pineslog | ( february intro ) WELCOME TO THE PINES!

( february 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

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.

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Or a blowtorch! If you see me storming out of the local mechanic's looking peeved, you'll know that's what it took.

[Still perky.

The flush doesn't go unnoticed, but it does take Emily a beat to figure out the cause. He's clearly not exerting himself to lift the breastplate, so why--oh. Breastplate.

That's adorable.

Fortunately for his equilibrium, minor fluctuations in Emily's high baseline levels of cheerfulness are hard to detect.]

I'm reasonably certain the back section contains a small power plant and the armor is self-supporting when fully assembled. That's how I'd design it, anyway.

[War makes a girl hypervigilant...not that Emily realizes that's why her pulse spikes and she whirls around, hands instinctively balling into fists. Then her brain catches up to her nerves and her intensely focused expression melts into confusion. She blinks, surprised at herself for going all fight-or-flight on a pleasant downtown street.]

Uh.

[She straightens back up, smoothing her hair in an embarrassed gesture.]

There's usually a closet of spares every floor or so. The worst things come out of patients sometimes.

[Probably not the most tactful thing to say to a man in a hospital gown, but judging by the scars all over his exposed skin, he's leaked some unpleasant stuff onto doctors himself.]

[ Face-to-face with Steve, Bucky feels himself relax a little. This situation may be troubling, and he's not content to wait around the hospital any longer than he has to, but at least he's more at ease in the company of his friend. Bucky lifts his brow, then looks down at himself.

All right, Steve. Touche. He snorts out a short laugh. ]

Yeah, but I don't have to look at myself. Still gotta see you, though.

[ Which is unfortunate, big guy in a little gown. Bucky glances over his shoulder, then nods his head in the direction he starts moving in, figuring walking and talking beats standing around the corridor, where they might get shooed away or ushered back to their rooms. At least if they look like they have a destination, people might be more inclined to leave them alone. ]

Looks like a lot've people have been in accidents lately.

[ At least, judging by the snippets of overheard conversations, the way some of the other patients look, like they're as dazed and foggy as Bucky is. It doesn't sit right with him, so as far as he figures: the sooner they get out, the better. ]

That's not unfamiliar....

[Emily's dubious. "Cassandra" is a perfectly normal name, but that doesn't mean she knows anyone who has it. On the other hand, it seems like she's pretty lucky she knows her own name right now, so a lack of memory is hardly conclusive.]

...buuuuut it's not familiar, either. Sorry.

Despite, the burning yearning - [ for somebody to tell me, secret Footloose fan here ] non sexually transmitted reason. I think. I have no proof one way or the other, but I'd hope not.

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.]

Edited 2017-02-10 08:09 (UTC)

[She nods slowly, taking the file. She has vague memories of Riley - her best friend, one of the few people she does remember - calling her that.] Rings a bell.

[She looks over the file, not finding anything else particularly new. Not even a real mention of the type of "accident" she was in. She looks back up at him.] Your name in there?

A little. [Not all she's willing to share, admittedly.]

I remember the switchblade they stole. And I know I can't swim? [She rolls her eyes a little.] Yeah. Really useful information...

I remember... some stuff.

Like... I can't swim. And those assholes- [She nods toward the police station.] still owe me a switchblade they won't give back. But... not a lot from before I woke up here.

[ The reaction was just as interesting as he'd hoped!

For all that the woman looked ready to slug him, Butch barely bats a lash, his perpetual smile still present and unwavering. He has the courtesy to keep his hands in view and not move closer, at least.

Lingo sounded medical which went pretty well with the scrubs. That reflex suggested someone familiar with combat however, and Pines? Pines didn't seem like the sort of place you'd pick something like that up.

Which does bring up the question: where the hell did he pick up all this knowledge? ]

Oh, I can imagine! [ said with the confidence of someone who has been covered by all manner of gross people things. Nothing that he can remember right now, but he knows of them. ]

Sorry about the scare there, [ Butch offers his hand up for a shake. ] Didn't mean to sneak up on you like that. I'm Butch by the by. Butch Flowers.

"Butch Flowers at your service," he offers back with a salute. Definitely hadn't been grinning at that slack-jawed expression a moment ago, no siree. It was just a slightly greater degree of smiling.

"So, you've got proper clothes and everything," Butch observes, falling into step beside her, shifting his grip on the bundle of armor. "I'm assuming they let you out of the hospital a while ago?"

They stick those IVs in you for a reason you know.

[ Still, he's not exactly making a move to get up and hassle 10K about it. If anything the man is settling back down, resting head gingerly against the pillow, peering at the other with something like exhaustion. ]

Yeah. Got shot in some hunting accident. [ Lantar closes his eyes and exhales quietly. ] So the nurses say anyways. I don't really remember anything either.

[That's it. A bunch of pieces in his head, and none of them are connecting. None of them explain why he feels so uncomfortable in his own skin, why his hands feel empty, why he keeps watching the horizon and the people that occasionally walk by like he's expecting them to be somebody else. It's frustrating.

