Futuristic Ｔ Ĥ Λ Ŀ Λ Ƨ Ƨ Λ

Sunbather · Dec 14, 2015

Subjects are to be approached with caution... Access granted - Player roster:

THE PROTAGONISTS

(If you are listed here, you are accepted)

⊷ @Aldur Forgehammer

Sunbather · Dec 21, 2015

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Mordecai · Dec 21, 2015

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

The kitchen faucet in his gorgeous, Art Deco-style kitchen with dark washed oak cabinets and a marble top islet, had been leaking since he had moved in. Several times, he had attempted to fix it himself by busting out the handy tool kit he had purchased himself with grand ideas of rectifying his own problems, but those ambitions died the minute he had finished unpacking the last box into his flat all those years ago. He probably should have just hired a handyman to come and fix it, but Turin was the type of man who clung strongly in the idea that someday, he would fix that damn faucet, but it was more of a pipe dream than anything else. So, it continued to drip… day in, day out. It didn’t matter what sounds were going on outside the splendid bay windows: the dull humming of machinery, the voices of people uttering unintelligible conversations, the monotonous drone of progress churning around him; the drip was always loudest. Sometimes, he would put music on the player, trying to override it with other sounds—the smooth, silky notes of classical instruments—but that didn’t work, either.

The music would rise from the pits of his speakers, a fog of woodwinds punctuated by sharp, darting flutes and the deep rumble of drums, yet still the sound would persisted: drip. dripdrip. drip. Ugh.

Other times still, he would lie in the quiet dark of his apartment, the grey static of the outside world humming on, and try and pretend the sound wasn’t there at all. He’d lay in his bed, usually naked and spread out below the covers, eyes closed, and will his mind to ponder anything else but that expletive noise that cursed him so.

That particular, cool night (the wind was coming in through the cracked open window, brushing his skin with the smallest chill), Turin was lying out across his bed, his hands meshed in the tangled sheets, sweat blanketed across his forehead as he stared at the ceiling. Light, a pale yellow, not pleasant enough to be described as gold, darted in from between the slightly open blinds, dragging long shadows across the room. His hair hung across his face in ribbons, the dark tangled curls laced with silver capturing the off-yellow colour as it swayed cautiously in the cool breeze trickling into the room. It was nearly midnight and, in a few short hours, he’d have to roll his sorry ass out of bed. He had settled down hours ago, crawling below the covers, willing himself to sleep, but finding himself doing nothing but staring at the ceiling, wondering if tomorrow was going to be the day he finally fixed the faucet. Probably not.

Drip. Drip. God fucking damnit.

He rolled on to his side and pulled the burgundy wine coloured duvet over his head with a grunt. His palm pressed over his left ear while the right smooshed into the pillow. Drip. It was taunting him now, driving him nutty. He wanted to rip the damn thing straight out of the marble counter and he might have considered it too, had he not bolted to an upright position in his bed when a searing pain buzzed through his left arm. It felt like he had just placed the section of skin on the left side of his wrist right on a hot burner, because the skin began to scorch, causing him to groan out in surprise as he rolled off the bed to his feet and trotted to the bathroom, cradling the hurting arm against his chest. The bathroom lights clicked on as he entered and, at once, he presented his arm in front of the mirror, inspecting it carefully. He could have sworn he scented the displeasing scent of burnt fat and flesh.

At first, he had just assumed he had left something sharp in his bed and caught it on his arm, something like a needle he used to care for the small grooves in his cello, but as he looked carefully, his dark brown eyes adjusting to the bright lights, he noticed a strange marking. It sizzled in his skin, glowing hot for a moment as if someone had taken a cattle brand and pressed it into his skin, but as the skin cooled, bubbling over with pockets of pus, he noted the unusual shape. It looked like a small hand with all of its fingers spread, no bigger than a baseball in size. In the centre of the mark was an eye, simplistic in style, but staring straight ahead.

Turin squinted to get a better look, practically pressing his nose to the mirror as he brushed his fingers over the mark, causing a hot pain to river up his arm. His fingers clenched in surprise, gritting his teeth as he ran his hand under the bathroom faucet, letting cold water gush over the wound. “You’re just dreaming,” he assured himself, though he could never remember a dream where pain felt so real before. “It’s just a dream, go back to bed, Turin,” he instructed himself, dabbing off the mark on the hand towel.

Drip. Drip. Dripdripdrip. Son of a bitch!

Much to his chagrin, the mark didn’t disappear when he woke up the next morning. In fact, it seemed to have started to heal over a little. The skin around it was red and puffy, but blank ink had settled into the deepest burn lines, turning the mark into what only could be described as a proper tattoo, except he had only hit the tattoo artist’s chair once in his life and that was years earlier. Baffled, but already several minutes late for work, Turin buttoned his sleeve over it and forgot about it. It was actually several weeks before he ended up properly thinking about it again. Occasionally, he’d catch glimpses of it—like when he was in the shower, or when his sleeve got too far pushed up during a work shift—but it didn’t hurt anymore, nothing ever came of it, and truthfully, Turin was to the age where he simply stopped questioning the universe because he usually got answers he didn’t want.

The last time he tried to challenge the universe, he got a god damn leaky faucet he refused to fix. Fucking hell. Drip. Shit!

It wasn’t until nearly a month after the tattoo first presented itself (and it became less of a novelty by then), did more mysterious happenings begin to swirl around him in the form of a text message. The hologram lit up his screen as he sat at his kitchen island one day after work, sipping down a hot (alcoholic) beverage, when his mobile buzzed on the marble. He tried to close out of the message a few times, deciding nothing could be worth the effort, but found his mobile simply refused to ignore it.

Drip. Drip. Fuck.

With an annoyed sigh, Turin swallowed down the rest of his drink before plucking up the device and scrolling through it. At first, he dismissed the message as a mere prank but, after several attempts at closing out the message, the electronic simply refusing to cooperate, causing his mildly intoxicated mind got hell bent on going. Normally, he wasn’t one to leave the safe dwelling that was his home if he wasn’t going to work, but there were certain instances a drunk mind couldn’t resist. This just happened to be one of those times.

Pulling himself together, Turin took for the front door of his apartment and merged on to the busy evening street, following the directions his mobile gave out to lead him to the hotel of the mysterious meeting. Drip. Drip. His eyes darted through the darkness, watching as droplets of rain water from the previous night's storm drip from a rooftop on to the pavement.

He would never escape that noise, would he? Huh.

Poe · Dec 22, 2015

K A Y E || M A T T I X

She couldn’t find her pants.

Or her sanity.

But pants first, she supposed.

A half empty bottle of tequila slung off the edge of the bed, the fingers on her left hand barely hanging on as her eyes caught sight of the mark. It had shown up a month ago, 730 hours, 43,800 minutes, and each second ticked by. 2,592,000, 2,592,001, 2,592,002…

Break it down, Kayana. Manageable pieces.

Manageable pieces, her ass. There was nothing manageable about the intrusion. It had hurt when it appeared, yanked her out of a dead sleep and seared into her flesh. The familiar burn of a tattoo but no needle to be found, no desperate need for another geometric design on her skin, and instead she was stuck with this gaudy hand that threw her balance off kilter. Her mind constantly jumping to thoughts of what it could be. Ancient roman numerals. She had seen these before, studied them before, and the eye in the center seemed to stare back at her. It kept her awake, made her uneasy, and she’d long since lulled herself to bed with a little help.

Tequila was the weapon of choice this week, at least until the bottle was gone.

The bottle rolled from her loose grip and clattered to the floor, a yawn on her lips as she pushed her tussled hair back with her free hand. The headache was nearly unbearable, but it gave her focus. Clad in only a pair of boxers and a black tank top, Kaye stretched out her limbs, her slight frame nearly disappearing against the pooled blankets. It was late, but she had never seemed to care much for time since Cole left. She never left, so there was no reason to pay any attention to the world outside. Hell, she couldn’t remember the last time she opened the shades.

Pants, food, couch, she thought to herself, remembering how Cole had managed his time when he was there. If she did not plan it, she became another part of the bed, and she wouldn't get up for days. He had stopped that. He had gotten her up. But fuck she couldn’t find her pants so how was she supposed to do anything other than stare out into the apartment with disgust. Maybe she had been too quick to get up. Maybe she needed to take another moment or two.

No, not again. Kayana, tell me. What do you need? What do you know?

She needed to eat, her stomach was growling. She needed to find pants. Cole was gone. She was running out of tequila. She needed to find pants. Three had been there, right? The mark had been there for a month. Cole was still gone. Three had apologized. She did not know why. She did not know if she was really hungry or if she was bored. Where the fuck were her pants?

Kayana.

Mother, she thought in a deep growl.

One at a time.

Kaye breathed out through her nostrils and felt her muscles relax against the balmy air of her apartment. It smelled like rain. The window was still open from a month ago. She had not made it far enough to shut it. Tucking her legs up underneath her, Kaye found the geometric shapes tattooed into her right wrist, her fingertips tracing the outline and eyes focusing. There was a rhyme, there was a reason, there was a pattern. Her brain started to slow down, to focus, and she let a sigh escape her lips.

She needed pants.

Everything else could come later.

Kaye managed to push herself from the bed, her bare feet finding the cool floor beneath her. It sent shockwaves through her body, waking up every neuron. Her phone had been going off for hours, a reminder that there was a message waiting but she could not bring herself to even look at it. She didn't know who it would be. Cole was gone. Three was down the hall. Her mother had called yesterday as she did every month at the same exact time. Kaye hadn’t picked up either, knowing that it was always the same conversation. With a tired hand, she yanked a pair of jeans from her hamper and combat boots from either corner of the apartment. Everything was a mess, sketches in piles and scribbled words on her walls. She slipped on the pants, her boots and looked over to the empty trashcan and garbage littered over her countertop. Half empty beer bottles and half eaten pizza.

The message on her phone caught her eye. The flashing light of alert on the screen setting her mind into a frenzy. There was no way to close out of the message, but it was clear as Kaye read it. If you wanna find out for real.

Kaye threw her phone haphazardly over her shoulder and sat down at the island. It clattered to the floor with a crunch and she could not bring herself to care. Everything had a rhyme, a reason, a pattern.

But hell if she would leave her apartment to find it.

There was a strong knock at her door a few hours later, a male, she could tell by the pressure exerted on the door. Whoever it was, they were not happy, and even Three’s knock had been gentle. Immediately, Kaye went into survival mode, her body slipping into the closet and flattening out against the back wall behind clothing. The break of the lock on her door rung through the apartment, her mind calculating the pounds of pressure necessary to complete such a task.

Focus, Kayana. How many are there?

Ten footsteps, hard soled shoes, five people. Five. Average build, the lot of them. She heard the safety click off. Two…no, three guns. Five people, three guns, and and she was caught in the back of a closet listening. Their words were simple. Find her. She’s here.

It happened in one motion, the door broken off the hinges and a hand on her marked wrist, taking her out of the closet until she fell to her knees on the hardwood. “Your presence has been requested. We are to escort you,” one of the men said. “The details were in your message.”

“No,” Kaye said matter of factly, as though it was the most simple response to comprehend. Immediately, she was yanked to her feet and a gun pointed at her, eyes staring down the barrel.

