test drive | 1

[unplug]

test drive

Welcome to the first test drive for Systemwide! We are excited to have you. All prospective players are welcome to tag in and test out their characters, be they unplugged or free born. We would like to offer a range of scenarios that can be expected during gameplay, which are also useable prompts for app samples, and of course, if something else about the setting strikes you, feel free to come up with your own!

Please put your character name and canon in your subject line, and indicate which prompt you are launching from.

simulation | maybe this is your first time. perhaps you've been here countless times. it's a room, as confined as a boxing ring, as expansive as a battle field, whatever you need it to be, whatever you're here to train for.

1.

Before you is a city of rooftops, empty of human life. This is a safe place, because while it may hurt you, at least it won't kill you. Perhaps you are practicing your influence over reality, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. Are you successful, or are you failing to free your mind? Perhaps you're helping someone else overcome their fear of heights.

And of course, an operator can always load up some Agent-like training programs to make it interesting.

2.

Congratulations, you know kung-fu, or maybe some other system of combat, like crazy parkour archery, cartwheeling with guns, or sword fighting on horse back. Perhaps you're trying out something even more fantastic, a magical skill or a superpower.

Show me. Or a friend.

mission | whether on board a ship or with your mind sunk deep into a Matrix, you will have to join the battle eventually. sometimes things go terribly wrong. what are you gonna do about it?

3.

Something's gone wrong with this extraction.

There's a lot of information to process. Your target's been extracted, and that's the good news -- your ship, in reality, is heading to their location now -- but the bad news is your team has been scattered. You could be anywhere within this Matrix, deep in the jungle, or lost on a subway train, or staggering out of the crashing waves of a night time beach, and the operator needs a minute to figure out your exact location before they can direct you to a port out of here, or send another operative to collect you.

All you have to do is stay alive for that long. Easy, right?

4.

You were warned of this. You've been prepared in endless simulations, with a dozen cautionary tales, training sessions with the EMP. Still, it's nothing like you imagined, when the operator shouts: "Sentinel closing in at seven o' clock. It's gaining."

And then the shriek of metal.

reality | as much as many Matrixes are designed to be a comfort, you have to face the real world sometime. or maybe this is the world you have only ever known.

5.

Annual celebrations are rare to come by, but the anniversary of Neo's Truce is one that always draws in the crowd. The event takes place in a massive cavern in Zion known as the Temple, and there is music, and there is dancing [a little NSFW].

Everyone is there.

Where are you?

6.

The wind on your face, up here on the desolate surface, tastes bitter, different to what it feels like in a simulated reality. It's freezing cold and always dark, but sometimes, you need a reminder about what it is you're fighting for. Or maybe you're seeing the wasteland of Earth for the first time.

Either way, you shouldn't be out here for too long. The machines might find you.

wildcard | choose your own adventure.

7.

Perhaps you're riding with the Dothraki, or sitting under the Sorting Hat for the first time. Maybe the pleather bodysuit is pinching under your armpits as the traffic of the 90's roars by, or the Nova Empire's sprawling city glitters, towering above you. Maybe you're showing someone around the place you called home for your entire fictional life.

Or perhaps it's nothing as fantastical as that: the Council meeting droned on for two hours, and you're just happy to be home, even if it's a tiny enclosure with rust-edged furniture. Maybe someone's coming over for lunch, and there are real greens in the protein slurry today; maybe you're about to ask to join a crew.

There are infinite worlds to explore, but try to remember that only one of them is real.

Comments

bucky barnes | mcu

[lostsoldier]

wildcard reality: post-extraction

[ The Winter Soldier’s has been a rougher recovery than most. A weeks-old DVT in the left arm had meant he’d barely survived being dumped out of his tube, and a field amputation once they’d lifted him out of the sludge and cleared the water from his lungs probably wasn’t anyone’s favorite way to end an extraction. But it had been when consciousness had flickered back into his eyes, with the pinch of an IV in his remaining arm and a thousand acupuncture needles dotting his skin, that his heart rate monitor had jumped to staccato and he’d lashed out with rubbery limbs in a valiant and thankfully vain attempt to strangle the person nearest him.

He’d been sedated, after that. But he can’t stay sedated forever. Eventually, everyone has to wake up to reality, and the guest room on the lower deck of the hovercraft is as good a place to do that as any.

But hey, the good news is, he’s still too weak to stand. How much trouble can he be? ]

wildcard reality

[ He doesn’t go into the simulation. Not at first. If the way that first glimpse of the ring of chairs had made his still-weak muscles string tight from fingertips to heels wasn’t clear enough indication, any member of his extraction team who’d watched his Matrix long enough could hazard a guess as to why. He’s told about the Matrix, not shown. He doesn’t ask to be shown.

But just because he won’t go in doesn’t mean he’s not here. He’s always here. He keeps gravitating back to it, circling the collection of chairs like water pulled around a drain. Over and over again, he watches the rest of the crew go out on their missions. Watches long needles sink in the back of their heads. Feels the port in the back of his own. Watches them come out again.

After the last, he stays. Unmoving, alone until he isn’t, and while he doesn’t show sign of noticing any approach, there’s a clear expectation of response in his voice when he asks, ]

What’s it like?

simulation

[ This simulation doesn’t come with metal drones to fight. There aren’t any robotic starfish or mobile targets. They won’t be fighting sentinels in his Matrix so there are none here. Instead, it’s an empty room. A door. A half dozen HYDRA SWAT teams creeping up the hall beyond. ]

They won’t hesitate. [ He says over his shoulder, the leather of his glove tightening around the grip of his knife. ] Neither can you.

[ex_spins462]

[ She asked to be there when he woke up, assured like she has any idea how to handle the Winter Soldier. I know him, she explained, even though that wasn't true inside the Matrix and is now thrown further into question — she doesn't even know if they shared the same delusion or just something similar, one variation among the infinite. He might wake up not knowing her. Knowing anyone. Again.

It seems better if she finds that out before Steve.

There's one chair, and she's been camped out in it since they detached the sedative from his IV drip. Occasionally she does stretches, straining against her own weakness while there's no one around to see when she's forced to her knees on the steel floor. Most of the time she watches him, scrutinizing the lines of his face like she can glean something from them, this man who was a ghost story. It's strange to have him laid out vulnerable before her. But when Bucky stirs she's sitting with her legs crossed, reading, seemingly at ease.

There's something bird-like about Natasha like this, elfin-faced and short-haired, her limbs skinny and dotted with those metal plugs like scars from her own rebirth. Normally she wears head-to-toe black, but she's dressed simpler here, non-threatening in soft browns, skinny legs and arms exposed. No weapons. She stays out of arms'-reach but within the Soldier's line of sight. ]

You're safe.

