pineslog | (april intro) WELCOME TO WAYWARD 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 looking a bit tired and worn at the edges, like a blurred photograph. They take your vitals and ask your name and anything else you might remember with an air of exhausted distraction about them, and maybe even eye your bed with a look of vacant yearning for a moment before managing to rouse themselves again. 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... though it might be awhile. 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.

There was an outbreak last week after all, some of the more chatty staff might be persuaded to share. Oh, nothing to worry about now, it's all been taken care of, but there's always so many details to take care of after a scare like that and, look, you should probably come straight back to the hospital if you start feeling sick, okay? Just in case. But honestly, you have nothing to worry about.

Mingle, visit your fellow patients, worry a bit anyway, even poke around for a few basic answers. Or maybe, maybe just stroll right on out the front door.

heading outside

One step outside and it's perfectly clear that your hospital gown simply isn't going to cut it for long. A crisp winter wind whips at you through the thin cloth and all around your is the slowly melting evidence of an earlier snow storm, clumps of dirty snow along the edges of buildings and sidewalks, sad misshapen snowmen sliding into slush across a few front lawns. You're probably standing in a small puddle right now, just by a simple law of averages. Geez that water's cold.

Trees line the street at regular intervals, carefully manicured and lightly dusted in snow. Cars cruise by at a safe and respectable speed. Pedestrians spare you glances, some wary and some concerned.

This isn't even the picturesque city center, though a colorful nearby sign reads "Main Street" with an arrow pointing due south, followed in smaller font by a list of businesses you don't recognize and one that you might: Wayward Pines Police Department. Whether you asked for yourself or simply overheard, you've likely caught wind by now that all of your earthly possessions now lie with the Sheriff until you see fit to claim them.

Might as well head that way, right?

items reclaimed

So you've visited the Wayward Pines Police Department and reclaimed... well. Most of your stuff, anyway, though you can't quite remember what's missing, and asking the sheriff only gets you a harried look and a form to fill out if you have any concerns. 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."), and a general direction to start looking for the house that key belongs to, the sheriff pulled away to deal with some other pressing issue before he could give you more detailed instructions. You could check it out, see what kind of digs they're putting you up in. If you can even find it, that is.

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...

MOD NOTES

Welcome to the third newbie mingle log!

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.

PLEASE INCLUDE IN SUBJECT LINE: Character Name, location, and Open or Closed, to help keep things a bit more organized.

If you have any questions regarding this intro log, feel free to ask them on the FAQ or the relevant plurk.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

'How many things?' It's not like I counted.

[ Come on, Sam, be reasonable with your questions. Though it's not like Jefferson couldn't have answered the question if he actually wanted to be helpful. ]

I had trouble remembering things for a little while. It passed. [ Sort of. Not really. ]

That's. Good. I suppose.

[ He doesn't want to wait to remember. He wants to remember now. He wants to know why the one thing he knows, that feels so right, also seems so ludicrous when framed by their surroundings. He wants to know if he's remembering the right name. He wants to remember who Josh Lyman, Toby Zeigler, CJ Cregg, and Donna Moss are, and why he was able to hang on to those names.

The number and variety of things he wants right now are going to give him a headache. ]

You own a tea shop?

Mmhm. [ Murmured in a sort of bored and lazy way. Jefferson waits a moment, then deigns to elaborate. ] Go Ask Alice. Like the lyric in the Jefferson Airplane song. [ Get it yet? GET IT? Well, if you don't, he's going to hum the tune for a moment, then sing softly. ] One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small...

[ He is being serenaded by a weird man who owns a tea shop that he named after a lyric in a song from a band that shares his name, and Sam is going to get a headache if he thinks about that too hard. ]

Does that make you the Mad Hatter?

[ Just like that, Jefferson stops with the impromptu a capella, his expression going cold at the little remark. The Mad Hatter. The title that's been plaguing him more, the more he... remembers. Imagines. Invents?

There was a time, he thinks, when people called him that. He can't remember when it started, but he knows it was always accompanied by cruel laughter. Then dismissive laughter. Then... then it was just his name.