“We have orders to bring you, with or without a little persuasion. I don’t care much for negotiations, so you are coming with us.”

She stared down the barrel for a moment, her heart beating normally, eyes refusing to dilate in fear, but she knew she should have been afraid. Something should have shaken her, deep down, but it did not. She was smaller than them. It took twenty five pounds of pressure to break the average bone and that was nearly a fourth of her weight. There was no way she was in a place to refuse. If she ran, there would be nowhere to go.

There were no words.

Before she could respond, she was being yanked from her apartment as inconspicuously as possible. They were all searching for answers, these marked people, and she knew one thing. There was a rhyme. There was a reason. There was a pattern. Every question led to more questions.

What answer could they find?

Coin · Dec 22, 2015

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Three's world was always clean, so coordinated and meticulous in execution. Everything had its place in her life, her holopad was exactly 33 inches away from far the edge of her pillow -- the exact distance she would have extend her arm in full and have her thumb hit the power button perfectly every morning at 7:30 AM. Exactly three full rotations of the hot water knob and a three-fourths rotation of the cold water knob would yield a steady 108 Fahrenheit shower for exactly twelve minutes. Daily outfits were coordinated and assembled by date of cleaning and last worn on the right half of her closet. Contingent outfits for impromptu occasions, as well as her old work uniforms occupied the left half. Absolutely everything had a purpose, and every variable of her home life was a precisely machined part.

Three lived in her own little world, like a stone, allowing the rush of to society merely glance off the surface like rainwater.

It'd only been a few years since Three had started living like this -- ever since she'd been forced to retire. Every day thereafter had been just another memory to collect, a carbon copy slice of the day before with only minor fluctuations that defined the end of one day and the start of a new one. That's why she struggled so hard to identify when the strange marking appeared on her left wrist. She could only remember when the tattoo of a hand, an eye and the symbol, "VII" was there, and when it wasn't. Three could even recall the exact day her left wrist was but a clean slate and the next morning, discovering the cryptic on her arm. There was no memory of receiving it, only of its existence and nonexistence, and that frightened Three to no end. Had the memory escaped her without her knowing?

In an attempt to control the mystery and resume normalcy, Three rearranged her entire closet and wore longer shirts in public in an effort to conceal the tattoo.

It wasn't like she explicitly cared about what people thought of her, she just didn't want people asking about it, because she didn't have any answers at all. Three belonged to the middle-upper echelon bubble of society that thrived on small talk. Silences were filled with things like, 'How about the weather?' and, 'Where did you get that shirt?' Unfortunately for Three, 'I don't know' wasn't an applicable answer for when someone asked what her tattoo meant, especially one that she didn't remember getting.

It had already been a while since the tattoo had appeared when Three got the first message about it. I found you through your new tattoo. Coincidental? 73449 Paradise for the Grounded Hotel on the 60th floor. Come alone. Never a coincidence. Someone knew she had the marking, even when she had been so careful in hiding it. Despite the circumstances, Three fully intended on running away from it all and resuming what she knew best. Habit. Three would not let it change anything in her lifestyle -- she'd still go out to nightclubs and casinos to share drinks with haughty men, sometimes she'd go home with hedonistic sirens, sometimes no one would bother the lonely, dressed up AI in District 84. All as it should be.

No matter how badly Three wanted to escape unpredictability, it always found her in one way or another. The tattoo, the message, Kayana Mattix.

Kaye lived in suite 473, Three lived in 486 across the hall. Kaye seemed like a robot sometimes, Three was a robot. What made Kaye different, was that she didn't care about the weather or where Three got her shirts. In fact, it was hard to identify if Kaye cared about anything at all. Kaye was one of the first names Three had bothered to remember in a long time. They'd only just recently become acquainted after Three found Kaye crying in front of her door, the day Kaye's boyfriend left her. Now Kaye was being muscled out of her apartment in the dead of night.

Humans talked about dreaming a lot; a state of sleep where their thoughts wandered to fantastical places far from their control -- and for once, Three thought she was finally dreaming. She heard a door being splintered open and the sound of hammers cocking into firing position on handguns. Those were the sound of her at work with the Doorkickers. Was she dreaming about going back to work of all things?

Three bolted from low power mode the instant she heard Kaye's hushed voice across the hall. Kaye had no place in a dream like that. The AI could only just manage to see the figures whisking away from Kaye's apartment from her door's peephole. With a swift blink, Three's irises shifted from their normal amber to a dark crimson as her thermal optics activated. Five people, light electrostatic mesh armor, 10mm semi automatic pistols, and Kaye. Without even deciding why, she slipped on a coat and pursued.

Calling the police would be too risky, the assured firefight that would follow had Kaye caught in the crossfire. She'd have to follow on foot and hope for the best. Three trailed the group with her hood up and tried her best to blend her frame into the night crowds through several districts. All the while, Three could not even begin to decipher why she was doing this.

'Why?' faded quickly back into, 'Am I dreaming?' when Three saw what building Kaye's captors had taken her into.

73449 Paradise for the Grounded Hotel

Coincidence? Never.

Aldur · Dec 24, 2015

EVE KNOX

Flickering lights. Loud music.

The crowd was buzzing around the hexagonal ring. The air around it was filled to the brim with vapors of alcohol. The fighters awaited their signal patiently in the backstage. Eve's opponent was another woman, slightly shorter than herself, adorning dozens of tattoos on her body. In the brief time that Eve was there, she could only make out a few of the larger ones. They were all geometric shapes, neons, and cogs with an air of metallic shine. There was also a big angular skull on her back which Eve found slightly generic. Her name was Kate. Besides the tattoos, the next feature that stood out were her lengthy dreadlocks going down to her waist. Eve's eyebrows burrowed.

The screens hung above the ring became more lively as the fight was being announced for everyone to see. This was when the spotlight was turned on and the fighters were told to prepare for the fight. Eve rose from her seat slowly and cracked as many joints as she could. The crackling was audible in the soundproof backstage. It was meant to intimidate her opponent whom she winked at as Eve exited the room.

The crowd started cheering and the speakers surrounding the main hall began to boom with sounds of twisted synthesizers and bass that made the ground vibrate.

Across the room, opposite to her, Kate looked as determined as ever, not even flinching when the crowd cheered her name. Eve relished in the crowd. She raised her fists and grinned, not breaking eye contact with the girl who was imagining in how many ways she could break Eve's nose.

Eve rushed to enter the ring before Kate. She flew in through the two lower cords. It was her signature. She rose from the ground slowly and then casually leaned against the cords. Inviting anger to settle in her opponent.

The hall went silent for a wall.

The two stood next to each other in the middle, touching fists and awaiting the 'bell'. Instead, the violent tunes kicked back in and as it did, the show emerged. Eve threw a right jab at Kate's ribs, intercepting a counter-attack with her left, metallic arm. After the successful hit, she grabbed Kate's left shoulder and went in for a headbutt. The blow threw Kate off balance, which Eve took advantage of by launching her backward and then taunting.

It was a strong start for her, the crowd cheered again louder than before. As her opponent regained herself, Eve turned to face her. Kate lunged forward aiming straight for Eve's smug face.

Something happened right then. Eve felt a burning pain on her right hand, on the back of her palm leaving her vulnerable for a brief time. She grunted as she was punched in the jaw, recoiling and falling back on the ropes. It felt terrible. Both the burning and the blow. It was as if the smug smile flew away and landed on Kate's face. She wiggled her eyebrows once at Eve and raised her fists in a defensive manner.

It was all Eve needed. Ignoring the pain completely, she bolted out of the ropes and dodged another hit, lowering her upper body and grabbing Kate by the waist. She drove her to the ground and started taking hits at her head. Kate blocked as best as she could. Eve grabbed her hands and slammed her hand against the ground, but it was ineffective.

She got up, followed by the tattooed girl. A change of pace in the rhythm of the song indicated that they broke up and prepare for round two.

The earlier positions were resumed. Eve and Kate touched fists and then the rhythm picked up again. This time, Eve wanted to win. Her objective was clear. She needed to knock her out.

The two women danced around each other, occasionally stepping forward and then backing away. Eve quickly grew tired of it and threw a fake jab at her foe. Kate quickly dodged backward. The jab was swiftly followed by a left hook which did only half of the damage Eve would have wanted. Kate stuck her tongue out, but Eve kept her calm. During her taunting, Kate took a larger step than she should've. Eve took her by surprise launcher her right fist into her ribs, followed by a powerful strike with her left arm. This was all she needed. The hit was precise and connected just a bit lower than the ear. Kate fell to the ground.

The crowd lost it. Eve threw her right hand into the air and shouted herself. She couldn't even hear herself.

She immediately went for the locker room, looking for a mirror. After finding it, Eve brought her right hand up and quickly unwrapped the bandage and noticed a strange symbol. A hand, an eye, and the word "VII". She was baffled. Eve had no idea what it meant and the whole thing was incredibly strange. She didn't get any tattoos recently, nor was there anything in between the wrappings that could burn her hand like that.

Eve felt like looking for her brother, but she soon realized that she was alone in a locker room, with sweat dripping down her body. She was quite smelly also. Eve decided to focus on getting herself out of her fighting attire and going home. She took a short shower. It was enough to calm her. The warm water splashing against her body eased her mind, emptied it. She felt better.

Upon exiting the shower, Eve heard another person in the locker room. After a closer inspection, it became clear it was Kate. Eve gave her a nod and smile saying nothing more. It confused Kate, but she chose to ignore Eve.

-

A few days passed since the incident. Eve looked up the meaning of the word "VII". She felt stupid for a moment after learning that it wasn't a word, but a number. Those were roman numbers, on her skin. She was confused. She chose not to tell Cole just yet. She had to know what was happening. Soon enough she would get her answer.

A message appeared on the screen of Eve's computer. She opened it and her eyes widened.

Send New Email

New Email Received

unknown

Send New Email

New Email Received

Tattoo

I found you through your new tattoo. I imagine you don't have an idea why they're there either. I have a couple of ideas, but if you wanna find out for real, come to the following address:

73449 Paradise for the Grounded Hotel on the 60th floor. Come alone. Notify a single soul and I'll lift the meeting. And I WILL know if you do, just trust me on that one. Bring a gun if you have to be a paranoid fuck. I'd prefer not to have a shootout, though. See you.

She stopped breathing for a second and then she was angry. Is this the fuckhead who put the tattoo on me? she thought. Her eyebrows furrowed and she felt like hitting the desk. Eve tried to close the message, but it kept appearing which only served to anger her more. Eventually, she just turned off her computer. She started shaking her left foot up and down. Her fingers started tapping on her desk and she just lost her patience. Of course, Eve didn't have a gun, nor did she count she needed one.

She grabbed a pair of dark teal cargo pants lying on her bed and a black hooded cardigan. Eve struggled to get those on faster, but when she was standing in front of the door, Eve couldn't move. She stood there, contemplating if she should reveal everything to Cole or not. In a moment of spontaneous rage, she punched the door and then opened it, rushing to get outside, her cardigan trailing behind her.

Eve went a few steps forward, before noticing she didn't close the door.She returned, did just that and locked the door. She was heading towards the address.

