soon realize, he makes up for his lack of stature by speaking very loudly and very often (a witty remark that's always uncalled for, a wink, and a smile, that's how he operates apparently). he's a short man with a very tall personality quickly getting on the staff and patients' nerves.

today, he's stolen a wheelchair and is currently wheeling himself through the halls, deftly navigating between the steady flow of patients entering the hospital. most of the staff members notice him, but, aside from a pointed but brief glare, they ignore him and leave him be. after two days with him, they've learned that he only feeds on the attention. )

wild card (a);

( eventually, he leaves the hospital (although, the way he left, it appears more like he was kicked out). he's pointed towards the police department with the promise that he will find his belongings there. by his strange appearance, the residents shoot him bewildering and leery glances (especially after that strong gust of wind blows by him). the warmth of sunlight on his face and the coolness in the air is very refreshing and perks him up. after a (frankly) pleasant ten minute walk, he finally arrives at the police station.

the building is packed with people he recognizes from the hospital. he's told to wait in the waiting room and the sheriff would see him and return his belongings as soon as possible. above the dull roar of the crowded waiting room, he strains to remember what items he could have. he hopes it's some money, or food. the last meal he ate was earlier this morning at the hospital and he's starting to get a little peckish. )

wild card (b);

( it takes almost an hour before he finally retrieves his belongings: a change of clothing, a notepad, and a gold pen. sadly though, no money or food. (he's also given the address to his house but he's more concerned with finding food first). by the time he's changed and leaving the police station, his stomach is growling loudly from hunger. as he wanders through the town and observes the comings and goings of the residents, he spots a snack vending machine outside french's general store. logic dictates that if one wants a service or item, they are expected to give a service or item of equal value in return. that's how capitalism works.

that's not the conclusion his brain reaches though. he deduces that snacks are received not with money, but with violently shaking and pushing the vending machine around for several minutes. eventually, something will come out, right? or will the sheriff stop by before then? )

wild card (c);

( hit him with your best shot. )

wildcard a

[smudging]

[ Noah's been in the police station for a long time now. The clock on the wall of the waiting room is set to the wrong time, but it still indicates that he's been sitting in the same seat for almost an hour and had yet to get his things back.

Now that he starts to think about it, had the sheriff even taken his name?
Great, something else he can't remember.

Howard takes a seat in the open chair next to him and Noah looks at him curiously -- they're both dressed in similar hospital garb, though the teenager had found himself a pair of scrubs to trade for the drafty gown. -- speaking up after a few moments. ]

You're going to be here a while.

[ The statement comes out not sarcastic, or snarky, but rather a matter-of-fact observation said in Noah's typically soft tone. After all, it seemed as though everyone had been waiting a while. ]

Dandy Mott | American Horror Story | OTA

[affluenza]

waking up//

[Dandy doesn't really bother finding out what's going on or waiting for an explanation. The moment he wakes up in a hospital bed, he sites up (despite the attempts of the nurses to hold him down) and walks off, nonchalantly ripping off any medical tape or IVs that might have been attached to him. His scrapes and scratches don't concern him at the moment.

What does concern him is that he doesn't seem to remember who he is or where he's from, just that it's not this place - or is it? It's all kind of fuzzy right now.]

Where's mother? Get her down here right now.

[Everyone seemed to ignore him or try to get him to lay back down, as if he weren't making any sense. But for all the chaos in his head right now, he did know that he was from a family of some importance and that his mother would want to know where he was.

Frustrated with the lack of information, he storms out, shoving anyone in his path out of the way.]

heading outside//

[Having calmed down a bit, Dandy has realized that pushing and yelling isn't really going to get him all that far here. So, he's taken on a more polite demeanor when he approaches people.]

Hello, I'm Dandy. Dandy Mott.

[He's not entirely sure why, but he feels like his last name should be enough to turn some heads and get people to tell him where he's actually supposed to go.]

I think I'm a little lost. Maybe you could help me out.

outside//

[de_void]

[stiles had managed to get a hold of his things awhile ago, but for some strange reason (i'll give you a hint, it starts with an s and ends with a tiles) he has yet to bother changing out of the nurse scrubs he stole earlier from the hospital with the name tag Debbie prominently displayed and a red hoodie thrown over to complete the whole ensemble.

just call him the next fashion icon, okay.]

Seriously? [whatever dandy was expecting, stiles does wind up doing a double take at his name, but it's not exactly for his last name.] Your name is Dandy? For real? That's not just how you're feeling currently or something?

