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

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. )

Edited 2017-02-07 02:28 (UTC)

[ 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. ]

Edited (i know letters i swear) 2017-02-08 00:32 (UTC)

( as the minute hand reaches the quarter till mark for a second time, his patience is already wearing thin. when the hand reaches it for a third time, his blood begins to boil and he starts fidgeting in his chair, agitated. he wonders why he's here in the first place. "his items" — what the hell are they? he doesn't remember, so what's the point?

a voice quietly mutters besides him and, through the commotion and the noise of the waiting room, he's only just able to catch it. there's a sharpness in his tone, ) I better not! Or else I'll be forced to get comfortable. ( his idea of "comfortable" is undoing his robe and putting his feet up.

and he's not wearing any underwear. )

[ Noah's been occupying himself with tugging at the same loose thread on his scrubs for hours -- and wondering inwardly when it's going to break, leaving him with nothing to sate hs boredom. The thread was better than nothing, after all. -- and while he's not nearly as fidgety and outwardly annoyed as Howard seems to be, he still shares the same sentiment.

There were a lot of people there, sure, but how long did it really take to pass out a bunch of stuff? Wasn't it just a matter of reading a name and then shouting it out? ]

I think the sheriff suggested that. [ He snorts quietly in laughter, amused with himself. (Although, if he knew Howard's definition of comfortable, he'd likely be much less amused.) ] Kind of hard to though, I'm pretty sure these were the first chairs ever created. [ He shifts to try and ease the soreness in every spot the metal chair touches, his joints popping loudly and the thread he was toying with finally breaking off, causing his expression to fall as he returns his attention to his now ruined entertainment. ]

( he sighs heavily and loudly, slouching more into the chair in an attempt to get comfortable. the kid's right — these chairs feel like they must've been the first ones ever created. he amuses himself by watching his toes wiggle against the cool surface of the tile floor, but that only lasts a couple seconds before he grows bored again. well, what's a way to cure boredom? starting a riot? well, yes but besides that? having a conversation with a stranger and trying to strike up some camaraderie. he wishes it was with a pretty young girl, but beggars can't be choosers.

his gaze briefly flickers to the kid next to him before returning to his toes. ) How long you been waitin'? ( at least if he knew roughly the amount of time this kid's been waiting, he'd be able to gauge an approximate wait time for himself. )

[ The more that Howard wiggles around and attempts to get comfortable, the less that his rather fashionable robe leaves to the imagination and Noah scoots as close to the opposite end of his chair -- he doesn't have any problem with this man just letting it all hang out for everyone to see, but he'd rather not bear witness to it from his current vantage point practically shoulder-to-shoulder with the other.

Maybe he should have picked another seat. Or maybe he shouldn't have done the thing that he'd been told as a child and not talk to strangers. Especially with barely any memories in a town that he hardly remembers. Oh well, Noah Czerny doesn't always make the best decisions (he actually feels the slightest inkling of one extremely bad decision from the past, but it's still too fuzzy to recall clearly.). ]

Hour and a half? Maybe two? [ Noah motions with an upnod to the incorrectly set clock on the wall. ] The sheriff said it'd only be a couple minutes.

You gave him your name, right? [ He's trying to be a little helpful here, okay. ]

( jesus, two hours. he's only been here — oh god, how long has he been here? time is dragging into an infinite blur, only occasionally punctured by a sigh and the dull roar of the crowd. plus that whole head injury probably isn't helping with his sense of perception.

he shakes his head. his tone is flat, although there's a shade of annoyance buried within. ) No. ( sighs, ) I don't know my name. ( not that the front desk needed it, as it turns out. they already knew who he was (although they too aren't too quick to divulge that information). the hospital must've given them the heads-up after he got kicked out. still, you would think that they'd want to get a person like him (someone with a disposition that skewed helter-skelter even in the calmest of situations) out the door as quickly as possible.

oh well. this shall be a learning experience for all, he supposes. )

[ He doesn't know his name? Noah looks around quickly, his head on a swivel -- because his immediate explanation is that he's on some kind of weird prank show. That there are hidden cameras somewhere, and at any moment his friends are going to pop up laughing and hollering that they "got him good".

Except that Noah doesn't remember what any of his friends look like. Or their names. Or if they're even real at this point. His memories feel so fragmented that he's unsure if he's only assuming he had friends because... well, what kind of teenager doesn't have at least one friend, right?

But maybe he heard this man wrong. ]

You don't know your name? Like, you've never known it?