Tronethiel · Dec 27, 2015

William Fitzgerald

Will Fitzgerald's voice rang out across the dance floor of The Songbird. His feet were like clockwork, swiveling round and round, ticking along with the rhythm of the tinny high hat. Ceasing to be a mere man, Will had become a force of nature, carried along by some necessity he didn't understand and didn't care to. He was just along for the ride and what a ride it was.

The jazzy ensemble blasted alongside Will's voice. The organ, the double bass, the horns, they were a vessel for his soul, if such a thing even existed. If it did, their was no moment in which it was more visible than in song. Each note was like a direct line into the hearts of his listeners, flinging bits and pieces of himself to and fro. He threw all the passion and force he could into each word. And If each one had been asked in that moment what was Will's rawest emotion, they'd have not hesitated to answer. Longing, longing as after a great and terrible dream. They could feel the energy to, he could see it in in the way they moved. Men and women swung back and forth, taking each others hands as their feet pounded, dangerously close to one another. One couple had taken the center of the floor, a halo of light shining down on them as if to declare its favor. And in its way the dance did seem sacred. The ritualistic swaying of the hips, a step taken back, a bit of swinging alone and then back into the arms of a partner. The two grasped each others forearms as their arms pumped in and out, there was a release, a spin, and then man caught the woman as she let herself fall. There was silence and then the room exploded into raucous applause. With that, the energy slammed back into the frozen space, and the dancing began anew.

Will had always said the most transparent place for any performer was on stage. Sure, sometimes the show might just be a show, the steps might just be steps, but the real truth was always in the music. You could fake the face, but you couldn't fake the art. Well the art didn't lie and tonight, it had filled the room with a frantic energy. It was great...It was terrible...but most of all, it was lovely. Unfortunately, it it always ended. Finally, as the energy of the room reached climax, the band cut out altogether leaving a static tension. Will waited for a few seconds and then released a final crooning verse. The words reverberated across the room as if confused by the lack of music and then settled over the crowd like frigid air. There was emptiness.

Will hated this part. For him, each song was fire in his veins, sweeping him along as it raged until that final moment. Then nothing, like the music had never existed. He'd prolong it by singing as many songs as he could bear to sing, but there was always an end. There was always the absence.

Will gazed out over the crowd, a gleam in his eye, but not anywhere else and then he spoke, "Thank you good folks of Thalassa for bringin' the lightning tonight! Let's have another round of applause for these dancin' fools up at the front!" A combustion of sound followed Will's words as he swept his arms out to each side to signal the couple's praise. He continued, "Well my good people, as always, it has been a pleasure, and you know I love ya, but even an entertainer's got to fuckin' sleep sometime." Will paused to soak in the laughter, hoping to reclaim a bit of that fire he'd lost just moments ago. It helped a little. He signaled to the band again as the crowd finished. "Remember to join us tomorrow night with some of your favorite songs, that may or may not make you want to kill yourself, from the illustrious Billie Holiday. And remember to tell a friend, hell, remember to tell an enemy cause you all know what I'm gonna say next..." and everyone shouted with him in unison. "When it comes to singin' songs there ain't nobody that don't belong!"

With that, Will strode from the stage, smiling, and made a beeline for his personal lounge behind the stage. Promptly, he found the nearest chair and collapsed. It felt as if his bones had turned to liquid. There wouldn't be any moving for a while. Heaving a sigh of relief, Will stared at the ceiling and entered complete nothing. If he thought too hard, he had to acknowledge the emptiness and there was never a good time for that, so he just tried to do, think, and feel nothing until he could stand to exist again.

Suddenly, Will heard the beeping sound that indicated his storage implant was connecting with a nearby device. He sat up as the wall screen he'd recently had installed lit up from interfacing and a message was displayed. The message simply stood alone, as if all the normal startup programming had been bypassed. It read, ""I found you through your new tattoo. I imagine you don't have an idea why they're there either. I have a couple of ideas, but if you wanna find out for real, come to the following address: 73449 Paradise for the Grounded Hotel on the 60th floor. Come alone. Notify a single soul and I'll lift the meeting. And I WILL know if you do, just trust me on that one. Bring a gun if you have to be a paranoid fuck. I'd prefer not to have a shootout though. See you." With that, the rest of the message disappeared and only the address was left behind, blinking and big as fuck on his wall.

Will gaped for a moment but that alien energy had begun to come over him. If there was anything you could say about Will Fitzgerald, it's that he was quick on the recovery. Once he'd regained some composure, he unbuttoned his shirt and stared down at the mark the message had so kindly reminded him of. There it was, smack dab in the middle of his chest, a V followed by two lower case L's, or maybe two ones? He'd honestly tried not to think about its arrival to hard. With The Songbird's opening success and the demand of being a late night entertainer, he'd just chalked up to being in Thalassa. The world was a strange place and Thalassa was full of all sorts of crazy shit no one in the distant past could have dreamed of. Not to mention the tattoo had just been another thing to single him out, an oddity that existed to remind him he was destined for something greater.

"Ah fuck it," he said to no on in particular. He began to rebutton his shirt while he tried to pull his game face back out of the nothingness. There was no way that he could just ignore this kind of thing. This mark wasn't like anything he'd ever seen, and who knew what it could mean for him. That feeling of longing stirred again as he began to think of all the strange possibilities. There was no way he'd give up on The Songbird, or singin' his way to the top, but it couldn't hurt to check this thing out. If it was just a bunch of bullshit, he'd be back in the morning ready to rock the house tomorrow. At least, that's what Will told himself as moved towards the door that lead to answers and who knew what else.

korigon · Dec 27, 2015

He awoke with a yawn, two long arms grasping for the ceiling as a pair of sleepy eyes came to life. Another day, another mind-numbing routine. Except today was unlike the others: for the first time in however long he had been a curator, he had called his secretary up and told her that he wouldn't be coming into work today. Apparently you could do that when you were fifty-something and had worked their half your life. In all probability, it was just the countless vacation hours he had racked up, but Brian still liked to hold on the the dream that they actually appreciated his efforts. Whoever the fat cat CEO who actually owned the whole shebang was, that is.

Pulling himself out of velvety, evergreen-hued covers, he slipped his feet into worn slippers that had dependently served his bedside for the past eleven-so years. He made his way to the kitchen with a lumbering gait, his feet trudging on the maple hardwood floors while his left hand cleaned up the dry saliva that was left around his mouth. Regardless of his unhurried speed, the kitchen – and coffee with it – was only a few steps away, and he reached the room in seconds.

Leaving moments later with a prepackaged bottle of iced coffee in his hand, Brian began to navigate himself toward the balcony. Hot coffee, fresh coffee, would have been an improvement, but it took longer to wait for the water for his french press. He had purchased the press to try and reach back to his heritage, but it seemed so much more convenient to just pay a buck fifty for a cup off a stand. Some of those street people knew their coffee.

For the entire time he'd lived in that flat, his balcony had been a safe place, not to mention an excellent place to go for a home run. It was not spacious, only allowing room for a stand and a wicker chair, both off-white, and in lieu of the door, a french thing that had rotted out after being exposed to the elements for so long, Brian had opted to putting up an ivory colored tapestry in front of the entrance. Every so often a draft would gust into the rooms, blowing the pearly curtain around like a surrender flag fluttering to and fro.

In contrary, the wind ruffling what was left of his hair was a comforting thing for him. There was something charming about the sight that was set before him, something picturesque like watching the sun disappear beneath the horizon, a flaming red-orange star dimming to nothingness. Lights flickered on as the everyday citizen began their habitual commute, their meager attempts to sate their emotions with money.

And here he was, just sitting on a chair drinking coffee, scratching his silvery tufts of hair and considering those far off people with voyeuristic interest, like a young boy studying an ant hill.

Now what to do? Read a book? Get a scarlet to entertain him for a bit? How typical. A single day of vacation, and the only ideas he could come up with were reading a book and picking up a whore. Well, starting the day with a broad wasn't something he'd complain about. Maybe he'd dabble at the piano while he waited for her to arrive.

Brian rose languidly, stealing a forlorn last look at the enchanting scene he was departing from. It wasn't often he was able to savor the beauty around him, unless it was some bombshell dame he managed to romance into his bedroom. Suddenly, an interruption! The doorbell emitted an unmistakable chime, piercing the tranquil silence of the apartment. Three sharp knocks pursued the chime, then a fast clatter of a pair of shoes fleeing the wooden floor.

Brian approached the door cautiously, one hand reaching to turn the knob while another clamped onto a kerambit. The knife, a relic that could find better purpose in a display case, useless against any trained enemy while in Brian's hands, still managed to provide the aging curator with a sense of safety. The door slid open without a word, revealing nothing more than an envelope. A closer examination revealed no addresses, no dates, nothing.

With hands weathered from age and many days in the sun, he opened the envelope, revealing a letter. It was typed, thankfully, and to the point.

“I found you through your new tattoo. I imagine you don't have an idea why they're there either. I have a couple of ideas, but if you wanna find out for real, come to the following address:

73449 Paradise for the Grounded Hotel on the 60th floor. Come alone. Notify a single soul and I'll lift the meeting. And I WILL know if you do, just trust me on that one. Bring a gun if you have to be a paranoid fuck. I'd prefer not to have a shootout, though. See you. “

The blade that Brian had once clutched so tightly in his hand slipped to the ground, landing with an awful thunk. He had searched for days for what the mark meant. Hours upon hours spent in dusky archives and cobwebbed catacombs in an ultimately vain attempt to discover what it all meant. With such experience behind him, it should have been easy. Hell, he got a PhD for history. But there was nothing he could find about what the strange symbol meant. Nothing in his history collection, anyway.

His decision was decided instantly. There would be a slight delay getting down to the 60th floor, but it could be arranged.

It appeared he did have something eventful to do today.

SayGoodKnight · Dec 29, 2015

SHADIN FAKHOURY- SLOTH

"New message received from unknown contact." The automated voice was soft but firm in its announcement. It was an expensive operating system so its voice lacked the tinniness many cheaper models held and actually had some ability to mimic pitch and inflections. It sounded almost human or almost like a real AI but Shadin was in no state to appreciate the delicacies of technology or to admire the rich male voice that originated from his wrist gently insistent that he acknowledge it. The young man had only stumbled home a few hours ago and had fallen into a death like stupor of a sleep in his fine bedding. His face was buried in the crook of his elbow, too near the polite OS contained within the watch like computer on his wrist. The watch vibrated lightly and pulled a soft groan from its owner.

Minutes passed before the notification went off again, this time with a stronger vibration followed by the voice again announcing it aloud. This time Shadin groaned louder still before turning face down into his bedding before succumbing to shallow sleep once more. The tiny computer waited quietly for a few minutes more before buzzing sharply, gentlemanly patience seeming to dissipate entirely. Of course it was only acting as Shadin had programmed it to, or rather how the man he'd bought it from had when he'd explained the importance of receiving his messages due to the unstable nature of his work.

