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

"I've been distracted, nothing more," Rey waves her hand dismissively at his appraisal, although her tone is decidedly much more defensive than she'd like to let on with her demeanor.

"I'm sure your people will forgive you for missing whatever annual self-indulgent ritual sex you perform before the Synod," Not that she usually does, but Rey really making no attempt to hide how she really feels about the Sanctum now. She has no actual basis for thinking that's the ceremony, but really there's nothing to point to it not being the ceremony.

"You don't have time to go back," she walks towards a train car, clearly expecting him to follow. "I'll have Kavinsky make you so you don't show up like-- that."

What, was Kylo expecting her to apologize or something?

Like an offhand thought that went forgotten before drifting back to the forefront of one's mind, Ronan is here. Unsummoned, but present nevertheless. Like Kylo, he's not prepared for either the ceremony or the Synod, but at least he's cloaked enough to go unrecognized from a distance.

"Did I miss the invite for this little party?" Ronan hisses softly, his icy gaze sliding from Rey to Kylo. "Or is Kavinsky going to be handling you from now on?"

And there he is. Kylo's irritation doesn't fade in the slightest, but with Ronan's appearance (frosty as it may be) the tension across his shoulders eases— only by a fraction, but enough for something about his posture to register as having changed. He meets Ronan's eyes.

"I wasn't invited," he replies with the sharpness of an anger belonging to something far older than Rey's faux pas, "And no-one is handling me."

Rey hasn't stopped to wait for them of course, which is aggravating— particularly as they will require her as cover if they want to avoid speculation of a different flavour altogether. The Supreme Leader choosing to visit the White Tower may be a potent seed for gossip, but the suggestion that he was taken against his will would settle far less pleasantly.

...which means, he'll be boarding the accursed Death Train eventually, once he can stomach the compliance of the act. Kylo Ren is not about to step through the White Tower's Gate to attend the Synod, after all.

"I will protect my Sanctum with a Dome of its own if I have to," he mutters, glaring furiously at Rey's back.

Notably, however, despite knowing he has little choice, he fails to take a single step towards the waiting train. Perhaps he does need a little handling after all?

She turns sharply when Kylo doesn't follow. Rey has long since gotten over any hangups confronting him in large or small ways. Of course he would be petty and stubborn enough to stand rooted on the platform.

"Ronan," Rey flashes a politician's smile that is completely devoid of any sort of warmth and yet still manages to be more infinitely more pleasant than what she offers to Kylo as she chooses to ignore The Supreme Leader's threats. "I don't believe you've ever had the pleasure of riding our train to the Synod."

"Not like Kylo," her eyes dart back to the Supreme Leader's, even the feigned generosity totally absent as her eyes narrow and her tone caustic, remembering the occasion. "If you're so interested in building domes I could pull you through this. I'm sure the firsthand view would be enlightening."

Ronan doesn't smile. He fixes a long stare on her, turning that threat over in his mind, and thanks the darkness of his hood for concealing the flush of quiet rage that rises to his cheeks. Only Kylo is near enough to see the hurt in Ronan's eyes when they return to him.

"How nostalgic this must be for you."

Nostalgic is certainly one word for it. The blaze of fury Ronan earns for his remark in the wake of Rey's obvious baiting is brief— Kylo crushes it down near-instantly— but quite clearly, a nerve has been hit. There's no trace of the hidden pleasure Kylo sometimes finds in the release of anger, no relief or exhilaration: this is rage-as-armour, not power. His focus drags back to Rey's face, but his words aren't for her.

"The White Tower hasn't changed."

He'd found the duplicity and treachery of its politics distasteful even then, stark in its contrast to the clarity of the arena. He adds: "It can't."

Judgement delivered, he extends his hand to gesture for Ronan to fall in step with him as he finally acquiesces. Fine. The Death Train it is— though anyone expecting him to be happy about it is going to be exceedingly disappointed.

On a normal day (whatever a normal day for a high ranking member of the White Tower parliament is), Rey might be able to hide the fact that she's bothered by that particularly judgement, but she knows neither will miss the way her jaw ticks in annoyance, teeth gritting together. In front of her citizens is no place to let her sharp tongue run wild.

Her saving grace is that the fact that she was so swiftly and adeptly able to get under the skin of both Ronan and Kylo, jabbing at their weak spots in a way only she is so adeptly practiced in. Even better is sowing discord between the two of them. Her satisfaction from that accomplishment just edges out her irritation.