[he has literally no leg to stand on when it comes to names honestly.]

enrico pucci | jojo's bizarre adventure | ota

[theophilia]

WAKING & HEADING OUTSIDE ✞ I'VE JUST SEEN A FACE

[He wakes up and remembers--not much. Looks down at himself, at his vestments spattered with blood, and wonders: whose? Thinks, where was I? and doesn't remember, but can envision Cape Canaveral as a vague and distant goal, an improbable source of relief and victory.]

[Slowly, as he gets his bearings, sits up in bed, the answer to whose? arrives. My brother's. He's dead. I think I killed him.]

[He is disturbed by this, but not very. There are a few of his own scrapes, half-healed, but he isn't sure if that's from the accident the nurses mentioned or his brother's death. "Death" is what he thinks, not "murder". He asks the nurses if they've seen his friend, but they tut and ignore him. He finds this annoying, but his only reaction is the pinch of his brows together in a slight frown.]

[He leaves the hospital as soon as he can. There is nothing for him here. There is nothing for him anywhere. He can sense that whatever is going on, it's a problem he will have to solve for himself--at least until he can find his friend. It's very beautiful here. The streets are beautiful. The houses are beautiful. The shops are beautiful. It reminds him of something, or maybe several somethings. Very difficult to tell.]

[He hates it.]

[Anyone he passes who makes eye contact, he asks the question:] Have you seen my friend? [And then he racks his brain, every time, for a name, and just comes up with ???. After several attempts, he starts to get visibly anxious, fingers flexing, shoulders hunching up around his ears. For a middle-aged man, he looks very young just now.]

[malignans]

[Dio waits as long as he can tolerate before he leaves the hospital, which means that the sun is beginning to sink, but it has not managed to completely disappear from the sky just yet. The air still holds some of its warmth, but the long shadows are already cooling the streets below and making it possible for Dio to make some progress away from the hospital. Likewise, Dio has gorged himself on blood at this point. The vertical scar still lingers on his neck, across another scar that's shown no signs of healing, but it no longer drapes itself on his face or eye. He can see perfectly fine now, though his vision is notably getting better the darker it gets.]

[From what he's observed, he's not the only person in this town to find himself so disoriented by recent events, but that does not mean he's made others his concern. Quite the contrary. He's been far more concerned about the strange gaps and mismatched pieces of his memory. As the day has gone on, he cannot remember more of that distant, yet familiar life, but small glimpses into a life that fits in with his current surroundings have arisen every now and again.]

[But when he's addressed, Dio stops with the intention of only stopping long enough to say no without genuine consideration to the question. Dio stops short before he can say anything.]

[I love you as I love God.]

[That seems impossible, doesn't it? The voice isn't exactly right. Neither is the face. This man is older by at least a decade, perhaps two. Nor does he have the calm mannerisms of the person who spoke those words to him. Whoever that was, he was perfectly at ease in Dio's presence. He was confident and sure of his love, and what it would mean and accomplish for him. But this man seems jittery, uncertain. Almost as though he's afraid of the answer. If Dio thinks hard enough, he thinks he can vaguely see someone in his memories that matches this man. Their the memories that match the backdrop of this quiet town, and that person this man matches is someone who is part of the backdrop.]

[Not someone who would say they love him. No one, to his recollection, would have ever said that to him.]

[Dio realizes he hasn't said anything yet.]

. . . Who is your friend?

dio brando; ota

[malignans]

waking up.

[He cannot really concentrate on the voices or faces of the doctors and nurses speaking to him. The room is too bright and he can hear too much noise beyond his room. He looks down, staring at a spot on the bed, trying to breathe and make sense of it all. The most he hears is something about an accident, but he doesn't have cuts and bruises like he should. No, instead, he notices that he cannot see anything out of his left eye. He looks up to say something about it, but the doctors have already left him to his own devices. Touching his face, he feels a rough scar, a scar that he can feel spans to his hairline, down his chin and neck, and all the way down along his torso. It's there on his back as well. What the hell sort of accident was he in? Was he really . . . ]

[Dio throws off the blankets and steps over near the window. It feels foolish to experiment with this, but tentatively, he reaches a hand into the beam of sunlight. There's nothing at first, but then he hears a faint sizzle and a sudden sharp pain as the skin of his head begins to turn red, blistered and boiled. It's with a small howl of pain that Dio retracts his hand, cradling it to his chest and squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. Tentatively, he takes a look to assess the damage, but to his surprise, his skin is already smooth and white once more. Dio flexes his fingers before feeling at his teeth with his fingertips, and finds his canines to be sharp like that of an animal rather than of a human. So the memory is true? He becamse some sort of . . . monster. And he survived by drinking . . .]