Shadin's speech was not nearly as cultured as his computer as he pushed off of his bed all at once. He ignored the wave of vertigo that washed over him as he stumbled into his bathroom. His clothes were rumpled and stained with a mysterious pink substance that he refused to put any thought into decoding as he stripped. The fine, lightweight fabrics pooled around his feet where they would be left for his maid to pick up later in the week unless some strange urge to tidy overtook him. His shower turned on with the press of a button and poured over him at his programmed temperature. He stood under the water, eyes closed and a mournful expression on his face. He hated being woken up and he was dreading this unexpected message from an unknown sender. So much so that he ignored the next round of vibrations despite how agitating it sounded and felt against his wrist.

When he was sufficiently soaked (but as of yet untouched by any of the pretentious scented soaps lining the shelving) he lifted his wrist and tapped the screen. Though slightly blurred by steam and water droplets he could read the message easily enough. I found you through your new tattoo. I imagine you don't have an idea why they're there either. I have a couple of ideas, but if you wanna find out for real, come to the following address... His eyes narrowed as he stared at it. Tattoo? What tattoo? He finished his shower with a on his features that almost managed to twist them into something unattractive. Almost. He climbed out of the shower and stood naked and dripping in front of his mirror. He lifted his arms, examined his sides. He put one foot up on the sink to peer at his thighs and calves then did the same with the other. He turned and pulled his hair over his shoulder to look over his back. Puzzled, he was prepared to write off the message as some sort of junk mail when something caught his eye on his...well lower back. An eye? He touched it to search for any ridge of indication of how it might of gotten there. It was a smooth as the rest of his skin.

He stood silent for a several long seconds before pulling the message up again. Answers would be nice, of course, but venturing down to 60 on so little sleep seemed highly unappealing. His thoughts were a battlefield as he dressed in slim dark jeans and a trendy top that left much of his midriff bare. He then threw on a jacket as an after thought, feeling an imagined draft on his lower back now that he knew there was a mark on him. He felt rushed and sloppy as he fumbled through braiding his wet hair and drinking a protein shake that managed to subdue if not defeat his hangover. The meeting place ran through his head again and again. The risk seemed great. 60 was of course safe enough and he doubted any criminal underlord would set up shop somewhere so mild but at the same time the mention of bringing a gun and the crass language in the message made him extremely uneasy. The tattoo obviously wasn't causing him any harm if he'd yet to notice it and yet the violation of having someone or something put a mark on him without his permission was concerning to say the least.

He wondered if this had something to do with a scorned lover or his father's work. He wondered if he should purchase a gun. These thoughts plagued him as he tied on his running shoes. His life was not a safe one despite his policy of avoiding risks. He spent much of his time running important documents or messages too corrupt or delicate to even send over secure networks. He hopped into bed for information that usually lead to some sort of espionage and even occasionally found himself being pursued by white collar thugs and the like. But even still it was mostly a game. No one this high up really got very hurt or went missing. If he was caught he might get roughed up and have his package taken. His job would be at risk then but even still he had enough inheritance to live comfortably the rest of his life. He constantly calculated the risks of his every day life. Something like this...he couldn't even assign values or consider possible outcomes.

Awake oh sleeper. His father's words, some ancient idiom he'd picked up and woken his young son with each morning before his descent into obsession. Rise. Move. Live. 60 wasn't 22 or 7 or even 30. He would be safe there. He would. And he was fast enough and smart enough to get himself out of a bad situation, right?

Shadin knew his way around the tears and lifts better than most, so it wasn't long before he was out of the double digits and slipping down into the bottom half of Thalassa. "This is entirely out of character." He murmured to himself as strips of light and dark alternated over his features with the passing of the lift.

Grin · Dec 29, 2015

"Most of you think Rome is a myth, a movie set. A certain well-known politico even claimed I dreamed it up so I could sell more books to waterheads. News flash - It was a real place, and it really happened. Go read up on it, and then tell me if I'm still being too paranoid about Thalassa's puke-stain of a culture."

- Vonnegut Singh, "Follow The Folly"

published by The Muckraker,

November 12 3852

>> I found you through your new tattoo. I imagine you don't have an idea why they're there either. I have a couple of ideas, but if you wanna find out for real, come to the following adress:

>>73449 Paradise for the Grounded Hotel on the 60th floor.

>>Come alone. Notify a single soul and I'll lift the meeting. And I WILL know if you do, just trust me on that one. Bring a gun if you have to be a paranoid fuck. I'd prefer not to have a shootout though.

>>See you.

"73449 Paradise for the Grounded Hotel on the 60th floor..."

Vonnegut stares at the address, illumined in hues of blue-green upon his ShadoWanx™ porn-feed reader. The type-style serif was the default system font, and not a design choice by the author, however this didn't stop Thalassa's most cantankerous wordsmith from sneering with disgust every time his eyes scan the letters. Feels like I'm getting walking instructions from an autistic robot, he thinks.

Vonnegut's sharp black eyes dart from the display pad to the front of the building. "73449", say the bold sans-serif letters, four feet high on the hotel's facade. Vonnegut reads them with a much cooler tone. The sleek numbers suggest a more reserved, even classy personality. Vonnegut hated this as well, but to be fair Vonnegut hates everything a little. He just hates this font less, and for milder reasons.

Thalassa continues to drone on around Vonnegut, oblivious at large to his annoyed and shrivelled posture. In his mind, however, the entire city waits with baited breath for his next action, even if it is only to dismiss whatever happens next as the drug-addled imagination of a bitter ground-floor waterhead. This wasn't the first time Vonnegut followed such an unusual lead, nor was it even the first time such an adventure started with a tattoo he never remembered getting, however this particular venture was missing some of the telltale signs of his other experiences.

The font of his invitation, for one thing.

Most of Thalassa's fledgling hackers and "truth-seekers" like to wrap their brain-damaged tales of impending armageddon in fancy fonts, the more unreadable the better. Thalassa's literate population is vulgar and narcissistic; word-play and metaphor become bit players, while font selection and jokes about the un-joke-able demand central roles. These attention-seeking authors try to write like Vonnegut Singh, typically missing the point of his ugly metaphors and emulating only his strong language and disturbing visuals. Vonnegut often thought of this as like reading fortune cookies in my own vomit.

By contrast, the lack of ANY font, as well as the minimal (and comparatively tasteful) use of swearing, intrigues Vonnegut. This note wasn't mean to look important - it was sent under circumstances that actually were important. This author didn't have time to fuck around.

And so, despite having to endure the mental pangs of reading prose-free sentences through an obstacle course of thorny serifs, Vonnegut Singh has only the utmost respect for these instructions. He knows that medicine has no obligation to be delicious.

Despite this, Vonnegut wasn't falling for the old "reverse psychology" ploy. The weight of an old-school Platoxico Manstinger™ neuro-blocker baton makes his right sleeve heavier than his left. Vonnegut knows that if he's dealing with serious individuals, this glorified rape-whistle wouldn't give him a stream of piss' chance in a hurricane, but there were two other applications the general public didn't typically consider - one, he loaded it with Cellblok5™ battery packs, cheap knock-off-brand power units that explode if they get overloaded. Vonnegut learned to use this design flaw as a makeshift "flash-bang" effect for escaping tight situations. Secondly, anyone subjected to neuro-blocking becomes both paralyzed and pain-free for a significant period of time. By turning the baton on himself, Vonnegut could be spared from interrogation and torture for a few hours, and buy himself some time to plan an escape. Also worth considering: assuming this meeting is as legit as it seems, a lethal weapon would be both offensive and a blatant tipping of Vonnegut's hand. A non-lethal personal defense tool, by contrast, would be as common a "city-walking-at-night" accessory as shoes and a jacket.

Vonnegut scratches his crotch, more out of nervousness than actual itchiness. There was no way for him to know if he was early or late; the message contains no actual meeting time. Furthermore, it interrupted a video of three women committing unspeakable acts with the same piece of expired produce, and even a global annihilation alert wouldn't have kept Vonnegut from finishing the task-at-hand.

Then again, it rarely takes Vonnegut more than a couple minutes (cleanup included) to conclude those pleasantries, and he left his home right after. It was far more likely he was early. Hell, thinks Vonnegut with a small chuckle, I bet the caterers and opening entertainment haven't even had time to set up yet.

Vonnegut hears the hum of security drones in the distance. If this secret meeting is to remain secret, it's best for him to continue his musings and procrastination in the hotel. He swallows, hard, and trudges into the building.

Seriously though, there better be food at this thing.

Sunbather · Dec 30, 2015

The rented room carried a stale scent, as if it had been kept clean for years, regularly, only to eventually be abandoned entirely and accumulate dust for what must've been a decade at the very least. The walls were soaked in that very specific stench such a location would develop. The redheaded girl scoffed. For the amount of credits she had shelled out, she had expected a little bit more. Then again, this explained why the receptionist was so overly welcoming and enthusiastic to give her the key. - "Oh, welcome, welcome, you must be Madame Colorille? We have awaited you. Here is the key to your suite, we are so happy you are staying with us!"

He sure was an enthusiasic fella, though it now appeared in bad taste. In retrospect, Dylan could make out how eager he was to keep her busy with overly sweet words and then send her off without any sort of lobby boy or bellhop available to answer to her justified rage. At the time, it had seemed natural, seeing how she only carried a small suitcase. Now, however, Dylan was not exactly against the idea of going down and giving him a piece of her mind.

The door closed with a screeching sound, then the click of the door echoed through the mostly empty room. A sigh escaped her curled lips[. I guess it isn't really worth it... Anger was still pacing through her slim physique, but for now she was more concerned with turning on the air circulation. It must've been an older model, as the spluttering sounds weren't exactly subtle and generally didn't fit the hotel's standard. Or at least what had appeared to their standard. Dylan wondered if it was just her luck getting the worst room possibly avaible, or if they purposely gave her the room due to the cell she called in from. The audacity... Before any more disgruntled could settle in, however, her mood lightened a little as the air cleared, and with it the smell, leaving behind a dusty but bearable room. "Alright then."

She stepped closer to a window, overlooking a solid bit of Thalassa. She was rareley this high up anymore. Not since... not since the accident at least. Her eyes crawled upwards, up where the much higher districts disappeared in lack of vision as well as the window frame. Almost instinctively her brows furrowed and her eyes narrowed in a hateful squint. She kicked into the panneling of the wall, which cracked a bit. Yeah, I'm not paying that...

A few quiet moments passed until Dylan tigered towards her suitcase, setting up an apparatus that looked a bit like a miniature projector of sorts. After it was turned out and radiated a faint, blue-ish glow, Dylan strafed through the room, pulling, pushig and tugging furniture so that a half circle was build. She hoped Idras would arrive before everyone else to lead. The thought of them ripping each other apart before some sort of organization was established amused her somewhat, but mostly annoyed her - She wasn't here to waste time, money and security, afterall. A quick look at a handheld, digital watch. It's time. With these words, she hurried out of the room, hoping the rest would arrive and remain where they were until she got back.

Automated response - OOC Goals and hints:

⊷ Most of the characters are able to arrive, take in the scenery of what's unfolding and react to those arriving after them. That not only includes the room and mere hellos, but could potentially create some tensions as well.

The lovely A.I. named Elliot is allowed to introduce herself in a casual fashion, even though she missed on the introduction. Arina Smirnova is, at this point, prohibited from joining. You will receive a PM soon.