[ Is the first thing she says, voice soothing. And: ]

You're free.

[ Because she would have liked those to be the first things she heard, once upon a time, even if she wouldn't have believed them then either. ]

since u asked so nicely

[ironwork]

( seoraj has always given good first impression, albeit sometimes by varying the definition thereof to 'he thought it was hilarious'. that seems unlikely to be how this is going to go, somehow, but his affable, unflappable patience has as much to do with the fact he's the one bored out of his skull waiting for crazy to wake up as the fact that he's got several inches and the fact he doesn't have to relearn walking or combat muscle atrophy on the guy.

there are worse ways to start your new life than 'with seoraj, who couldn't bring anything he was working on into might-try-and-strangle-you guy's vicinity, got bored, and has been singing drinking songs for a couple of hours'. scottish drinking songs are mostly about someone dying, but he has a good voice for it, even if it does eventually become tubthumping because that's just always been what happens when you pour enough liquor into his dad.

you know, like they say: he sings the songs that remind him of the good times, he sings the songs that remind him of the better times. and then he starts headbopping like your dad at a party, so anyway, it's going to be surreal, is what we're saying. do they even have cider in the post-machines world? has seoraj even experienced cider? who can say.

it's possible he's just going to be too confusing to attack, initially. )

simulation bro

[nightride]

[The moment he understands the extent of this so-called introduction, Driver's eyebrows do a thing they don't often do. Six guys. Six entire guys, in full on tactical strike mode, versus the two of them. Barnes has comparable gear, at least; meanwhile, here he stands in his denim jacket and snug jeans. Though a staple of retro fashion, the Canadian tuxedo is not widely known for its bullet-resistant qualities. So what is this, a pain management course? How To Be Perforated 101? He already graduated that one back in La-La Land, guys.

They won't hesitate. Neither can you. No shit. Thanks for that, sensei.]

You gotta be kidding me.

[Dry but amiable critique, aimed equally at the number of incoming helmets, at the Powers That Be probably grinning at the monitors up there, and maybe also at Bucky's seemingly foolish weapon of choice. All the same, he moves into the blind spot that should appear when the door opens—if only for a moment—and braces the assault rifle against the meat of his shoulder, just like he's seen a thousand times before. Just like the big brain needle taught him how. As an afterthought, he spits out his toothpick.

Another look to the man in black, his stance, his confidence that a knife will do the trick. His crazy Terminator arm.

This ought to be good.]

Hawke | Dragon Age

[storied]

mission // 3

You know, sometimes I think these machines have more imagination than we give them credit for. I mean honestly, who comes up with these places?

[ Hawke's gesture is as expansive as time and space allow, which isn't much since she's dodging right down a narrow corridor lined with brightly-striped canvas, a clamor of pursuers hot on her heels. Sure, she could start jumping over the tents instead of running between them, but for the moment it's not agents chasing, and she'd prefer to keep it that way if possible. But she can hear the crack of a whip too close for comfort, and the heavy, slavering huff of breath that's even more unsettling.

The extraction's accomplished, that's something, but otherwise this mission isn't exactly going to plan. She supposes as captain that means there's no one to blame but herself. Or does that mean she gets to delegate blame? She's heard it both ways. ]

Do you have an extraction set up yet? I did mention the lions, didn't I? [ She continues grumbling almost under her breath, though since her breath is coming quick as she leaps over crates and dodges around bales of straw, it's difficult to tell whether she's talking to herself or her crew. ] A circus world. I hope our new friend's trapeze act is more impressive than the moment I saw, since I'm likely to lose a virtual limb for it.

reality // 4

[ No matter what world she's in, Hawke's favorite place to be at a party is up at the bar. Nothing about Zion resembles Kirkwall's Hanged Man except the dingy corners and occasional smell, but she's still leaned against the bartop, hip cocked, posture lax, the toe of one boot dug intermittently into the floor. The ubiquitous earth-toned sweater has been ditched for the ubiquitous earth-toned tank top and the ports on her arm scrape quietly against the stone as she gets one elbow propped up, a cup dangling casually from her hand.

She's good at casual. Each sip looks sort of absent-- like she barely remembers she's drinking-- and her attention on the crowd looks non-existent too, eyes heavy-lidded, dark bangs in her face only adding to the air of apathy. (They actually take quite a bit of effort to get that way, not that she's likely to ever admit it.) In actuality she's putting this drink away at a steady pace and has been carefully scanning the crowd for familiar faces, but she still looks ripe for interruption. ]

{ooc: prose is totally cool, and in #3 being operator or fellow extractor both work for me!}

[sfoils]

[ Wedge is at the fuzzy, loose stage of inebriation: everything and everyone seems funnier, brighter. The room's still not spinning, he has an iron liver so it'll take more than a bottle of cheap whiskey (he thinks) to get him there.

But he's drunk enough to be less of an aloof wall-poser and more of a welcoming, relaxed presence at the bar. ] Shouldn't be drinking that. [ He comments, slamming a bottle of his own personal stash, a less nasty but half-way filled bottle of something amber-colored. He uncaps the bottle, pouring Hawke a shot. ] Found it during one of my missions. Over a hundred years old, and can still put you on your arse.

clarke griffin ( the 100 )

[arting]

S I M U L A T I O N

{ 1. }

[ it's not that she doesn't believe, that much she really does want to establish.

it's just that standing here on the edge of this very high building, it's impossible not to feel the twisting of fear at the bottom of her gut. surely no one could be stood up here and not feel it, right? she stares down, and swallows hard.

she could just make the jump. clear this gap and keep moving onwards. she doesn't have to fall. it's clear that she isn't going to make a decision any time soon though, so feel free to come lend a helping hand. or, you know. a helping shove. ]

R E A L I T Y

{ 6. }

[ she shouldn't be out here and she knows that, but clarke can't help but sneak out to the surface of the earth all the same. after most of her life spent in the simulation, the luxury of reality - dangerous as it might be - is something she can't deny herself for too long. this is one of those times, where the call to see the desolate, barren earth has gotten to be too strong, and clarke was out on the surface.

it's so much riskier than she should be willing to take, so much more reckless than should be justifiable for someone like her. clarke of all people should be the shining advocate for staying underground and staying safe, because is a glimpse of a place that's barely a shred of what it used to be really worth the chance that they might be caught? except, on this thing at least, she can't be careful or logical - not enough to stay inside, anyway. the machines might be an ever prevalent risk, but clarke is out here all the same. ]

W I L D C A R D

{ by which i mean, throw whatever you want in here. one of the other prompts? a canon-specific simulation? here is your go-for-gold option because all of these choices are fantastic. prose/action spam, do whatever you want, i'll match you preference c: }

reality;

[unguard]

[ From just behind her, a little ways off to her right, a familiar voice drifts in from the otherwise silent landscape. Most of the time this place is subjected to howling winds. Now, possibly just because Clarke set foot here, things are silent. ]

It's dead.

