f2020 | 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

[Kirk stares at the hand pointed in his general direction, as if unsure of its meaning despite the owner of said hand making its meaning quite clear.]

Me?

[Kirk, for his part, has his hair slicked back and in a plain black suit in his attempt to be passable compared to everyone around him.]

You? Hmmm.

[ Claude makes a show of leaning to the side, as if searching for someone behind Kirk. He leans left. He leans right. Then he looks back at Kirk. ]

Well, I don't see anyone else sitting here, so I must be talking to you. If you like, of course. But dancefloors are made for dancing. I personally recommend giving it a shot.

[Did the gala run out of eligible partners or something? Still, Kirk shrugs.]

Will I start a civil war if I accidentally step on your toes?

[Gallows humor is the best humor, right?]

If that's what's on the line, then I'm surprised anyone shows up to dance at all. I've heard of some high-pressure political affairs, but that's just taking it too far, [ Claude says with a small grin. The hand he had outstretched to Kirk lands on his hip, natural as it can be, as though he'd never offered in the first place. ]

I'm afraid I have no such pull. I just got here. If anything, I should be asking you that.

I live in the woods to stay away from all that.

[Hesitantly, he offers his hand.]

And why the hell not. Unless you've changed your mind.

[ Claude laughs, a light, airy sound. He takes his hand right back, his grip firm and steady, his smile reassuring. ]

I can assure you I haven't. In fact, I'm more sure than I was, now that I know that if I step on your toes, I won't be causing a diplomatic incident. Unless you've got some really protective sparrows watching your back.

[ With Kirk's hand in his, he confidently leads them to the dance floor. ]

My name's Claude.

[Kirk allows himself to be lead. For a fraction of a second, he forgets where he is... and that's a goddamn blessing.]

I'm pretty sure my sparrows wouldn't notice if I died, let alone if you stepped on my feet.

[He's fond of Cecelia, but he also knows his faction's leader enjoys solitude. He doubts she'd miss him, and that's fine with him. He gets it.]

Kirk.

It's a pleasure.

[ Claude leads them seamlessly into a dance, not allowing for any awkwardness to fill the air between them. It's nothing too complex, thankfully; you just hold onto your partner and move. Claude's good at that. ]

So if your usual company is sparrows, why did you come here? Not that I'm not happy to have this dance, [ Claude adds on with a quiet chuckle, ] but you're hardly the only one I've seen here who doesn't look very happy to be here. Not that I blame you. It's a little stuffy.

[Kirk, bless him, does his best to keep up. And thanks to one of the positives of being turned into a vampire, he at least can sort of super-side-step if he gets too close to foot stepping territory.

Oh, he must be new.]

Personal obligation, I suppose. Do the right thing by my faction. [A pause.] Which one are you with, by the way?

Eden, [ Claude says promptly. He has no reason to hide it. He just got there; he doesn't even know what they've been up to, all this time. ]

I just wound up there. I knew a couple people there. I wouldn't call them friends of mine, but it was more than I was working with anywhere else.

[ He offers Kirk a hapless grin. ]

But I really don't know a lot about them.

SEPTEMBER 14TH, 2020: THE SYNOD IS CONVENING.

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