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f20202020-09-15 12:53 am
- allison hargreeves ⧓ krakoa,
- anders ⧒ the white tower,
- beckett mariner ⧓ twin cities,
- cecelia ardenbury ⧓ olin vale,
- count dooku ⧓ the white tower,
- david alleyne ⧓ krakoa,
- declan lynch ⧓ sanctum aurorae,
- finn onaru ⧒ the white tower,
- fuu hououji ⧓ eden,
- jin bubaigawara ⧒ twin cities,
- jonathan walsh ⧓ northwestern imperium,
- kang ⧓ seekers of the new dawn,
- kylo ren ⧓ sanctum aurorae,
- lucina ⋈ ␣,
- luther hargreeves ⧓ krakoa,
- midnighter ⧒ the white tower,
- number five hargreeves ⧓ krakoa,
- padmé amidala ⧓ luminary,
- pepper potts ⋈ the white tower,
- rey ⧓ the white tower,
- ronan lynch ⧓ sanctum aurorae,
- rude ⧒ olin vale,
- stephen strange ⧓ the white tower,
- tony stark ⧓ the white tower,
- wei wuxian ⧓ house of m,
- wen ning ⋈ house of m,
- xue yang ⧓ sanctum aurorae
SEPTEMBER 14TH, 2020: THE SYNOD IS CONVENING.
THE SYNOD
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.
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
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.
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.
no subject
[ This whole situation is something of a living nightmare, but — well, here she is. She got lucky enough with her untested powers to pass Kavinsky's test to actually get into the room, but she hadn't fully anticipated the size of the audience. On top of all that, she's without her empathy, so it's a hell of a lot harder to read the room. It's nerve-wracking in a way nothing else has been this week, but... it's not like she has that much to lose here.
So she's in a chair pulled up to Tony's bedside, hands folded neatly across her lap. A little nervous, but holding steady. ]
From what I've been told, there's a dissonance between what you remember right now, and what's recently happened to you. [ She should probably not open with "bee tee dubs, you got assassinated." ] It might be a physical trauma, but if it's because someone altered your memories, I should be able to undo the damage. If something else happened, instead... I want to help.
[ That's really no reason for him to trust her, especially given the situation. She doesn't even know how much time they'll give her for this. She scoots a little closer to the edge of her seat. ]
Do you recognize me? Or those people at the door?
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There's also a very weird buzzing in his ears, the softness of background static, as if someone's got an old crt turned on somewhere in the room. Tony can't devote the time to figuring it out, not with Ruka's launch into an explanation, one that doesn't make a damn bit of sense.
'what's recently happened to you'
'it might be physical trauma'
'someone altered your memories'
Fuck. Was he attacked? Do they think he's dangerous? None of these people are anyone he'd consider himself particularly close to, on his list of emergency contacts in a crisis. Where's Jane Foster, or David Alleyne? )
Ruka, ( he tells her impatiently, annoyed and alarmed, the prickle of cold sweat between his shoulder blades, ) Kavinsky. Uhh...Cheeto.
( Assuredly not her name, but an association: a young woman in desert kit, with the blown pupils of a stellar high and munchies to accompany it. Tony corrects himself: ) Rey.
Ruka, what is this? What do you mean, 'damage', what the Hell happened to me?
no subject
She doesn't have a lot of time, though — he's stressed, obviously, impatient and bound, and the less she can tell him, the less information she'll get in return. He might not trust everything she tells him, but it's not like she can trust anyone else to say it. ]
Right now, we're at the Synod — an annual convention for imPorts of different factions to come together and talk peace for the coming year — hosted inside the Porter building of this world. Our faction is the White Tower, one of the most powerful territories. Politically and otherwise.
The leader of the White Tower, High Chancellor Tony Stark— [ Ruka lays her hand against his shoulder, but not for comfort; she speaks in that same low voice, calmly factual, but a little more quickly now. ] —was assassinated here at the Synod, by parties unknown. Nobody can leave the building until this thing is over. Whoever's responsible for that is still here at this convention. The Tony Stark that woke up after that resurrection is you.
Does any of that ring a bell?
no subject
Ruka's hand is slightly warm through his shirt, grounding against the slow spread of clammy fear steadily climbing his spine. Tony closes his fingers into fists at his side, breathing slow. Okay.
Okay, think. The last time he met Ruka was... At the swear-in, where they talked about... right. Death and the likely or unlikely odds of the resurrection of imPorts in this world. Taking another breath, rolling his head back against the pillow, he sits up a fraction, glancing again at Rey and Kavinsky, two people whose presences he hasn't squared away yet in his working 'this is a really ill-executed prank' theory. )
I think if you file the names off your fanfic, E. L. James, you've got yourself a story. Now let me go.
no subject
She doesn't put any extra weight on him when he tries to move, but her hand stays where it is. It isn't really for his sake; she's supposed to be using her power to "fix" what's wrong with him, and she did tell Kavinsky she needed this close of a proximity to do it. It's a visual flag that she's not just here chatting. ]
Not my story. Not my call. [ She doesn't turn her head, but she cants her attention a little to indicate Rey at the door — a small enough gesture that they shouldn't notice, from across the room, but one Tony can't miss. She may not have handcuffs on, but her hands are just as certainly tied.
