[OPEN] mod plot | return to harbour part i: the celebration

[unplug]

CHARACTERS ▶ All
LOCATION ▶ Throughout Zion
SUMMARY ▶ Centuries after Neo struck his deal with the Architect, humankind celebrates the tenuous semblance of peace that they continue to enjoy. Welcome to the inaugural event for Systemwide.
WARNINGS ▶ PG-13 or R for sexual content, please mark subject headers accordingly.
NOTES ▶ Plotting post is here. All characters except for Emma Swan and Zee Captain should feel free to tag in!

Part II (and the missions) will come as a complete surprise. For the first day of celebration, both of the temporary captains and crew should go into the celebration as if they have absolutely no idea any tactical operations are coming.

▶ Return to Harbour Part I

A full week of celebrations. Though the peace that Neo struck with the Architect had not lasted in its initial form, Zion is more prosperous and humankind as a whole in greater in numbers and strength than it has been since the first fields were sown. On each auspicious day, work schedules are cut in half, starting late and ending early. Spirits run high. There is no sun to tell the time of day, but when the gongs sound out two hours following the second meal, nearly every man, woman and child stows nearly every piece of working equipment in the whole city. The Zion Defense Grid starts the first watch.

And so it begins.

Music and Dance ◀

The cavernous belly of Zion resonates with music, a press of pounding of drums, electronic bass and bodies, channelled from speakers and acoustics that are likely older and more oft-repaired than any single life in the room. It’s a level of sheer, blasting volume that plays xylophone with your bones and seems to heat the very air with kinetic energy, overwrites the ordinary rhythm of the human heartbeat into something fiercer; the kind of music that reaches through skin and into blood and threatens to shear apart the very molecule of one’s being. Hundreds of years ago, they called this rave. Now, it is a tradition of exuberance.

Amid the pounding cadence and still more toward the smaller hours of morning, people are pulled up to sing. The population of Zion is not so very large that those with talent or inclination go unnoticed, and even the unplugged might find themselves cheerfully nominated by a neighbor or a partner in barter, a slender microphone hooked to their ear.

But one does not have to be a songbird to get along. Though there may well be a learning curve for many, especially the newly unplugged, they will likely find something familiar about the taste of liquor and a proper welcome in being knocked by a woman’s flying hair, an invitation to grind or, you know, to enjoy a piggyback ride.

The Feasts ◀

Planting, harvests, and imports from Kosala increase for the two months prior to the party, and it shows in each of the seven feasts. Even the protein slurry, typically the subject of so many jokes and stoically pragmatic attitudes toward amino acids, is spiced and colored and turned into the base for soup, rich and thick with golden kernels of corn and juicy chunks of the rest of Agriculture’s get. Potatoes, chickpeas, carrots, tomatoes, and leafy greens are dressed in dozens of styles that hearken from cultures that had been thought dead around the world generations ago. Unleavened breads number in dozens of styles: roti, tortillas, and flatbreads, in shapes and colors as diverse as the sorts of rice.

And there is so much candy. All are invited to help themselves. What is left over at the end of the week must be only what will keep. Ceremonies are diverse and scattered: some say grace before supping, others toast in inebriated disarray, while others are as likely to look toward a young woman from Antioch for a speech about freedom, industry, and unity of nations.

Sharing the Chronicles ◀

The absolute and objective facts of Neo’s deeds may be lost to the annals of history, but that hardly means no one is willing to talk about them. From the spiritual leaders of Zion to the most military-minded Councilors, everyone has versions or recollections of Morpheus who believed, Neo who was the One, and Trinity who freed and saved him. For those who are interested, many orators are available to tell the stories, piecemeal. You will learn all the great names-- and many of their great deeds with varying accuracy… and embellishments. The powers you hear of may seem improbable, but the attacks upon Zion, are an all too realistic reminder of how precious this tenuous peace is. Patchy holographic displays show iconic images in three-dimensional rotation: the Nebachudnezzer, her crew; the first Council in the chain that we still see today.

