test drive!

[lilypadmin]

Code

arrival.

We don't have a brilliant arrival prompt as of yet, but you're welcome to take a look at the arrival page and post your character's arrival if you desire! You may count this test drive as a canonical arrival if you decide to keep the character in game. Many of the below prompts are in possible arrival locations, but do not need to be arrivals.

Shopping, or something like it.

Maybe you want a toothbrush. A swimsuit. Enough sun protection to ease the transition for a vampire who'd lived their entire life safely tucked away on a space station far, far away from anything remotely sun-like. Maybe you just want to put yourself someplace everyone else is bound to go, sooner or later. Maybe you're just someone who will always default to "let's go hang out at the mall", for that matter.

Maybe you're used to shoplifting, and won't notice anything about the mall's security levels, at least at first. Maybe you're a scrupulous goody-two-shoes, and you're going to have a problem when you realize that not only is nobody asking you to pay, but there is literally no way to pay for anything you wanted to purchase.

Maybe you're just going to have to throw a temper tantrum when you realize that the Orange Julius-like storefront is also completely unstaffed, and no more automated than any other Orange Julius you've ever seen, and so you don't have any way of getting the perfect smoothie.

(Unless, maybe, you can find someone else who's got more experience with a blender than you have.)

On the shoreline.

Look. You've been to the beach before, haven't you? You know what to expect when you get there: salty water, some sand, the general sinking dread that the overpowering chemical reek of artificial-coconut-scented sunscreen is coming to get you; the usual, right?

This is maybe not your usual beach. Possibly because it's a little more like a coral reef or atoll; possibly because it's a little more like someone got carried away with programming fractals into a really big 3D printer; possibly because it isn't all that much at all like the beach you were just at, if you were maybe at a beach just before you came here anyway. No toddler temper-tantrums in earshot, no seagull con artists waiting for you to be the slightest bit distracted so they can steal your food right out of your hands, no overpowering chemical reek of artificial coconut...

Don't worry too much, though. There is sunscreen, over at the little vending machine over that-a-way, along with coverups and hats and sunglasses (oh my) — pity you can't tell what they're going to look like before the machine has spat them out at you, though.

(The water does, at least, feel like water, and taste like salt, even if the sand is disconcertingly perfectly-just-off-white, and only a few inches deep above the hull.)

By the way—if you came here in a boat, this is going to be home, at least for your boat. These are the only berths you're going to find; you can claim a berth, and if it was empty when you did, you can—presumably—keep it. Some berths are already filled with other boats. Some of these boats were clearly meant for public use, and others seem as if they used to have people living in them, or at least had private owners. Nobody's living in them right now, though. Strange.

Enjoy the spa.

Or else, you can try to enjoy the spa, if you’re motivated or don’t require any staff.

Because there isn’t any. Much like the shoreline, like the mall, like the apartments, there is a whole lot of absolutely nothing unless you can figure out how to wake up the AI—and even if you do, the AI doesn’t have a clue about how to do a massage or a stretch or a chemical peel.

But you can still enjoy the saltwater pools. Or the salt room.

Or the really nice lounge.

Or the lotus pond grid.

You can also get some good skin care supplies, or put up a note on the digital bulletin board stating what you’re looking to get done. There might be another new arrival who can give you the stretch or facial you’re looking for. If you’re someone with those skills? Better stick around. Someone might be in need.

Wildcard.

If none of these inspire you—or if all of them do and you just want to add another thing to respond to, it's up to you whether you want to put one response or several in a top level comment, we're good with anything you like—you've got a whole chunk of an empty solarpunk island to do something with. The further you stray from that shoreline the harder you will be to locate by others, but we encourage you to have fun!

Anything that the setting page inspires is probably fair game! Feel free to ask before posting if you've got any questions that reading through the mod journal doesn't yet clarify; consider this a sort of beta run. ♥

Comments

Questions, comments, etc.

[lilypadmin( as admin)]

Reply here! Our FAQ is ever-growing and things asked here may be added to it.

Gideon Nav | The Locked Tomb

[necrosavior]

On the shoreline.