[ He says, voice devoid of emotion, a flat fact, seemingly emotionless commentary about the state of the earth. Now that he's drawn attention to himself he moves forward to stand beside her, eyes on the barren wastes, arms crossed unhappily over his chest. ]

I don't know if it's just this continent, just this area, but either way. Dead.

[ There's a note of finality in his tone. Unless they somehow manage to get a ship, to fly across the ocean to the north american continent they're used to, they're never going to know whether or not the place they'd come from was dead as well. It might as well be, considering how unattainable it is.

He glances down at her finally for the first time since they've both arrived, lips pursing. Her hair's shorter- then again, everyone's was, starting out, fresh from the pods. It's weird to think they never really knew each other. It's weird to think that their minds just shared the same delusion, the same fantasy, but they've never actually physically touched one another. That everything they went through together wasn't real.

If they're not co-leaders, if they're not ARK survivors, if they're not members of the fallen hundred, what are they to one another? Really? Do they really even know each other, considering their reality was total bullshit?

Part of him thinks so, apparently, because part of him is so happy to see her. ]

ZEE CAPTAIN (Romantically Apocalyptic) | MOOLTIPASSES FOR ALL

[systemwizard]

 [ Reality 005 ]

The celebration is in full swing, and the Captain, divested of their hefty signature garments, blends right in. Tall, but lanky from a life-time of pod-napping, they are layered up in grey homespun clothing, scarfs made of old, tattered pants wrapped about their neck, and a toque crammed down over the peach fuzz making a comeback over their pasty white scalp. Their eyes are not nearly the vibrant, regal violet they might be, plugged in, but they are wide and sparkling now, delighted by the chaos of people around them. Despite their size, which competes with some of the most well-built natives of Zion, Captain has such an androgynous lilt to their face as to be unreadable. Anyways, it's unimportant.

The only thing for certain is that they are grinning from ear to ear, bare brows drawn together as they plunge into the fray of the dancing. Their face is blotchy with the heat and the effort, but there's little that could stop them with that level of determination.

They grab the closest person by the hands, bouncing on their heels in time with the drums and bellowing loudly enough to be heard, "show me your moves, minion of Zion! Let us dance the dances of our peoples!!"

 [ Simulation 001 ]

There is a creature of significant size standing between the two buildings, just finished pacing from one roof to the next. It's nearly impossible to tell what this person looks like behind their bulky trench-coat, their full-face gas mask, their jaunty commander's cap. The Captain's voice is booming, echoic, and all that height and bulk suggests that they might be male, but that hardly matters because the more important fact that they have been walking on little more than sunshine for the past few steps probably takes priority.

"I fail to see the point behind these entrance exams," they bellow, "with all of your jackaninnying jumping jacks and grumpy frumpering back and forth and back and forth! I demand answers! I demand a lime in a coconut! And a little umbrella! And a straw! Bring me these things and I will dial down the stern message to follow!"

...They're still standing between buildings, and are pointing wildly at several of the other newly acquired humans who've had their minds freed. The problem with Captain is that their mind has been freed of all tethers long ago... and by now it's probably floating somewhere in the Oort cloud.

 [ Wildcard 007 ]

Perhaps you are missing your left sock, or perhaps something more important. Whatever the case, it's a fairly certain bet by now that you know exactly where it has gone. There is a little broom closet located aft of the mess hall that has been quite literally commandeered by the blotchy, tetchy human that calls themselves 'Captain' when they are not feeling exorbitant. When they are, they still go by 'Supreme Overlord', or 'Princess of Captania' or 'My Eminences' (plural); in short, your ship is housing a bent spoon with a megalomania complex.

Sure enough, the door is still labelled with a crudely formed sign: "Embassy of Captania" and a secondary, "Citizenship Forms Inside!" and then, "ALL HAIL TRUTH BEAUTY AND FREEDOME" -- and behind said door, Captain is sitting atop a hoard of belongings from every other crew member, having composed for themselves a throne. Far from being startled by your entrance, they raise both mitten'd hands wide. "You have finally arrived! Fifteen demerit points for tardiness!" They rise in one big, unfolding, crane-like swoop to forcibly shove you out of the room and away from their ill-gotten gains, then adjust the smelly mop that they've been using as a wig, at least until their hair comes in. "Your task for today is to find me a sceptre! If you see the short one with the black eyes tell them I'm still waiting on my crown!"

Zee Embassy

[mrsnippy]

Snippy had been deliberately avoiding that broom cupboard ever since Captain decided to set up the Embassy, even though it meant adding an extra two sets of stairs and a corridor to every trip to the mess hall. He'd refused to go and retrieve his scarf when it went missing, he'd stiffened his upper lip when his only spare pair of underwear vanished, but this time he just couldn't ignore the intrusion. Once the grabbing and commanded was over, (he'd learnt long ago there was no use interrupting,) he threw up his hands and started barking back.

"Seriously? My boots? My only G-damn pair of boots?! They don't even fit you, you giant lunatic!" He stomped his socked foot down for emphasis and immediately swore as he hit something pointy and probably pilfered. "I'm not finding anything for you until you give them back. And my underwear too!"

Reality?!

[derfegertz]

Derfie was laughing as she allowed herself to be more or less swung around by her smaller dancing compatriots, and was still laughing when she came face to face with a blotchy bald giant wearing a manic grin.

She was dizzy and herself sweating, her braid knotted up to keep it from beaning people in the face, her shirt cinched up with the effort of the dancing she's been doing for as long as there's been dancing on tonight. She didn't catch more than the broad jist of the Captain's strange greeting, instead catching wind of that reddened complexion and the masses of clothing on the body! "Are you okay?!" she shouted, even as she swung about madly with the stranger.

She just hoped heatstroke wasn't nigh, but then again, it wouldn't be the first time she'd had to scrape overenthusiastic new baldies off of the floor!

Simon Metzger | OC

[hellbrokeloose]

[ Engineering Level ]

-- should be awake by now.

