![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
PRISON WORLD #1: Spidermarvel (tw violence, harassment, discrimination)
Characters: Ensemble cast, any/all characters of Xistentia!
Summary: F.A.T.E.S. has alerted the population of Xistentia that the enemy has created something new, a Prison World where others refugees of the Multiverse are being brainwashed into destroying each other.
Date(s): July 29-August 5
Warnings/Notes: None, please mark your subject headers with content.
It's New York City in 2017, and Enhanced humans came into public perception after the great Battle against alien invaders 5 years ago. Unlike the Hulk or Thor, rumor has it that most of the Enhanced superpowers in New York developed because of ambient radiation-- hard to say whether that was from the alien weapons, or the nuclear bomb that other humans themselves sent to try to level the city. There's blame to go around. People still find Chitauri tech littered about the city.
In another life, you might have been once an orcish princess or a steampunk scientist, but these days, you're someone different. The new identity and the new body fit you like a glove. You know your friends and your prospects same as you know your own life.
There's one place in New York City where Enhanced and purported allies can be out and about in peace: a speakeasy named Pax Sanctum. It sounds like some hippie shit, but inside, you have green ambient light, sleek white bar, bottles of every liquor type you could want. Rumors vary about peace enforcement here. Some say there's an empath scanning the place constantly, others that there's someone who can manipulate time itself. Older patrons know that the location has moved twice in the past three years, without incident, but no doubt with good reason. Regardless, the bouncers descend quickly whenever a conflict seems to get heated.
And it so rarely does. The ambience is light and sexy. Now and then, you'll find a pyrokinetic showing off lighter fingers to an impressed crowd or an animated debate about current events compared to historical parallels. One level down the stairs, there's even a dancefloor where you will occasionally find dance battles between equally uncoordinated Enhanced and non-Enhanced. It feels like the kind of place where you can let your guard down.
The week's password is Arachnid— there's a Spiderman fan in management somewhere, evidently. Tell the bouncer behind the big metal door.
At 11:42PM on Wednesday, August 2, an explosion rocks the club.
Boom! Glass explodes, people hit the floor. The origin seems to be the dance space at LG 2. An electrical fire erupts immediately, filling the air with a thick, cloying smoke. It's not clear whether the attack was from an Enhanced or a non-Enhanced-- but the fear instantly kindles. People of both kind scramble to form groups of their own, and fight for the two exits. Soon, the sirens of police and fire services begin to echo in the distance, promising interrogations for those who linger. How many people here are un-Registered? And say, didn't you see someone acting a little suspicious right before the blast? Is that them there? And what will you do, when you come across someone bleeding?
Or better yet, when the first punch is thrown, by a couple of angry, drunken survivors right outside there in the nightclub's back alley?
After the explosion, what started as a single incident of violence sends ripples throughout the social fabric of New York City in the weeks after. Police report that the rates of Chitauri-influenced weapons on the street doubles, and even mundane weapons are being bought off the black market at even greater rates than that. Further, every day the news seems to sensationalize stories of stressed Enhanced losing control of their powers... and the Mayor is beginning to make examples out of them, with harsher sentences, rushed proceedings. Whether or not you're Enhanced, the streets are a dangerous place to roam.
Maybe you know that someone's been watching you for days, even weeks. Maybe you noticed— this person you may have known forever, but started acting a little oddly just a few days. Maybe you figured it was sickness or stress, especially after the August 2 explosion. Even people who didn't care about politics at all are starting to take notice now, choosing sides, storing up water... even weapons, the likes of which mankind had never seen before the era of the Chitauri and Enhanced. But this is when it happens: when someone comes to you and offers you the device, the innocent-looking cellular phone, that will change your whole identity.
Or maybe you just stumble upon it yourself. Seemingly a lost phone, a free phone, sitting out innocuous.
