Mask or Menace | MODERATORS (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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maskormenacelogs2015-07-21 05:47 pm
maskormods) wrote in maskormenacelogs2015-07-21 05:47 pm
Entry tags:
- !event log,
- † andrew warner | n/a,
- † athos | n/a,
- † d'artagnan | n/a,
- † edward elric | the fullmetal alchemist,
- † ellie williams | n/a,
- † jesse pinkman | diesel,
- † marian hawke | andraste's mabari,
- † matthew lin | abduxel,
- † riku | darkeater,
- † riza hawkeye | the hawk's eye,
- † sora | destiny’s key,
- † winry rockbell | n/a
THOUGH NOTHING WILL DRIVE THEM AWAY
WHO: The ImPorts signed up here
WHERE: The Heropa of 2025... THE FUTURE!
WHEN: From 5PM on the 21st until 7PM on the 23rd
WHAT: Soviet sabotage results in random imPorts experiencing an interactive vision of a possible future: Heropa ten years from now, in an America where the government has taken stricter control of imPorts as their weapons.
WARNINGS: Please let Bizzy know here if you have any questions about the setting, or the mods if you have questions about the plot here.
IMPORT.
The tattoo is bright. Unlike before, where imPort tattoos could be hidden with carefully placed clothing or other accessories, the designation is so demarcated that it is difficult to conceal. Gone is the gentle glow, replaced with lettering so bright that it can almost be its own light source. Nowadays, imPorts attempting to conceal their brand are penalized harshly by whoever catches them in the act.
The government base, big though it may be, is restrictive. Unlike before, the fences are walls. Tall. High. You are welcome to leave, but it isn’t without escort. IMPORT is visible everywhere you go—every person you pass, every set of eyes that sees you, every street and every shop keep, everyone and everything knows just what you are. And you aren’t looked upon with awe, or respect, or even curiosity. IMPORT. The brand triggers anger. Distrust. Occasionally it even brings about outright hostility.
As such, most choose to stay within the confines of the base. The imposing gray walls are high, leaving no view but the sky above, but at least they don’t threaten you as you walk by, curse you and your kind, suggest that you go back where you came from.
The work is menial. Tedious. No longer are imPorts assigned to work related to their fields at home, nor are they permitted to change the work they do. You may have been a nuclear physicist at home. Irrelevant. You are here now, and you cook for other military police. When necessary, your skills are called upon—when they need someone to engineer replacement parts for a broken vehicle, when they need the eyes of a sharpshooter to stand watch while a guard takes a break. Primarily, though, you are completely removed from both the skills you possessed at home as well as the powers you were granted upon arrival. It’s deliberate in its message. We are in control. You do exactly as we say.
The nanites in the brand—what most refer to the tattoo as, now—have the power to shock all who misbehave. imPorts are forced to check in at all locations, so movement is rigidly tracked. Returning to your residence for the night? Check in. Arriving in your suite in the residences? Check in. Going to bed? Check in. Headed out to work? Check out of all of those places, each stop of the way. Check in to the office building. The floor. The office suite. The desk itself. There are cameras everywhere and it isn’t a secret that they can see your every movement. The checking in, the swiping of your brand at every possible point isn’t an act forced upon you of necessity. It’s another show of power. Who is in control. It isn’t you.
Surely, there’s more to this. When you arrived here, you were given a file folder, filled to the brim with information—about you, your power, your skills, your background. After all, though the view on imPorts has changed dramatically, the welcome information has not. Every new arrival is still told they’ve been brought to serve their new government. They are here to help. They are here to serve. This time, there just isn’t a choice.
Most importantly in all of this is that you aren’t alone. The imPort presence might seem small but there are quite a few milling about, stolen from their home in times of great duress and dropped into this militaristic hellhole of a country in the middle of a frigid war. There are others who have been granted powers they are not permitted to use, placed in jobs that belittle every skill they’ve ever learned, placed in residences alone and away from the other imPorts in the building, separated from the civilian life outside of the high concrete walls.
Someone, ages ago, set up a small recreation area at the far eastern portion of the de Chima government facility. It started out minuscule, but that was the point. It needed to appear nonthreatening. Over the last few years it has grown, but it continues to be one of the least regulated areas of the base. It is the one imPort area that is not rigidly watched by military police twenty-four hours a day. And if you ask the right people, you might be surprised to find that a small group of imPorts meets every Tuesday evening at 1700 hours to discuss any breaches in security that have been identified. Not for the sake of the military police, of course. No. The imPorts who run this meeting convene quietly with coffee and tea and discuss what ways their fellow prisoners might find a glimmer of freedom.
WHERE: The Heropa of 2025... THE FUTURE!
WHEN: From 5PM on the 21st until 7PM on the 23rd
WHAT: Soviet sabotage results in random imPorts experiencing an interactive vision of a possible future: Heropa ten years from now, in an America where the government has taken stricter control of imPorts as their weapons.