Other ◀

Throughout these seven days, Zion is not the same engine of commerce that it usually is, but it as much a hub of human activity as ever. Reduced dock traffic only means that traders and, indeed, tourists from Antioch and other cities had arrived earlier, with goods to barter and advertise with. While the clothing remains simple in material and often practical in design, there are richer and brighter pieces out, and jewelry too. Henna artists whose style draw from an eclectic mixture of innovation and cultures, their names perhaps lost, are out to paint men and women.

It is quieter in the mornings. Children play, carefully overseen in the fallow fields; a small team of men and women clean up what mess wasn’t undone in the great cavern the night before. Network traffic dwindles nearly to nothing. Kitchens throughout Zion, of course, are on a slow but steady uptick of preparations, right up until the music begins to play.

OOC Reminder: On March 2nd (tomorrow), a second log will be posted to initiate the military/mission portion of this plot!

Comments

The Feasts (Open)

[antiochattitude]

Okay, let's get one thing straight: that weird rave-dance-stomp-possibly an orgy-thing that Zion had going in the main cavern? Weird and creepy. In fact, Maria was absolutely, completely certain in the core of her being that its origin was a, ahem, 'fertility ritual' to keep the population of Zion going.

But expressing that wouldn't be politic, so she just avoided it and instead focused on the feasts. The feasts! She'd call herself well-off by Antioch terms, she'd never gone wanting and she'd even enjoyed a treat here and there that her mother brought back from her transport runs, but nothing, nothing like this. As much as she'd hate to admit it and refused to acknowledge it, she's giddy with excitement and much more exuberant than she'd normally be outside of a repair bay.

"...but that's the thing!" What had started as a general injection into a nearby conversation has grown, without her realization, into a loud proclamation punctuated by vehement gesture with a carrot. "I've heard a lot about people wanting things to be normal. Antioch isn't normal, it's too strict for a modern society. Or Irkalla isn't normal, because it's all about piracy. Or Zion isn't normal, because it's still militarized -- I get that one from Kosala folks every once in a while. And then the unplugged tell me this isn't normal, because it isn't how it used to be, before the Machines took over and jacked humanity in.

"But what's normal?" Maria banged a fist on the table as she stood up, a startling thump that didn't carry far in the tumult. "People sitting around a table eating good food, and you can't tell me anything humanity does doesn't boil back down to that. So we are normal! It's different but when you get down to it, it's normal! And it's all up from here, wherever we go!"

Philosophy wasn't really high up in the Antioch educational priorities. At least she means well...

[sfoils]

"Settle down," Wedge suggests, watching his plate bounce. He isn't the type to avoid weighty subjects such as life, death, and the pursuit of either, but today he wants to eat some food in peace and not send the rest of their table into an existentialist crisis.

Too many of those in Zion already. "Hope's great and all, but not when you're spilling gravy all over the table cloth."

Music and Dance // OPEN

[sfoils]

At least Wedge had the decency to change into a coverall without oil stains and welding sears. Still, even after a shower, the stink of shipyard (metal, oil, circuitry) clings to his skin and hair, denoting him as a mechanic.

"No no no, that's alright," he says each time someone approaches, asking him to sing. "I'd be off-key" he confesses, raising a bottle filled with an amber liquid. He keeps to a corner, content to people-watch as he takes swigs from the whiskey bottle, sighing in relief at the burning sensation as the liquor goes down his throat.

He'll need a lot more than this to get him wasted. But for now, just the fact that he's able to taste something stronger than bland protein soup is a real treat. Good thing so many people here need things fixed—work for booze was such a simple barter.

Some people let the rhythm of music and bodies seep into their sinews. Wedge is content to substitute grinding and flirting for alcohol, even if he is swaying to the music with a silly smile on his face.

[knowdeathknowglory]

Jay stumbles out of the crowd, soaked in sweat - his own and probably other people's - and gasping for breath. He wobbles over to where Wedge is standing and flings himself against the wall. His narrow chest heaves. Under the layers of clothes, his binder is constricting his breathing quite badly, but he's not about to take the damn thing off in public. For one thing, it would out him instantly. For another, it might get stuck as he tries to pull it off and that is not a situation he wants to happen in public.

Still panting, he turns his head towards Wedge and raises an eyebrow at him, half a question and half a greeting. Then he peels himself off the wall and stumbles closer to Wedge, putting a hand on his arm.

