Everybody wants to rule the world

[maskormods]

WHO: YOU.
WHERE: Downtown Cape Canaveral
WHEN: Wednesday January 15th, around 5 PM EST
WHAT: Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome.
WARNINGS: None anticipated; let us know if this should be edited.

Cape Canaveral. It's no longer the heat of the day and in January the temperatures will be livable; not too hot and not too cold, either. A pleasant change from the City, perhaps. The sun is on its way to setting but the last light of the day still fills the sky, bursting the city into color. The air smells like ocean.

The locals are friendly and smile and wave, looking on at you in awe. They'll approach if you ask for help, or a question, but they don't want to interfere, either; if you want to be left alone you probably will be. American flags can be seen in many windows and restaurants are rolling out their dinner menus. There's no parade, no big banners, but many storefronts have handmade signs and posters that read:

Welcome, imPorts! We love you!

The woman at the Porter told you what to expect: You know what your tattoo means, you've been given your file, and you know in a few hours they're going to be here to answer more of your questions and see if you'll stand with them or if you'll go off on your own. "It's your decision," one of them had said, but you were already told what you get if you agree and what you don't if you don't. After that's done, she told you, you'll be driven to your new homes.

In the meantime, enjoy the area, or try to. It may not be what you're used to, but after the apocalypse even Florida might seem like an improvement.

Comments

[viced]

Mitch almost narrowed his eyes at his bodyguard. Almost, but he could understand the question. After all, wasn't he the best damn indicator for whether powers still worked? God, he wished they didn't. It would be nice, for once, to come some place, and not hear everything in that same, familiar, intimate way he always did.

"Yes, Bradbury. My powers are still working," he groaned, holding his hand up to the bridge of his nose, to pinch there. He hated talking about them, even as he complied, understanding why.

He just hated addressing it.

[waiting]

Bradbury exhaled, not sure what answer he'd been hoping for, really. It wasn't exactly disappointing to hear -- at least Mitchell Hundred talking to machines was still a constant in this world, even if nothing else was. At the same time...

"They knew about it coming in, didn't they?" He said, crossing his arms. His own powers had been on his file, and so he assumed Mitch's had to be as well. "Kind of creepy. How much do you think they know?"

[viced]

Mitchell had a feeling it was more than they let on. He didn't doubt it in the slightest. "Did you see your file?" he asked, his voice a little soft. He'd read his, skimmed it. There was a lot there, a bit too comprehensive, without delving too deeply into -- well.

There were things left unsaid, but he didn't trust that this was all they knew. Call him paranoid, but if he were in their position, he'd not share every scrap of information. If just to make sure that the implication hung in the air.

"I certainly think they know more than they're letting on."