[ Metzger’s voice stirs low beneath the heft and clank of great metal teeth grinding past one another in the middle distance. Acrid steam clouds the senses; flashes of heat bleed red through closed eyes. Water rushes below, chains rattle above, bound thick about the ankles, clicking bones together and tingling at toes.

Up is down.

A grumbled swear slants into German and then abruptly back to English: ]

Throw me that bucket. [ There’s a doppler fade of boot heels striking away over steel, and then a splash.

The next splash sends half a gallon of hot water smashing up through the sinuses.

On the opposite end of it, Metzger stands scowling, expectant, with bucket in hand: wiry, compact, greying at the fringes and distinctly familiar, for anyone who’s been in Zion long enough to know what bad news looks like. He’s also flipped one-hundred-eighty degrees at belt level and just out of arm’s reach, planted safely at the end of a catwalk that terminates some feet short of the girder he’s hung his victim from.

By their feet, of course.

Assuming one were to fall, it’s difficult to tell if they would land directly in an open furnace at the end of a quarter mile drop or into the massive pool of boiling water roiling next to it. ]

[retrofire]

[ He doesn't want to wake up. Peter's dimly aware of his head throbbing, of a stiffness in his back and muffled voices, and his first stupid thought is that he's hungover. Given the chance to think back over the past few hours, he'd come to a more accurate conclusion; but before he gets that chance, the raw sting of water in his sinuses snaps him conscious.

There's a harsh rattle of chains as he tries to shake his head, ends up twisting his shoulders only to be brought up short by his own weight. It's then that his eyes open, squinting against steam and the last few trickles of water as he blows out through his nose and shakes his head again, quick, like a dog trying to get dry.

Water registers first, chains register second, upside-down is last.

Looking down is a huge mistake. He still manages to look more annoyed than scared when his eyes fix back on the figure in front of him, narrowed through the collective haze of the heat and his own head, trying to place the face— ]

Aw, shit.

[ That'd be recognition kicking in. ]

Grant Ward | Agents of SHIELD

[ochroma]

Simulation | 1

[ Jump, they said. Just jump. He walked to the edge of the skyscraper again, looking down. Toes on the very brink. Jump. Those were the orders of the simulation. Jump or stay in virtual no-man's land until the geeks got bored and pulled him. It was taking the 'I say jump, you say how high' thing to a bit of an extreme, in his opinion. He didn't know this people. He knew what they said, but words were cheap. Easy. He couldn't see the advantage of this little mind-screw, of telling him the life he'd known, the life he'd survived was just make believe. Couldn't tell why they'd go that far, what particular edge this gained SHIELD or Hydra or whatever new contender had cropped up while he'd been in a cage. Other than throwing him off balance? But there were less expensive ways than this...

Still. No other way off the roof. He stood on the ledge again, looked down. Slow inhale. Look up at the other roof. Jump from here to there.

Right.]

Reality | 5

[Hail the conquering heroes. Ward offered up a mock toast to no one in particular with his glass of...hell, whatever it was they made down here. Not real wine, or beer, or whiskey. But something heavy and saved for special occasions, another weak imitation of the Earth these people had managed to lose. He'd gotten one glass exactly, replacing each sip with a liquid of the same color over the course of the night. The illusion gave a better impression than that of a sober man sitting alone above the masses. Instead it was the drunk, watching the crowd from on high, legs dangling over the edge of the rough rock he was currently seated on. Not much better, but enough he was generally left alone.]

Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never thought upon...

[He took another sip from the mostly water and juice cup, frowning down at the crowd below. What did the losing side have to celebrate, exactly? What did one more year survived beyond the 'Truce' signify but that they'd managed another one without progress?

They'd been better off asleep.]

Wildcard

[Bump into him in any of the situations or anything else you can think of. Extraction mission gone wrong, riding Dragons? Whatever works.]

reality

[lostsoldier]

[ Ward isn't alone. Not entirely. He isn't the only one who prefers a high perch to a crowded room, either. That the Soldier had recovered enough strength to climb up here one-armed was a small accomplishment in itself; he hadn't bothered trying to bring up a drink, or blend in, except to the extent that dark, drab clothes and uncanny stillness help anyone blend into a shadow.

When Ward starts singing, he doesn't say anything. He doesn't even move, apart from the turn of his head to chase the tail of that fragment of a tune.

But he stares, the long, unblinking kind of stare even civilians start to notice crawling under their skin eventually. His eyes catch the torchlight, brows minutely flinched, like maybe the song knocked something loose in his head, or maybe it's the singer. ]

Anna | Frozen

[actoftruelove]

[ simulation (1) ]

Oh no.

[ Anna crosses her arms defiantly as she purposefully takes a step back and away from the edge. It's been explained to her how it works, the whole "free your mind" thing, and the person teaching her has already demonstrated how it's supposed to go, but Anna's not buying it, not for one second.

And sure, she's done a lot of seemingly reckless things that could be chalked up to boredom or an innate sense of adventure that comes with being cooped up in one very large castle for all of her (not real, imaginary, fake) life, but that does not mean Anna is stupid. And willingly jumping from a very very very extremely tall building is stupid and Anna's beginning to think she needs to cancel her subscription to the Matrix.

After all, she's a princess (not really, not in the real world), not a fighter (no, really, she's not. She defeated Hans with love and a strategic punch in the face into an ocean. She rather doubts this is a solid strategy that would work in the really real reality). And she certainly does not jump off buildings to her death. ]

I'll die if I jump! [ And if injuries that happen in the Matrix happen to your body in real life... well, she's not certain she wants to test the idea of death in the Matrix. ]

[ reality ]

Please, I'm looking for my sister.

[ Anna's walking around the communal dining area, looking (and feeling) very out of place. She doesn't know anyone here, though she's not sure if that's because she's the only one from her part of the Matrix that's been woken up or because she just... doesn't know anyone after living a life of relative isolation.

But that doesn't stop her from looking. Doesn't stop her from holding her head up high like the princess she is (was, is no longer) and going up to the first person she can find. ]

Well, I mean, I guess she's not actually my sister, but... [ But that's not going to stop her from always thinking of Elsa as her sister. They grew up together, they played together... Elsa was the only family Anna had after her parents died, and not being related by blood wasn't about to change that any time soon. ]

Her name is Elsa? [ It's definitely more of a question than a statement, like she's not sure that bit of information would be helpful or not. Her eyes are wide and hopeful, desperate for something familiar in this unfamiliar world. ]

reality

[punned]

[ Apparently, almost everyone hates the food here. Not Ellie.