[Christ. He's hungry.]

[Dio moves back over to the bed, sitting down and covering his face with his hands and closing his eyes. Why can't he remember anything else? The memories he has don't make any sense. After a few moments, he decides abruptly that he doesn't want to think about this any longer. Or rather he can't because his mind continues to go back again and again to those moments when he apparently made the decision to become...this, and again and again he can remember the smell of blood hanging thick in the air, and he feels sickened by the way his stomach gnaws with hunger at the thought rather than turning in revulsion at the gore. Dio sits up, putting his hands on the bed and feels something cool and plastic on the bed beside him. Lifting his hand, Dio sees it's a packet of blood and quickly looks around the room. Where the hell did that come from?]

[When he looks back at the packet of blood in his hands, he's surprised to find instinct must have taken over: it's opened and ready to be consumed. Dio stalls for a second or two, but he brings the tubing to his lips and takes a small sip. The first sip is, however, the only small one. The moment the blood hits Dio's tongue, he wants more. The tubing is deemed an obstacle when he hits the limit of how quickly he can suck from the bag, and Dio rips it off. It makes for messier eating as he tips his head back and squeezes the bag with his hands. The majority of the blood is ending up in his mouth still, but plenty of it begins dribbling down his chin and on his fingers. When he empties the bag, he realizes that he's beginning to see blurred shapes out of his left eye. Dio throws the empty bag aside onto the floor. It's working, but he needs more. Before he can get up, however, he finds The World before him, with a bag of blood in each hand. Dio jolts at the Stand's sudden appearance, but slowly begins to smile.]

I know you . . . [To anyone watching, it appears he's talking to no one, two bags of blood hanging in midair before him.] Show me where you're getting these from.

[Dio stands and starts to head out of his room, but stops short. Before, he wasn't paying attention. Hunger came over him quickly and he didn't take into consideration that others might be watching, that it might not be entirely safe to broadcast that he apparently subsists on a diet of human blood. Dio steps back into the room, and heads into the bathroom to wipe his chin off with a damp towel when he looks back at The World. This thing can stop time. He remembers that. But something is off in its appearance, it's then that Dio realizes it carries a similar fissure to his scar on its own body. Dio wills it closer wordlessly, and the Stand drifts over. Dio places his hand on its cheek, but quickly retracts it when he's startled by the phantom touch against his own cheek. Dio touches its cheek again, running his thumb over its matching scar. So they're connected to one another in every way, it seems. Which means that it will keep Dio protected no matter what. That thought's a little reassuring. Something this powerful will do anything to ensure Dio's survival. Dio finishes cleaning himself off and takes the bags of blood, setting them in the sink. He'll gather what he needs from the blood supply here, and feed in the bathroom. The World can keep him protected, but it's best not to press his luck. He touches the scar on his cheek faintly, noting that it's already beginning to shrink and stand out less prominently on his face.]

[As he leaves his room to find the blood supply in the hospita, he thinks that perhaps with enough blood, it will be gone altogether.]

((ooc: if you want an alternative scenario, either hmu on plurk [maledictions] or go nuts. just remember that if it's outside the hospital, it needs to be at night since dio cannot walk in the sun! and don't forget about his permissions/opt-out post.))

[de_void]

[stiles might not remember much about himself right now (thanks to the accident? there's something about this whole amnesia thing that feels off, and it's not just that an incredibly high number of people are currently a victim of it, even if that's definitely a part of it), but he doesn't need to remember things to realize that he seriously doesn't like hospitals.

on the other hand he doesn't like not having pants either, and that's a slightly more pressing concern right now so he puts off making his escape until he can manage to track down some sort of a solution to that problem.

he finds a dude standing in a doorway with blood on his mouth first.

it's a brief, momentary thing, the guy disappearing back into his room only to reemerge a minute later with a freshly cleaned face, but stiles knows what he saw, or at least. he's going to operate under the assumption that he did until someone eventually shows up to drag him away to the psychiatric ward that he clearly escaped from because what the hell?]

What the hell?