f2020 | SEPTEMBER 14TH, 2020: THE SYNOD IS CONVENING.

SEPTEMBER 14TH, 2020: THE SYNOD IS CONVENING.

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

One week in, and Ruka is no closer to getting home. She has more information on the world she's stranded in, but still no allies. All the people she could have called friends only know an imPort's existence in this world; what others might be in her position seem to be... also in her position — keeping their heads down low enough to avoid widespread attention, to keep out of the clutches of the powers that rule this world. Information flows out of sight, and hers is limited already. The Ruka who lived in this world isn't trusted by anyone; there's no one here she can trust, either.

It'll be harder to keep her cover at the Synod, surrounded by the imPorts of this world, but it's her best bet at finding the others like her — the ones that don't belong here. They have to find their way back. It's only been one week, but it's been the loneliest week of her life.

⧒

♥ The Death Train

The Gate would be the faster way to get to the Cape, instantaneous, but the train departs from the White City, and despite the name it seems like the wiser choice. Ruka has read about the Deathdome, but not yet experienced it; the time to prepare, the time to learn more about this world seems a necessary sacrifice.

It is a huge mistake.

The view out the windows is no view at all — it's not merely land that has been razed, or a portal through some other dimension of ghastly visions. There are no true colors, no images, nothing her mind's eye can wrap into shapes or places or faces or anything of the world that is supposed to be here. It's crushing, in a way beyond pressure and weight; it is overwhelming, in a grander scope than size or intensity. It is an ever-changing tableau of chaos, of, of nothing, with nothing to mark the distance traveled.

When she goes to the buffet car for some kind of distraction, her face is flushed and puffy from crying; muffins and mimosas are little comfort, and there's no thought given for the image she's meant to project. Her heart aches too much for artifice.

"Do they even know," she murmurs, gaze still lost to that strange nothingness-and-everythingness beyond the glass, "how many people died?"

⧒

♥ Synod — "Daylight"

The first thing on the first day agenda for Ruka is to lock herself in her assigned suite and pull herself back together, but after that, it's show time. The mask comes back on, and the Ruka that flits from the panels to the expos to the restaurants is one with an easy, practiced smile. At the Synod, there's no real telling whether it's day or night without a watch, but during these hours dress is more comfortably casual — slacks, and fitted tees, hair worn down, straight and loose.

If she recognizes you (or, rather, if she knows she's supposed to), she's quick with a wave and a smile and to hurry over for a warm greeting, but there is something different about her. It doesn't go with her outfit at all, but there's a blue ribbon tied around her right wrist. Weird.

But more likely than any of those places, Ruka is most often found at the Porter itself. There's no levity here: her expression is always tight with focus, her thoughts consumed. "Would that work," you might hear her ask herself — too distracted with hypothetical possibilities to notice a quiet voyeur. An "is that enough energy" here, a soft "that might kill me, but" there...

⧒

♥ Synod — Nighttime

Although this bitch probably does need an empty stomach to yeet herself to the proper dimension, it's impossible to come up with a plan on one, so dinner it is. She eats lightly, talks moderately, and drinks heavily — it's a bad combination and a bad reaction, but she's tired, and stressed, and wants nothing more than to sleep in her own bed.

Still... the possibility exists that she's not alone here.

Her dress for the nights' activities are more formal — each night a new entry in a series of flowing white dresses — but here, too, she wears that blue ribbon tied around her right wrist. As the ballroom is made darker, she occasionally uses her new power to make that cloth glow a little with that same blue light. Nothing big, nothing most people should notice, she hopes... but anyone who's ever been branded the same way should recognize it. She hopes. She hopes...

But no matter what faction you are — whether friend, or stranger, or declared enemy — Ruka is easy to approach. She never turns down a drink, and she never turns down a dance, and she's quick to offer them to anyone who lingers alone for too long. A dance is the easiest way to have a private conversation, after all... and there are too many things that cannot be said in the open.