Yeah, okay, it's kinda sloppy, kinda weird, but it's still food. Where Ellie is from, food is a precious luxury - if you live in one of the few remaining quarantine zones, you're lucky to get full rations on a good day. If you live outside the QZ, well… chances of survival are pretty much nil. After spending close to a year living off gamey meat (squirrels, rabbits, deer, sometimes even rats if things got really desperate) and never really knowing where the next meal was going to come from, Ellie isn't going to complain about slop on a plate.

And besides. Eating takes her mind of things she doesn't want to think about. Like the fact that Joel isn't here. If she fills her stomach with food, then maybe it'll drown out the nervous feeling of dread that keeps knotting her all up inside.

So, she's shovelling a forkful of food into her mouth and is about to directly follow that mouthful with a chomp out of a stale hunk of bread when the girl approaches Ellie. Asks if Ellie has seen her sister.

Mouth full, cheeks puffed out with food, Ellie slows her chewing and glances away awkwardly for a second before cutting her gaze back to the girl. Aw, fuck. Ellie knows that scared, worried look. That very look on the girl's face is exactly how Ellie feels inside. She's just good at not showing it.

She manages to swallow a small clump of food. Still has way too much in her mouth, though. ]

Uhhh. I haven't seen her. Or, well. I don't think I have, anyway. Sorry.

[ Is talking with her mouth full rude? Fuck if Ellie knows. She keeps chewing, swallows a bit more. Feels kinda bad for the girl.

She gingerly holds out the hunk of stale bread. Offering her food is better than not being able to help the poor girl at all. ]

You, uh. You want something to eat?

Jack Sparrow | those movies about pirates

[pistolproof]

[ jumping simulation ]

Jump? [ His eyebrow is raised in disbelief as he takes in their current surroundings as well as the very large drop he is to be subject to when if he fails. ] You want me to jump?

[ He's been through something like this very recently, a trust/fall like exercise, with a gun to his head, trusting he wouldn't die when he falls. He'd made it, because of course he had, but that was because there was water at the bottom, and because the fall was not nearly as high as this one was. This time around, instead of water there is the very hard ground, instead of jumping to his possible death, he is...

Well, he still might be jumping to his possible death. But he is trying to jump across this time, not down. This time, there is no way to reassure him that he'll make the jump. And so he remains skeptical because, under normal circumstances, this is not a jump he would ever attempt to make. ]

[ fighting simulation ]

[ Jack already knows how to fight. He already knows how to use a sword, how to use a gun, because that's the type of thing you need to know when you choose a life of piracy. And, he supposes, it'll come in handy in the real world, if they're going to be fighting for their lives.

And while he's spent most of his time fighting in the Matrix, he's never fought in the Matrix before. He's wearing loose clothes, because that's what he's comfortable in, that's what he's used to wearing while fighting. This sword is longer than the usual standard, because Jack is always much better at long range weapons than he is with short range.

His body is tense and alert, waiting for his opponent to strike. Except, well, Jack doesn't have very much patience and it's not long before he charges forward, sword slicing through the air. ]

[ reality ]

[ Jack doesn't often feel out of place, but it's not all that hard for him to admit that he's just a little bit way out of his league, here. It was the 1740s last he known, and when he'd been unplugged and woken up, he'd been told the year was something like 2200 and culture shock is not a strong enough word for what he's feeling.

And so, for the first few days, he keeps away from all the machines and technology because, knowing his luck, the first he touched would bring the whole thing crashing down upon him.

The food is bland and tasteless, but that's nothing he's unaccustomed to. What he's not unaccustomed to is the lack of alcohol. He might not be an alcoholic in the real world, not when it was all in his head, but he that doesn't stop him from having a desperate need for alcohol in his system. ]

Oi, [ he says as he slides up to the nearest person. ] You wouldn't happen to know where the rum is, would you? [ He narrows his eyes. He'll even do with alcoholic beverages that aren't rum, this time around. ]

fighting simulation!

[punned]

[ Who ever knew that swords could be so fucking heavy.

Ellie is a scrawny, short little kid. She's strong for her petite size, and agile, and she knows how to handle pistols, rifles, bow and arrows, pocket knives and homemade explosives. But a sword? A sword that's over half the size of her in length, no less?

It's pretty fucking cool that the guy standing in front of her is a pirate, though. A real fucking pirate! But he's also a real fucking pirate who's holding a sword that's as sharp and probably as heavy as hers, and he seems to be wielding it with far more ease than she is. Means he proooobably knows how to handle that thing far better than Ellie does. ]

Unngh… [ She grunts quietly as she tries to hold it as steadily as the pirate is holding it. She shifts her hold on the hilt. Finds a point of balance with the sword in her hands. Okay. Okay, she's got this. All she has to do is just swing it, right? Swing it like she'd swing a machete, and that's all there is to it. Right? ]

Oh, shit-- [She gasps this in sudden surprise, eyes widening, as the pirate comes suddenly charging towards her, and Ellie takes a huge, overcompensating swing of the sword just as he's approaching - and finds herself unable to stop as the heavy inertia of the sword takes over and makes her lose balance. Causes her whole body to go swinging ungainly off to the left in a wide, stumbling arc. ]

Fuck.

Fara fa Edilion | OC | Silliness

[neverenstones]

(Mission :: 3 :: Closed)

It was hard to believe that Fara had once been a quibbling, quivering young noblewoman trapped in a bubble in a land of high magic and psionic oddities. After her extraction -- and months of training -- she had deigned to make good on the suggestion that she was an excellent candidate to help in the translation of humanoid minds from fantastic dream-worlds to the real. In some ways, coming from lands in which computers, technology, and AI had no concept was much harder than being yanked from worlds in which at least describing words could be found.

In some ways, it made the mind-boggling shifts of reality easier. For example, at this moment she was working with a team of other fighters in her home dream of Avengaea. This wasn't her first extraction, but she was by no means the ring-leader... or at least she hadn't been until their leader had dropped off their radar. Now it was up to Fara to communicate with the daemon populace in the same way that natives of more familiar matrixes might tap into phone networks: the variegated species sometimes dropped into fugues in which Operators could dump information on extraction points, which meant that those trained to understand daemon me's could simply follow the strains of gossip to make their objectives.

The network was coming up empty, however; either the asandus Agents had managed to dampen Operator commands, or they were all simply unlucky.

Whatever the case, Fara was sending out other pings: they might get lucky in another way, even if it was terribly risky. She had been hiding out with her team in an abandoned caetran bolt hole, in which a family of daemons had been making use of the lintels. "Find Kaitan," she'd said... well, it'd been more complicated than that, but even though it had been hammered into her head that one couldn't simply trust humans who were still plugged in, there were always exceptions to the rules. That was how she'd discovered that Avengaea was merely a dream, after all.