You pick it up, and immediately, your mind begins to morph inside your skull, disorienting. Your body doesn't change, but you remember who you are. The phone screen lights up, then unexpectedly projects holographic text into the air in front of your face: Activate Portal to Xistentia?[1]
You pick No. Not right now.
Your mind is flooded with memories of your past, your true homeworld. Your true identity crashes into the false memories that this world brainwashed into you, disorienting, heavy; rapidly, your life here begins to feel like a dream. Luckily, you don't forget the helpful details of passing as a native. Nonetheless, the revelation probably comes at a bad time; in the middle of your workday or on the bus, somewhere public, where people are here to see you... as well as the daemon that's now trying to give you a whole infodump about Xistentia and the battle between F.A.T.E.S. and D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. It might be a good time to find somewhere private to go and get that portal out.
Or maybe you're staying because you have unfinished business in this world. Friends or even enemies who might also need to be awakened and helped. Luckily, your cellphone-- or daemon— tells you that there are others in this world on a similar mission from Xistentia. Maybe you can contact them through your daemon.
You pick Yes.
A portal of glowing light opens in front of you, smelling of ozone, churning with atmosphere. Step through, and you immediately find yourself with the unsettling yet painless sensation of being pulled through space and time. The very molecules of your body supercharge and come apart, shot through the multiverse, and come out on the other side arranged back in your original configuration.
You land facedown on a sandy beach. Your daemon is still with you, but chances are, it no longer looks like a reassuringly ordinary cellphone. It tells you:
"The date is August 12, 2017, F.A.T.E.S. Standard Time. Local Population: 333. Welcome to Xistentia. The city is due East."
One minute, you were in Xistentia, a refugee from your dying world. Charged with studying D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. the enemy of the entire Multiverse or rescuing others from its clutches. You're lying on a stone table, some kind of magic machine in the Telexistence Temple, surrounded by other people from a variety of worlds, all of them anticipating the same unknowns as you are.
The next minute, you're a resident of New York City, totally immersed in your new identity; strangely fixated on keeping your cellphone in hand, but there's nothing strange about that in 2017. For a few days, you were part of this world, completely convinced of a life as rich as your original.
And this is the moment you're back. Suddenly you remember everything, lucidity hitting you like a thunderbolt. You suddenly realize your memories were false, your diet, perhaps even the shape of your body. It's deeply disorienting, and it probably throws you off in the middle of whatever you're doing, whether it's filling a takeaway cup with soda or delivering a speech to a packed auditorium. Suddenly, the false identity you were given sinks into the background; you can still remember enough details to fake it (and maybe take it), but you know who you are.
Hopefully no one here will notice you literally just lost your mind.
The research part of the mission turns out to be pretty easy! All you need to do is carry your cellphone around wherever you go. You're easily mistaken for someone playing Pokemon! Go or texting avidly wherever you walk. The screen shows you nothing but code gibberish, with the occasional flicker when you're near someone else from Xistentia or an awakened person. It's a good excuse to get out and about.
And maybe also an accidental cause of getting in trouble. After all, whether or not you're a part of it, there is a war brewing between two groups of people, and many of those who haven't taken a side are nonetheless on-guard for danger at any given time. You're as likely to come across verbal harassment as violent revenge, or someone using advanced Chitauri-influenced weapons to knock over a liquor store or throw their weight around.
If you visited this world the week before, in wraith mode[2], you've recovered those memories too. It might help you recall some of those who now need rescuing.
Or maybe you're going at it blind. In any case, you equipped with a pre-activated daemon in hand, as well as you're own. Your duty now is to find world-hopping refugees that D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. has trapped here, and match the naive device to its new owner with some form of consent-- whether by trick or explanation. How hard can it be? It's 2017. Everyone needs a cellphone.
Small complication: the entire city is fraught with war and paranoia. And maybe the naive daemon in your hand keeps blinking at you signals that ID someone on the wrong side...
Your daemon will show you the way home. And dump you on back on a familiar beach amid a screaming chaos. You're welcome!
