THE FRACTURED WORLD: ARRIVAL

[modormenace]

 

A

rrival for some goes all but unnoticed. It's a sudden shiver, the sensation of being watched... and then nothing at all. Life continues serenely as it always has. The only indication of any change comes with sleep, wrapped in dreams: vague and distant echo imagery of another life, melting away in the morning.

 

F

or others, arrival is a sharp jolt. In the space of a single blink, they find themselves in an unfamiliar world, surrounded by the trappings of a life they have not lived. They are replacements, spirits taking possession of bodies belonging to people very much like themselves...

 

A

nd for the rest, arrival is a procedure. Routine. Those ported in to the Fractured World wake hazily in the comfortably dim light of the Porter room, laid out on an exam table. Their wounds, if they remember having any, have been healed— and even those who remember their own deaths find themselves miraculously restored. As they regain consciousness, an automatic audio-visual presentation is triggered. Regardless of their backgrounds or physiology, all imPorts 'see' and 'hear' this message as if in their own language:

"Greetings, imPort."

The voice is calm and gently authoritative, almost certainly selected by committee.

"On behalf of the Synod and all imPorts it represents, we welcome you to the planet Earth."

A decidedly non-humanoid robotic arm holds out a palm-sized device and rather insistently demands the new arrival take it. This is the imPort's comm, used for accessing the Porter's database of information, as well as the communications Network— though it won't receive communications from outside the Porter building until carried through one of the many Gates set up in a long, crescent-shaped array on the far side of the room.

As each Gate is approached, information about the faction it leads to flashes up on the comm device's screen. Which will you choose?

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Comments

[facepalmchampion]

He was used to waking up people who were much more dangerous and in much tighter situations. They would be fine, maybe. Either way he was a little surprised when he agreed. Tomura hadn't actually had to go do anything, but he supposed that he could figure it out, he just wanted to see what the youth would pick.

"This way. You can drop the plates there, someone will take care of them." There were a lot of things he did, mass amounts of dishes weren't one of them. His hands got prune-y and those were his moneymakers. Well, one of them was. The other one was irreparably damaged and he had his prosthetic to rely on for movement. He gave one more glance over him, before heading toward the coop area, his walk slow enough to be leisurely and enjoy the farm as it was. "Have you ever dealt with farm animals— In before you say guys like me."

[hot_handed]

"Don't tell me what to do," Katsuki snarled, the order even more bitter when it came from Tomura's lips. He hoped that was a relatively normal reaction. He had very little idea about how this Katsuki acted. Then again, it would be so much easier to just go all out...

Dropping the plates with a thud, he followed some few feet behind Tomura. For once, he didn't want to be ahead.

"Who do you think raised me?"

[facepalmchampion]

There it was again, that hot handedness. "I wouldn't dream of it." Except he already had told him what to do. Tomura didn't actually turn around, nor did he care to stop, if he wanted to be that far behind, then fine.

"Who raised you doesn't mean anything." Take that from him. Further, he wouldn't care much for the people around him if it weren't for Shouta and Hizashi's influence. Yet another thing that he wouldn't admit. Once they were there, Tomura (carefully) opened the lock and stepped through, staring down at the chickens pecking away after their little run at his approach. Chickens could eat more than once a day, right? They could now. "Grab the grain bucket on your way in." He will inspect the fences, it wouldn't do any bad to make sure they were properly secure before any of them left.

[hot_handed]

He didn't argue. Not because he didn't want to, but because if he did he didn't think he would stop until someone died. Stiffly, he moved to grab the grain bucket, looking at the chickens like they were alien creatures. Scooping one of his palms-calloused, scarred, different-he tossed some grain onto the ground, hoping he was doing it right. It couldn't be that hard, could it?