@Aldur Forgehammer @Mordecai @Poe @Coin @CRiTiCAL ERR0R @Tronethiel @SayGoodKnight @korigon @Grin @BlueInPassing @simj22

Mordecai · Dec 30, 2015

There was a whole mess of things that displeased Turin, with leaky faucets and thunderstorms topping the list, but hotels weren’t something that exactly thrilled him, either. The air felt stale and stagnant in the manicured entry hall and hoping to just slide past the receptionists without notice, Turin quickly produced his mobile device from his coat pocket and glanced down at it. The hotel address, the floor number—it was all there, but this hotel was massive, there had to be no less than one-hundred rooms and suites on the sixtieth floor and unless these people, whoever they were, decided to paste a banner on the door reading something along the lines of ‘All weirdos with strange tattoos, enter here,’ he would never be able to find the room he was meant to visit. And as Dante Inferno as a banner over the door sounded, judging by the general tone of the text message sent, he severely doubted that such a large banner would be posted so inconspicuously. A part of him had been expecting to see something out of place, something obvious, something that called to him, but aside from the whirlwind of activity going on in the lobby as people swirled about, nothing seemed out of place.

Strange mysteries rarely started at the foot of a line for a hotel receptionist, but then again, Turin was beginning to doubt that this was a strange mystery at all, and not some elaborate prank. How such a prank was pulled and why they had chosen him, poor and quiet Turin, as the butt of it all, he didn’t know, yet he couldn’t find a reason to pull himself away; he had come too far and all that was waiting for him at home was drip, drip, drip. “Yes, hello,” Turin smiled, though it didn’t quite seem convincing, as he stepped up to the front of the queue when the owl-eyed receptionist peered out at him expectantly, “I have some friends staying here; they’re on the sixtieth floor? I am coming to visit with them but I failed to get a room number from them—“ God, it was stupid. The receptionist was certainly going to ask for his friends’ names and when he didn’t have an adequate response, they’d turned him away. But much to his surprise, the young woman with jowls like a Pitbull and thin lips painted blinding red, seemed to brighten up.

“Oh!” she chirped like a bird, “Oh! Yes, we were informed that a whole bunch of people would be visiting, the room number is 6023, doll,” her voice tried to be friendly, but Turin didn’t buy it. She looked tired and annoyed, presenting him with a swipe card that would grant him access to the aforementioned room. “They also told me to give you all a key, so here you are. Take the lifts up to the sixtieth floor. Room 6023 will immediately on the left, hun.” Turin accepted the key and rested his weight back a bit, looking down at the key with some surprise before thanking the woman and turning away and making his way to the lifts. On a scale of things Turin hated ranging from leaky faucets being the most terrible to motels being slightly less than terrible, lifts probably ranked somewhere in the middle. Sliding into the lift, which was otherwise empty, it shot off on its magnetic propellers, providing a mostly smooth, if not uncomfortably smooth, ride to the sixtieth floor.

At once, Turin’s hand shot out from his side and gripped the railing with an unnerved expression gripping his face. The ride wasn’t long, the lift stumbling to a halt before the big metal doors swung open and Turin practically poured into the hall. Following given instructions, Turin dutifully took a left and moved slowly to inspect every room number. Never mind that they went in chronological order, but he felt as though he should feel something when he saw the room, like some kind of intervention would strike answers into his brain as to how or why this tattoo appeared (rather rudely, he might add) on his skin in the middle of the night several weeks back. Alas, the door to room 6023 was just like all the others: artificial wood, light, and printed with the numbers 6-0-2-3 in faux gold leafing.

He slid the key through the port and the lock happily popped open, swinging into the dark space that only lit up with a few dim ceiling lights as he stepped in where, much to his surprise, he found a bit old pile of – nothing. Not a god damn soul, not a god damn note, nothing, not even a festive cheese tray. Heck, it looked more like a shanty than a hotel suite and seemed oddly out of place when painted against the spruced lobby downstairs.

Drip.

Turin folded his arms firmly over his chest as he glanced over to the bathroom sink, a few droplets of water collecting on the rim of the faucet. Drip. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

If he wanted a leaky faucet and a cheap looking room, he would have just stayed at home. Alas, he was here now and glancing down at his mobile, he noted he was exactly on time. Perhaps every one else just liked to run late.

Drip. Kill me now.

Grin · Dec 31, 2015

"Secrets are cute and fun when you're a six year old writing in your diary, and think the world really really cares that one of your classmates makes you feel funny in your guts and underpants. It gets a lot less cute when the secret-holder is 'the faceless elite', the diary is 'Level 200', the classmate is 'your puppet strings', and the funny feeling is 'social impotence'."

- Vonnegut Singh, "You Weren't Born For This"

published on The Muckraker, April 4 3852

There 's nothing good that Vonnegut could say about the place he stands in, calling itself a "hotel" with a straight face. Again, not a unique thing; Vonnegut Singh seldom has a good word to say about anything. If the universe were unlucky enough to see him reproduce, he would certainly name his child "Larva". In this case though, the shabby walls and fading adornments give him a sense of comfort and familiarity.

Once upon a time, long before Mackeen Syndrome took his head-hair, Vonnegut was an angry young upstart native to Level 5. Sometimes, he'd sneak into the nicer homes on Level 5 after the police dragged someone out of them. This hotel reminded him of those homes - withered with age, out of style, and deliciously inviting to anyone that's ever had to choose between "a roof overhead" and "sleeping with the rats".

In all fairness, the hotel is probably a lot nicer than Vonnegut is giving it credit for. The people swarming the lobby certainly don't seem to share Vonnegut's sentiment, then again most of them don't have spiteful turds where their hearts should be.

Vonnegut wastes no further time getting to the front desk. He's met by the waddling jowls of a reedy-lipped woman, whose smile projects an air of please-don't-get-me-fired. Before she can speak, Vonnegut rubs his pock-marked head and croaks out, "60th floor party?"

"OH! Yes, of course," the woman chirps. She hands Vonnegut a room keycard. "You'll find your party in 6023, love."

Vonnegut snorts out a quick laugh. "Well, THERE'S an epic loss of a tennis game," he quips. The woman smiles through a forced grin, her eyes projecting naught but confusion. Vonnegut rolls his eyes and pretends (to himself at least) that his horrible pun was hilarious. "I'd stick around and explain it to you, but I have to take a shit. Much better use of my time. Thanks."

He imagines that the woman will soon tell her bored co-workers what an asshole that bald warty guy was, y'know, the one with the thatch of gross chest hair who smelled like cheese curds and sweat. Despite a typical lack of psychic powers, his prediction is dead-on.

Vonnegut rides the lift to the 60th floor. It's a surprisingly smooth trip that concludes before he can even finish reading the little "Places-Of-Interest" advert posted near the door. He makes a mental note of the 24-hour donut shop a half block away, not because he craves donuts, but because third-shift cashiers always know where to score the best drugs, and most of them actually read The Muckraker and might give him some love. This beloved gonzo-journalist thing has to pay off somehow, he thinks to himself unironically (even his most avid readers would hesitate to call him beloved).

Vonnegut's black, paranoid eyes dart in either direction. Several doors down, a drunk couple makes out while leaned against a wall. The dominant shape makes several blind attempts to insert their own keycard into the cardslot, finally succeeding after several clumsy seconds. Vonnegut watches this carnal display of affection with narrow fury.

Once the duo disappear into the darkness of their own room, Vonnegut growls, curls his fist, and punches himself several times in the crotch. Then, with a snarl, he slips his own keycard into the slot before him and strolls in.

The room is empty, save for one other occupant, arms folded, staring at the display of a mobile communication device. Again, and despite his aforementioned lack of psychic powers, Vonnegut saw pretty much what he expected to see - although he also suspected the shadows of this room held other, less predictable surprises.

Until the trap was sprung, there was nothing Vonnegut could do but make an entrance. He announces his presence with a cough and says...

"Alright, ya porn-hacking nitwit... Despite the rudeness and piss-poor timing of your message, you have successfully gotten the attention of Thalassa's most honest journalist. Now talk quick, I want to see if interrupting the happiest five minutes of my past decade was worth either of our times."

Tag: @Mordecai

Mordecai · Jan 1, 2016

The hair on the back of Turin’s neck prickled to attention and sent shivers down his spine, alerting him that something was about to happen. Call it intuition, gut feeling, or whatever you pleased, but his entire body snapped rigid only moments before the all too familiar clicking of a deadbolt sliding open rang in his ears. For once in his goddamn life, he didn’t hear the dripping in the faucet, for there was finally a sound loud enough to drown it out—-but that was the unfortunate bellowing of blood pounding in his ears like a sledgehammer, violent and uneven, as his artificial heart began to beat furiously in response to the adrenaline feeding into his bloodstream like a vice. It made his chest physically hurt with the veracity it was pounding. It was at this point in time that a passing thought of how overly ambitious doctors must have been about these artificial hearts because it nearly caused Turin to wheeze as he brought a hand to his chest.

If this is what it took to block out the sound of a dripping faucet: pure, cold blooded panic, he decided he could deal with the sound of the periodic drip.

Pivoting on the ball of his foot, mobile device still clenched in his left hand, Turin took in the sight of the man who had entered and he was… the exact opposite of his expectations. He was a short man, nearly a head shorter than himself with skin that was dimpled with icepick scars and fiercely dark eyes that seemed to nearly burn into him as they peered out from underneath the nest of wrinkles and eyebags that clung to the outside of his eyelashes. There were a few patches of facial hair that clung to his cheeks and chin, but nothing Turin would ever describe as handsome.

Still, he was something, and from his commentary, seemed just as skeptical as Turin himself. “First off, porn-hacking? That’s what you came up with?” A slender, almost delicate brow, raised below a curtain of black hair that spiraled with silver spindles across his forehead, “Let us all recall that there is plenty of free porn on the web, ergo, I would not find it necessarily to hack something that is already free if I had the prowess to do so. I can barely manage to type on this damn thing as it is,” he snorted, holding up the mobile device in his hand. It was true, naturally, Turin was at that age when keeping up the joneses like the new, flashy technology wasn’t something he sought after.

“Secondly, I’m only here because I got a cryptic message regarding a tattoo that, by some unholy magic, burned its way onto my arm a few weeks ago, so I have no answers for you, I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sorry; he lied.

“But, maybe we can help each other out. Why are you here?” Turin wasn’t usually the inquisitive type, but he had made a rather unusually rash decision to come out to this hotel and he might as well try and get something worthwhile out of it and seeing as the only other presence to show up thus far was the little man in front of him, Thalassa’s most honest journalist or whatever, it seemed he was out of other options.

Drip. Dripdrip. Ah, that’s pleasant.

At least it was better than the chest ripping sound of blood drumming in his ears.

@Grin

Grin · Jan 2, 2016

"Help each other, you say. Hmm."

Vonnegut Singh, mascot writer for The Muckraker and award-winning* author of Love Your Hate, would not admit the following to himself, despite the fact that it is very true: He was secretly preparing to do the whole 'crazy journalist what seen some shit' thing, on the pretense that all this tattoos-and-bugnotes skullduggery simply had to lead to another story.

Nope. He was just wrapped up in some shit with some other people, and it's probably going to get them all killed.