"Darling," he breathes, "could I trouble you to share whatever's in that bottle? I'm simply parched." His voice lilts. It's pitched ambiguously and Jay himself looks androgynous enough that Wedge might find it hard to decide whether he's a man or a woman.

[knowdeathknowglory]

Jay is far from a wallflower, but lately, he's been keeping to himself more than is usual for him, half because he's sulking and half because he's grieving for his twin sister.

He's a little fragile, only one month from his extraction, still apt to get dizzy and weak without any warning. He's been having a migraine almost every week, almost like clockwork. The doctors that had supervised his rehabilitation told him that his eyes were still adjusting to regular use and that the headaches should fade, but he isn't very optimistic on that front. Back home - no, back in his Matrix, in a kind of waking dream - he'd had migraines monthly and he doesn't see why his real body would be less susceptible to the damn things than the body his Matrix had conjured up for his mind had been. Between the ill health and the hole in his chest where Rook' presence should be, he mostly wants to sleep, to neither think nor feel but only dream and be somewhere other than the drab, grey pit the real world turned out to be.

Another factor is that his real body is still wrong, almost as wrong as it had been when he had been a teenager. It's only been three weeks since he was able to start hormones and whatever minute changes have happened, they're not visible to him quite yet. His body and face look and feel wrong to him and the clinging pall of dysphoria wraps around him tightly, choking the life out of him.

The anniversary of Neo's Truce does, however, intrigue him. Even in his current state, the promises of both a party and a chance to learn more about the strange place he's woken up in are enough to pique his interest and draw him out of his quarters. Surely, even Zion scrubs up well for a party?

A: THE RAVE (OPEN TO ALL)
[cw: gender dysphoria]

Jay dances with wild abandon, throwing his twiggy body around like he's stumbling down the deck of a ship caught in a storm. He's deliriously, happily drunk and his coordination and inhibitions have both taken a serious beating. He looks faintly ridiculous, his fine-boned, androgynous frame gyrating to the throb of the music beat with all the grace of an adolescent peacock taking flight, the clothes he'd painstakingly tailored to both flatter and drape swishing in the air.

He's painted his face, just like he had back in his Matrix, and he even painted on his departed eye spots, three bright blue dots on each sharp cheekbone. It made him feel a little better and when he looked into the small, murky mirror, for a second, he almost thought he'd fallen asleep again and was back home. But the feeling passed as swiftly as it'd arrived and he'd had to bite his lip to stop himself from vocalising his dismay.

But now none of that matters. Sweat pours down his face, ruining his make-up and that doesn't matter, either. He leaps sideways a little too vigorously and bumps into someone, almost knocking them over and--

Well, no, that matters. He stumbles away, glances briefly at the person he's just collided with and laughs, a shrill, harpyish laugh. There's no malice behind it, but it's a grating sound.

"Oh, no, darling, I'm sorry!" he chirps and laughs again. It's no more pleasant the second time. "I, ah, got a little carried away--"

B: SHARING THE CHRONICLES (OPEN TO ALL)

This orator has set up shop quite close to where Jay lays down his head at the end of the day and she's in the middle of her speech when Jay passes her by on his way home, carrying a package of light blue cloth he intends to make into garments more attractive than what he's been able to find ready-made in Zion.

The orator is talking about Neo, of course, and his deeds (none of which Jay believes ever took place, because he doesn't believe in heroes and he certainly doesn't believe in miracles) but what catches Jay's attention is her description of a Sentinel. It sounds so much like a shoggot, so much like what he'd been told his great-grandmother looked like, that his heart gives a horrible, homesick lurch. His guard thrown, Jay drops the package he's carrying and he shudders and grasps the bridge of his nose, trying to steady himself, trying to organise his thoughts. His longing for Mir swells up in his chest, overtaking all other emotion. Frozen like that, he stands in the middle of the street. A soft but insistent keen escapes his lips.

A part of him knows he could've well have run home and had this reaction in privacy, but a larger part of him wants everyone to know how much it hurts, to be here in Zion when your heart belongs somewhere else.