⧒

♥ Last Dance ✘ Closed Prompt

Enclosed as this place is, it's a huge space and filled with so many people — it feels like it should be the easiest thing in the world to avoid one person. It's no one who means her harm, or anyone she hates. Quite the opposite.

Of course, that's the problem.

And it should be easy to fall back into old habits — Ruka actually spent several years doing everything in her power to avoid Jaime Reyes, not that long ago... but it's a lot easier to avoid the specter of a lost friend than it is the distortion of an absent husband. Any time they're in the same room, she can pick Jaime's voice out without turning her head; any time they're near to each other, her eye catches sight of him in every crowd, and she's forced to look away, to find distraction somewhere else. Her nails dig crescents in her palms, so often and so deep that the marks remain long after her heart has settled back into its normal rhythm.

She just has to get through the end of the night. And then through the end of every night thereafter.

⧒

♥ Wildcard

[ For scenes that don't quite fit the above; feel free to hit me up @

magicite for more specific plotting. ]

"Two million. Roughly," Stark states at her shoulder, calm and composed. Ruka isn't the only one not partaking of the various brunch-y offerings on the train; he watches the lack of scenery fly past with an even, inscrutable expression.

"I wasn't around to see it, or the immediate aftermath, but I was told it happened very quickly." Not really a comfort, not when he'd first heard of it, either. Quick or not, two million people were just. Gone, and there was nothing that could be done about it.

Ruka jolts in her seat at being answered — at being heard — and there's instinctive gesture to scrub out whatever tears linger at the corner of her eye. The other Ruka was probably able to present numb to this sort of thing by now, after so long, but this one can't imagine she ever truly moved past it.

"It's... hard for me to remember," she answers finally, glancing up at Tony's reflection against the glass. The image of him is both consumed by the visual noise outside the train and yet separate from it; it's hard to look at, but it's easier than turning her head and letting him see her face. "I was really young back then. I didn't understand a lot of the things that happened."

Like her, this Ruka had become an imPort at eleven years old. And like her, she knows that girl had been stranded in a country she didn't know, with no friends or peers, burdened by duty and powerless to fulfill it.

"... There isn't anything I could have done. But... I still don't know how to keep it from happening again."

Few of them understood it then; even today, even after so much of his own research, he sometimes still felt no closer to the truth of it. The Deathdome as it exists shouldn't be. This scant week of protection against its atom-shearing nature should be impossible, but here they are, speeding along in safe luxury.

"Maintain peace. Protect the Porter from harm. Seems easy enough, right?"

It's not, and every Synod he feels it, the low anxiety that something might happen in spite of all the Tower's careful planning and security. Something certainly will, and he's made his peace with it, but they can't allow the Porter to fall in his absence. He drags his gaze away from the unsettling sight outside, looking down at Ruka with a perfunctory smile, the kind meant to soothe but knows it won't, and tugs the pale blue handkerchief from his breast pocket to offer to her. "It'll be fine. Nothing's going to happen to it while the First Lady and I are here."

There is a hesitation when he offers the handkerchief — it's in the pinch of her lips and at the corners of her mouth, in the way her fingers retreat back towards her palm — but she takes it in silence. She blots the tears at her living eye, and gently dabs around the edge of her eye patch to catch any that have escaped to her cheek. Alone she might be quicker about it, less delicate, but she doesn't want to risk dislodging anything.

The sight outside the window is worse, but that doesn't make the injury any easier to look at.

With a final breath to steel her nerves, Ruka finally properly turns to look up at Tony. It's hard to judge how old he is, but there's more age in his face than the one she'd encountered most recently, in the other world. It's a lot different than looking at photos and videos, too; there are things even cameras can't catch. Ruka may not have her empathy here, but she has a trained eye that's keener than most.

"If it were as easy as it sounds," she says, offering a wry little smile in return, "you'd let other people do it."

And if he were so sure things would be fine, she doesn't think it would be both of them leaving the White Tower for this. A great deal can happen in a week, and no matter how fractured their community, no matter what world it is — the biggest threat to imPorts is never really other imPorts. It only makes sense to be like this if whatever might happen at the Synod is more immediately dangerous than whatever might happen everywhere outside it.