No, it wasn't. His name's always been Jefferson, and Alice and her adventures in Wonderland were just stories he read one too many times. He exhales sharply through his nose and pushes himself away from the booth partition, sitting back down in his seat in a huff. ]

I'm not mad.

Edited (A SINGLE WORD WAS BOTHERING ME AND I HAD TO CHANGE IT) 2017-04-04 04:04 (UTC)

[ Well, he just said something stupid. He has no idea what, specifically, except that Mad Hatter is now on the list of things not to say in front of this weird guy.

A sudden side-monologue pops in with, Surprise, you've misstepped.

So this is a thing he does.

Fantastic. ]

I didn't say you were. I mean I did, but that isn't the way I meant it.

[ Jefferson snorts, shooting a glare over his shoulder. ]

And how did you mean it? I'm not the 'mad' anything. I'm just Jefferson.

Edited 2017-04-04 20:30 (UTC)

Okay, just Jefferson.

[ He's starting to feel cross again. It's not his fault the comparison probably gets made a lot. Jefferson owns a tea shop! Called Go Ask Alice! It's his own fault! ]

I was-- It was a joke. Y'know, jokes? Sometimes presented as statements made in irony?

[ Jefferson sits up again, twisting in his seat, getting right up on his knees so that he can lean over the partition and get in Sam's space, seething in the other man's ear: ]

I'm not a joke!

[ You know, because he is the Mad Hatter-- no. No. No he's not. (Yes, you are.)

A waitress clears her throat, and Jefferson looks up sharply, then his eyes dart over to the notice posted by the diner's entrance. Ah. Right. Almost sheepishly, he twists back around and slumps down in his booth, hands gripping the table as he stares down at the magazine he'd been trying to read before. ]

Sorry.

[ He may not be looking at you, Sam, but the apology's directed at you, anyway, delivered in a dull, defeated sort of voice. ]

No, hang on.

[ He sits up, glaring at the waitress. ] You don't have anything to be sorry for. He doesn't have anything to be sorry for. Who enacted those rules, hmm? Are they codified, are they a part of the law of this town?

[ He can feel himself warming up, gearing toward an argument whose shape he can't quite see. ] Or are you enforcing them as the operating principles of a business - also a dubious exercise, let's be clear.

[ He's not sure where these words are coming from but damn do they feel good.]

Stop it!

[ His voice comes out a sharp hiss, though Jefferson doesn't seem to be irritated or angry, so much as distressed. He hunches his shoulders a little, scrubs a hand over his face, and glances over at the waitress again, offering a weak smile even as she quickly rushes away rather than engage with the two of them. ]

Sorry. He's sorry, too.

[ People are staring. This isn't good. Questioning isn't good. Jefferson takes a furtive glance around the diner and reaches for his wallet. Might as well pay and leave now that they've overstayed their welcome. ]

He's sorry. I'm not.

[ Granted the waitress is gone, but the rest of these people are looking at him like he's done something wrong and he hasn't. ]

If I'm from this town don't I get a say in how it's run? Do I not get to contest things with which I take issue? [ The questions are spat at the room at large like a dare. ]

[ Grabbing a twenty-- far more than he actually owes for the little he's ordered-- Jefferson slaps the bill down on the table and gets up from his seat in a huff, his magazine forgotten. Sam may be willing to take a stand on this, but that's because he's a fool. Whoever Jefferson may be, Mad Hatter or not, at least a sense of self-preservation has been firmly instilled in him from long before his 'accident' here.

He claps a hand on Sam's shoulder as he's about to pass the man's booth, leaning down to impart one lesson: ]

A word of advice, Sam Seaborn, who works for the President of the United States: learn how to pick your battles.

[ With one last pat on the shoulder, he starts to walk out of the diner. ]

[ Sam watches him go, then takes another look around the diner, the people avoiding his gaze.

He pulls out his own wallet and pays for his spilled drink, leaving a larger tip than required but not so large a tip that it might be considered an apology.

Under his breath: ]

What if I pick all of them?

(april intro) WELCOME TO WAYWARD PINES!

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