Guide Orchid, whose current life is measured in hours, through a world that violently transformed the very day it came into awareness. Humanity will survive this, but not unchanged.
That sound is so annoying. Shrill, repetitive, completely out of sync with the red light that keeps flashing through your closed eyelids, making you wince and groan. What is that? You open your eyes and immediately regret it; pain makes your vision swim, aggravating the pain in your head and in your body. The room is dark and yet everything is entirely too bright - that sweeping red light, coming from somewhere up, refracts off of hundreds of tiny somethings right into your fuckin' eyes, and you close them again.
Deep breath.
That was a mistake too. You choke wetly, cough violently. Something is in your throat. Your eyes fly open as you roll wholly onto your stomach, and you cough again. It's still lodged in your throat. One more time; you hack out a spray of bright red blood, mixed with slivers that hit the floor and shatter, scattering into bright, sharp dust that sits light atop the small puddle of blood. That doesn't seem like it should be happening, right? You try to breathe, and end up spitting for awhile, until your throat will finally listen to you. Still, every little bit of air you take in hurts...
Let's take stock. That's what you're supposed to do in an emergency, right? It'd be easier to think if that damn sound and that damn light - alarm. That's an alarm. Oh. Oh shit, this really is an emergency, okay, take stock. The tile floor of the room you're in, you know that too, this is a restroom, you're on a roll. You're on the floor in a restroom, something is reflecting the lights of the alarm, and you're hurt. Things could be better. Where are you?
Wheeeere are you?
Okay, no answers yet. Let's try a self-check, a self-check will help. You're injured, obviously, that would be all the pain. Probably fell on the floor, hence the pain in your head and the warm trickle of what you're pretty sure is blood down the side of said head and onto your neck. But head wounds are always bleeders, even when they're minor, right? Yeah. Yes! You remember that. So. Maybe that can wait for a second.
You take stock of the rest of yourself and some things aren't there that you're pretty sure ought to be there. You're missing...
Pick 3
[ ] Your right eye
[ ] Your left arm
[ ] Your identity
[ ] Your privacy
[ ] Your voice
[ ] Your reflection
[ ] Your shadow
Welcome to the party. It's been a hot minute since I ran a quest, and this will be my first here on SV. We'll see how it goes. Some information to help y'all get on:
Timing: I have a relatively regular work schedule, but at the same time I've got the project planning skills of a rabid squirrel with a sugar high. My goal is to provide updates before and after work, but I'll be real y'all will just need to get used to an irregular update schedule until or unless I suddenly and without warning gain control of my life.
Voting: Majority rules. On most votes write-ins will be accepted; here in character de-creation, they will not be.
System: Pure narrative. Not really much to explain here, either I'm still good at this or I'm not.
Tallying: This is, again, my first time on SV. I do wanna learn how to use the auto-tally but while I figure that out and/or get advice votes may need to be counted by hand. My apologies.
[x] Your Right Eye
[x] Your Voice
[x] Your Identity
My reasons for these are I think they will make an interesting character and play into a mystery. Who are we? How did we lose our eye, our voice? Are any of these recent with our injuries in whats happening, or are some of these clearly older and we find ourselves in danger yet again?
I contemplated going Eye, Arm, and Voice instead, but the Identity part pulled me to it in the end.
Ah, glorious, we're up! I'll be calling and writing no later than 8 PM EST, though I'm shooting for sooner. I work third shift, I am in fact at work now; updates may be at more regular hours on the weekend.
And by God I've survived work just in time to notice that there was an "open voting" box I coulda checked on that first post. Let it never be said that I am an observant person.
Current battle plan is to sleep for eight hours and then update while I get my first pot of coffee going before work. The realistic plan is that I'll get between 4-6 hours of sleep for no good earthly reason and then still update, so smoke 'em if you got 'em.
Calling this "Plan Chuuni". A mute protagonist would be interesting to me, and I like the mythic possibilities in having a missing voice or shadow. (Or reflection, but that's less compelling to me.)
You are missing your Identity, Reflection, and Shadow. All trace of who you were is erased, and who knows if it will ever return or if 'return' can even be called the right word.
You are now Zero Hours Old.
Okay. All of your bits seem to be here, which is probably good. You slowly stagger to your feet, gingerly using the sink to get up; you have to brush bits of broken glass from its rim before you can really get a grip, and standing gets you protests from your back and knees, who have been enjoying the hospitality of the cold tile floor. The bathroom mirror has seen better days; only the outer rim still clings to the frame, and the rest of it seems to be all over the bathroom. You try to check your face in what's left and get a whole lot of nothing. Maybe the room is too dark? Except the alarm sure is giving you enough light to see by...