"That only speaks to how exceedingly out of touch you are, exiled in the Arctic," she can't not not defend her Empire, especially given the role Kylo had in concretely setting her down this path, his rejection acted like gasoline on the young embers of her fury.

"You can use my private car," and how generous she is, not making the pair fight for a spot among her citizens for no purpose other than to feed the rumor mill.

With so many eyes on them, the smartest thing to do would be to slip out of corporeal form and make the short journey to the car while hiding under Kylo's skin. There will be rumors either way. Better that they're rumors about two instead of three. But doing that would mean sharing his mind with Kylo, the last thing Ronan wants to do in Rey's company.

"Are you sure it's wise," Ronan murmurs, mostly for Kylo's ear, "to keep me so close when there's work to do? If something goes wrong, better it goes wrong in a luggage car. I'm sure the two of you would enjoy your privacy, anyway."

"I don't want you out of my sight," Kylo tells Ronan sharply, furious that he has to— but that can wait until they're alone. He turns his attention back to their host— his would-be kidnapper— who is, predictably, making absolutely no effort to conceal her enjoyment of his aggravation.

"Perhaps I prefer being left out of touch," he retorts in a particularly flat tone. "Generous as your offer is. You've been distracted enough."

"Nonsense," Rey is really not giving them any options. "Maybe I can finally get a few uninterrupted hours if it looks like I'm entertaining company."

Everyone always has some fire these days, and Rey really does not want to be interrupted when she is already running damage control.

"Or I could grab Dooku if you prefer him as an escort," she threatens casually. "Or maybe Ruka? She's quite chatty, so I'm sure she'll help pass the time quickly. Friendly too. She'll be happy to help explain your absence from your ceremony to any of your people."

It had taken a number of years, but Rey finally seems to fully grasp the potential of words as weapons and she's happy to point out just how unappealing every other option really is.

Ronan falls silent now, apparently chastened by Kylo's fury. Once that decision's been made, there's really no argument he can offer to counter it. The truth is, he is safer under Kylo's supervision. There's usually no question about that.

Rey, though. If they both go with her, then he'll spend the better part of this journey paralyzed and defenseless beside her. Kylo knows that, too. So either he's fully confident that he can overpower the woman who's supposedly his match in every sense, or this is all going according to plan.

Ignorant of the minor debacle taking place just yards away, and growing closer by the second, the High Chancellor is busy with his own efforts, part of which has been, conveniently, to get out of his wife's way for the journey ahead. Where did that tablet- aha!

With the device tucked beneath his arm, and two chrome-faced Legion droids behind him, he heads back out of the private car, and turns to face the small party on their way in.

"Oh." Stark's gaze slides from Rey to Kylo, Kylo to... that shadow must be Ronan, then right back to Rey, taking in the tense expressions of all. And he just smiles. Do I even want to know? "Hello, dear."

Nope. He makes to move around them, not waiting for replies, offering one last polite: "Gentlemen, enjoy your journey," and then he's gone with his escort, to safer, less fraught waters.

Edited 2020-09-19 22:38 (UTC)

In such close quarters, the dyad is alive with how loudly and clearly it buzzes between them. Rey offers Tony a thin smile as he moves past, catching the door of her compartment and holding it open for her guests.

Even without the Force, Kylo could probably still hear her threat I will actually throw you off this train and watch your very essence be torn apart across the multiverse if he does not wait until they are in the safety of a private compartment to say anything.

Say anything? Why would Kylo need to say anything? He watches the still very much alive High Chancellor Stark saunter past, eyes tracking his progress right up to the point he and his escort disappear from view...

...and then he slowly, slowly turns back, dark gaze sliding to Rey's face, which is about all the comment he needs to make, really.

I've been Distracted seems to cover it, he supposes?

"Here," he directs Ronan, guiding him to take the spot in the corner, putting as much of himself between Ronan and Rey as he can. A failed assassination doesn't necessarily preclude another attempt, after all.

How merciful, that the hood was there to cover the unmitigated shock on Ronan's face as Stark strode past. He's unmoored now. Either he misunderstood everything or he's been deliberately misled. He hates both possibilities, and the third — that Rey might have somehow been too incompetent to carry out her plan — doesn't occur to him at all.

Dazed, he takes his place in the corner without protest. Now that they're in the privacy of the compartment, he finally unveils his face. Somehow he manages to look paler than usual.

There is a giant bantha in the room, but Rey is undoubtedly stubborn enough to not address it. Yes, the High Chancellor is very much alive and well. What of it? And she did say by Synod's end didn't she?