[mithrarin]

"...You dropped something."

Why was Dust even here? The only answer he had was a desperate effort to normalize, to attempt to fit in, to try to change all the anger and bitterness and growing misanthropy that he didn't want. If he kept trying, maybe he could find a way to fit in. Maybe he could find the happiness so many other people seem to have.

Maybe just trying to do something nice for someone else would remind him of the life he lead plugged in, and make him feel better for a moment.

[mrsnippy]

The Orators

Charles is trying not to look too cynical, he really is, but he's obviously finding it difficult. He's leaning against a wall with his arms tightly crossed across his chest, his brows crunched and his jaw set tight as he tries to puzzle out the truth from underneath the obvious fairytale lies. He's having difficulty, and the obviously joyful gullibility on the faces of many in the crowd is making him incredibly uncomfortable.

He turns, looking for a co-conspirator, or perhaps just someone who can help him see the sense all this unnecessary deification, and tersely whispers "Do you believe in any of this?"

The Feast

Charles is never as happy about being extracted as he is when he's eating.

After years of living on expired, scavenged cans of food that had just as much chance of making him vomit as they did nourishing him, the protein goop had been a welcome change. This feast? Is making him almost willing to give praise to The One for blessing him with reality.

He's been wandering about for hours, getting progressively more tipsy and becoming more brazen about what he stuffs into his already bulging pockets.

Perhaps you'd be one of the people he leans over to grab a particularly succulent piece of fruit, or perhaps you might find him wiping tears from his face as he finishes his fruit, tears borne of wonder at its succulence and his realisation at how deprived he'd been until then. Perhaps you're one of the ones he parks himself next to before asking "Hey, can you grab that basket?" with uncharacteristic cheer.

The Dance

Charles is holding a pair of drinks, completely lost in the crowd.

He'd been dancing with someone very beautiful and very lightly dressed when he'd found himself getting overwhelmed by his own reaction and the sheer press of people around him. He'd made a sudden excuse to grab some air by offering to go fetch them both drinks, but now, as he spins around in the mass of people, he's cursing himself for not just dragging his partner out of the dance with him so they could find a quieter corner together.

He visibly deflates as he tries and fails to find the particular column they'd been grinding up against, realising by now that he's probably left himself single for the night yet again.

Come take his mind off his woes, or alternatively, relieve him of one of his drinks.

Feast!

[antiochattitude]

Maria passed him the basket of bread with a friendly smile that couldn't hide her puzzled wondering. "The food really been that bad for you?"

She knew that a lot of the unplugged hated the food out here in the Real fiercely, and she suppose she couldn't blame them. If she'd grown up on even illusory luxury like she'd heard of, with meat every day and a thousand different kinds of food all at her fingertips whenever she wanted, she'd probably hate it too. But she could only imagine that.

peter quill | OTA

[retrofire]

A | NO DRINKS

[ Generally speaking, Peter will take almost any excuse to dance. The problem with these things is that it isn't so much dancing as it is gyrating and sweating all over each other, which he isn't completely against either, but heavy bass and a total lack of lyrics usually just makes him pine for some Marvin Gaye.

The obvious solution is to get really, really drunk, so the first thing he does is carefully thread his way through the already packed room to hit what could very generously be described as the bar. He leans on an elbow while he waits, searching the mess of bodies for a familiar face. Or an unfamiliar face. Lady faces, mostly. If you're a lady and you have a face, you're getting a smile and a nod, like one of those totally douchey "hey girl" ones. ]

B | SIX DRINKS

[ Fortunately for everyone involved, the blend of booze and exercise keeps him from getting totally sloppy. Less fortunately, all it takes is being a little bit tipsy for him to grab the next person he sees not dancing and try to urge them away from the fringes and into the swarming pile.

Gently-ish. Like he's not going to physically drag anyone, he's more hoping his dumb grin and natural charm will convince them dancing's an amazing idea. Half a second's observation will reveal that he's not actually dancing to the music blaring overhead, though it does occasionally screw up his rhythm. Instead, he's wearing a small headset and doing moves that look suspiciously like disco. ]

C | ???