Vonnegut glances, confused, at the fair-featured man, and starts to observe his features. The screen of the man's mobile device casts a sharp glow on chiseled masculine features, while reflecting soft chocolate tones swimming in perfect eyes. Perhaps most picturesque, is the subtle and colorful way the man's long hair captures the subdued screen-light; perfect patches of spider-thread light, amidst pools of shadow, all while casting devil-wisps of shade across the man's exquisite five-o-clock beard growth.

He looks like the reason purple prose was invented. Vonnegut hates him immediately.

He quickly assesses everything the man said to him. Based on the reception he just got, Vonnegut deduces the man has never heard of him, which is good because he's definitely never seen this guy ever either. There was also the references to "a cryptic message" and "a magic tattoo", which leads Vonnegut to believe that they were both summoned through the same means. It also implies that there will be others.

On the other hand, thinks Vonnegut, tall-hairy-and-handsome over here also said help each other out... He could just be playing dumb to get information out of me. This one (remote) possibility grips Vonnegut's paranoid mind, and so he prepares himself for it.

He clears his throat, stands in a casual "parade-rest" stance, and smiles. "Yeah, sure! Why not? I'm a helpful guy!" His ratty fingers discreetly feel for the "silent starter" chip implanted in his wrist. The pea-sized node looks exactly like one of the many brown warts and skin tags dotting Vonnegut's arms and back, and is further concealed by the thick thatches of hair all over his body.

The chip itself is a knock-off emulator of an old-school I/05 wetware chip, with all the switches hardwired to short-range wireless device macros. It responds only to a paired "tap-chip" implanted in Vonnegut's right index finger. On one tap, it's triggered to have all of Vonnegut's audio equipment start recording. A second tap will start all of his video recorders. Three taps will start streaming all recorded data directly to a bank-secure cloudware hard drive he's got set up for "little emergencies". If he pinches it, all recording and streaming stops immediately.

(One more macro to mention: four taps, along with Vonnegut speaking a voice code authorization, will inject cyanide. Yet he somehow still thinks he's not being paranoid enough.)

Of course, he hasn't tapped it yet. Still, doesn't hurt to be prepared for the worst.

Vonnegut says, through a painted smile of jagged teeth, "How can I help you?"

--------------------------------------------------------------

*Voted "Most Important Book Of The Year" at ConspiraCon 3850

Tags: @Mordecai

simj26 · Jan 2, 2016

Questions and Answers

The original never had tattoos. She claimed they ruined the perfection that was her body. She said that if she wanted art, she would have hung it up on the wall with the rest. Elliot would go on to concur with this sentiment. For all her vanity and insufferable behaviour, she had some semblance of a common sense in her head. This fact wasn't too surprising, seeing that she did start a foundation that essentially grew into the empire that was technically hers. To the world at large, the original never died- all the credit went to her, and will always go to her. That having been said, however, Elliot wondered, had the original still been alive, what would her reaction to the mark upon her arm have been? Elliot would have loved to think she lost her bearings at the sight of it, would have hired all the best of surgeons to remove it from her delicate skin, and paid off everyone who knew about it to keep their mouths shut. After all, that was what her review came up with. She dutifully ignored it. 5 years of this same old practice made it easy to completely disregard the spectral reminders telling her to stay within the original’s behavioural patterns.

Unlike her predecessor, Elliot had been more fascinated than horrified that her body had been given a visual upgrade, no matter how useless it was. More so curious that someone else would know of her infliction before she did. The truth of the matter was, she never left any skin uncovered, as an odd practice. Always fully cloaked in her thick high-collared trenchcoat, black, silken gloves, dress pants, and steel-tipped dress shoes, there was indeed nothing for anyone nor herself to see. It was only after her spreadsheets upon spreadsheets of data closed without her prompting and replaced themselves with a black box of about two lines of text that she started pulling up her sleeves. Literally. Upon her the skin of her wrist, bare and deceptively fragile, a simple, black, archaic, cryptic symbol that could be described in about another few more words from the nearby thesaurus. A hand which bore an eye, and an eye that bore the letters “VII”. If her readings were accurate, that was the ancient Roman way of writing ‘seven’. Her feline eyes traced the edges of the mark along with her gloved finger on her other hand. Impeccable work, to be sure. More impeccable was that she hadn’t noticed that it had been inked onto her hand. She reclined on her arm chair, clutching her cane to her chest, biting the brass eagle’s head in pensive thought, an action she found needless and useless, but gave her the illusion of being a living, thinking being. She rewinded her memory throughout the entire week, checked for a single time where she had a wayward thought of getting a tattoo like a rebellious teenager from the lower districts. She came up empty. She did another search, this time for any time she was out of commission, which also came up fruitless. She had a sleepless week (she allowed herself a wry smirk at this thought- as if any other week was different.), and there was no time where she had lost any motor functions, no gaps in memory, nothing.

She straightened up on her seat and sprang to her feet in one fluid motion, rolled her sleeves back down and pulled on the glove over her hand, covering the mark entirely from prying eyes. There was nothing to it, then. Every mystery needed solving, and whoever sent that message probably had the answer to all the questions in her head. She was a being of science and inexplicable tattoos had no part in her life. She raised her cane, aiming the eagle’s head at the intercom on her mahogany desk, paused, and retracted her cane. There was no point to it, was there? After all, she tended to disappear whenever the staff even as much as turned their backs to her for one second. She gave another lopsided smile, and instead went for the handgun taped underneath the desk, tearing the cellophane tape away and hoisting the heavy piece of metal up into the air. The original would never have used a gun. She detested these things, never liked the notion of dirtying her own hands. The replacement was a different story.

Elliot slid the magazine out, eyeing the bullets in it, then snapped it back into the gun, and pulled back the slide, chambering its first payload. The message had called out the ‘paranoid fucks’ to bring their guns, and as like as she was to challenge the authority, there was no telling what the senders of the message had in store for her. It was better to be safe than to be dead. She flicked on the safety and tucked the gun away inside the depths of her coat, into one of its many hidden compartments. Not much use in a metal detector, nor a pat down, but it wasn’t bulging like an obvious tumorous lump, which was better than nothing. Catching the brim of her top hat that rested on the corner of her desk between her index and middle finger, she raised it to her head, and patted it down in an almost reassuring way. She found her questions. Time to go look for answers.

Paradise for the Grounded. Nice name. It reminded her of Lost Atlantis. Both names had mythical places of beauty as part of them, only to be juxtaposed by the words that don’t normally go hand-in-hand with such topics. Beauty and the beast, as they say. Her cane struck the pavement in regular clicks as she made her way into the hotel, the other hand resting behind her back. She gave one passing glance across the entire room, measuring up the atmosphere, drinking up the tension with every pore on her chassis, before slowly directing her slitted pupils to the receptionist.

“A pleasure to meet you, sir.” She bowed first, before he had the chance to, doffing her hat from her grey head, and placing it at her chest in a levelled show of respect. “I was informed to make myself present at the sixtieth floor at this hotel. You wouldn’t know of--”

“Oh, but I would, ma’am!” His enthusiasm was cloying, like the smell of the original’s mother’s perfume when she doused herself in it. Apparently, it was strong enough that her memory banks thought to keep it stored. The young man...boy, as her original’s personality reminder insisted, decked in a server’s attire, rummaged around under the counter, and came up with a key hanging on a tag, his hands hiding the numbers on it. “Room 6023, ma’am, lucky you came along earlier, the keys are going out like hot cakes!” His smile was painfully infectious. The ruddy, freckled face of his made it even more so, and it was all she could do to eke out a small smile, just visible from the corners of her mouth, just to show that she meant him no disrespect. His joke, however, was in poor taste. Cakes are reportedly more enjoyable when cold. Hot cakes wouldn’t go out as fast as their colder brethren. She did not make any mention of this, and simply withdrew a card from within the vacuous fourth dimension that was her trenchcoat.

“You seem like you work hard, friend. If you ever feel the like to rest and enjoy yourself, the Lost Atlantis will welcome you with open arms.” She slid the card to the young ma-- boy in exchange for the key, and turned on her heels, her cane clicking away at the floor as she went.

==

Her receptors could pick up voices from behind the door of 6023. Her original’s memories and personality was practically tearing its hair out at being in such a dingy hotel. It was barely up to her standards which, might she add, were extremely high. Elliot, herself, didn’t really mind much. It was fresh experience. She liked fresh experience. She also knew, from un-fresh experience, that barging into a room without prior warning was considered rude. At least, it was considered rude in the upper districts. She didn’t know exactly how lower districts operated in their households. Nevertheless, she was going to have to take a guess and hope that knocking on doors wasn’t an invitation to war to the lower class. She tapped the brass eagle’s beak on the door, suppressed an overwhelming need to exclaim ‘Room service!’, and slid the key into the hole, turned it, and pushed the door open gingerly with her shoulder. One hand gripped at the cane’s beak, and the other reached into her coat as she entered.

She saw, much to her indifference, only two humans. Or so she thought they were. One was a dark-skinned man, who looked as if, to her original, that his hair had thought his head was too cold, and migrated to the lower half of his face. The other was the total opposite. Fair, strong jaw, handsome, hair like Samson’s, and a well-trimmed facial hair. The kind that the original would lose her panties for. Slut. Elliot loosened not her undergarments, but the grip on her gun, and took to bowing to the two others present, and dispensed the usual pleasantries.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintances, gentlemen. I hope I had not interrupted anything. My name is Elliot Leighton, proprietor of the Lost Atlantis Casino.” She bowed again, sweeping a hand over her chest, and produced, seemingly out of nowhere, two more business cards, and offered them to her present company. Whether they took them or not, she went on to deal out not cards, but questions. “This is but a conjecture, and I may be wrong, but, sirs, were you the ones who summoned me to this location?”

Aldur · Jan 4, 2016

EVE KNOX

This was weird, awkward, out of the ordinary. Eve's a simple gal. She sees an ugly mug in the ring, she hits it. She buried her hands in her pockets and tried to look as inconspicuous as possible. Her head was straight up, only shady people kept it down, at least that's what she thought. The battle inside Eve's mind about whether or not dragging the hood over her head was a good idea became more apparent. Eve was indecisive. I'm almost there, she told herself. Why would I need to do that? it tortured her, but alas she found herself in front of the hotel.

Eve stopped for a moment to take in the image that was unraveling before her. It's a fucking hotel! She was right. Was it a great hotel? Probably. She wouldn't know. Eve doesn't frequent hotels. She entered the lobby and stopped again. People weren't swarming. She threw uninterested gazes both left and right. It was probably dumb to assume these people would meet her in the lobby. Probably. She paced slowly towards the front desk, hands still in her pockets and eyes scanning the environment.

The person at the desk, a woman in her mid-thirties probably, cleared her throat and readily asked Eve what it is she can do for the aloof girl. Eve snaps back into reality. "Right... I was told there's a meeting here, but the uh... individual (asswipe) forgot to mention the room. Can you.." Here it comes "...please tell me if you know anything about that?" She tried. Cole said that she should be more polite around normal people, that it'd help her not come across as an asshat.