With that in mind... Ruka's mouth pulls a little more firmly at one corner, visibly uncertain, and her fingers twist in the loaned kerchief.

"Isn't there... anything I can do? To help?"

Bracelet girl! Looks like you got a replacement.

[ Claude calls out to her as he strides over, one thumb tucked into his pocket, and his other hand still holding a soda water with lime. His voice is filled with levity, but something in his expression isn't. He's a hard one to read, Claude, but Ruka's always done well with that sort of thing. ]

You seem distracted. Penny for your thoughts?

[ She's able to keep herself from jumping at the sound, but barely; instead tension seizes in her arms and releases, and she's able to put on a pleasant face before she looks at her intruder.

The voice alone wasn't enough to place, but paired with the face, it's someone — one of the guys who replied to her post, and so with no memory of the other place. A dead end. ]

Ah, this? [ She turns her wrist, showing the ribbon. ] It's more of a placeholder. I haven't gotten mine back, yet.

Even though the Network is meant for all of us, it doesn't seem like most people really use it. [ All charming smiles. ] So the people who know something about it might not know that I'm looking for it.

[ Hmmmm not answering that other question though. She folds her arms behind her back, casual. ]

I don't think I ever caught your name.

No? How rude of me.

[ Claude holds his hand out for her to shake. That seems to be the thing that they do here. It's always best to fit in. ]

Claude von Riegen. And you're Ruka. [ He winks at her. ] Bracelet girl is just a cute nickname.

[ And an indication that he remembered her. It might make him seem more trustworthy. Or less. Nobody seems to trust anyone around here. ]

So, this is the Porter, huh? Strange to think that this small thing controls the destiny of everyone who's wound up here. That's a lot of weight for one thing. [ He glances over at her. ] Honestly, I'm surprised not more people have come to see it.

[ Oh, he's a flirt. That's dangerous. Not because she's tempted by it — it's been like a week and a half, she's not that pathetic — but because, by all rights, she should be. The Ruka of this world is as promiscuous as her peers, and untethered to any commitments. She has a reputation here, a history.

And, if she's lucky, he doesn't know the first thing about it.

Well. That's a problem for Ruka of the... near and immediate future, but not the present; there's a brief hesitation, but Ruka shakes the hand offered. It's still weird not to get any emotional feedback from it. It gives Claude an easier look at the burn scar-like marking along her right arm. Don't mind that. Not a big deal. ]

A pleasure to meet you, von Riegen. [ No formality of title, but no familiarity of a given name. Considering she... can't... give... her surname... this is cheating, she doesn't care. Ruka releases his hand, and moves to fold her arms behind her back, turning to give the great machine a bit more attention. ]

The things with the most influence tend not to look that way, I think. Things would probably be a lot different, if the surface of things always matched the truth of them.

[ She hums a little, making a slow orbit of the machine. ]

Other people probably have the right idea, though. Staying away. If anything goes wrong, this would be the worst place to be.

[ Claude wrinkles his nose. ]

Please, von Riegan is far too stuffy. And you won't even grant me the honour of returning it. [ A one name wonder. He can't fault her. ] Call me Claude. It's not as though our names mean much here.

[ It's probably a giveaway that he's not nobody back home, but Claude isn't interested in concealing that. His name is certainly on the more formal side by his world's standards, and besides, it may lend him a certain mystique to the right person.

He's not sure if Ruka's that person, though. She's friendly, but he can tell when his charms are falling flat. His eyes linger on her marking, curious. Whatever he has in mind, he doesn't voice it. ]

To tell you the truth, I'm not sure if it matters how close we are to it so long as we're in the same building. If something with that much power blows, I doubt it will be contained to the one room. Just being here is a risk.

[ He raises a brow at her. ]

Not that that reasoning's stopped you.