Summary: F.A.T.E.S. has alerted the population of Xistentia that the enemy has created something new, a Prison World where others refugees of the Multiverse are being brainwashed into destroying each other.
Date(s): July 29-August 5
Warnings/Notes: None, please mark your subject headers with content.
SPIDERMARVEL PRISON WORLD
She was really nice and bought me a churro.
PRISON WORLD: SPIDERMARVEL
It's New York City in 2017, and Enhanced humans came into public perception after the great Battle against alien invaders 5 years ago. Unlike the Hulk or Thor, rumor has it that most of the Enhanced superpowers in New York developed because of ambient radiation-- hard to say whether that was from the alien weapons, or the nuclear bomb that other humans themselves sent to try to level the city. There's blame to go around. People still find Chitauri tech littered about the city.
In another life, you might have been once an orcish princess or a steampunk scientist, but these days, you're someone different. The new identity and the new body fit you like a glove. You know your friends and your prospects same as you know your own life.
Pax Sanctum Club
There's one place in New York City where Enhanced and purported allies can be out and about in peace: a speakeasy named Pax Sanctum. It sounds like some hippie shit, but inside, you have green ambient light, sleek white bar, bottles of every liquor type you could want. Rumors vary about peace enforcement here. Some say there's an empath scanning the place constantly, others that there's someone who can manipulate time itself. Older patrons know that the location has moved twice in the past three years, without incident, but no doubt with good reason. Regardless, the bouncers descend quickly whenever a conflict seems to get heated.
And it so rarely does. The ambience is light and sexy. Now and then, you'll find a pyrokinetic showing off lighter fingers to an impressed crowd or an animated debate about current events compared to historical parallels. One level down the stairs, there's even a dancefloor where you will occasionally find dance battles between equally uncoordinated Enhanced and non-Enhanced. It feels like the kind of place where you can let your guard down.
The week's password is Arachnid— there's a Spiderman fan in management somewhere, evidently. Tell the bouncer behind the big metal door.
The Explosion
At 11:42PM on Wednesday, August 2, an explosion rocks the club.
Boom! Glass explodes, people hit the floor. The origin seems to be the dance space at LG 2. An electrical fire erupts immediately, filling the air with a thick, cloying smoke. It's not clear whether the attack was from an Enhanced or a non-Enhanced-- but the fear instantly kindles. People of both kind scramble to form groups of their own, and fight for the two exits. Soon, the sirens of police and fire services begin to echo in the distance, promising interrogations for those who linger. How many people here are un-Registered? And say, didn't you see someone acting a little suspicious right before the blast? Is that them there? And what will you do, when you come across someone bleeding?
Or better yet, when the first punch is thrown, by a couple of angry, drunken survivors right outside there in the nightclub's back alley?
After the explosion, what started as a single incident of violence sends ripples throughout the social fabric of New York City in the weeks after. Police report that the rates of Chitauri-influenced weapons on the street doubles, and even mundane weapons are being bought off the black market at even greater rates than that. Further, every day the news seems to sensationalize stories of stressed Enhanced losing control of their powers... and the Mayor is beginning to make examples out of them, with harsher sentences, rushed proceedings. Whether or not you're Enhanced, the streets are a dangerous place to roam.
NEW CHARACTERS: SAVE ME
Maybe you know that someone's been watching you for days, even weeks. Maybe you noticed— this person you may have known forever, but started acting a little oddly just a few days. Maybe you figured it was sickness or stress, especially after the August 2 explosion. Even people who didn't care about politics at all are starting to take notice now, choosing sides, storing up water... even weapons, the likes of which mankind had never seen before the era of the Chitauri and Enhanced. But this is when it happens: when someone comes to you and offers you the device, the innocent-looking cellular phone, that will change your whole identity.
Or maybe you just stumble upon it yourself. Seemingly a lost phone, a free phone, sitting out innocuous.