"As a matter of fact, I can, dear. That'll be room 6-0-2-3. You'll find them there" The lady extended her arm and in her hand was a keycard to the room. Eve grabbed it and turned away. She was about to head for the elevator before coming to a full stop "Right" she muttered to herself. The girl turned around, looking discouraged.

"Thank you!" came the half-assed reply. The lady at the desk gave her a smile and tilted her head before turning her gaze away from the girl.

Eve entered the elevator. Them? echoed through her mind. Were there more people with tattoos like hers? If there were then how many? She, again, buried her hands in her pockets. There wasn't much else to do. She hadn't answers for her questions, so she dismissed them until later.

The girl licked her front teeth and let out a sigh. The ride to the 60th floor wasn't a short one. Or at least not short enough. She stood in the very center of the elevator. She didn't give much thought to the idea of anyone else joining her in the wild trip to room 6023.

Should I have brought a damn gun? Obviously, there were more people in that room. She might have been the best fighter in District 39, but there was a finite amount of people she could handle at once and these people also had guns, she assumed, since the cryptic e-mail encouraged it.

Well I'm fucking screwed...

The doors of the elevator opened, and she bolted out in a fast-paced walk to spite her fear of the unknown. She checked the numbers on the doors around her and after a few rows, she finally came across 6023. Eve hesitated, but then flashed her keycard near the sensor. She went in without knocking.

To her surprise, the folks inside were pretty diverse. There was a tall, disgustingly handsome man, a woman in a large trenchcoat and a...

"Oh fuck, man! What happened to your face?" She recoiled slightly. In that moment, she forgot everything Cole told her about being nice to people and gave in to her basic instincts.

She realized that these are the same people she assumed were armed and immediately regretted her reaction. Eve kept her left hand near the door knob just in case they might retaliate at her comments.

Grin · Jan 4, 2016

@Aldur Forgehammer

@Mordecai

SayGoodKnight · Jan 4, 2016

SHADIN FAKHOURY- SLOTH

Shadin hadn't been below 80 in almost a year. When he stepped off the lift he thought nothing of 60 and found it predictably unremarkable. He'd been much lower in his youth in the company of his father so the mediocrity was just that. A year was a long time though and it felt longer and longer as he strode deeper into the streets. His wrist computer occasionally gave him soft vocal commands, helping him navigate to the named location. He could have found it himself but luxury grew to be necessity after exposure and he felt unprotected without it. He was aware of how much he stuck out the closer he got to the hotel. No one in the area was filthy or even unkempt, but their average practicality kept them from the fashions and practices that went into Shadin's appearance. His long hair was the first sign of wealth, lower districts kept their hair shorter as their jobs were more labor intensive. Shadin's hair was long and thick and even still wet in its tail showed the decadence he lived his life in. His clothes were finely made of good material but were far from appropriate for roughing it. He was wearing a crop top after all which was about useful to the average person as a wax fruit. He got a few looks, some lustful, some resentful, most just curious. One little girl even asked her mother if he was a princess. A princess in a designer jacket and dark jeans. The stares and glances didn't bother him so much as remind him of the distinct difference between his home and the majority of Thalassa.

The hotel was underwhelming and the inside was worse still. Compared to the places in the upper 100s, this was barely habitable. He hesitated in the doorway, again feeling that tug of comfort. He could turn around and go home right now. Ahead of him, a sturdily built girl with shocking blue hair was speaking to a dull looking woman at the counter. The girl received a room key and then started off before turning around to awkwardly thank the receptionist. Shadin caught sight of her arm then and admired it for a moment before she disappeared around the corner.

The courier sighed heavily and approached the front desk. The woman did an admirable job of attempting to keep her eyes on his face, but Shadin hardly blamed her for ogling his mid-section. "Hi I'm supposed to be attending a meeting but I didn't catch the room number." She jerked her gaze off of his exposed abdomen and settled it on his golden earrings. She blinked one more time and then seemed to register what he was saying. "OH. Yes of course." She slide the room key to him. "So happy to have you here. I hope we'll see you again." Shadin smiled blandly and turned away without another word. That would be unlikely.

The blue haired girl was closed into the elevator only a moment before he reached it so he elected to take the stairs (strange archaic things that they were) up to designated floor. The stairwell smelled vaguely of urine and cigarette smoke which only added to growing anxiousness in his belly. He was going to walk into something weird. A taleo one of his neighbors told him about a woman receiving an odd message from a lower district from a supposed ailing young man (who conveniently provided an attractive picture) that she followed only to be swindled and have subsequent issues with her bank account for months afterwards came to mind. The tattoo was the only thing that kept him climbing the stairs. If there was a conman capable of such an elaborate scheme he supposed he owed the man or woman a handshake at least.

When he reached the correct hall his legs felt primed and energized after the climb. He was fast and now he felt ready to show it if need arose. The door with the correct number clicked shut just before he turned the corner. The blue haired girl, he assumed. He reached for the door knob in time to hear a loud exclamation (something about a man's face) and a subsequent scoff. He closed his fingers on thin air and took a couple steps back. Maybe he'd wait for someone else to enter with.

Mordecai · Jan 4, 2016

Turin had been poised to answer the squatty bald man’s question when, rather abruptly, a woman who was prickly in every sense of the word had stepped into the room, the sound of the door clicking closed behind her. He tried to look at her as a whole being, but all he could really see was the sea blue colour of her eyes—they were so entrancing he reached out to take her business card automatically, moving mechanically as he took the small piece of glossy paper between his fingers and glancing down to the name printed across the front: Elliot Leighton, followed by a line highlighting the Lost Atlantis Casino. Turin himself had never been, as he was never much for the gambling scene, causing him to crush the card in his hands and shoving it in his jean pocket.

She asked the same question the scrawny little man had just moments prior, though in a much more eloquent fashion, though Turin, again, didn’t have time to answer because just as he was about to, another woman swept into the room. It seemed all the Thalassan woman came in a variety of blue, for the first woman had eyes that would put a sunny sky to shame and this other one, a bit more portly but with lovely features nonetheless, had indigo shreds of hair poking out in all directions—a fashion Turin himself didn’t find particularly attractive himself, but kids these days were into all sorts of wild things and, realizing he was probably old enough to be her father, he settled on the conclusion that he just simply came from a softer generation.

Luckily, the young woman who wasn’t one Ellot Leighton seemed hardly to notice him at all, honing in on the scrawny, bald man with whom Turin alone had been sharing the space with just minutes prior. Yes, he certainly came from a different generation… as least he wouldn’t bark like a squawking bird at the first thing that was even the slightest bit unsightly.

“Now, now,” he interrupted with a lame sigh, “I don’t think we were summoned here to discuss this man’s face or your mother’s upper lip and, on that note, instead of bickering and hollering like a bunch of children that you are, has anyone got a damn clue as to why we’re all here in the first place?” Turin’s lips folded carefully over every word, pondering if, at any moment, he should just dismiss himself quietly from the disorganized chaos that was room 6023, on the 60th floor of Grounded Hotel on Paradise. Glancing down at his mobile device, he realized just how late it was getting and… he had work in the morning.

Pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, listening to the bellowing of the strange little bald gentleman saying something to Elliot Leighton, Turin could feel the first spark of a migraine ripple through his forehead and spread out through his brain like a vice.

“Do you all have the tattoos?”

Poe · Jan 4, 2016

K A Y E || M A T T I X

The sound of rain was driving her mad.

Few things frustrated her mind the way the constant pitter patter of rain slapped against the pavement though none fell from the sky. It was pleasant outside but a shiver ran through Kaye as she was dragged rather forcibly from her apartment and down into 60. She had never been this low, but she figured it was the same as all the others. People, places, things, the usual.

Where are they taking you?

She did not know. Well, she did. 3449 Paradise for the Grounded Hotel. Others with the same tattoo. The hand tattoo, roman numerals, eyeballs. She said no, they said yes. If she ran, the would catch her — but she did not want to run. To hide. To sleep. To stop hearing everything. Rain from phantom skies, footsteps, her own boots scraping against the pavement. There was a woman on the corner who stared at her for a moment in pity but moved on. Things to do. People always had things. They were different for everyone, but always just things.

Had she left the oven on?

Had she ever used the oven?

Focus, Kayana. You’re here.

She was shoved rather unceremoniously through the door of the hotel and towards the front desk where there was a woman waiting. She was not an attractive woman, her lips the kind of red found on street corners, but her expression brightened when she saw Kaye, only to fall back to rest at the sight of her captors. “They’re upstairs,” she said rather abruptly, though the men Kaye was with didn’t seem to pay much mind. Their guns were not drawn as they traversed through the hotel, hidden as not to cause a scene, but Kaye felt their presence clear. They were not allowing her to leave.

Funny how requests always turned into demands.

Just a few more tests, please Kayana?

There was an affluent looking man standing a few steps back from the door as the elevator doors opened, the guns drawn once again and Kaye’s arm yanked towards the hotel room. She did not speak but she was always thinking. Her mind cycled through everything she observed. The chipped faux gold leafing of the number, fingerprints on the door handle, the long tied back hair of the man hesitating, voices on the other side of the door. Too many people looking for answers. Answers were never what you wanted to hear.

Though, neither were more questions.

One of the men pulled out a keycard, slipping it in the door before pushing it open and near dragging Kaye into the room. She was right, there were people. Four…five including the hallway dweller. With a swift shove, Kaye stumbled forward. “We’re outside, girl,” one of the men said firmly before turning on his heel and shutting the door behind him, leaving Kaye in the worst possible position. She didn’t do people. People were hard and her mind couldn’t stop.

With wide eyes, she looked up at her forced companions There was a twinge of heat in the hotel room but the shiver still stayed in Kaye’s thin bones which was certainly evident. There was so much weight in the room and if she stacked everyone they would have rivaled a building. One was a woman with blue eyes piercing through her. Was she real? Next a man with hard eyes, pocked skin and bald head. Mackeen. Her mother had said the word once.

Or was it her father?

Steel blue eyes bore into her soul. Cole. No, a tall woman. Tattooed eye, three piercings. Strong. It was so much to process. Did she know the woman? Had she seen any of these people before? The man with kind brown eyes. His hair was longer than hers. How young had he been when the grey set in?

She needed to hide.

She needed to be gone.

She needed to stop.

Footsteps outside the door. Dripping in the sink. The chairs in a haphazard circle. There was a gleam on the sliver of window that could be seen behind the pulled blinds. The air vent shook a bit. Eyes were on her. She could not speak. She tried to speak.

Just tell us what’s wrong, Kayana.

Instead, she just looked up at the crowd wide-eyed.

Kayana, dear, we’re not mind readers.

Good, she thought.

Coin · Jan 5, 2016

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Panic set in when Kaye had disappeared into the hotel, clean from all of Three's sensors. The area was unfamiliar already to the AI, which lead so many variables that she couldn't even begin to account for. Her time with the police should have made this a walk in the park for her, there were armed guards, one high value target and potential room for collateral damage. Yet, Three couldn't help but feel that she was falling into someone else's plan herself -- how was she to plan against that?

Dead plan, dead hostage.