(Simulation :: 2 :: Open)

Fara isn't training to leap across roofs or to punch or kick people into submission. There are few enough people who have been freed from their various versions of the matrix that understand what facing down magic is that she has been called in to help. Where she's from, humans cannot perform magic as a daily part of their lives, but since she's been extracted Fara has had time and proclivity towards mastering the study. She has a good number of styles down by this point, and she wants to help pass that on.

"You see before you a number of different anchors: focuses to help bend reality." The dark-haired young woman is kneeling before a low table. On it, items as small as a wand or a set of stones are resting, up to the size of staves and other oddities. "These are just a sample. If you're here, it's because you want to learn to manipulate their worlds in a way that is acceptable and even required in some dreams. If you're looking to transfer to a ship that fights mainly for these waiting souls, you're going to need to learn to master the art. Luckily," she grins cheekily, "I'm here to help."

Mission :: 3!

[kaitan]

The organic network that was the daemon communication system could be truly unreliable, often at the wrong moments. Bottlenecks or vital links in the chain could be asleep, or visiting family, or unexpectedly dead -- and there was no such thing as daemon IT, there to plug the holes and mend the gaps.

Still, there were times when it worked brilliantly, and especially so if a body knew how to listen in. After the events of the last year, Tunada had learned enough from Qensuna to be able to keep his ear to the ground deliberately, rather than passively taking part in the informational exchanges as most of his compatriots still did, and it had proven useful on a number of occasions. He thought he was getting fairly good with it, even if the experience of circumnavigating the "pay no mind to this" mes still engendered a kind of psychic discomfort in the blue daemon.

When today's gossip arrived through the grapevine on an evening walkabout, Tunada spent some time picking it apart. The usual dreck, of course, plus some interesting updates from the southern diaspora...

...but it was Kaitan's name that brought him up short, and then the confusing signature on that message that sent him leaping to his feet and dashing for his rider.

Soon enough they were out, riding madly for the hubs from whence the message had came. It was all careful layering and implication, but to a miniscule fragment of people -- exactly at whom she had been aiming the message at, no doubt -- it all resolved to suggest that the sender was someone who it patently couldn't be.

And Kaitan and Tunada both agreed that even if it wasn't Fara (and how could it be?), they had to find out who might be sending messages in her name.


It was hard to pinpoint the source, but they managed it. Soon enough the pair of them were circling a thin rock formation, tiny and unmarked on a map but home to a distant cousin lineage of the ubiquitous scaled daemons that skulked in Fensirt's bluffs. The way in was unclear, and there was a kind of silence that was, even for the desert, eerie. On high alert the pair circled again, but all the entrances they could spot were far too small for the pair of them.

Dust | Dust: An Elysian Tail

[mithrarin]

Simulation.

In the canned programs meant for training, Dust always resembled the self he believed he was: an anthropic animal, a 'furry' as some people derogatorily called it. He had heard the mocking tones of some, been denied a mission or two because of his preference. He didn't care. Humans couldn't understand. Humans who'd lived in a human body, who'd lived and fought or just toiled away their tedious lives without any excitement, didn't know what it was like to find themselves in an alien body, to be told it was theirs. The programs were the only place he felt right, and whole, and himself.

Physically, anyway.

He'd been good before. Now, with the limits of programming strained past the limits of 'reality', Dust was blindingly brilliant. The simulation spawned enemies as fast as it could, and as fast as they appeared, the Warmblood swordsman cleaved through them. He moved almost too fast for the eye to follow, leaping and rolling across the battlefield, sword slashing brilliant arcs. Honestly, it was disturbing, if you looked at it from the right viewpoint: so much blood, so much death.

It wasn't enough. It didn't quell his anger. It didn't give him purpose. But it distracted him. It kept him focused. It promised that eventually he'd find an outlet.

Outside.

Maybe he wanted to be found. Dust stood in the darkness beneath the ruined sky, the wind tugging at the clothing he wore, making the cloak billow out to one side. He wasn't concealed, to be sure, and his thoughts were far away.

The sword he held was no weapon by Zion's standards; melee was for the Matrix, but he'd never paid attention to that message. If a Machine came, he would go at it with everything he had. The longer he stayed out here, the easier it was to keep staying out here... to forget what he was fighting for, and focus only on fighting for himself.

If only he could take the battle to the Machines.

Outside (let me know if i need to change anything |D)

[pointy_hat]

"I can't advise remaining on the surface longer than strictly necessary."

The voice belongs to a thin young man coming up from below; he has wine-red hair and glasses and is dressed in a cape similar to Dust's, if longer and covering more of his ragged clothing beneath. He also appears to be carrying a thin ledger book under one arm, but is not reading it at the moment.

"The temperatures above ground reach extreme levels of cold; assuming you are not hyperborean I estimate the onset of frostbite within the hour." The young man pauses for a few moments, then speaks again. "You were not at dinner."

Maria Cyphert | Freeborn OC

[antiochattitude]

Reality.

Ugh, it was so crowded -- there were more people dancing here than Antioch ever held at any one time. 'Dancing', she used the term loosely, this looked more like... she didn't even know, but the beat was hammering and the air was phenomenally hot and faintly sticky against her skin, all sweat and jubilation, and nope, not doing this. Maria made a break for the hallways. She'd walk up the stairs back to the docks if she had to, whatever got her away from this lunacy.

"Zion is weird," she said out loud, thinking the words would be lost beneath the pounding of feet and excitement.

Wildcard.

Problem: the forward right hoverpad probably should not be in pieces across the dock, but there it was, broken down so neatly it looked like someone was generating a holographic technical manual. In the middle of wires, nuts, and finely-machined tools knelt Maria, one magnetic coil held in her palms as she weighed it, ran her fingers over it, studied it. Oil and grease streaked her bare, faintly-scarred arms. By all appearances she'd been shoulder-deep in the machinery to spring it all free.

"Crap," she said, matter-of-factly. Whether she meant that as an adjective or an expletive was anyone's guess.

[reality]

[hellbrokeloose]

“It would be better with cocaine,” a voice agrees from the hallway she’s headed for: near enough to be heard without being overheard. Sparse foot traffic funnels in and out of the throng through this particular bottleneck -- far removed from the wider network of tunnels that spills into the cavern. It’s ideal for escape, and for keeping an eye on the proceedings without being ankle deep in celebratory drippings.

