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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ He seems to get it right away, judging by that way his posture relaxes. That's my guy, she thinks, grateful for the way she can feel her own concern ramping down in response. ]

Sure is. Kinda chintzy, but redecorating could be fun.

[ Redecorating is exactly the kind of pain in the ass she has no time for, unless she needs an excuse to comb the place for bugs and check if they're both just paranoid -- but that's a bet she wouldn't even make with someone else's money. Despite the overall size of the house it's a pretty quick jaunt from where they were sitting through the master bedroom and into the attached bathroom there, but she's still impatient to cut to the chase once the shower is running. As soon as the spray of it isn't freezing cold she's peeling out of her clothes and climbing in. ]

( where aranea is eager to get under the shower as quickly as possible prompto finds he is slightly less enthusiastic when they make their way to the bathroom, absently shaking off the bizarre nagging in the back of his mind that this situation is unusual, and it's not the thought of something keeping an eye on them, but the very existence of a relationship itself that vaguely presents itself as an oddity --

which would be complete nonsense, duh. it's not as if they're a couple of newlyweds or something.

the bite of cold tiles under his toes bring prompto back to the issue at hand, and he can't get rid of his own clothing fast enough to seek refuge in the spray of blessedly hot water. getting out of here is going to be a bitch thanks to the chill, but they'll cross that bridge when they come to it. )

[ Fortunately for Prompto's uncomfortable feeling, when Aranea steps close and slings her arm around his shoulders so that she only has to tilt her face up for it to be next to his ear? It's probably the most businesslike wet, naked clinch he's ever been in. Nothing about that registers as unusual to her; there's a steady ache in the bruisy mess of her ribs that isn't particularly sexy, and when you factor in the fact that they're in the shower specifically because they think they're being spied on, there's nothing unusual about being this close and not feeling any stirrings of desire. ]

Good thinking. Rules like that don't get put in place by people who aren't willing to do creepy shit to enforce them.

Think they're watching us, even now? ( the very implication is rattling enough, a chill quaking in his shoulders and creeping down his spine that prompto's sure isn't the fault of the weather. the blond shifts to nose at aranea's damp hair, mostly in affection, but partially also in paranoia that they're being watched - and judged - before resting his chin on her shoulder. ) Not gonna lie. This is - it's freaking me out a little.

I'd hope not, but better safe than sorry. I'm better with the idea of them seeing my ass than putting us on some kind of watchlist, anyway.

[ And there's comfort in being so close, in knowing that no matter what else is screwy with this place they still have each other's backs. She tips her face in to press against where he's resting on her shoulder with a quiet little sigh. ]

It could all be some kind of shitty prank, but we should at least act like nothing's wrong until we know more. No unnecessary risks, okay?

Yeah. Gotcha. ( the idea of a watchlist is unnerving as hell, and prompto falls silent for a moment considering this before shoving it into the back of his mind and opting to slide both arms around aranea's waist instead. amazing, how simple contact like this takes care of his discomfort so easily. ) S'funny, though. Don't discuss the past? Sounds almost like they've got somethin' to hide. Something we knew before whatever accident this was. Can't think of any reason if it weren't the case, but it's still crazy, I mean. What could it be? Us almost setting fire to the kitchen makin' pancakes and heading out for dessert instead? Can't imagine how that'd harm anything. 'Cept the ceiling and the cookware, obviously.

[ The idea that the instruction not to discuss the past and their accidents are related doesn't sit easy with her at all, and she can feel a frown forming until he continues. It doesn't fix anything, to run over that memory from the safe and familiar place his looped arms make around her, but it's something. At least they're together. A least they have each other. She skims her free hand over his side and back to trace the line of his spine, following familiar pathways and finding a comfort there that gives her the space to laugh quietly at his words. ]

It helped, if anything. We got to support local businesses.

You're right, though. I have this feeling that there are things I should remember, and I just don't. Or things I do remember but I can't fit them in with what I know. Does the name Noctis mean anything to you?