Well, the shielding outside the building seems to be enough to protect us total ongoing destruction. I would hope whoever did the interior wasn't stupid enough to let that be the only safety measure around here.

[ But, of course, such high hopes hinge upon anyone in this forsaken version of reality to think about more than just their pieces on the Risk board, and about the table and the room where the game is played — but that might be expecting too much. As she rounds the machine, she presses on. ]

As for my name — I'd give it if I could, but... [ She shouldn't say anything at all, but— ] —the person I share it with doesn't know that we do, and... I'm sure that person would resent the connection.

[ She shrugs. ]

As for my reasoning... well. There really isn't any risk too great for me. And you, Claude? What kind of risk are you taking, to stay here?

[ Claude opens his mouth.

Then he shuts it. Those heavy, handsome brows of his furrow together, his mouth tightening briefly into a seldom-seen frown (or, at least, seldom seen by the public; Hilda has a habit of smacking his arm and telling him he's going to get wrinkles if he doesn't cut that out). ]

Right. Normally, I'm not one to reject the questions of a lady. [ He absolutely is. ] But you can't say something like that and expect me to simply carry on our conversation. What do you mean the person you share it with doesn't remember?

[ That's a big thing to give away upon first, second meeting. Colour Claude intrigued. ]

[ The look of surprise crosses her face, even if only for a moment before settling back into something calmer. Ruka's a talker, an explainer — the type of person people turn to for understanding about this or that history, or some event, or a way into a culture or a world they don't understand. She gets a lot of questions.

It's rare that those questions are ever about her — that people are actually interested in what she says about herself. It's strange that he does, despite not knowing her, despite her role in this world being so much less than she's been forced into elsewhere.

Still. It's not an easy answer to give. ]

I didn't say he doesn't remember. He doesn't know. Doesn't need to, either. [ Her head cants, gaze moving up toward the ceiling, trying to find some way to say it without saying it. ] Mmm. I don't remember the family name I was born with. Even before I got here, it'd been so long since I'd seen my parents, I could barely remember them. So, for all that time, I've only had the one name.

... I was... given the chance, to adopt the name of the person most important to me. So I did. But the person who gave it to me isn't here, and the person who shares that name doesn't know it happened in the first place.

[ She shrugs, letting her hands move, fidget and fold over her lap. ]

It would make things easier for me, if he doesn't find out.

You didn't. But, you see, when you say stuff like that, we're left to draw our own conclusions until you elaborate.

[ Jeez, that was a curveball to throw in an ordinary first conversation. And what was with that look of surprise? He can't believe that anyone would hear her say something like that and not comment. Not only is it lacking in curiosity -- it's just rude!

Not that her explanation makes much sense either. He has a feeling she's talking about something that's all a bit bigger than the conversation that they're having. Still, Claude can relate, or he thinks he can from what he's incorrectly surmised. Family names are complicated. Not everyone is all right with you being a part of them, essentially. And when you're not wanted, you know. ]

...I'm sorry. That sounds like a tough situation. He won't hear it from me, whoever he is. You have my word.

Would he try to take it from you?

[ It's a moment like this that the absence of her empathy hits harder — it would be a lot easier to tell if he believed in the strength of his word, at least. It wouldn't be enough to sway her into saying more than she intends, of course, but it would be nice to know one way or the other.

She considers the question, head tilting. What would this Jaime think of Ruka Reyes? With what he knows of that other her... and what he knows of himself? ]

Mmm... Say that it's not mine to use, I think. Or else... might feel obligated to have some connection with me, because of it. Like... finding out your father had kids in a secret marriage, or that you were separated from a twin at birth, but learning about it through... someone else.

[ It's still a bit heavy, but Ruka shrugs, waving her hand as though to thin out smoke. ]

Honestly, I'm pretty used to that kind of thing, so it's not really a big deal. It's only that I don't want it to become a big deal because of other people, you know? I have more important things to worry about.

I don't know if I'd say it's not a big deal.