Daemon Activate
You pick it up, and immediately, your mind begins to morph inside your skull, disorienting. Your body doesn't change, but you remember who you are. The phone screen lights up, then unexpectedly projects holographic text into the air in front of your face: Activate Portal to Xistentia?[1]
Unfinished Business
You pick No. Not right now.
Your mind is flooded with memories of your past, your true homeworld. Your true identity crashes into the false memories that this world brainwashed into you, disorienting, heavy; rapidly, your life here begins to feel like a dream. Luckily, you don't forget the helpful details of passing as a native. Nonetheless, the revelation probably comes at a bad time; in the middle of your workday or on the bus, somewhere public, where people are here to see you... as well as the daemon that's now trying to give you a whole infodump about Xistentia and the battle between F.A.T.E.S. and D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. It might be a good time to find somewhere private to go and get that portal out.
Or maybe you're staying because you have unfinished business in this world. Friends or even enemies who might also need to be awakened and helped. Luckily, your cellphone-- or daemon— tells you that there are others in this world on a similar mission from Xistentia. Maybe you can contact them through your daemon.
Escape to Xistentia
You pick Yes.
A portal of glowing light opens in front of you, smelling of ozone, churning with atmosphere. Step through, and you immediately find yourself with the unsettling yet painless sensation of being pulled through space and time. The very molecules of your body supercharge and come apart, shot through the multiverse, and come out on the other side arranged back in your original configuration.
You land facedown on a sandy beach. Your daemon is still with you, but chances are, it no longer looks like a reassuringly ordinary cellphone. It tells you:
"The date is August 12, 2017, F.A.T.E.S. Standard Time. Local Population: 333. Welcome to Xistentia. The city is due East."
OLDER CHARACTERS: RESEARCH & RESCUE
One minute, you were in Xistentia, a refugee from your dying world. Charged with studying D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. the enemy of the entire Multiverse or rescuing others from its clutches. You're lying on a stone table, some kind of magic machine in the Telexistence Temple, surrounded by other people from a variety of worlds, all of them anticipating the same unknowns as you are.
The Moment of Lucidity
The next minute, you're a resident of New York City, totally immersed in your new identity; strangely fixated on keeping your cellphone in hand, but there's nothing strange about that in 2017. For a few days, you were part of this world, completely convinced of a life as rich as your original.
And this is the moment you're back. Suddenly you remember everything, lucidity hitting you like a thunderbolt. You suddenly realize your memories were false, your diet, perhaps even the shape of your body. It's deeply disorienting, and it probably throws you off in the middle of whatever you're doing, whether it's filling a takeaway cup with soda or delivering a speech to a packed auditorium. Suddenly, the false identity you were given sinks into the background; you can still remember enough details to fake it (and maybe take it), but you know who you are.
Hopefully no one here will notice you literally just lost your mind.
Do Your Research
The research part of the mission turns out to be pretty easy! All you need to do is carry your cellphone around wherever you go. You're easily mistaken for someone playing Pokemon! Go or texting avidly wherever you walk. The screen shows you nothing but code gibberish, with the occasional flicker when you're near someone else from Xistentia or an awakened person. It's a good excuse to get out and about.
And maybe also an accidental cause of getting in trouble. After all, whether or not you're a part of it, there is a war brewing between two groups of people, and many of those who haven't taken a side are nonetheless on-guard for danger at any given time. You're as likely to come across verbal harassment as violent revenge, or someone using advanced Chitauri-influenced weapons to knock over a liquor store or throw their weight around.
Rescue Rangers
If you visited this world the week before, in wraith mode[2], you've recovered those memories too. It might help you recall some of those who now need rescuing.
Or maybe you're going at it blind. In any case, you equipped with a pre-activated daemon in hand, as well as you're own. Your duty now is to find world-hopping refugees that D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. has trapped here, and match the naive device to its new owner with some form of consent-- whether by trick or explanation. How hard can it be? It's 2017. Everyone needs a cellphone.