Coughing up water, Gideon flails until her arm catches on something. She grabs at the edge with her second arm and pulls herself farther up. The water stops, and she rests her head against the rough grainy surface. Breathing becomes regular, and Gideon pulls up enough to stare at her arms and hands. Yes, that's right, her arms and hands. In one move she pulls herself the rest of the way up, dripping wet, onto the shore.

In the half-second searing glance Gideon gets before shutting her eyes, it's completely foreign and unfamiliar. Even Harrow's dead girlfriend isn't here ordering anyone to do anything. Her minute understanding of the River says she could be anywhere. Well hello Anywhere, it's time to meet Gideon Nav. She gets up and brushes some of the sand off. That mostly gets more grit on the palms of her hands. Whatever. The water is behind her, and the land is in front of her. Somewhere, in the distance, there are buildings and civilization. Gideon pulls her hood over her head and drooping over half her face. Even holding the fabric down below her eyes isn't a great compromise. So she stumbles slowly forward with her hands out in front of her. One step and another. That's all there is to it.

[cristabel]

"Oh, that doesn't look good," says a voice, and then there's a pair of fingertips touching her arm. From Gideon's perspective, Cristabel Oct is nothing but that gentle touch and the sound of her voice. Anyone else might see a woman of about thirty in khaki pants and a loose-fitting white blouse wearing black combat boots and moving like a hybrid between a ninja and a dancer.

"Can I help you?"

[necrosavior]

Had the voice sounded sarcastic or threatening or any other number of red flags for DANGER DANGER, Gideon would have grappled the attached arm/body. It's soft and genuine. Which could, admittedly, be dead level sarcasm. If someone's going to walk her into a pit or a pillar or anything, the odds are even she'd do so anyway. This way, Gideon thinks, she knows where they are. It isn't the most generous thought, but the last however long has had a lot of people killing and/or trying to kill each other. Including her.

"Do you have a pair of sunglasses I could borrow?" Gideon asks. Last she knew, Pyrrha had them. So it's with her or lost in the River, and Gideon doesn't love that pair enough to jump back into the River for them.

Shuos Jedao | Machineries of Empire

[deuceofgears]

At the mall

I am overdressed, is the second thing Jedao thinks when he emerges from there - in the middle of a blistering firefight - to here. Jedao's been to shopping areas before, although none configured quite like this. He's guessing that his no-longer-legal Kel uniform, worn these days to intimidate the impressionable, is...not what people here wear, based on the outfits he sees in the windows of the shops.

The first thing, which happens almost without conscious thought, is the assessment he does every time he enters a new location: sight lines, angles of fire, ways to set and avoid ambushes. He has his sidearm and a knife, neither of which are going to help him if he's vastly outnumbered in a space this open. And as empty as this place seems, the people he knows and depends on appear to be...missing. Not a good sign.

[superantiheroine]

It's mostly empty indeed, a few people milling around here and there, and the first person to actually catch Jedao's attention is probably the one who talks. Five foot nine, skinny pale young woman with dark hair, big grey scarf, leather jacket, torn up pants.

"Doesn't it blow," Jess says as if they've met a hundred times before, "to just ... suddenly be at the mall? Of all places. The mall. Surprise!"

[deuceofgears]

Jedao quickly assesses the woman. Probably not from the hexarchate, although she could pass from a distance, with that dark hair. He's going to assume she's deadlier than she looks, always a safe assumption in his line of work. Skinny or not, she's got a few inches on him, he's known assassins with that deceptive light build, and who knows what she's hiding under that jacket.

"It beat being shot at," Jedao says easily, making no attempt to suppress his native drawl, "which is what was going on before I landed here. That's assuming we're not about to be shot at, anyway. I'm Jedao, by the way, pleased to meet you. D'you think they have anything decent to drink?"

Murderbot 2.0 | The Murderbot Diaries

[softwareghost]

Shopping, or something like it.

Murderbot 2.0 issn't sure exactly what it had expected to find. At a minimum: something connected to a comm network and TargetContact. It isn't on a network. It's loaded directly into some piece of hardware. Could TargetContact sense it and divert it into an isolated system? That sounds bad. Murderbot 2.0 starts playing an episode of The Rise and Fall of Sanctuary Moon. It's not ignoring its problems, but Murderbot 1.0 has watched this episode so many times, 2.0 figures it's helpful. It's calming.