Noctis. ( it feels familiar on his tongue, yet the name brings forth no memories with it, and prompto repeats it a few more times as the puzzling disconnect sets in. ) Not... not really. But it's weird? Feels like I should, like I've said it before -- maybe even multiple times. No face to go with the name, though. You know this Noctis person?

I don't think so, but it feels important. Like I'm supposed to look out for him. Best guess is it's some bigwig we had escort duty for when I was in the service, but...

[ But hearing Prompto say the name gives her a little itch, like hair brushing the back of her neck. ]

Hey, do something for me. Say it again, but just - just Noct.

Huh? Yeah -- Noct. ( but then it strikes prompto like a bolt of lightning as he says it; he knows the name, knows a fondness and some sort of lingering comfort to be taken in that one syllable, but other recollections of its owner still lie, frustratingly, too far out of reach. ) Noct. Damn it. It's familiar, but I can't remember anything.

[ Her eyes are searching his face as he says it, and she can see that the little fizzle of recognition that fires in her head when he uses the shorter version is familiar to him, too. She's heard that before, heard Prompto saying it before, and yet. ]

Guess that rules out the escort theory. Can't imagine I told you so much about some handholding mission you came up with a nickname for the guy.

[ There's a little pause, and then: ]

This sucks.

It feels like... some kind of old friend's name. I don't know. Can't put a finger on it. ( if he frowned any more both of his brows would converge into one, but his head hurts when prompto tries to pry any further, and he groans a little before leaving off the thought for now. )

It's really unsettling, but - ( here the blond shifts, bumps their noses together. even if they've both got their suspicions, there's no confirming anything while they're still reeling from whatever accident that was. ) - but it'll come back. Eventually. Takes time, I guess.

[ The way he bumps their noses is a silly little thing, but it's reassuring. He's always been able to express the optimism that she needs to bury under layers of sarcasm or pragmatism, and it's good. Makes her life a hell of a lot easier, to have someone like him in it. She gives a little sigh, resigned to having to wait it out but not as chafed as she'd be at the idea if he wasn't here, and drops her head to rest it on his shoulder, face turned in towards his neck. ]

You're pretty great, shortcake. I at least remember to tell you that recently?

W-what -- ( it honestly doesn't matter how long they've been a couple, how long it's been since they both said their i dos; every single day feels like them rediscovering each other anew and the wonders that made them both who they were - well, at least for prompto, anyway. the compliment is nothing new at all, yet it still sends the blood rushing to his cheeks and he buries his face in aranea's shoulder in turn, thoroughly embarrassed, words muffled against damp skin. ) You don't have to do that.

[ The way he flusters at the tiniest compliment will never stop being cute. On the other hand, there's always that little part of her that worries he doesn't get it -- that he just doesn't understand how much light he brings into people's lives just by being him. So yeah, maybe she does have to.

She probably doesn't need to give him a ticklish little poke in the side, but that's happening anyway. ]

Just try and stop me.

[ And by way of apology for the poking, those fingers turn gentle, stroking affectionately over the stretch of skin below his ribs. ]

This whole situation's a mess, at least I've still got what's important.

Aranea - ! ( the little jab isn't the most brutal attack he's experienced, but it's enough to catch prompto off-guard with a small yelp nonetheless; still, he doesn't squirm away out of reach this time, opting to lean back in and catch her hands in his own to thread their fingers together. )

I'm really glad you're here.

[ Sure, the way he tangles her hands up in his own is probably as much about avoiding further poking as it is about what he says, but that doesn't stop her from looking down at their hands and back up to his face, a softness in her expression that she doesn't wear around anyone but him. She can't imagine a problem so dire it wouldn't feel fixable with Prompto around, and she leans in to press a quick little kiss to his lips. ]

Me too, shortcake.

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( february intro ) WELCOME TO THE PINES!

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