Metzger is dressed informally for the occasion in shades of black and dishwater grey, short, silver at the temples and sipping from a tin cup that smells to contain battery acid. He is (perhaps pointedly) still wearing his boots.

Emily Finch | Original

[emptychamber]

Simulation

[It probably doesn't say much to the good about Emily's mental state that target practice calms her down, but it does. She's always liked guns. They make sense to her. Her father's snub-nose .38 had been her inheritance, but she'd used a variety of other weapons for different jobs and in different company.

The future, though, offers an array of new toys to program in to her practice. She's gone big, she's gone small, she's gone through a variety of fancy capabilities. Today, she just has a pair of 9mm Glock 17s, but she's finding that having a largely plastic gun that still shoots rounds with metal jackets creates interesting new applications for her fighting style.

She doesn't look angry, but she's certainly relishing the level of destruction more than she probably should. And the way the bullets bend has a satisfying if lethal elegance.]

Reality

[Being on the surface is a risk. Some might even say it's foolhardy. But Emily can't help it; she has to see for herself. She moves quietly, keeping her ears and eyes open for signs she might have company.

But when she clears a ridge and can actually see, she can't help herself. She stops short.

For all that she'd been told what to expect, the reality is much worse. She'd remembered living through duck-and-cover, the specter of the Cold War, the idea of total global desolation. Her artificial childhood. But this is something else again.

She shivers, and it's not entirely from the cold. She should go back. She will. But she needs to remember this. The world she's really from, where the end already came.]

reality

[servomotor]

If you take a picture, it'll last longer.

[And what is presumably a camera, big and strange and boxy-looking, rust-edged from where it was obviously mashed together from spare parts the same way that hovercraft are rigged, pokes into her periphery. Tony Stark is holding it out to her, from where he's nearby. Like her, he's bundled up pretty thoroughly against the cold, which has already stung a ruddy color into his cheeks. He wasn't sneaking around, really; she might have heard him coming, his regular human footfalls and the grumble of the standard-issue radio on his hip failing to prick her with alarm.]

Also, the Zion Defense Grid always likes to balance our psychological crises with something practical. Like surveilling the enemy. So. [He makes a go on then motion with his other hand, toward the fields of pods.] Surveil away.

Matt Farrell | Die Hard 4

[hackboy]

1. Simulation.

This was everything he'd ever wanted out of life. A place where he could do anything and he wasn't just the computer guy. Of course his taste in simulations followed a bit of a different scenario, Matt building the images from his memory of the games he'd played when he wasn't coding.

And an empty city wasn't empty anymore, filled with the sounds of movement as he looked down from a rooftop at the people...'infected' on the streets below and then picked up his guns.

So maybe he was one of those guys, but he was damn well going to own it and enjoy himself.

And killing zombies was better than facing down a horde of guys who looked like every Fed he'd ever crossed paths with.

Eat your heart out John McClane.

3.

He's finally able to move freely, the asthma that had plagued him all his life gone with every other vestige of his previous life, everything he'd done apparently nothing more than code in someone's computer.

And now he's waiting for extraction, his footsteps moving along the concrete from rooftop to rooftop heading for the designated extraction point. He can hear footsteps behind him, but he's not stopping.

simulation

[lostsoldier]

The guy on his left looks like he could have stepped out of one of those games himself. Black tac suit and combat books, knee pads, more straps than can really be necessary and definitely more knives and guns strapped to him than any one person, strictly speaking, needs. Not to mention, of course, the metal arm catching sunlight, fingerless gloves curled around an assault rifle fitted with a grenade launcher.

He's looking down at the teeming horde, chin cocked like a dog watching a squirrel dance the can-can across its front porch.

They're people. But they aren't people. He knows how people move, how a crowd bends and bows and smells, and this isn't it.

"What are they?" he manages when Matt runs through his first clip.

johanna mason | hunger games || wildcard + unplugged for 1 yr

[axeyou]

[It doesn't go well. Which, that's just a mild way of saying: everything goes to shit.

It was supposed to be a pretty easy mission: a whole crop of detachments, unplugging people from their worlds and dragging them out--coughing, choking, bald and naked, like a bunch of hairless babies. Get them on the hovercraft, someone get them a blanket, and get them back again, to their new home. Cue music.

Johanna isn't good at it yet, at any of it. She wants to be. God, she wants to be. Uselessness, idleness--it doesn't suit her. It never has, even if that "never" was never actually something real. Panem, District 7, the Games, the Capitol, and everything in between--just this huge fucking fiction. But that's okay. That's kind of typical. Some big thing, overseeing your life and managing it down to a detail, just to get something out of you--that was never anything Johanna had difficulty accepting.

There were two ships this time, and a whole load of people, more than she'd ever seen anyone try for at once. Admitting that would be stupid--she's new enough that there's an implied clumsiness, which she hates--but she thinks it anyways, when they're laying out the plan. But hey: she's never worried about stupid missions. Whatever.

It's not her that fucked this one up. It was probably a lot of factors, too much to coordinate at once. Maybe four of the ten were safely dragged onto the ships before someone started taking notice, and then it was all they could do to unplug their own operatives and get everyone out as safely as they could, just cut and run. Johanna could care less about people left behind. What she cares about is the implication of failure, and God, that makes her pissed. And she hates that they look at her--like she really did fuck it up. She didn't. The tension in the ship is nearly palpable; they zip along the empty levels, get back to Zion. Twelve hours of that, and everyone still looking at her, and Johanna nearly ready to murder them all, just so they stop. So what, if she came on this ship with a previous record? So fucking what. That didn't make this one her fault. She'd done what she was supposed to, for once. How hard can guarding senior operatives be?

When the ships dock at Zion, everyone filters off--the shaky newbies first, led by the hand, all of them still wrapped in blankets and staring at everything with wide hollow eyes. They usually get more of a chance to adjust and recuperate, but twelve hours, that's nothing. There's no way she ever looked like that, Johanna thinks, watching them. But there's no way she'll ever look like the other crew members either. All of them disembark, one by one. Johanna doesn't look at any of them, or try to talk to them. Furious, she stalks off the ship, one of the last to go. Other hovercrafts are landing and departing around her; there's the hum of activity, chatter of voices and the clank of footsteps. So good being home, right?

Wrong. Savage, angry, Johanna strides just a few feet away--just so she's around a corner, just so no one sees her. And then she punches the wall, once, hard--and then again, harder, so hard her knuckles split.

Fuck this. Freedom is great, but, seriously. Fuck this.]