[ There's always a come down. They usually have the decency of waiting until the next morning, but a few (or more, what's time anyway) hours in, he's slipping away from the crowd and towards one of the quieter offshoots of the structure. Quieter being a loose term, here; the beats still pulse through the walls, and his ears are ringing as he slides the small headset off, swinging it once around his finger.

He isn't exactly heading to the kitchens, but that's where he ends up. There's a short nod to the few lingering chefs ("chefs"); they seem unconcerned by the straggler, continuing in their work to clean up the remnants, eager to waste the rest of the evening with everyone else.

It's abandoned, otherwise. He takes a seat alone at one of the benches, scrubbing a hand over his face before dropping the headset on the table in front of him. It's still playing, the quiet sound given a very slight, tinny boost by the surface beneath it. ]

[ A. ]

[repetitio]

[ rita vrataski is female and has a face — whether anyone would classify her as a lady is a different question, but one way or another, peter quill appears to have decided that she is deserving of one of those totally douchey "hey girl" smiles and a nod.

her facial expression doesn't change when he follows it up by sliding a little closer at the bar: it remains perfectly unimpressed throughout, and once he is within a distance that allows communication without too much shouting, rita makes her position on the matter even clearer. (as if her body language and expression didn't say enough.) ] No.

[ doesn't matter what you want, quill, the answer is no. ]

OPEN

[goesdown]

Crowley's not one for dancing, but he's most certainly one for drinking. With only a few days of true freedom here under his belt, he's testing out what is his newly human tolerance--his sad, awkward, bald human tolerance. It's been a long time since he really felt the warm dizzy buzz of alcohol and feel it he does.

He's used to the smooth burn of his favorite scotch and this is hardly that. There's a wince on his face with ever sip and he takes it quite a bit slower than usual, but still he finds himself feeling heavy, almost tired with the pull of it. It's a welcome distraction from the pain that keeps settling low in his gut and before long, he finds himself laughing and forcing down what passes for food in this place.

Passing through crowds, Crowley finds himself searching out familiar faces and knocking into a few new ones with a murmured apology that the music drowns out. He keeps a smile on his face and lets the party take him where it will, but there are rare moments of honesty that flit across his face, showing a glimpse of something a bit less happy to be here.

He approaches familiar faces with an easy nod in greeting, but he's just as likely to flash a friendly smile at a stranger as he is a friend, especially as the night wears on and his glass grows empty. It's a celebration, after all, and Crowley ought to make the best of it while he can.

[hacker]

Maybe it's her own disenchantment that makes it easy to recognize the thinly veiled discontent behind his smile, or maybe she's just timed her approach well. Whatever it is, she has to admit, there's a hint of implicit camaraderie to be found in one of the few people who doesn't seem thrilled by the éclat.

"Keep it up. You almost look like you're actually happy to be here," she comments, seated near him as they all settle in to dine. The food's not bad (not as bad, they kept telling her, as it had once been). Freshly grown produce and grains, at least, to mask the otherwise tasteless protein paste they'd been pumping her full of in the rehab center.

ＭＵＳＩＣ ＡＮＤ ＤＡＮＣＥ ◀ ｏｐｅｎ

[echopraxia]

Zion's celebrations tend to be a little more vigorous than anything previously available to Anya. Court dances and fluttering fans do not prepare you for what looks like it might in some places actually involve sexual congress. This isn't the first time she's skirted the edges of the extravaganzas, simultaneously intensely curious and intensely uneasy about exactly how to go about participating, but it is the first time she works up the nerve to approach it in exactly the same way she's approached everything else since she was first unplugged. She weighs what she already understands against what she doesn't. She considers what she wants to achieve. She sorts through her mental list of acquaintances and their respective skills--

It's with somewhat unusual purpose that Anya is moving through the throng of bodies, but while she is actively searching out Wanda Maximoff, perhaps you, stranger, might assist her with the social mores and specific techniques that she is currently interested in learning.

Zion's extremely vigorous approach to affirmation of life looks like a hell of a lot more fun than some of the parties Anya could only liven up so much, a year or so ago.

She is damn well going to get in on that.