That's fine. You look down at yourself to use your eyes. First problem: your clothes are ruined. Second problem: you still don't know where you are. There's a lanyard around your neck, with a nametag in the center of your chest, and splinters of glass that have peppered your breasts. That should probably hurt more, but you realize why it doesn't when you gingerly attempt to brush one away; you're wearing like three layers up top plus a bra? Okay. That's a lot of layers. And the nametag says -
Nothing. The picture is blank. The information is gone. Where a barcode logically belongs is just a faint outline where a barcode should have been printed and absolutely was not. The only useful bit of text says Threshold Innovations Ltd; it doesn't even say what kind of employee should be wearing the tag. Fuck.
But you know your name, right?
...Right?
RIGHT?
Your breathing is getting faster. Okay. Let's try something else. You're a....
No, job title isn't coming to you.
Gender? Okay. That should be easy. Your gender is -
Come on, you know this. Surely there's a hint somewhere here? You furiously brush glass from your top and your skirt and try to think about what evidence you have on hand for even this much self-identity and come up empty. FUCK! Okay. What in the movie amnesia is this? At least you're physically fine, just gotta brush this last bit of glass off your top. It's a bigger chunk, but it seems to be just as shallow as the others -
You can feel it, when you touch it. As if it's part of your flesh. It doesn't hurt; the wedge of glass should, by rights, probably be soaking your layers (why three and underwear? Who the fuck was running around in this body?) with blood, but even when you unwisely grip it by the flats of the wedge and try to pull the worst thing that happens is you manage to make your breast kinda lift in an uncomfortable way. It's not coming out. Okay. Keep that in mind. There's a chunk of glass in the right side of your chest and it's not coming out. Don't slam into any walls.
Deep breaths, Whoever You Are. We're getting out of here.
You check your shoes, heavy leather work boots that do not go with this stripe-y, skirt-y, thigh-high-leggings kinda outfit, and find the insides blessedly free of glass. The floor crunches as you stagger towards the bathroom door, and push it open into a locker room. One of the lockers is open and unlocked, just one of the maybe twelve in here, and you sit heavily on the bench near it.
Could that alarm shut the fuck up?
Not that you know or will ever know, but there's things missing from this locker. Still, something useful remains...
You find your bag. Then,pick 2 to KEEP. You will LOSE the rest.
[ ] Your gun
[ ] Your locket
[ ] Your phone (no signal in here, though)
[ ] Your knife
[ ] Your maps
[ ] Your subway pass
[ ] Your letter of acceptance to university
[ ] Your cigarettes and lighter
[ ] A lover's photograph
[X] Your phone (no signal in here, though)
[X] Your gun
Something to help us protect ourself, and something that will help us find some things out about ourself as well as connect to the world. A phone's gotta have pictures, social media, something we can use to get some clues.
[x] Plan: Survivor Essentials
-[x] Your Knife
-[x] Your Map
We're in some kind of danger, we don't know who we are or where we are or what that danger is. A Knife can keep us safe, doesn't rely on ammo, and is a useful tool in any emergency. You always want a knife when shit goes down.
The Map will let us know where we are, or at least what kind of place we're in if its a Station or Complex of some kind. Information on where we can go, what kinds of places might have shelter, or other kind of help.
These two items are essential in any kind of emergency, whether local or rural or some large construction or building. We can figure out who or what we are when we aren't in danger.
So while I have folks here at a relatively human hour of the day, also seeking some opinions; I can theoretically update again near 8 PM EST, just before work, to keep this early part moving fast. I'm somewhat inclined to do so, with later sections (that is, those after Character De-Creation) going to 1 a day or less (when I'm working) or 1-2 a day on the weekends (when I have time).
But, I'm new to this particular community, so: is that a thing others also want at this time?
So while I have folks here at a relatively human hour of the day, also seeking some opinions; I can theoretically update again near 8 PM EST, just before work, to keep this early part moving fast. I'm somewhat inclined to do so, with later sections (that is, those after Character De-Creation) going to 1 a day or less (when I'm working) or 1-2 a day on the weekends (when I have time).
But, I'm new to this particular community, so: is that a thing others also want at this time?
This locker is shockingly empty, though only the telltale whiff of tobacco tells you that anything of interest to you used to be in here other than what's currently inside of it. The scent is identifiable to your mind but not particularly special; however, your body immediately pangs, informing you of all the aches and pains you're currently experiencing, the amount of stress you're under, and how much a good smoke would really fix that. There's got to be cigarettes somewhere, right? Or chew? Or snuff? Or something?
