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.

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With a grin, he pulls his partner to the dance floor, leading her about confidently before reeling her in close. One hand finds its place on her hip, the other gently holding her other hand aloft. He waits for her to place her hand atop his shoulder and...

Well, it doesn't take long for him to take the lead. He was actually leading! Properly! And in ballroom dance no less! He might not be overflowing with elegance, but the fact of the matter remains that he's not stomping all over her feet, nor is he out of sync with the music.

He gives her a winsome smile.

"Well? Are you surprised?"

This...is a surprise, yes. Despite Cecelia's adamant effort to keep as impassive an exterior as possible, she can't keep her eyes from widening or her face to heat up as she's drawn in and led along so cleanly. Gods help her, were this any other event -- one not loaded with volatile imPorts and would-be enemies -- this sort of thing would be positively dreamlike!

But perhaps that just makes this all the easier to believe? Reality is rare in giving purely idyllic outcomes.

Despite the length of time that has passed since she's had to flex her skill on the ballroom, it comes back to her as naturally as anything else. After all, she's had to do so many times before, playing the proper part a lady must just to get the attention on or off of her at any given point in time...or any given plane, as need be. Here now is not too different, is it? Save for being stranded here, completely lacking true purpose from the archangels and dominions.

She wears a softly puzzled, faraway look as she's led along, up until he speaks and draws her attention back. For a moment, she doesn't have an answer.

"...I am," she admits, her tone lacking the bite from moments before. "Quite a bit."

So in this world, it wasn't a nineteen-year old half-elf running Darin Altway through the steps, but some stranger under Skywalker's charge...

Feeling more sure of himself now, Darin tries a few more complicated moves; a spin here, a twirl there. Something to lighten the tension and cut through the weighty atmosphere.

"I'm sure I don't need to tell you that being light on your feet has its combat advantages as well. But this is the first time I think I've ever enjoyed dancing."

With that, he dips her.

"I honestly think I could get used to this."

"Oh-!"

She didn't mean to squeak, but she didn't exactly expect the dip; she was busy trying to keep up with him getting fancy!

"C-could you now?" she huffs, eyes big. "That...comes as a surprise."

"Does it? I like things aside from fighting and causing trouble, you know."

He holds the dip for a little longer than is common before he brings her back to her feet. Sadly, the song ends moments after.

"Thank you for honoring me with that dance, Lady Ardenbury. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did~"

Cecelia stares back at him as if she were in a daze -- because she is. Lingering in place, still holding onto him, she stares at him with a complicated expression, as if wrestling with opposing notions of what's next...because she is.

"I--I suppose I wouldn't know for certain," she manages, blinking out of the spell, her face reddening. "But, yes. Thank you, I...

"I think I need some air."

She lifts her hands away from him, eyes wincing.

"Whatever passes for air in this godsforsaken place..."

"There's a balcony across the way. We're...still sealed in but it's something. Come on."

Before she can protest, he guides her by the wrist through the throngs of (definitely staring) people to some large doors. He pushes through them and lets her move to the front, so that she can get the air she needs while he watches the door.

"Is this better?"

Any protest she can muster is just clipped and stuttered sounds before falling into stunned and overwhelmed silence, led along and set to step ahead of him, letting out her breath in a huff. She doesn't move to far ahead onto that balcony before she's suddenly taken by quiet, breathy laughter.

"Gods, how is something like this...even possible?"

"I honestly can't profess to know how the Porter works..."

Though that's probably not what she means.

"Are you alright?"

"Mm. Yes."

She exhales, sniffling a little after the fact while she collects herself from that little spell of giggles.

"I just realized...how this would've been such a brilliant bit of writing, were my life actually being written by someone else's hand." She hugs her arms to herself, looking up at the hideous, off-color view around her. So ugly. It may as well be.

"Once upon a time, as one would say...rather, back when I was still just a girl, I was in a dreadful, noisy place. There was no rest or peace for someone who could hear the buzz of every electronic device, every click and clack of machinery around me...

"When Darin learned about that, he set to work reinforcing my room so the buzzes and clicks were dampened. On the outside..." She exhales with a laugh, shaking her head. "He built me the most elaborate and out-of-place balcony you could ever try and fit on such an ugly building like the one I was in.

"I loved it."

Hearing himself referenced in the third person, especially in connection to something he knows he never did was a little jarring. But...he couldn't argue that it sounded like him. He used to love making things, building things that brought happiness to others.

If his abilities and creativity could be used for someone, he felt obliged to do so. It was like his adopted father--

--His...adopted father...? What was his name again...? Why did he feel like someone was holding a pillow over the consciousness of his memory?

Regardless, he steps forward and carefully places his hands upon her shoulders, sidling up behind her.

"He sounds like a swell guy. But you know...I like to think we're in control of writing our own story." The irony of this given whose control he was currently under was likely only lost on him.