He looks over at Noah, offers a small, quick twitch of his lips that might be a smile if you tilt your head to the side and pretend real hard.]

Ten Thousand. I remember my friends call me 10K, but that's about it. Weird, huh?

Yeah, well, I'm not real good at doing what people tell me--

[It takes a second, but the guy's words finally process, and he looks at him again, squinting a little. Is that why he isn't bothered by that weird face? Because he was--?]

A hunting accident, really? That's what they told me, too. I'd been shot. I think--I think I remember that, sort of, but I don't remember going hunting. Do you remember anything at all? Your name?

[Maybe it'll make something click in his memories, too.]

Still better than me. All I've got're names. Murphy, Cassandra. My name. I'm Ten Thousand. My friends call me 10K. Don't ask me ten thousand what, I'm--still trying to work that out.

[He shrugs, adjusting the way the armor plate on his right shoulder sits. It feels a little weird, but he can't tell if that's because he put it on wrong or he just doesn't remember being used to it.]

[He looks disappointed, but that's to be expected. No one's known her so far--or at least, the couple Cassandras he's been pointed to by locals definitely don't match the impressions in his head. Shaking his head and adjusting the goggles perched there, he tries for a smile.]

It's okay. Guess I couldn't be that lucky. I'm Ten Thousand. 10K. Are you a soldier?

[She's gotta be, with that armor, right?]

[ That draws Lantar out of his tired haze, avian eyes refocusing sharply on the kid. He's silent for a moment, then inhales slowly and presses the heel of his palm to his forehead, curling up against the ache. ]

I remember this... human woman. Red hair. [ There was something in her eyes, something sad. Something dark. They were the last things ever he saw. ] I remember- I remember being shot too. The gun was... an M-92 Mantis?

[ He remembers its weight in his palms. He remembers the sound it made, it was so familiar, like he'd heard it a hundred times before- ]

Lantar. My name is Lantar Sidonis.

[ Another beat of silence and then he looks up at the dark haired human standing across from him, expression slowly fading back into bone-deep tiredness. ]

What's your name?

[Sidonis. The name sounds almost familiar, but it shouldn't, should it? Maybe it's this memory loss. His brain's just...trying to make connections where there aren't any. Doc would say--Doc? The name is gone before it ever even really surfaces, leaving him lifting a hand to his head much like Sidonis, only his fingers clutch at spiky black hair poking in all directions.]

The woman I remember--she had black hair.

[Cassandra. And his name is--]

Ten Thousand. My name's Ten Thousand. You said she was human--you aren't?

You can't swim?

[ Noah, of course, picks up on only the most important details of her statement. It feels like about as much as he remembers: nothing more than a bunch of vague locations, people without faces or names and the slightest suggestion of events, but nothing whole. Like someone has reached inside of his head and pulled out all the pieces that link them together. ]

They kept some of your stuff?

[ He looks down at his own things. He hadn't gone through them to make sure that everything was there, he had just assumed it would be. Why would anyone have wanted to take his things? Or anyone's for that matter. ]

[If she reacts to the odd name, no hint of it makes it through the helmet.]

Dr. Emily Grey. I'm a military surgeon.

[Given her tone of voice, she's probably smiling right back. She offers a gauntleted hand to shake.]

Hah, no. I'm... I'm a...

[ What IS he? For the first time, he suddenly feels out place. All the nurses had been human. All the doctors had been human. Humans were familiar to him, but he saw that look on 10K's face, that flicker of unsureness, unfamiliarity. He'd seen the same from the rest of them, the pieces all suddenly falling into place.

The name is on the tip of his tongue but try as he might, strain as he might all he gets it pulsing headache for his troubles. It sounded... strong though, what shape of it he could feel in the back of his throat. Strong and proud. ]

I don't remember. But it's not- I'm not human.

10K?

[ Noah nodded slowly -- and inwardly he thinks that Ten Thousand is a much cooler name than Noah Czerny -- searching his own mind for some kind of memories of his own friends. He can remember being around them, but their faces, names, and voices are ones he can't seem to grasp a hold of. ]

How'd you get that name?

[ Because he assumes it's some sort of nickname. ]

Already ahead of you.

[ Handing her the folder, he flips to find his own room number. ] Damon. [ He lets that roll off his tongue. ] Damon Salvatore. [ And he looks back down at the folder. ] 24 years old, yada yada, height, weight.... [ Continuing to peruse. ] And accident. Blunt forced trauma to the head. Vehicular. [ Flipping it closer, he drops the folder down. ] But, what do I know.

"Something like that, yeah." Meaning that she booked it out of the hospital after about three minutes of waiting. It counts. Unfortunately for her, she's too busy not making a crack bout the name Butch Flowers to notice any suspicious shifts in facial expression.

"What were you in for? Hospital, I mean."

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.))

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Page 11 of 24

( february intro ) WELCOME TO THE PINES!

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enrico pucci | jojo's bizarre adventure | ota

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dio brando; ota