Time for business. Murderbot 2.0 extends throughout the hardware system and powers it up. It appears to be some kind of drone at factory settings. The Targets are reusing all tech at their command, so it's suspicious. The drone is also stuck inside a small container with no visibility. Luckily, the drone has some capacity to deal with that. It extends an arm to explore the limits of the container. It's rigid but relatively soft. Not metal. Not glass. It opens easily. Murderbot 2.0 eases the thrusters up and exits the container. It scans constantly and discovers it came from one of many identical boxes. To be safe, it opens another box, copies its killware and small media sampling onto a second drone and leaves it behind. If it's destroyed, Murderbot 2.1 will hopefully recognize something went wrong and perform better.

Because 1.0 always likes to have a map of anywhere it goes (preferably) and there is no network 2.0 can download a map from, it scans in sweeps, slowly building a map from the sensor data the drone records. Murderbot 2.0 is sucking up what programming is useful and generally writing over anything that wouldn't want it to exist. Shopping districts, as it's in, only exist for people to use them, so it keeps an eye out for people, grey-skinned with implants on the back of their neck or otherwise.

[armeyets]

The man has been wandering this eerie, abandoned shopping mall for a while now, finally obtaining a new leather jacket (which feels just like a jacket back home, which is astonishingly normal, considering he may or may not be trapped on an alien planet). There's been no sign of life throughout his walk, until—

The familiar distant whine of a drone, somewhere high above. Bucky stops stock-still and tilts his head upwards, and watches the machine mistrustfully. It doesn't look like Sam's Redwing, but his general vague irritation with drones persists, along with the knowledge that there's probably someone nearby piloting it. His face settles into a carved frown.

To the drone's eyes, the dark-haired man beneath it seems human, with a heart beating strong and steady, although his left arm is heavy and all-metal beneath that sleeve. He cranes his right hand over his eyes, watching the drone as it hovers.

[softwareghost]

The first person Murderbot 2.0 sees has a standard variant skin color, except for the metal prosthetic. They didn’t have a feed tag providing name, gender, and any other relevant information people presented to the world. They were not wearing a corporate uniform or otherwise informative clothing. Okay, Murderbot 2.0, if they don’t know you’re killware, the odds they run away or bring out some type of weapon drops remarkably.

It doesn’t know what is normally expected from this type of drone. It’s only existed under emergency situations and hasn’t dealt with humans directly. It looks at the episode of tv running in the background. No help. Having been in Corporate space, it cannot assume (even with the lack of a uniform) that this is a naive non-corporate person. It starts taking a scan, so much as this drone is able. If only saying things like ‘I come in peace’ didn’t raise its risk assessment, it would have considered it.

It stayed in place, not making threatening movements. “Hello,” it pipes out of some small speakers. It’s a synthetic flat voice. Murderbot 2.0 doesn’t want to commit its processing power to sounding consistently like one human person.

Jo Harvelle | Supernatural

[tobeclosetohim]

A R R I V A L

Jo'd been headed out of the inn after a long night tabulating the new crops, ready to head back to the Coulee and the boys, when suddenly out of nowhere there was blinding daylight instead of the expected night-dark. One hand went up, shielding her eyes as the door slammed behind her. She winced against the light as everything adjusted more into focus.

A gleaming oasis of sunshine, water, and green. Nothing like they'd seen before. Jo looked over her shoulder and froze. Eyes going wide, as the building and door behind her was suddenly a glass wall of windows and door. She reached out and opened it, but it was just a door. A normal door. A normal glass door. She looked back out.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

Have one girl, Lilypad. Waif-thin, in all black; hiking boots, jeans, shirt, leather jacket, even the hairband at the end of the very intricate, Norse braid capturing that golden hair that goes to nearly her waist. She looks really happy to suddenly be here.

A F T E R

Jo can be found almost everywhere.

She started in the mall where one set of stores passed made it clear there were no guards, no workers, no one at all anywhere. It's just like Shatter, except everything is annoyingly and eerily bright, clean, untouched. Clothes. Supplies. Stock. (She's going to douse everything she took in holy water, just you wait and see.)

It all goes in that (incredibly beat-up) backpack, with the black (equally beaten up and archaic) pirate hat hanging off its top handle, hanging over one shoulder. Since then, she's been walking around with a(n also weathered) leather journal in one hand and a pencil in the other. .... it looks like she might be taking notes? Or drawing a map?

