SEPTEMBER 14TH, 2020: THE SYNOD IS CONVENING.

[modormenace]

All fourteen Gates simultaneously reverse polarity. For the next seven days, and only these seven days, any imPort stepping through a Gate will arrive safely in the Porter building: the only place on this fractured planet that can safely contain the energy of the imPort community in its entirety.

SO IT BEGINS
THE SYNOD

THE

DEATH

TRAIN

While the Gates are the simplest form of transportation, those making the journey to the Synod from the White Tower have the option of travelling by train, if they wish. Despite the playfully grim moniker, there haven't been any recorded fatalities on board the Death Train in many years. Or ever, really. Raw, untamed entropy doesn't do anything as simple as kill.

For that delightful reason, passengers will be reminded at frequent intervals not to attempt to leave the train once it enters the active zone of the Porter's defenses, or to do anything that could jeopardise the integrity of its shielding.

The journey is relatively comfortable and takes approximately two and a half hours. A limited menu of pastries and alcohol is available from the buffet car. The smallest tables seat two.

 

As the train passes through the entropy-saturated wasteland of the Deathdome, the view from the heavily tinted windows of each of the train's four-person cars is impossible to comprehend: every atom of the landscape is in a constant state of flux, scattered in endless possibilities across the multiverse.

WELCOME CARPET

Inside, you get the impression of three towers; no view from outside is possible. You're totally sealed inside for the week, by the same Fate-built tech that shields this place from the ravages of cosmic radiation— the train station is built into the structure, entrance tunnel hermetically sealed.

You're greeted by welcome robots, primitive little things full endless enthusiasm and covered in dents. What they lack in intelligence they make up for in persistence and durability. Each and every ImPort is assigned their own personal robutler.

Though they tend to hinder more than help.

Boop boop boop boop. They provide you with a complimentary swag bag. Inside is one (1) t-shirt, one (1) top of the line tablet (pre-loaded with this year's Agenda and a simple game app that looks suspiciously like 2048), a stress ball, personalised souvenir pen and eraser (but no pencil), and of course, a lanyard keycard for accessing the comfortably adequate accommodations provided for all attendees.

Given the week-long Synod, your room itself is a decent suite, furnished with dark colors, redolent with a smell you can't quite place. You may find yourself assigned an unexpected roommate, which may feel awkward considering you'll find arrayed on the beds, a half-dozen complimentary tickets to the spa, restaurants and the power gym, with its preternaturally durable equipment.

Robutlers constantly remind: do not attempt to leave the Porter facility or do anything to jeopardise the integrity of its shielding.

CONVENTION

Talks and panels take place in the convention area, which feels like a miniature city within the Porter's defenses, a hive with padded audience seats, wide stages, and complete with holographic audiovisual equipment that's curiously compatible with presentation software from every city.

Here, ImPorts will present and debate various topics regarded as major concerns for all. [OOCly, players are invited to suggest topics! Scroll down; they will be added below.]

This is also something of an expo, where cities practically demonstrate— or show off their good works. From the latest hovertechnology models to demonstrations of healing powers, playful duels in the forcefield-enclosed stages to magical books that temporarily transfer skills on touch, this is the place to pretend you're showing off your cards... while playing the most important ones close to your chest.

PANELS AND DEBATES

PRESENTERS

TOPIC

Joseph Kavinsky vs [N/PC]

White Tower ImPort Overpopulation and Dimensional Instability

Tony Stark and other technopaths

How Technology Will Save Us

Joshua Foley

The Mysteries and Intricacies of ImPort Physiology

Count Dooku and volunteers

ImPort Factions Must Align Against the Shared 'Resistance' Threat

Jin Bubaigawara (x3)

The Twin Cities are NOT Dimensionally Unstable No Matter What You Heard

Kang

Bridging Old and New: Maintaining Infrastructure with Limited Modern Resources

EVENING

EVENTS

Every night of the Synod, ImPorts gather to dine in a grand hall with a ballroom party. Each dinner is hosted by one ImPort city, gruntwork complete with robutlers-- which guarantees food safety, and complete with multiple cuisine options, cultural decor, and entertainment.