[knowdeathknowglory]

Jay glimpses Anna's blonde head bobbing through the crowd and briefly pauses his dancing, watching her move through the press of bodies with such purpose that he's momentarily impressed. In his estimation, anyone trying to walk through the dancing, writhing mass is either very brave or has a very peculiar death wish. He's feeling friendly and he figures "I noticed you were trying to wade through the sardine can of this rave" is as good an excuse as any to ask someone to dance. He ducks down, weaves through the people separating them and pops up at Anna's side, reaching out a languid, long-fingered hand.

"Care to dance, dearest?" he intones, regarding her from beneath ironically lowered lids. He's got a very strong accent, with tones of both Russian and Yiddish. His Rs roll and his vowels are curiously flat. His voice is pitched ambiguously, hovering in a nasal, alto range.

Before Anna can reply, he adds, with a crooked smile, "I'm afraid the ambiance isn't suited to a waltz, but we could give the Charleston a try!" He doesn't expect her to know what a Charleston is, but he thinks his meaning should get through regardless.

rita vrataski / open

[repetitio]

MUSIC AND DANCE | OTA ◀

[ there haven't been many excuses in rita's life lately, both before her extraction in her matrix and after in the real world, for celebration — and she wouldn't have minded keeping it that way. it's not that she's against the celebration, it's that she has no intention of partaking in any of the festivities. the loud music and the mass of dancing bodies are not her scene, that much is obvious from her expression.

why she's at the bar right now ordering a drink is anyone's guess. if yours is that she's looking for someone, it would be a good one: occasionally, she'll scan the area around her. it could just be a soldier keeping track, but it isn't, or not entirely. rita stays at the bar for a while before making space for other, thirstier people. eventually, she'll settle at the edge of the dance floor, a silent sentry well outside the way of gyrating bodies.

her only real concession to the celebration around her is that she takes care not to step on anyone's feet with her heavy combat boots. ]

A QUIET CORNER | CLOSED TO CAGE ◀

[ it's been months since her extraction — just a little over four — and he was part of the team that had picked up her weak body, he's the first officer on the ship where she's undergone her physical therapy and where she's been training as an operative.

he's a familiar face for more reasons than that one: she remembers seeing him in her matrix, before the extraction, and while it could have been part of the extraction, something about the way he looks at her, the way he behaves around her, the watchfulness that suggests he's waiting or hoping for something (recognition?) from her makes her think that there's more to this story.

she's kept largely to herself except where her training demanded otherwise, but when she sees him again after two weeks in zion without him and the rest of the nidhoggr's crew and he still carries the same expression on his face, rita resolves to talk to him about it. the opportunity arises when she spots him at the rave, and it's with quick strides that she crosses the distance between them. if she'll return to the nidhoggr, he'll be her superior officer and she doesn't make a habit of manhandling her superior officers, but right now, she grabs his arm and all but drags him to a more quiet corner, away from the loud music and the dancing. ]

What is it? [ because it's clearly something. ]

>MUSIC AND DANCE

[knowdeathknowglory]

[ Jay, momentarily out of steam and rather dizzy (an artefact of him still being so recently extracted and of the binder currently wrapped around his chest like a boa constrictor), parts from the crowd and totters to the edge of the dance floor, seeking a handy wall to lean on. On his way, he passes Rita, notices her dour expression and her rigid stance and her combat boots and decides that the appropriate reaction to those is a cheery wave.

When that doesn't seem to have the desired effect, Jay comes closer, swaying a little and cocks his head at Rita, like a peacock eyeing something of interest. ]

Well, darling! You're a touch gloomy, given the holiday. The drink not agreeing with you?

[ His voice is heavy with an accent - either Yiddish or Russian or perhaps both, all rolling Rs and flat vowels and a peculiar cadence. And it's a little hard to tell his gender - nothing about him gives any sort of clue. He's flat-chested, to be sure, but his voice is a nasal alto and his angular face is androgynous.