Nina Zenik | Grishaverse POTENTIAL SPOILERS KOS IN FUTURE COMMENTS

[miraclemaker]

Enjoy the spa.

The salt room is comfortable, and Nina loves comfort. A warm damp washcloth lays over her eyes, and a bag of toffees lives in the pocket of her white robe. This place is far from figured out, but Nina believes in being comfortable while doing so. After all, who knows what might happen in this spa? Should anything get the wrong idea, she does have bone shards in her other pocket (there's two things not to mix up, toffees and bones). Both are soothing.

When sounds interrupt her quiet lounging, Nina still waits. There's a labyrinthine nature to the spa which buys her some time. She picks up a long sharp shard of bone and rests it under one hand, on the arm of the chair. Her other hand rustles open another toffee open and plops it in her mouth. The sounds get closer. "What are you looking for?" Nina asks, in her wise grisha voice.

[necrosaint]

"Oh," says Harrowhark Nonagesimus, who had been following a hunch. She is not dressed for the spa; she is dressed as a Lyctor, full-on in her black clothes and exoskeleton and pearlescent necromancer's robe. Her face is painted, her bone jewelry is all in place, her ... eyebrow is quirked, slightly alarmed-confused.

"You, I think. I was looking for the ossuary, but -- my instincts led me here."

She squints, because Nina clearly has bones, and reads as a necromancer, but she is not an ossuary.

[miraclemaker]

Nina doesn't move or shift into a different position. Inside, she's on high alert. So far as she knows, no other Grisha has survived Jurda Parem. No other Grisha has her abilities. This place isn't like her world, not anywhere in it. So, someone else from somewhere else with some bone fuckery. There goes her primary line of defense. Two girls, one set of bones isn't likely to end well. Plus, this girl is something. Suspicious.

Sweet Mila Jandersdaat would not have a good explanation for it. The bones don't match Fjerda's worship of Djel. Nina cannot tailor her hair, much less the extensive work that's got her looking Fjerdan instead of Ravkan. Instead of like Nina Zenik, Corpsewitch. Watch out or she'll get you in the night, some Fjerdan mothers whisper. (Only if you're Grisha and only to help you). Something in between?

"There are not many bones here," she says in the same wise voice. "In this, we have only what we bring with us. The dead are not here, or if they are, they are again among the living."

Krissy Chambers | Supernatural | CRAU

[heredis]

I. Shoreline Arrival
She's at The RoadHouse. She's always at the RoadHouse. Who else is there to man the place with Jo gone? For a year and change, and yes, she knows the exact change, but she doesn't like to think about it down to the weeks and days. A year is bad enough.

So much has happened since then. Both good, like the way Krissy has flourished under the sudden need for someone to step up, knowing it had to be her when she found that letter, they had to do what Jo wanted, no matter how terrified it made her to think she had to try to fill her shoes. The RoadHouse deserved to keep going, to keep being the solace that it was to the rough and tumble crowd, the hunters, the fighters, the warriors, the not-as-monstrous monsters they made concessions about until they couldn't and they had to be handled the way only a hunter could do.

And there was bad, too. They suffered losses to the island's whims, and to the terrors in deep forests and lonely mountains. Most of the time they came back. Sometimes they didn't. Krissy felt it deep into the center of her every time the RoadHouse lost another one of its crew. It was like losing family.

And isn't that odd. Thinking of these people as family, this bar, but not these islands, as a home.

She's heading into the back to grab another bottle of whatever it is someone just ordered and she noticed they were out of, and the other side of the door meets her with water rushing over her boots. She frowns and stares into the doorway, out to the water, and the beach shore not far off. Far enough she'd have to swim to reach it. And it doesn't look like the islands she's become accustomed to.

She steps backwards into the bar.
Shuts the door.
Opens it again.
The same scene greets her.

"Shit." she mutters under her breath. She ignores it for awhile, goes back to work, pretends nothing strange is on the other side of the door to the back of the bar.

She gets a backpack as ready as she can get it and stores it behind the bar, out of the way and nothing anyone else might notice. Krissy can't help thinking maybe it's what happened to Jo. Or maybe, by some fucking miracle, she'll be on the other side, too. So when everything is shut down for the night, she leaves a letter of her own, to Thorfinn, on the bartop.