Her mood is thoroughly soured, though, if the way she falls back into the bench across from them, crossing her legs to take up as much space as she pleases.

"Ronan, you look like you're desperately in need of a drink."

She is too, so excuse her as she pulls out her comm and orders some to be delivered from the buffet car.

Kylo, for his part, waits until they're all settled. Registering Ronan's bewilderment, he reaches out to lay a steadying hand on his knee almost instinctively, then looks over to the bench opposite, watching Rey busying herself with her comm.

"He looks well," he comments flatly.

Ronan looks at the hand on his knee like he's surprised to find it there, though Kylo's comforted him with that gesture a thousand times before. Everything feels strangely new all of the sudden, a foreign experience beyond the novelty of riding the train for the first time. He isn't sure he recognizes the Kylo who's sitting beside him, and he has no idea what to make of Rey. All that's clear to him is the danger.

"This isn't a good idea," he says abruptly to Kylo, ignoring Rey's commentary altogether. "I shouldn't be here."

At that interjection, Kylo loses all interest in needling Rey about her plans. It isn't just the words Ronan uses, and in response it isn't just Kylo's head that turns towards Ronan but his whole upper body. His thoughts, his attention.

"This wasn't my idea," Kylo reminds him, the earlier irritation refusing to surface while Ronan feels so strangely distant. Concerned confusion flows in to take its place. "And none of us should be here."

He lifts a hand to Ronan's face, searching his eyes as he seeks connection.

"We aren't inside it yet," he murmurs. "Are you asking me to give you permission to leave?"

Because Ronan could leave, if he wanted— until they pass the threshold of the Deathdome, he could be back in the Sanctum in the space of a thought. But Kylo can't go with him.

Ronan holds Kylo's gaze, searching it, too. Searching for... something. He doesn't know how he's supposed to find it when he doesn't know what he's looking for. It feels like he's dreaming already, digging through the dirt to unearth an idea that hasn't decided on a shape yet.

If he leaves, Kylo can't go with him. That's enough to make him hesitate. He doesn't want Kylo out of his sight, either. He has a terrible feeling that if he returns to the Sanctum now, they won't find each other again.

"It'll be a nightmare," he explains slowly. "I feel it." And though part of him would relish tearing Rey limb from limb, what if he damages the shielding or destroys the car?

Kylo considers. His thumb brushes over Ronan's cheek as he cradles his face in the warm, broad palm of his hand. "If it will be a bigger nightmare than I am, we wait," he decides. "It isn't a long journey."

Rey is slipping.

She lets out a short puff of air from her nose, just absolutely radiating jealousy as she watches the exchange of protective affection between the two of them. She feels her chest clench. It's not as if she needs Kylo but she can't help but take it as a display of what she can't have.

"If Ronan wants to go you should let him," she offers plainly.

Ronan leans into that touch, his attention wholly fixed on Kylo. The wrongness of this whole scene doesn't fade, but Kylo at least is recognizable like this, soothing him and siding with him. Maybe there really is no conspiracy and only one person in this car wants him dead.

"I don't want to go," Ronan says, holding Kylo's eyes a moment longer before sliding his gaze to Rey. He doesn't lift his cheek from Kylo's palm, waiting instead for Kylo to decide whether to push him away or pull him closer. "I just have to stay awake."

Perhaps it's uncharacteristically merciful of him, but Kylo doesn't make the comment he could about Rey's somewhat inconsistent approach when it comes to affording people their autonomy. He does, however, repeat the gentle pass of his thumb in response to Ronan's answer before letting his hand fall back to rest on his knee again. It's gratitude.

"I'm sure we can keep you entertained," he tells Ronan, though his gaze too has slid back to Rey's face. The First Lady who would be High Chancellor and the puzzle of her unassassinated husband. "Our host was about to tell us a story."

How sweet and tender. Hers and Kylo's time together in the White Tower feels like it was a lifetime ago, and truthfully it might as well have been. She needed no one but herself to protect herself from the cutthroat cruelty of this world. She would have probably laughed if Kylo had ever laid a hand on her knee to act as her protector. She would balk at the idea that she has ever been fragile enough to needed amor besides herself.

Why then do her fingers twitch at her own bare knee and why is envy so plainly bubbling up into her stomach?

"If you're going to taunt me then I'd rather get it out of the way."

SEPTEMBER 14TH, 2020: THE SYNOD IS CONVENING.

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