Given the range of cities represented, food options vary from greasy burgers to six courses of seafood and blue venison, and rarefied vegan fare.

When ImPorts aren't here eating, they're most often talking. Ergo, it's not uncommon for low-key drama to break out, but this year, the majority of Synod days seem to be passing uneventfully.

Fortunately, speeches are reserved for daytime. After dinner, it's time to dance.

 

The last song of the night is always obscure music no one can quite remember the words or melody to afterward. It's a slow dance song meant for two or more partners; the ballroom grows dark and the world seems to fade away. Or rather, it just fades back into one's hotel room.

THE BLACKOUT

On Monday, September 21st, shortly before the Gates are due to resume ordinary function and allow attendees to leave, the Porter building suffers a power cut.

Abruptly, all the lights cut out. Music stops. Your faithful robutler freezes in place, unresponsive— though its internal systems appear to be running, the centralised command hub that it relies on has fallen silent.

Though the robutlers are out of comission, technology-minded ImPorts and their tech drones hasten to reassure that systems analyses are underway. Within a few hours, repairs begin, the estimated time being two days.

In the meantime, thanks to the diversity of powers on hand, there is enough food and water. Candles start to circulate. It might even be a little romantic, if it weren't for the chaos outside. Characters might find themselves trapped in an elevator for a few hours, or compelled to seek comfort from one another.

Comments

dance;

[pillz]

[kavinsky is alone.

it's atypical for him, actually. he isn't very similar to how he used to be, back home in henrietta, but some fundamental axioms are the same: he likes people around. he likes being in charge of them, as much as he needs to be overpowered by them. he's all about the parties, the intrigue, the sordid drama.

but tony stark died a few nights ago, on the heels of exposed treachery. things with josh have never been more tense, not even when the mutant fucked off to build krakoa.

he's been wearing this mask the past couple nights, donning it again the moment the main course is through. business-like and brusque in answering questions about the tower, the plan, about who killed tony stark. he hasn't danced much at all, but it isn't all that surprising to suddenly find his arms around a tall man in this white suit.

the last song does strange things to people.

kavinsky's mask is impassive. but there's a note of amusement in his voice, when he says,] Small world. Assuming you remember any other one to compare it to.

[dauntless_son]

And what is that supposed to mean? [he asks, not missing a step in the dance.

Declan has been listening to the buzzing conversations around the assassination, not surprised by abrupt comments and brush-offs. The political drama of it all is playing out and he will continue to observe it, refusing to be pulled in on behalf of the Sanctum. It is not his place to play in the machinations. He has other concerns.

But right now, his world has narrowed to his masked dance partner and the music.]

[pillz]

It means--

[kavinsky's nearly a decade older than the boy he was, that foolish little animal that screamed himself to death over a rejection. he's older, wiser. and much more curious, incidentally, about what the older lynch has in his pants.]

— I know who you were.

[but maybe he's a little more humble, too. or thinks the easy games of narcissism are basic for his taste anymore. so maybe it's a token humility, that he says: were. he slides with the cadence of the music; somehow, one of his tattooed hands arrives behind declan's neck, as if he needs him an inch or two closer in order to get a better look through his ar glasses.

grief makes his pupils big. or that might be some other high.]

Thought you were supposed to be the one who was gonna grow up and go into politics.

[dauntless_son]

[He looks at his partner more closely, as if he might better see through the mask.]

None of us are who we used to be.

[Politics might have been on the horizon once upon a time, but Declan had given up on that dream before ever coming here. Despite the conversation and the hand on the back of his neck, he continues to move smoothly, refusing to interrupt their dance due to the nature of their conversation.]

[pillz]

[there's a hypnotic cadence to the dance. always. it's hard to make out the notes, impossible to hum the tune later. kavinsky sways against the other boy, studying his face. the lynch brothers all look a little different, but the familial resemblance runs through them like a vein of gold.

he likes the clothes. cult's got a sense of fashion, if nothing else that kavinsky particularly wants or needs. his tattooed fingers relax on declan's neck. a single finger winds its way forward, to the slick cut of his collar, tracing the skin just beyond the hem, his fingernail just long enough to be felt. the corner of his mouth curls like a wicked hook.]

Who are you now, Mr. Lynch?