WARNINGS: Please let Bizzy know here if you have any questions about the setting, or the mods if you have questions about the plot here.
IMPORT.
The tattoo is bright. Unlike before, where imPort tattoos could be hidden with carefully placed clothing or other accessories, the designation is so demarcated that it is difficult to conceal. Gone is the gentle glow, replaced with lettering so bright that it can almost be its own light source. Nowadays, imPorts attempting to conceal their brand are penalized harshly by whoever catches them in the act.
The government base, big though it may be, is restrictive. Unlike before, the fences are walls. Tall. High. You are welcome to leave, but it isn’t without escort. IMPORT is visible everywhere you go—every person you pass, every set of eyes that sees you, every street and every shop keep, everyone and everything knows just what you are. And you aren’t looked upon with awe, or respect, or even curiosity. IMPORT. The brand triggers anger. Distrust. Occasionally it even brings about outright hostility.
As such, most choose to stay within the confines of the base. The imposing gray walls are high, leaving no view but the sky above, but at least they don’t threaten you as you walk by, curse you and your kind, suggest that you go back where you came from.
The work is menial. Tedious. No longer are imPorts assigned to work related to their fields at home, nor are they permitted to change the work they do. You may have been a nuclear physicist at home. Irrelevant. You are here now, and you cook for other military police. When necessary, your skills are called upon—when they need someone to engineer replacement parts for a broken vehicle, when they need the eyes of a sharpshooter to stand watch while a guard takes a break. Primarily, though, you are completely removed from both the skills you possessed at home as well as the powers you were granted upon arrival. It’s deliberate in its message. We are in control. You do exactly as we say.
The nanites in the brand—what most refer to the tattoo as, now—have the power to shock all who misbehave. imPorts are forced to check in at all locations, so movement is rigidly tracked. Returning to your residence for the night? Check in. Arriving in your suite in the residences? Check in. Going to bed? Check in. Headed out to work? Check out of all of those places, each stop of the way. Check in to the office building. The floor. The office suite. The desk itself. There are cameras everywhere and it isn’t a secret that they can see your every movement. The checking in, the swiping of your brand at every possible point isn’t an act forced upon you of necessity. It’s another show of power. Who is in control. It isn’t you.
Surely, there’s more to this. When you arrived here, you were given a file folder, filled to the brim with information—about you, your power, your skills, your background. After all, though the view on imPorts has changed dramatically, the welcome information has not. Every new arrival is still told they’ve been brought to serve their new government. They are here to help. They are here to serve. This time, there just isn’t a choice.
Most importantly in all of this is that you aren’t alone. The imPort presence might seem small but there are quite a few milling about, stolen from their home in times of great duress and dropped into this militaristic hellhole of a country in the middle of a frigid war. There are others who have been granted powers they are not permitted to use, placed in jobs that belittle every skill they’ve ever learned, placed in residences alone and away from the other imPorts in the building, separated from the civilian life outside of the high concrete walls.
Someone, ages ago, set up a small recreation area at the far eastern portion of the de Chima government facility. It started out minuscule, but that was the point. It needed to appear nonthreatening. Over the last few years it has grown, but it continues to be one of the least regulated areas of the base. It is the one imPort area that is not rigidly watched by military police twenty-four hours a day. And if you ask the right people, you might be surprised to find that a small group of imPorts meets every Tuesday evening at 1700 hours to discuss any breaches in security that have been identified. Not for the sake of the military police, of course. No. The imPorts who run this meeting convene quietly with coffee and tea and discuss what ways their fellow prisoners might find a glimmer of freedom.
no subject
no subject
... Jesse?
[ She says his name again as if that's going to gain his attention. As if the first time wasn't enough, but even she knows in the back of her mind that this is clearly not normal Jesse behavior. She knows him well enough to get that something is wrong, and she feels a bit sick to her stomach because she's having this horribly similar flashback of when she'd gone to the adjacent office in the radio tower where Sam had turned. ]
[ But, like the curious and impulsive person she is, she tries again, reaching out for him and grabbing his arm. She speaks softly. ]
I'm talking to you.
no subject
no subject
Come on, fucking--
[ Ellie makes a sound. It's a sort of struggling laugh and whine because this is so not funny. ]
Jesse! I'm not playing!
[ She puts his arm down and walks in front of him, arms reaching up to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. It's clear in her voice that she's starting to feel frantic, panicked. What the hell is even wrong with him? ]
Wake up you, asshole!
[ It's hard to put two and two together, because she doesn't want to make assumptions that don't belong or put him in a place he shouldn't be. He's a fast healer, resilient, but it's as if he's on something. Ellie has no fucking clue what the drugs he sells even do but would he use them? Would he do enough to cause this? ]
no subject
no subject
Holy shit.
What do I even do right now?
[ She takes a heavy inhale and an even harsher exhale as she frantically reaches for her phone and immediately starts to dial for Joel. She can't do this by herself, not when she has no idea what is even going on. ]