Small complication: the entire city is fraught with war and paranoia. And maybe the naive daemon in your hand keeps blinking at you signals that ID someone on the wrong side...
Get Home
Your daemon will show you the way home. And dump you on back on a familiar beach amid a screaming chaos. You're welcome!
Footnotes
- Daemon will take/resume its true form in Xistentia, as soon as the character lands on the beach.
- Wraith mode refers to existing characters who had played in the TDM, able to be seen and heard only by the other refugees.
- Updated plotting thread for new characters is here.
- OOC plot post is here. IC network infodump for existing characters is here.
meeeee;
[kavinsky's voice is false bright and edged with crazy. back to his old cokehead days, albeit with a chitauri tech twist! also an actually-successful-gay-relationship twist, for a given quantity of 'successful.' it's proof that miracles can happen in the multiverse! it just also so happens to be a miracle that no one is mentally available to appreciate. if a tree falls in the forest and there are no witnesses...]
What goes up doesn't always come down. That's what she she said.
[there's a slimy undercurrent of laughter, like an oil-poisoned river. kavinsky pokes the other boy in he head with the weapon-- and fortunately, whatever shitty black marketeer put the tech together did enough of a good job that there's no accidental discharge, no circuit closing itself with searing energy through ronan's hair.] Ten steps forward. I wanna show you off to the rest of the village. You're my prize pig, dipshit! Traitor to your kind.
[there's one multiverse constant: kavinsky does love a good audience.]
no subject
He takes one step forward. Two. Heavy, slow, letting the exoskeleton carry the barely-there pull of his muscles. ]
Traitor to my kind? What the fuck are you talking about?
[ He can't even keep in the actual, genuine drop of confusion and curiosity that dilutes the anger in his tone. Half of the time, he has no idea what Kavinsky is talking about. The guy is prone to dramatics and hyperbole, after all.
Ronan takes another step forward, his jaw ticking. ]
no subject
ahead of them, the catwalk emerges into light. and down below, there will be a dozen rabble-rousers. kavinsky's 'friends,' over-privileged, eager for violence, not particularly passionate about the actual agenda, of course, or the ethics and anxieties of human superiority. they're just in it to hurt people with weapons and the maximum chance of the popo turning a blind eye.]
The fuck was that pig's name in the book. William? Wilkens?
[look, everyone had to read charlotte's web that year.]
no subject
[ Ronan's jaw clenches, but he doesn't look down when they come out into the light. He's in pretty deep shit, right now, but he's never really been good at admitting when he's done for. And he's especially not going to bow down to Joseph Kavinsky. ]
Wilbur. [ Ronan's jaw clenches tighter. He couldn't help himself. ]
no subject
Gentlemen. I present to you, self-righteous shithead in gimp mask. Say hi to self-righteous shithead in gimp mask. Hey, self-righteous shithead in gimp mask, say hi to the boys.
[they're an expensive-looking bunch, a funny contrast to the rest of the space around them. big, rusting machinery in the background, standing sinister, evocative.
and right by the catwalk, just beyond the railing beside ronan, there's a heavy set of chains dangling from a ceiling rail with a huge heavy hook at the end. once upon a time, this place was a slaughterhouse. these days, the window sills are decorated with red solo cups and rich kids park modified two-doors in the wide open floorspace.
a chorus of hellos comes up to greet ronan. it's very stupid.]
no subject
Damn, do you do all of your recruiting at private schools keg parties? That's a really pathetic display, Joseph. Are you wearing pukka shells, too?
[ Instead of saying hello back, Ronan lifts both hands, middle fingers high up, presenting them to his new audience. Sure, he's signing his death warrant here probably, but he's not going to go down without a fight. ]
What are you planning on doing with me? [ He asks Kavinsky, head slightly back, pressing against the gun. ] C'mon, I know you're dying to give me the supervillain speech.
tw drugs, mention of overdose
albeit one that's laughing now, at ronan's display.]