Frustration set in as Three ran the situation from the top for the dozenth time. She knew was that Kaye, her neighbor, was being taken against her will to the same place Three was invited to on account of her own mysterious tattoo. She knew that it could easily be a trap for her, with Kaye simply falling victim to play the bait. However, she didn't know how anyone could have known that Three had taken interest in Kaye Mattix. She wasn't even sure of it herself. The logical solution that Three could avoid no longer was one that stretched coincidence even further -- did Kaye have the same tattoo? If so, why did Three get an invitation and Kaye get a handgun pointed at her spine?

The thought opened up far too many possibilities that Three did not want to waste any more time picking through. Kaye was possibly in danger and Three could do something about it. She shoved her hands back into the pockets of her rain resistant coat and peeked out from under the awning she had taken momentary shelter at. Keeping her head down to remain unassuming for as long as possible, Three stepped back out into the light patter of rain and towards the hotel.

Three was going to bank on a hunch, a gamble -- a feeling she had nearly become addicted to. The AI couldn't help but grin to herself.

The lobby of the hotel was as tacky as she expected. Kaye and her captors were already gone from sight and only the receptionist behind the counter remained. She looked and sounded as if she was far too tired of the same routine as Three approached her.

"Lookin' for room 6023 too, hun?" she raised a far too manicured eyebrow in greeting.

"Yes, ma'am," Three responded without missing a beat, shrugging off her jacket and draping it over her forearm to dry.

"Hold on sweetie, gotta configure more keycards, your friends already took the last ones I had up at the desk," the receptionist began to tap away at the screen.

Friends?

A brief whir of machinery behind the desk later and she had printed a new keycard, holding it out for Three, "Here you go. 6024, sixtieth floor, should be easy enough to find. Think there's towels in the room if you need to dry up -- have a good time, hun."

"Thanks."

Sixtieth floor. Room 6024.

Three had done high rise operations before, where the exit was either the elevator, the stairs, or the window. Not having proper MagLev harnesses made one of those options out of the question entirely. The complications were stacking against her nicely.

Easy enough, as the receptionist put it, turned out into a group of thugs standing sentry outside the door. From just a glance at their numbers, the bulge in under some of their armpits from hidden handguns, and how their sleeves tugged in unnatural angles around their shoulders because of the armor mesh, Three could tell that these were the same muscle that forced Kaye out of her apartment at gunpoint.

Three knew nervousness. It was every time she prepared to rip a door from its frame, it was every nanosecond that her squadmates lagged when responding after the breach, it was waiting for the dealer to pass her another card. She was a nervous wreck, and none of it showed. Though she cursed many things about being entirely artificial, her ability to conceal outward emotions was a godsend. Wordlessly, and most importantly, confidently, she paced past the guards and took in their sour glares. Without even an acknowledgment of their existence, Three slipped the access card through the lock on the door and disengaged it. Slowly creaking it open, she was greeted by the expressions of half a dozen others, Kaye among them.

"Kaye," Three simply whispered, placing a hand on the woman's shoulder as soon as she realized that the others in the room posed no immediate threat. In fact, most of them just appeared to be normal civilians like Kaye from all sorts of walks of life.

Without noticing it at first, Three had her hand on Kaye's shoulder in comfort for a few moments longer that socially acceptable. If she could have blushed, she would have. Snatching her hand back, Three played it off in one fluid motion to drape her jacket around Kaye's shoulders. After all, Kaye had been in the rain longer than she and hardly had anything appropriate for the weather on the trek here. Not like Three could get sick, anyway.

"What's going on here?" Three asked aloud, tone cold as steel.

Sunbather · Jan 6, 2016

(A collab with @Aldur Forgehammer @Mordecai @Poe @Coin @CRiTiCAL ERR0R @Tronethiel @SayGoodKnight @korigon @Grin @BlueInPassing @simj22

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Tronethiel · Jan 7, 2016

William Fitzgerald

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Will strode into the Paradise with with a gleam in his eye and a little foxtrot in his step. He didn't know what was about to happen, or who was going to be waiting for him, but there was nothing like the anticipation of the new. Sure, he might be in danger, but he'd been in a scrape or two during his time, and there was no way a little uncertainty was going to keep his curiosity from getting the better of him. That alien force had taken him now, that hunger he couldn't explain. He'd found that when it came over him, the best thing he could do was buckle up, enjoy the ride, and hope he didn't do anything to rash.

The Paradise was a...quaint little affair. It was certainly drab, and it really didn't show any of the pzazz he'd liked to surround himself with in recent days, but he'd seen worse. Personally, he didn't think there was anything wrong with the 60th or it's neighboring districts. After all, this was just a place where people were trying to get along the best they knew how, and it was a hell of a lot better than 50 and below. Honestly, Will had a bit of a bone to pick with Thalassan society. He thought this "life equals credit" business was a sham. People's lives were clearly more than money, and in a society where there was obviously enough wealth to go around, he didn't see why anyone should go without. But...he did. As much as one part of him said that everyone should have it good, that alien voice, the Other inside him, whispered a different tune. You're gonna do big things kid. You know it. They all know it, but you're gonna have to step on some toes. So which is it? The people? Or Thalassa's biggest star? Will tried to shake it off. This inner struggle was probably gonna catch up to him one day, that that day wasn't today.

Finally, Will found his way to the front desk and came face to face with a rather average looking woman. She seemed to fit the hotel perfectly, weak on presentation. Honestly, the lipstick was probably one step above acrylic paint and her features were flat, yet round? He blinked, refocusing on the task at hand. "Hello mam, I'm here for the soiree that's going down. I imagine you know which one I'm speaking of," he said, giving her a winning smile and trying not to look shady.

At the sound of his voice, the woman jumped, eyes swiveling about until they finally rested on him. "Oh dear...um yes, welcome to The Paradise for the Grounded Hotel," she said, following her anxious muttering with a smile that looked like it hurt. She had clearly not been paying attention and appeared to be on edge for some reason.

Will attempted to cancel out her harsh smile by continuing to project his own, but wasn't sure if it was working. He slipped her a generous tip as he looked her in the eye. "Look man, you seem a bit on edge. Why don't you get yourself a massage or something after work, wind down a little, it'll be on me, ay? Now if you would, I'd kinda like a key and directions, please."

---

As Will stepped towards the door, he wiped a hint of sweat from his brow and rolled the tension from his shoulder blades. Without further a do, as it was always showbiz with him, he swiped his card and pushed the door open. What he saw on the other side was not necessarily the most confusing thing he could have expected, but it was a bit strange. In a way, it reminded him a bit of The Songbird's night crowd. The room was marked by quite the collection of interesting individuals. Young, aged, ugly, gorgeous, confused, self-assured, Will saw all this and more. His eyes locking onto a confident-looking and rather bright haired vixen of a woman. That one's in charge, or at least she's under the illusion she is.

He couldn't be sure, but Will'd be damned if he couldn't pick out the people in the room who expected attention. After all, that's what he was about most of the time. After quickly surveying the rest of the room, he decided he was going straight for the brass. There was no doubt he'd interact with them at some point, but right now he needed to get this thing rolling. The Other inside him demanded it, craved it.

Will strolled up to the striking woman, letting his gait relax and trying to turn up the charm. "How are you, ma'm? My name is Will Fitzgerald, though you can call me Fitz, if you'd like. If I'm not mistaken, you appear to be the the one that cooked this little party up. I hope I haven't missed anything important," he said, trying not let his million questions slip out before pleasantries were exchanged. It was then that he noticed the curt young woman standing nearby, so he gave a little wink and added, "And hello to you as well, miss. I hope you are well?"

Tags: @Sunbather, @BlueInPassing

sorrow made you · Jan 8, 2016

Idris Dalca

This was becoming a trend that Idris wasn’t a fan of. Again, he was late to meeting a very important matter. First was in meeting Dylan, now was this… shindig in the high district. Idris himself had never been in such a high numbered district, and knew he’d feel completely out of his element. But it wasn’t for the sake of him and his gang… rather… it was for Dylan and… whatever the two were mixed in with regarding the strange tattoos.

With a growl, Idris wiped the blood from his busted lower lip and looked at the back of his hand where the crimson laid. Honey golden hues turned red as they looked up at the individual that had thought it was a perfect time to start a fight with the wrong person. “Really? Is that all you got?” Idris grumbled, blatantly annoyed by the man’s weak aggression. Pulling his hand back and down to his side, he stared down the man, watching the intimidation begin to replace the feeling of smugness. A quick jerk of the neck and crackling joints gave away to what Idris’ intentions were.

SKIP

“Shit. Fuck. Dammit…” Idris hissed as he tried to wipe away blood that stained his knuckles. There was no way he could walk through the high districts looking like a murderer. “I went a little too far. Damn that bastard…” He continued to grumble at himself, trying to rinse and dry his sleeves with water from the shoddy sink in the barely working bathroom of a corner shop. “Arhhh… fuck it.” He finally determined and took off his coat all together. He looked over it and let out an irritated huff. How many years had it been since he got a new coat and now… it was ruined. Though Idris was normally not the materialistic type, he did want to at least look less like a thug for Dylan’s little get together. Oh well to that.

SKIP

Idris moved as quickly as possible, using the routs his men had mapped out for him to get to the designated district. Traveling felt painstakingly long. The wait in the lobby of the hotel seemed longer. Where had the front desk clerk gone? He waited, looked around, drummed his fingers on the counter.

“Aye! Hellooo?” He called, growling when his call was left unanswered. Really? Really? of all the times to be ignored, now?

Finally after a good few minutes, a woman came out of the back and looked at Idris with a blank stare. She looked just as amused as he did. “I’m looking for…” He started, but before he could finish, the woman interrupted.

“Are you part of that gathering?”

Idris was taken back slightly. He was probably the last one to arrive. A ping of guilt came over him and he lowered his head slightly. “Uh, yeah. Can you tell me which room?”

The woman sized him up, looking him up and down before letting out a small hum. She turned away to grab the room key for him. Instead of handing it directly to him, she placed it on the counter and pushed it toward him, making Idris feel slightly dumb for holding out his hand for it. He quickly snatched the key and hesitated, hoping that the woman would at least tell him what floor. Nothing. Apparently she’d had enough that day. Or maybe Idris just irritated her by sight.

It was the lack of coat, wasn’t it?

Eventually Idris made it up the elevator and found the right floor. Looking at the number written on the key, he slowly found the door. He could hear a few jumbled voices on the other side… and was that.. that was Dylan. He took in a quick breath and used the key.He tried to open the door as discreetly as possible, hoping to slip in and not cause too much attention. He was irritated already. Last thing he needed was someone to berate him on being fashionably late.

Futuristic Ｔ Ĥ Λ Ŀ Λ Ƨ Ƨ Λ

Le photographe est mort

Le photographe est mort

the traitorous queen

I'm a lady Poe.

world's okayest lobotomite (they/them)

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Memory Dealer

The Absurdist

Never seen a bluer sky.

Angst Specialist

Not "Mr. Grin"

Le photographe est mort

the traitorous queen

Not "Mr. Grin"

the traitorous queen

Not "Mr. Grin"

Awful, Terrible, No-good Layabout

Memory Dealer

Not "Mr. Grin"

Angst Specialist

the traitorous queen

I'm a lady Poe.

world's okayest lobotomite (they/them)

Attachments

Le photographe est mort

The Absurdist

from the bottom of the dark, dark sea

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