[ It seems like a really big deal, in fact. Just one that's a fact of life for this woman, something she's learned to live with, or is learning to live with. That's the best thing you can do. Move on, and ignore anyone who'd want to rip who you are from out of your hands. They'll all be left behind in the end, anyway. ]

But I understand where you're coming from. You can do without inviting some problems into your life. [ He raises a brow. ] So! What are these other things?

[ The Bubaigawaras at the Synod (there's four of them there in total) are currently on tense terms but trying to mingle. Two of them are talking to each other when one of them spots Ruka and pulls them both over. That one's grinning at her.

"Miss Ruka! I hear you're a fan of the good life. You ever consider stopping by the Twin Cities sometime?"

The other one is quieter and isn't really looking at her with that same brand recognition - he'd only ever talked to her briefly with Voice over the Network after all, and in fact looks a little bit like he's trying to hide confusion. But what does seem to catch his attention is that blue ribbon around her wrist, his eyebrows raising.

"Don't you think she'd be a good fit, Jin?" says the other one. ]

Huh? Yeah, a great fit! Wouldn't fit at all!

[ "...What?" ]

[ It's a suddenly overwhelming moment: where once Ruka was on her own, scoping for some robotic waiter with a fresh tray of champagne, she's instead confronted by triplets. The faces she recognizes from this world — a city full of only one man does get talked about a lot — but the voice is someone she's talked to in the place before.

Her hands come up a moment, a sort of hold your horses, hold your applause gesture of calming. ]

Guys, guys, slow down! What's this about visiting?

[ They might have the same face, but these guys all wear it a little differently — and the one is wearing it in a totally different mood than the other two. What's going on with him? ]

Is there something special going on?

[ The Jins look at each other, except for Twice who's still looking at Ruka, feeling like her voice is familiar but trying to place it.

"We're making our town the go to destination!" "Politics this, politics that - why can't we all just have fun?" "Be nice to have a fresh face around!"

Twice rolls his eyes and sighs. He gets the sentiment - of course he does, they're him - but he's not inclined to recruit tight now. ]

Hey, maybe let her get a word in edgewise!

[ Okay, yeah, there's definitely something weird going on here. She glances at the odd one out with a little more focus, a silent thanks in the slight movement of her lips, before she looks back to the other two with a bright smile — practiced and pixel-perfect. It's an easy trip to agree to: once the Synod is over, and she has a chance to go home and recoup for a day or two, she can swing by to see what they've done with the place.

But that odd one out... ]

Were you wondering about this? [ she asks, tilting her hand with the ribbon around the wrist. She's smiling while she talks, but it doesn't reach her eye — she's watching his face for reaction. ] It doesn't look like this, but I lost something like a bracelet this color, about a week ago.

Have you seen it?

Huh?

[ "What, you would've lost it in White Tower territory, wouldn't you?"

Twice frowns as the other Jins cheerfully joke about it. He feels like he's being sent a message but --

It clicks. No way, it has to be a coincidence right? But how to check without the other Jins catching on?]

Sorry, doesn't register with me! But losing something like that must be pretty unsettling, huh?

[ Oh, thank god.

It's definitely only the one of the three that has any idea what she's talking about, so she makes sure not to smile directly at that one when she replies. ]

Sometimes these things wind up farther away than any one person can get to.

But, if you find it—

[ Here she digs a moment through her bag to retrieve the complimentary tablet, and after a moment of cycling through the apps, she punches her suite number into one of the text apps. ]

—or if you know anything about it, swing by later, okay? [ Ruka rotates the tablet to each of the triplets in turn. She doesn't want to blow her cover, and it seems like he's trying hard to keep his, too. Hopefully he'll be able to break away from the pack so they can actually talk. ] You'd really be my hero, you know? It means a lot to me.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

SEPTEMBER 14TH, 2020: THE SYNOD IS CONVENING.

Ruka ⧒ the White Tower ⧒ most prompts ota

Death train

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the porter

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nighttime; i can't remember if this was exactly what we discussed re AU stuff so lmk if ok

idr either but IT WORKS FOR ME :3

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