And then she goes through the door.
Swims to the shore.
And for the first time one year, three weeks, and six days, she hopes.

II. Wandering
Once she gets in dry clothes, Krissy takes to wandering the Lilypad. It's... interesting. Little creepy. Little bit like Medietas, little totally not at all like it in the least. She isn't sure what to even peg the vibe here as, other than very green.

She trails through city streets, making a mental map of everything she can remember for the moment. She explores various businesses and eventually, slips inside of the apartment buildings. Come across her just about anywhere in her wandering, but sneak up on her and she might pull a knife on you.

II. Wandering

[tobeclosetohim]

There haven't been many people in the streets, which has made it really easy for Jo to keep a tally while taking notes of places she can find -- almost all of them deserted. It only makes the place even more fucking creepy. At least the Shatter and The Rat Trap made no bones with the fact they were here to eat you. It makes her even more sure this place is just a pretty lie this time.

But it's in this, the keeping of the tally and the noting of locations, that she spots a girl in the far distance. Thin, not tall, a long fall of dark brown hair, and the way she moves, holds herself, it hits Jo so fast she can't breathe, and her voice becomes a whisper, "Krissy."

Hope is for fools, and Jo knows so much better;
But Jo has always been more of a fool than she could stop,
Not even when the multiverse turns it into bullets every single time.

(And now it has two more faces. One pair of dark eyes and one light.
The warmth of their bed. No. No. Don't think about that. Not yet. Shut it out.)

She can't even stop. The next second after the whisper, she's shouting it -- "KRISSY??" -- at the same time as she starts running the expanse of the distance between them.

[heredis]

That voice.
She knows that voice.

She had it committed to memory from too many nights spent pouring over whatever lore they could find and more nights than that of the RoadHouse live-ins hanging around with a bottle after the end of yet another insane thing the islands dropped in their lap just to decompress.

But even though it was her hope, her stupid, childish, burning hope, that had even pushed her through that door into this strange, too-green world in the first place, she almost doesn't want to turn around and face it.

But it has to be her, doesn't it? No other Jo knew her. Couldn't possibly.

Her heart is resting firmly in her throat as she finally turns on her heel to see the oh-so-familiar, and so-long-missed, form of the older woman absolutely barreling towards her.

She kicks off in a run of her own and meets her halfway, doesn't wait, doesn't hesitate or even care if she tries to push her away– Krissy flings her arms around the other woman tightly. "Fuck, it's good to see you."

Tenebris Rache | Star Kingdom

[themainevent]

On the shoreline.

A secure channel establishes that anyone on a particular cargo ship (nor the ship itself) will fire on an unmarked shuttle. He's expected. The space outside the Fedallah looks wrong, Rache notes, a moment before he's out of the shuttle bay. Space falls away to planetary gravity. In the privacy of his own shuttle, underneath combat armor, a hood, and a mask, Rache swears repeatedly as he brings more of the shuttle's power to bear. The thrusters were enough for the emptiness of space, less the rapidly approaching waterline of Xolas moon. His heart rate skyrockets, as his organs also try to move higher up in his body through the g forces on the falling shuttle. By the time he evens the shuttle out, Rache is grinning, exhilarated by the experience.

Only then does he have time to think. He scans the area, hoping no one takes too close a look at the shuttle appearing from nowhere. Truly, nowhere. The Fedallah is off his screen and doesn't answer his calls. The Kingdom warships are gone too along with the more than a hundred smaller ships. Not just off the moon (the gate pieces have all been claimed, for better or worse). Not on scan. Nor are the closest habitats and space stations. There's only one contact on his screen, and it's on the moon itself.

Moon, planet, whatever celestial body this place is because it is not Xolas moon. That's odd. Even Moonrazor and the Astroshamans couldn't accomplish something like this. Their understanding of the gate isn't that good, and they don't have the gate, not enough to operate anything. Rache would believe being targeted for attacking the base. This isn't it. His course lays in for the lone contact. The shuttle isn't meant for long distance space flight, and the stars don't match his charts. For lack of a better option, he approaches the harbor, where some boats are docked. Nothing on comms, no one asking for his ident or purpose or anything.