The phone you scoop up is half-dead, and the charger is nowhere to be seen. It has no signal. Quickly opening up the text messages shows that the contacts list is empty, and attempting to open up some of the conversations gives you a stabbing migraine; just about anywhere you would see someone else say the name of the owner is a sharp-bright blank space that Cannot Be, and its absence pulls at your vision not unlike someone pulling your arm out of its socket. Ow. Interestingly, a few names the phone's owner tried to say also evidence this effect, though a few stand out; Karl, Nattie, Jessica, Mrs. Monroe, and Hoch all have extensive conversations, all shot through with that strange eye-pulling effect. Still, some things can be gleaned immediately - you used to talk with these people all the time, some more friendly than others. Jessica's gotta be real friendly based on the number of images that won't load which are immediately preceded with "PORN WARNING DO NOT OPEN AT WORK". Huh.
The fucking gun is a little confusing. It's a beast, a heavy five-shot revolver in a bottom barrel style. Not sure why you know what that means, but what it means is it shoots big, heavy bullets, two-handed kinda gun. It's loaded, and there are five more rounds in the bottom of the bag. Just as you're getting to ask yourself, who brings a gun to work, you look at the side of the barrel and see Property of Threshold Innovations Ltd. etched there.
That's.
Okay. You stash the gun in the shoulder bag along with the phone and set the bag on the bench you're sitting on. You don't really have time to re-dress right now, even if there was spare clothing you had easy access to, but there's a clean labcoat hanging on a rack and you swipe it immediately, throwing it on and buttoning it up to restore your mildly breached modesty. The breast pocket has a cupcake in a plastic bag, which you tear open and devour immediately before you can consciously choose not to; your body knows what it needs. You sling the bag over your shoulder and push your way out of the only other door in this room.
You're in some kind of corporate laboratory. Why do you know this? No, can't think about that now, your head already hurts. And also it still looks a bit wrong. Most labs should be tiled, clean, sterile, right? But this place has nice soft carpets that must be a bitch to keep clean, and which are soiled with blood and shards of glass. Banks of computer monitors hooked up to massive instruments of some kind ("Ontological wave detectors" your useless memory supplies) are in evidence, or they would be if every single screen hadn't exploded from the inside out. Seated at the chairs are some manner of odd glass sculpture; they're only intact from the waist down, with the torsos of the...human?...figures in, at best, chunks all over the floor. Some fragments are identifiable as sculpted clothing, others as limbs, bits of faces, and other such details.
One of the pairs of legs has elegantly-carved glass intestines, clearer than sweet water, protruding from it.
Slowly, you take the gun out of the bag, and you're just about to lay your finger on the trigger when a smooth, reassuring voice, odd - mechanical, that's it, this is a recording - comes out of the same speakers blaring the alarm:
T Minus Fifteen Minutes To Impact. All Personnel, Please Evacuate The Facility. T Minus Fifteen Minutes To Impact. All Personnel, Please Evacuate The Facility.
Impact? Don't you want shelter for impact? You look around quickly and spot windows or what used to be windows; they, too, have shattered outward, leaving the blinds in front of them whipping in the night wind. You run over to look outside and determine a few things immediately.
First, and most relevant: You are six stories up.
Second: there is a city in the distance, a sprawling metropolis huddled around a saltwater bay. If any of the buses were working it'd be a twenty-minute bus ride (why do you know that?) but, you see -
Third: The highway is choked with cars, none of which are moving. Many are on, and more than a few are on fire, but their asses are not moving, which, speaking of:
Fourth: A good chunk of the city is also on fire.
"Fuck my life," you whisper aloud. You turn and start looking for the stairs, moving as fast as you can with both hands on that big gun. You pass an elevator, and against all odds it seems to be powered and not on fire, but elevators are supposed to not be used in emergencies, right?
What do people in wheelchairs do, then?
Not the time. If the elevator is here, the stairs have to be close. And indeed, they are; around one more corner you see a heavy steel door with what used to be a thick safety glass window set high into it; the glass has shattered towards the stairwell, leaving behind nothing in the frame, but there's a sculpture here of a fleeing person in an expression of agony. They aren't wearing a labcoat; in fact they seem to not be in any kind of uniform, save for a lanyard a lot like yours which is not made of glass. You get closer and crouch to look at the lanyard; the tag on the end of it says Nicole Bartman, Custodial Staff.
You're hearing a voice from somewhere, panicked, desperate: I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die -
Confused, you peer into the stairwell, but the voice isn't coming from there. You try the door anyway and find that it's secured by an electronic lock; your absence of barcode on your lanyard gets you less than nowhere with it. You go towards the statue to take that lanyard, and the voice you're hearing shrieks in terror. You hesitate, trying to focus on its desperate sobbing, and...and...
Oh. Gods above. It's the statue.
Action (Pick 1)
[ ] Shoot the electronic lock
[ ] Take Nicole's keycard
[ ] Take the elevator
You've lost something, haven't you?
Pick 2 to LOSE; KEEP the rest
[ ] First aid training
[ ] Time at the gun range
[ ] Tinkering
[ ] A certain artistic bent
[ ] A talent for dream logic