[alsohawkeye]

[ Kate wasn't a senior operative when she helped extract Johanna a year ago. She's still isn't one of the senior operatives today, but part on technicality; the ship she's crewing on has a surfeit of old hands with enough miles under their belts to make her four years of heavy workloads look like a warm-up lap.

It isn't hard to tell she's started to chafe under it. When the captains were laying out the plans for this mission she wasn't shy about speaking up with questions and suggested revisions whether they wanted them or not, and she wasn't subtle about her frustration when her input in the field was ignored again as the mission fell apart around them. Maybe her plans wouldn't have turned out any better, but they could at least pretend to consider them, acknowledge that she has some worthwhile experience too, even if it isn't as much as theirs. It's possible that she turned this corner planning to put a fist through the wall herself.

But instead she finds Johanna having beaten her to the punch (ha ha ha). ] You know that wall is real, right? I hadn't pegged you for one of those who'd still have trouble telling the difference a year out.

[ She remembers everyone she's helped to unplug, though some are a lot easier to recognize in Zion than others. Johanna looks different with her hair grown out, but not that different. Even if she had she'd be remembered; the Panem matrixes are Kate's favorite sort to extract from, the kind that suck so hard that people are happy to learn their world isn't real, where Zion in all its dubious glory is a relief. Some operatives like the challenge of recruiting from happier worlds, but given the chance to pick her target Kate will go to dystopias every time. She has a running list of people she's come across and would like to see considered for extraction; Johanna is one of the few she's been able to cross off so far.

Not that she'd know that, or that it would likely gain Kate much if she did. There's a reason she snarks from out of arm's reach. ]

garrett hawke :: dragon age

[forcemageure]

[ simulation ]

[ As any of his erstwhile companions could (and would, at great length) tell a person, back in Thedas...trix Hawke made a terrible mage. Not unskilled, or unpracticed, just utterly unwilling to concede the universal conceit that mages are in fact meant to be ranged combatants. They don't wade merrily into the fray and staff-clonk (or stab, on the odd occasion and depending on available pointiness) the attacking bandits, or skeletons, or giant skeletal bandit-spiders, whatever festive obstacle the Wounded Coast had in store that day. By he'd left Kirkwall scars roped and twined in warped burn patches and pale faded slashmarks, as varied as a warrior's.

That was fine. They made excellent fodder for stories, his favorite of which was the one about roving packs of carnivorous, vengeful nugs.*

In The Real World, capitals audible, he found his skin unmarked, blank as parchment except for of course the occasional grotesque metal insert or two. He's long enough past his extraction (about a month, he thinks) to refer to them as 'these bloody things' instead of saying nothing in the interest of not throwing up, which on the whole, if he may wildly understate, he prefers.

None of this has anything to do with anything, of course, except that it does go a long way toward explaining why getaway-style driving should never have been made available to Hawke as a training program. Maker help you if you're his passenger. Or instructor. Or anywhere near close to the same plane of simulated reality, for that matter. ]

[ reality ]

[ It's not until he's able to - for instance - walk, or chew, or lift anything heavier than a pencil, that Hawke catches his first glimpse of the surface. It won't be the last, or second or third, but this is the first, and it's enough to shut even his fantastically irrepressible mouth. For the moment, anyway. Now all his singular focus hews to the blackened remains of skyscrapers, their jagged tops broken teeth in a foul grey mouth. Such metropolitan structure isn't only ruined to him, but completely alien. It doesn't look like a city, or what's left of one, it looks--impossible. Like the Fade.

Then again he'd navigate even the Fade with more confidence than this. ]

Well! [ Typical Fantasy-Medieval accent, which is to say apparently British, vaguely upper-class and southern. Why? Because that is what the Fantasy-Medival accent is. Now. No more of this unbroken silence! That way lies ...Hawke doesn't know, poetic observation or feelings or something. ] I was never much for sunshine anyway. Too ...sunny. All warmth-providing and crop-nourishing and everything.

[dissent]

[ Anders dresses differently in reality, no feathers to make his narrow shoulders look bigger than they are or thick robes to swathe his beanpole body. He hasn't cut his hair in over a year, so at least that's the same, but the clothes he wears are dark and soft and formless, no flashy buckles or wink of an earring, nothing except the occasional peek of the plugs on his wrists, at the back of his neck. And his hands still feel empty without magic in them.

Already his chest aches, and it's nothing to do with the chill on the desolate surface. He's spent more time up here than he should have, and the sight no longer moves him like it did, though Hawke's reaction is almost like seeing it anew. Then again, Hawke could make even the repetitive tundra of the Wounded Coast seem interesting.

He snorts softly at the comment, not sure if it's meant for him. If Hawke even knows he's there. ]

I only just heard.

[ He's been busy, out on a different ship, no less a determined workaholic here than in the Matrix. But he'd scanned the list of physical therapy patients, newcomers, caught a name, asked questions — found himself directed here. And now his hands are empty and he's learned enough of the Matrix to wonder if Hawke will even know him, if Hawke will still—

He swallows, looking at the ground, tugs his long sleeves down over his empty hands to ward off the chill. Three years of aching has been nothing compared to the certainty that he'd never see this man again. ]

milagros gallo | world of darkness

[milagros]

wildcard | for benji

( there's no reason for mila to seek out a new tattooist instead of returning to the man who more than serviceably supplied the first three, in her first year unplugged. in fact, due to there being no reason to do so, she doesn't - it's pure chance that she hears about an artist who arrived from kosala, a comparatively recent extraction, and finds her impulsive feet have led her to where benji is operating out of with no particular say so on her part.

she decides to go with it, leaning through the archway. )

Hello.

reality | open to all

( if you can get her out of the midst of the dancing-- )

[cestrumnocturnum]

[ From Kosala.

From New York, still, even if she doesn't sound it, but any stubborn clinging to her prior life can oftentimes be met by confusion or struggle from perfectly nice people, so Benji is learning better than to be seen as ungrateful. So yes, she's told almost everyone that she's from Kosala, if only recently, the plugs nestled into her long arms, just visible against the thin cotton along her spine.

She looks up from where she's fidgeting with a shiny, brassy contraption that Milagros can identify as a tattoo machine, perched on the inclined chair where her last client was. Like most of Zion, her wardrobe is of earthy tones and base grey. It also happens to be what she's used to. What marks it as different is the kind of embroidery that comes out of Kosala, decorating the hem of a long skirt. ]

Hello. [ Her eyes tick down towards the ink already written into the other woman's skin, a thin smile warming her raw-boned features. ] Those, they're pretty. [ If Benji has any ink, it must be under her clothing. ]