Yeah all right, [kavinsky says, lightly. always one to play along.] Check it out, team we're-still-humans. Lynch here thinks he's Bruce fucking Wayne. All the gadgets and the good intentions. Purity of spirit by Pinterest. Vigilante against vigilntism. Well shit. We all know how that ends, don't we?
[there's a requisite chorus of laughter from below.] Well, [says kavinsky, but there's no clever punchline, no eloquent last word. he steps back, aiming the blaster cheerfully at the middle of the other boy's back. he's never seen the gun do more than toss beer cans off a low wall, short a television, or knock over a line of motorcycles, but you know-- human experiments have their charm. it's true for pills, and it's true for alien weapons.
he pulls the trigger.]
no subject
But this is not what's happening here. What's happening is that Kavinsky doesn't waste any time pointing his gun at Ronan; he can feel the warmth of the Chitauri tech as the energy builds up. Fuck.
He wants to lie, buy himself some time, make it sound like he'd join Kavinsky, or like he cares about him - anything to keep them going for a little while longer, give him a moment more to think, but he's not a liar. Never has been, and never will be, even to someone like Joseph Kavinsky. He can't do it, it's just - he just can't.
And it's as he thinks this that he notices the hook again, dangling under them. This might be - his one chance. It might just be. ]
Sorry to disappoint, Joseph, but --
[ And with that, he jumps off the platform, pushing at the last moment to grab hold of the chain, slipping down until he is, himself, dangling from the hook, too many feet off the floor and with Kavinsky still above him. The impact of his weight - he's heavier with his exoskeleton on - pulls him down, and along with him the chain, attached to beams on the roof, which creak and bend, loudly and dangerously.
And Ronan dangles. Well, shit. ]
no subject
in combination with ronan, now swinging from the ceiling like george of the jungle
starts to elicit a very fucking loud series of creaks and groans throughout. the shouts and jeers from the gathering of boys below turns into shouts of alarm, and the whites of their eyes flash by ronan's vision as he pendulums wildly. he also-- maybe feels the sharp jerk of the chain descending another foot before hitting its end again, stopping short with ronan's weight on the end.]
Holy shit.
[kavinsky twists to stare at ronan, duly impressed, even though the catwalk is beginning to weave precariously beneath him. some kind of crucial bolt popped when he'd fired the weapon, evidently.]
The fuck are you doing, Lynch? Representing shit Ireland in the special Olympics? [a beat.] I'd put my money on you-- [and he crows, delighted, before cursing a moment as his balance sways.]
no subject
He's never been in such a precious position in his life. And he likes to jump from rooftop to rooftop. Shit. Shit.
Shit. ]
God-fucking-damnit!
[ He looks up, so he doesn't have to look down anymore. He should get some kind of jetpack. That would be useful. ]
This is all your fault, you asshole!
[ He's probably not going to die. The catwalk groans and dips lower again, which is back for Kavinsky, but good for Ronan - the closer he is to the ground before he has to jump off, the better.
But at this point, he's probably going to have to save Kavinsky's ass, too. Everything. Is. Terrible. ]
You can't stay up here!
no subject
[and then the catwalk abruptly rips down at a forty degree angle, and tosses him off as if he were trying to take off his top one-handed while riding a mechanical bull. it's almost cartoonish-- kavinsky pops into the air like a bug instead of a person. it's only by grace of cokehead reflexes!! that his hands shoot out, manage to snag the railing before he goes sailing down.
he ends up hanging there like a monkey, knuckles tight around the metal. eyes big in his head. then small again.]
Wait who fucking-- [he tries to crawl back up, but it's just making everything worse. the catwalk groans— it's barely holding onto one corner there, tipping wildly under kavinsky's shifting weight. it's almost enough to cut through the euphoric distortion of delicious cocaine.] Who fuckin' intruded on whose Goddamn party, you piece of rancid muff taffy? [it would sound more intimidating, maybe, if he weren't dangling in the air like some kind of bastardized cat gif.]