"You loved it...so...what did you do next?"

"Next?" she echoes, incredulous. Her shoulders, which tensed up reflexively at being touched, slack gradually. "That's a pretty broad question, isn't it? Next in relation to what? A balcony? A gift? The following hundreds of years beyond it?"

Her head shakes a little.

"It doesn't matter. Not in this context. It's just a pretty callback to an old chapter -- something a reader can be proud to recall and wonder on.

"Maybe it'll go full-circle and I'll die on a balcony," she adds dryly, smirking.

"Not if I have anything to say about it."

He rub her shoulders affectionately as she begins to relax.

"...This Darin that you knew. He sounds like he was a good man..."

The doubt in himself starts to creep into his voice. More and more people seemed to be appearing. Seemed to be surprised that he was what he was. What was he supposed to be then?

"What purpose did he have...?"

"Oh, a few."

Facing away from him doesn't betray the light note in her voice; the reality is she looked quite pained in talking about it, despite her efforts to remain neutral.

"He was very vexed about what his true purpose could be; as if simply living a life wasn't enough." She rolls her eyes with a soft scoff. "I can't utterly blame the notion, but...to be so blinded by doubt as to dismiss one's blessings...! It's such an adolescent thing to do. Looking back, maybe he really was just as lost as I'd felt then. Just with more power to barrel forward with the weight of consequences.

"If only all were so lucky."

"It sounds like he just had trouble recognizing if he could live up to the purposes he was given. I used to be that way myself."

Before he was forcibly changed.

"You still cared about him though? Even though he was so down on himself?"

"Of course I did." Her mouth tugs with a weary smirk. "I seem fatally drawn to the things that both vex and inspire me."

There's a long pause before Darin speaks again.

"Lady Ardenbu—Cecelia...can I..."

He hesitates.

"Can I ask you a bit of a bold question?"

An ear twitches.

"You can," she says slowly, warily. "Though, whether or not you get an answer is another thing entirely."

He nods but doesn't ask his question for a few more tense minutes. As if he's trying to find how best to word it.

"For some time now I've been feeling...off. Like something is irrevocably wrong. I feel like a fire in a glass bottle with the cork only just barely allowing oxygen to fuel me. Everything beyond the bottle is...it's hazy..."

He shakes his head and releases her shoulders, choosing to pace in front of her.

"Other imPorts have arrived claiming to 'know' me and...I can't help but feel the man you knew and the man they knew are the same..."

When finally he turns to her, there's a pleasing look in his eyes.

"So...why? Why am I different...?"

It's somehow both painful and a relief that the topic is turning away from her. Her eyes narrow at mention of other imPorts, her shoulders starting to tense up again.

"Why?" she echoes. "Many reasons. There's no one point in a timeline's thread that causes a full fraying of a destiny; that's the stuff of fiction. You'd go mad trying to map out all the choices and intricacies, and is ultimately pointless. I advise against it; existential dread has plenty of ways to ensnare you without openly welcoming it."

At that, she turns, withdrawing from his hold, to stare sternly at him.

"You are you. Whoever they wish to see is someone else. That is the truth, and the rest are the murky details one must wade through. Such is life."

"But what if they're right?" He retorts.

"What if...I don't feel like myself. Like something's wrong."

"Remember what I told you?" She lifts her head a bit higher. "Trust your intuition. You have it for a reason." Even if it is muddled as she imagines it is.

"I can't tell you the ideal path, Darin Altway. In the end, you just have to move. A lot of things that are right and wrong tend to be seen differently in hindsight."

He looks down at his own hands; the hands that have squashed countless rebellions. The hands that have taken so many lives in service to the Empire.

Hands that he used so fervently to create. And not by just one person's admission.

He was a blacksmith once. A blacksmith before he was an enforcer. And somewhere deep inside, he could feel that passion again. The joy of basking in the flame and the sparks and molding something that seemed formless and yet impossible to change into something far greater.

"You're right..." he responds somberly.

And with that, he leans in and kisses her cheek, catching just the corner of her lips.

"...Thank you. Thank you for reminding me to keep looking forward."

Gods damn him. Again, she's caught off guard, at a loss for an answer or even a breath. After a beat she exhales, closing her eyes while she combats the giddy little thrill that gesture and those words gave her.

"At least kiss me properly for that," she mutters, ears twitching.

"I'd suspected you'd prefer to have kept affections like that private, Lady Ardenbury...but if you insist."

Whether she meant for him to hear her or not, he reels her in by the waist and dips her dramatically again, a reprisal of his move on the dance floor. He lets his gaze meet hers for a moment, green eyes locked with her and a commanding smirk upon his lips...

And then he does as the lady asks and kisses her properly, a spark of that inner fire of his; the one his Master keeps so bottled up and tamped down, escaping in his breath revealing that something inside the man has been reignited.

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