[ It seems unlikely, but stranger things have happened to him already in this town, so anything is possible. ]

( he nods, absentmindedly. ) Uh-huh. Although — ( he stops suddenly, snapping his mouth shut. his brow creases in thought as he tries his darnest to remember — something. he remembers...

shouting. tears. swearing. and a tumbler glass full of vodka (on the rocks, three olives) thrown at his head, missing, and hitting the mirror behind him. the glass crashes to the floor. there's heavy banging. is someone putting shingles up? the words blur together, muffled like being spoken behind a thick wool scarf — except one thing is loud and clear, like a bell...

after a brief ten second pause, he begins again, uncertainty still in his voice despite the faint memory. ) It could be.... F. U.? Maybe? ( he has the distinct feeling of being on the receiving end of those two letters many times. is it his name though? a nickname, his initials? who the fuck knows. all he knows is that it's the closest he's got to a name right now. )

[getting settled for clint had mostly involved tracking down the modest, one level suburban house that seemed so ill-suited to him that his skin practically itched the moment he stepped inside, checking for his gear (no go), and turning right back around to beat feet and put that stepford looking nightmare behind him as he makes his way back into town.

he's going to have to address the place eventually of course (and why, exactly, it makes him so uncomfortable), he has to sleep some time, but if there's any sort of sense that clint is getting for himself it's that he's one to put off uncomfortable things for as long as he can possibly manage. and he's willing to wholeheartedly embrace that side of himself, really. especially if it involves finding a good place to get some pizza now.

lucky takes to the task with his own sort of fervor and manages to catch a scent and it's not long before clint is strolling down the sidewalk with a box of pizza balanced on his arm and a slice in his hand, only to pause next to a possibly crazy man attacking a vending machine and consider whether this scene is any of his business, really.]

... huh.

( by the time clint stumbles upon him, he's been shaking this machine for almost five minutes. but, alas, no dice. panting a little from the exertion, he turns to clint and lucky. he gives them a quick glance over before his eyes settle — firmly and squarely — on clint. ) What are you lookin' at?

( the better question should be, what are you lookin' at? because, now that the smell has reached his nose, he looks more interested in the pizza clint has in his hand than clint himself. )

[Jiaying has been trying to stay under the radar. The presence of the signs and the way the locals stare has more than convinced her that improper behavior will gain negative attention.

And while she doesn't want to get involve with what appears to the be a crazy man potentially breaking a public vending machine, she finds herself shooting the peanut gallery a glance and stes forward to touch Howard by the wrist.]

Stop.

( he attracts a crowd. naturally. that's not a surprise, considering the type of guy that he's already discovering that he is. he's the kind of guy that needs an audience — feeds off attention. it makes him more aggressive and rough with the vending machine. the curse words and insults slip off his tongue more easily as he beats the keypad with his fist. then a hand curls around his wrist to stop him. he turns his head to rattle off a slur of insults when he notices the face.

well, hello.

a smirk cuts in to his cheeks. naturally. that's not a surprise, considering the type of guy that he's already discovering that he is. he's the kind that likes a pretty face — relishes it really. ) For you, dollface, anything.

Edited 2017-02-22 05:13 (UTC)

[She manages to only furrow her eyebrows slightly at that sudden and obvious transformation. Maybe she should not have gotten involved but she's committed to defusing the situation now.]

I have a name. [she insists.] You'll know when I remember it.

What do you think you're doing? [she asks, affecting the voice of a teacher speaking to a misbehaving student]

( his smirk widens and he removes his hands from the vending machine. don't know if she knows this (but he does), she's still got him by the wrist. awesome. )

What a coincidence. I also can't remember my name. What do you say we try to remember our names together. ( wink and smile. that's just what he does. )

[Realizing, she withdraws her hand once he's removed his and she loosely folds her arms before her.]

And how do you propose we do that?

( his smile falters — just a tad — and his mind draws a blank. what's there to do in this town of — wherever the hell this is? from the dress of the crowd around them (plaid, khaki, and wool), he supposes they could head down to the local tackle shop and discuss the latest in hooks and sinkers. or, from the age of the crowd around them (triassic, jurassic, and cretaceous), he supposes they could head down to the local eatery for some milk toast.

he'll just defer to her judgement and hope that, wherever it is, she's paying. his smile returns to its previous wattage. ) Lady's choice.

( and who said chivalry is dead? )

That's not very charming. [She sighs softly, looking at the disapproving crowd before asking:] How hungry are you?

( well excuuuuuuuse him. he's still recovering from a head injury (although he's not entirely sure that he can remember a better pick up line).

his smile mellows, becoming less flashy and more subtle (but not any less toothy). now comes the tricky part. it's easy to charm a crowd — there is a thing called mob mentality. the real test of one's skill and charisma is whether they can charm a person one-on-one. ) I could eat a house.

( or a horse, even. )

[She regards him for a moment then reaches out to take him by the wrist.]

This way.

[Turning to the crowd, she just smiles warmly and says] Don't worry. He knows not to do it again. [As she walks, a memory of eating at the town's deli surfaces and she subtly changes direction, heading for Lagomarcino's. She doesn't have any money on her either but something tells her she can put a tab on it.]

( if by "he knows not to do it again", she means "he knows not to hit the vending machine again" then sure. he won't do that again. but cherry bombs and the like are still open, right?

as she drags him away, he looks back at the crowd with a grin and a wink, and shooting a finger gun at a guy with a dog. ) I should probably ask, but what is the name of my savior?

[Well she's certainly not keeping her hopes up about him behaving but as long as it's not within her field of vision.]

Like you, I don't remember. But I do remember I have a tab in Lagomarcino's.

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( february intro ) WELCOME TO THE PINES!

howard stark | ota.

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