But it's proof enough: like her, he's woken up in the life of another self. He just had the misfortune of even worse timing. But what is she supposed to do now? She might be able to slice open the cuffs with a bit of concentrated light, but she's not built for combat. Her best attempt would just leave them all dead. Succinctly? Shit's fucked.
Now, how do you tell a guy you've only talked to once, "hey, I know none of this makes sense, but not only is everything I told you true, but also you and I are in the same weird universe-hopping boat, and it would be exceedingly dangerous for other people to figure that out" ? If he remembered her name, then maybe he remembers their conversation, too. If he does, then... ]
Sorry, Stark. [ How did he put it...? ] But it looks like your extra credits wound up in the wrong arcade cabinet.
no subject
Tony follows the tilt of Ruka's head toward Rey, cottoning on- her idea, she's running the show -while also adding to his bafflement, his memory of her at odds with the image presented before him. If I was 'assassinated' and the killer's still loose, for fuck's sake why am I the one restrained?
The conversation he had with Ruka was months ago by his reckoning, but it was one of those he remembered vividly, for the frankness with which she was willing to discuss the topic of death. He hadn't forgotten his stupid metaphor either, useful as it's abruptly become.
When the penny drops, it's instantaneous. Unbeknownst to him, Rey can probably sense the sudden, inescapable dread that rolls right through and off him, the color draining from his face. The Porter. He'd come through the Porter again, feeling like death warmed over, because he was ported into someone else's body, someone who reigned and died for it.
...oh shit. Shit shit shit– )
Ruka, ( he murmurs urgently, fighting to keep his voice level through the tightness in his throat, )
These other, ah, cabinets, new editions?
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It had started fine, but this exchange of metaphors, one that she doesn't understand, along with Tony's spiking sense of alarm is enough for Rey to want to act. Ruka and her husband had never been particularly close, so why would they easily fall into coded language?
It doesn't smell right, and she shouldn't let this go on any longer. ]
That's enough. You're stressing him out.
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But Ruka is good at managing her own emotions — you have to be, when you grow up an empath — so when she does speak, the contrition is sincere. ]
I'm sorry. [ Her eye closes; when it opens, she pivots in her chair, facing Rey directly. The guilt and the disappointment of failure are true, too. She just has to line it up with what she's said to get into the room. ] But I thought... if there was some power there, blocking his memories, then there'd be resistance when his thoughts pushed that way. Then I could undo it. I can't feel anything like that, though.
I can't fix this. I'm sorry.
no subject
He has no context for how to deal with this new!Rey as she approaches, not when his last memory of her was buying her snacks and splitting a bag of chili-lime Cheetos under a sweltering, afternoon Nevada sun. What even is her whole, relationship to this ensemble cast here? Her presence is definitely stressful by itself, and he's got to take a moment to marshal the panic he's tasting at the back of his throat.
So. Good Little Obedient Hostage, or Willfully Defiant Prick? And where is that fucking buzzing noise coming from? )
It's fine, Ruka. Honestly, if I could just, maybe, stretch my legs that would help-
no subject
[ Her dress, tone, and demeanor is a far cry from the desert wanderer, and not just because she happens to be sober here. And if he isn't willing to cooperate, Rey isn't afraid to help him along with a little bit of Force.
Not quite yet, though. She doesn't want this on display for everyone. ]
Ruka, you're dismissed.
no subject
Whatever change she wants to make, it has to be outside this room.
Ruka pushes herself up from the chair, brushes the dust from the skirt of her dress, and doesn't protest — her posture at full rise is with hands clasped together in front of her, in sight, shoulders slumped for the failure in the task.
A slight bow. ] High Chancellor Palpatine, [ spoken in the place of a farewell; it's nowhere near all that she would tell Stark about his predicament, if they had more privacy and more time, but it's context and it's excuse for why she can't help him more. Not in this moment, anyway.
Without allowing herself to look back, Ruka moves past Rey and towards the door for Kavinsky to let her out. ]
no subject
Steeling himself, he rolls his shoulders and gives the High Chancellor a sidelong glance. )
...okay seriously, am I the only one who can hear that? Which one of you left the tv on? The radio? They should really get an electrician up here–
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And to keep up appearances as the concerned wife in front of Kavinsky... ]
Your technopathy. It's too much here when you don't know how to wield it. [ She lays a hand on his forehead. ] Sleep, and you can practice when we return home.
[ And then she'll extinguish his consciousness like turning off a light. ]
no subject
Waitwaitwait-
( Rey's hand is cool against his flushed skin, and before he can even get the question started, the veil drops, and then there is nothing else. )