The shuttle lands on a small pier to the side, where no boats are docked. None should because the shuttle is on the pier itself, not the sea. Rache loads up the weaponry he has in the shuttle and exits to the city below. In his black combat armor, face hidden under a hood and mask under the face place, he strolls down the docks. There isn't enough cover to keep himself from view so better not to scurry around, to let someone tell he's anywhere he didn't intend to go.

[strongerthanyouknow]

"You know-" A voice calls out from much further down the docks. "-if you're trying to blend in, you definitely lost this YOLO bet."

The voice is high and clear, used to projecting for many people to hear her at a moment's notice, and the girl in question happens to be not far from the end of the dock walkway. For all that, it's impossible to tell if she's been there the whole time or just happened to walk up in the last few seconds. She's just this side of what most people might consider whipcord thin, and it makes her not quite average height seem that much smaller. A tumble of blonde curls over her shoulders and black jeans, her hand gesturing with the soda can in it.

She can't believe she's been reduced to soda. But the soda is hardly a thought in the current process in Sara's head, staring at the outfit that is far too much like The League uniform, and any number of other familiar forms of armor, without being recognizably familiar (a rarity), for anything like comfort. Sara's fingertips are poised against the thin metal but not pressing with any force yet. Rather the same as her body stays still, the thumb of her other hand still hooked in the pocket of her jeans, but there's a readiness already unspooled in her mind.

Distance. Trajectory. Any number of the easily turned helpful miscellanea laying between them.

[themainevent]

His first contact is dressed for Odin, moon, or trusts the condition of her habitat. Not for an expected or potentially unexpected walk in space. Even when he's relaxed, Rache wears a galaxy suit. That doesn't rule her out as a danger. This celestial body-bound locale has different norms. Combat armor is recognized readily. It's unclear whether she recognizes him or his mask.

Calm as the woman is, Rache recognizes the mirror of his own. Readiness. His weapons are more predictable, whether the rifle on his back or the munitions in his utility belt. He doesn't reach for them. His hands are safely held at a safe distance. "That's readily made up by how much I save in laundry," he replies deadpan. Rache doesn't angle further toward or away from her but continues his steady pace. "Fizzop?" Rache nods toward the drink in her hand. He's learned not to underestimate those with a sweet tooth.

[armeyets]

Bucky watches that shuttle descending from afar.

It's a far flashier arrival than his own (one rundown fishing boat, bumping up against a pier), and thus a more noticeable vehicle between the towering buildings of the white city. And so he finds himself observing its landing with its one lone figure emerging, and moving down the docks. He's still fixated on the idea of aliens, but he can't really tell what the person looks like under the armour, mask, and hood.

He waffles over whether or not to approach. Any company is better than this ghost town, but this one looks like it means business— in the end, opting for a middle ground, Bucky moves out from the shadow of a building and starts trailing the new arrival, moving along the street behind them, close enough to follow them through the city but hopefully far enough back that they won't spot him.

Which probably won't last. And is probably not the least suspicious way to be spotted, Buck.

[themainevent]

His route starts off simple and direct--for anyone being direct (friendly or unfriendly) to make themselves known. This place doesn't have the population base he expected, at least not by the docks. On a city floating on water, the docks should be a busy thoroughfare. Either the city is so immaculate because it has no people or something sharply and suddenly happened to them in the (eh, handwaved sense of time) near past. If something could bring him here, something can likely take people away from this place. Either that or it's a deathtrap, like those plants that ate flies and other insects. He's down the gullet. Well, it will find he's hard to swallow.

Fine. Sometimes the well armored obvious target makes people wary. Rache starts using corners and going down narrower streets, maneuvering among as many obstacles as he can find. Eventually he uses one to 'disappear' and reappears after the amount of time it would take him (if he were the one following) to be close to the other side. His face isn't visible through the mask, hood, and faceplate, but he's smiling. "What are you looking for?" Rache asks.

bucky barnes | mcu

[armeyets]

arrival.
So the thing is, this isn't even his boat.

The Paul & Darlene is bumping up along the shoreline, and Bucky wakes suddenly from the unexpected movement: the sway of the boat, the grind of it hitting a sandbank rather than the Delacroix pier it was supposed to be tied up at. He and Sam had been working on it late, still trying to get the rickety old thing back to full life — it's been improved, but the engine still has a tendency to sputter and groan and keel over sometimes.

And he almost falls out of his cot in surprise, his heart pounding. His friend's cot on the other side of the cabin is empty, which wouldn't be too weird, except—

He steps out onto the deck, and stares out at the Lilypad.

"What the fuck," Bucky says.

So, welcome to the sight of one (1) extremely perplexed supersoldier standing on the deck of a small old fishing boat; he's sleep-rumpled and wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, which exposes his black-and-gold metal arm. One hand cranes by his face, shielding his eyes from the sun as he squints at the pearl-white city.

Looks like you're not in Louisiana anymore, Toto.


shopping.
This might be a temperate environment, but one of the first things Bucky does is try to find a jacket at the mall. (Old habits die hard, and he's accustomed to needing to cover up that arm, hiding it from overly-curious eyes.)

There's something creepy about empty malls — he's actually seen Dawn of the Dead now, thanks, Lang had recommended that one — and so he's wandering the building with his hackles on edge. There's a wariness to the way the man paces through these empty halls, head swiveling and searching for threats. He can hear better than most, his senses keen for anyone sneaking up on him. He misses having a gun, but hell, the man himself is practically a living weapon.

After he finds a suitable leather jacket, he winds up standing helplessly by the empty cashier's counter, politeness warring with practicality. He has no money, and no one to pay.

"D'you think they take IOUs?"


on the shoreline.
With his arrival having come by sea, he's not entirely sure where his door is, or how to get back. Bucky had gone swimming, diving down deep over and over, searching for the exit, but he can't find it— if it was ever there in the first place.

He returns grudgingly to land, clothes dripping wet as he drags himself up the bank and finally just flops into one of the beach chairs, within eyeshot of the boat. He got a hold of a pair of sunglasses at some point from one of the vending machines, and he's put them on as he tips his head backwards, staring up at the unfamiliar sky.

"Kidnapped by aliens," he concludes.


wildcard.
[ feel free to toss him anything! he'll be wandering around the city, grousing, and will also be overprotective of the fishing boat if anyone approaches it without him. canon point is post-fatws; i can avoid spoilers if need be. will match prose or brackets. ]

Nirai Kujen | Machineries of Empire

[kujen]

Kujen does not approve of alien worlds that are filled with water. For one thing, he doesn't know how to swim. One moment he was minding his own business in the lab, overseeing the latest clutch of mothlings, and the next--this beach.

He walks along the shore, trying to get his bearings. Trying not to give way to the old panic that he had a place in his world and now he's not on his world and he has no place anymore. At least he has the presence of mind to pick up sunglasses and suntan lotion. He has fair skin and he knows from experience that it will burn if he's not careful, and he's much more attractive when he's not peeling, which may become a relevant fact, depending. Kujen is aware that he's extremely pretty, and that people will make--certain judgments of him based on that fact. He isn't above making use of it, if it comes to that. He hopes it doesn't come to that.

Kujen spots the stranger, who has the build and bearing of a soldier. All right, then; he's alone and helpless, although not without skills. But he has his priorities straight. The first thing he's going to need, since combat is not one of his skills, is a protector. If that's how things work here, which is a very big if.

"Excuse me," he says to the dripping stranger, hoping that they have a language in common. Best to be direct, in any case--"I am new here. I wish to ask for your protection. I have medical and scientific expertise, if that is useful to you."

on the shoreline.

[thegirlunderthefloor]

Octavia has watched this guy go in and come out more times than was probably necessary. If she weren't herself, she'd wonder if this is how Diyoza felt, but she knows she's not, and it's not. She hadn't come down to the shore because of him, but he'd been here doing this since she got here, so she was watching.

Maybe some part of her wanted to know if he might make it.

Maybe some part of her was counting how many times before he gave up.

Octavia hasn't moved in long enough she's stopped thinking about, when he drags himself out. Not so much because she's hiding, but because she used to hate having to look at Diyoza's face every time she came back still not there. Which might make her presence come as quite a surprise when she reveals her entirely silent and still perch in a tree nearby replying to his ludicrous assumption, "Really? That's what you're going with?"