He doesn't mean to flirt with Rita, however his words may sound. He's merely drunk and trying to be friendly, to the best of his ability. He's completely ignorant of how pushy and intrusive he's being. ]

[roboticist]

Even at only a few weeks after his extraction, Saphir can feel himself getting stronger and more steady on his feet, and as his body comes back into useable condition he becomes restless, eager to explore his newfound freedom and the people inhabiting it. He's thus far had very little homesickness; even underground as what appeared to be the whole of the human race is, he's got room to breathe, safely away from loneliness, judgment, and his own sad memories. Eventually it will all hit him, but for now he's able to occupy himself with the celebration of a history that isn't his.

He does miss his hair, though, thoroughly unsatisfied with the fuzz left in its place.

A: Music and Dance

In the great hall and wonderfully drunk, face pale and lips flush, Saphir loses himself in the pounding music and the press of bodies. He isn't able to press deep into the throng of it, distantly aware that if he passes out in the center he is very likely to be stepped on, so instead he hovers near thick stalagmite, dancing against the people around him and leaning his hand on the stone when he gets too light-headed. Though he is too new to have nice clothes, he has been able to get some that fit him properly, and has hung jewelry made of glass and metal beads around his neck and wrists. It's not his usual makeup and it's not his hair, but it's a step towards feeling like his old fabulous self again. Unfortunately, they do have a tendency to smack into the dancers around him, but so far nobody seems to mind.

B: The Feasts

The sheer variety of food provided for the celebration is both surprising and welcome. Saphir has no clue how so many crops have been cultivated underground away from the sun, but anything is better than the protein goop he's been eating. He can be found at the tables often, nursing a hangover with stew and bread, giving his future self a hangover drinking in groups and snacking on candy, and in general taking decent care of himself for the first time in a while by making sure he eats enough to carry him through the festivities without becoming too delirious.

A

[knowdeathknowglory]

When an elegant, glittering string of glass and metal beads smacks against his cheek and nose, Jay's first reaction is to bristle with anger. He whips around towards the source and comes face to face with a skinny blond who's positively jangling with jewellery. The man has the stubbly, barely-there hair of a recent extractee and clothes that, while drab, are at least tailored to his body shape. A thought flits through Jay's head - here's someone who cares about his appearance. And on its heels, another thought follows: finally. He'd been feeling very alone on that front, here where utility and comfort are valued above looks.

He's drunk, he's full of endorphins from the exertion of the rave and he's feeling uncharacteristically friendly, so he moves closer to the blond and raises an elegant, barely-there eyebrow at him in greeting.

"Your jewellery seems to double as self-defence, darling," he purrs, every syllable clanging with a heavy accent, the Rs long and rolling, the syllables flat. His voice is as ambiguously gendered as his face and as heavy on the nasal element.

the lost art of people-watching: open

[pathogen]

He's heard the stories.

There are some points that are the same no matter what, but there are some that change from person to person. He's really not all that surprised it's the same from these orators. It makes him wonder if anyone truly knows what happened anymore, if they ever did. The most important question he asks, though, is why people treat it with such fairy tale quality.

Why wouldn't others strive to such standards?

Anomalies are meant to be studied, not to be lifted on a pedestal. Do these people believe that another gifted human being will just suddenly show up to save them when there's another war? It's frustrating, the attitude that only someone prophesied could reach such power. Apparently, those in this reality have never heard of evolution.

"This is utterly ridiculous," Wesker notes, loud enough for someone to hear him. Someone might take it as an affirmation that the thought of someone doing what Neo do was indeed far from the realm of achievable. And maybe that's for the best.

[hacker]

"I think that's the idea," Skye quips, picking up off the end of his sentence easily, far more familiar than any total stranger has the right to be. "Ridiculously awesome. The guy's a hero." Even if she doesn't hold any particular love for this reality yet, she can acknowledge that. The entire human race owed him one: without Neo, none of them would be here. None of them would know the truth. The ugliness of the truth doesn't negate its importance.

The natives to Zion who were explaining the stories, passed down for centuries, smile and nod eagerly in conjunction with Skye's assessment, filling hers in as an expansion on Wesker's rather than a contradiction—believing readily that he was just as awed as any.

babydoll | open

[paracosmic]

DANCE & MUSIC.
[babydoll is sort of a wallflower, especially when it comes to all the bump and grind happening around her. she's small, and it makes it hard for her to maneuver with so many bodies attached to each other, so she sticks to the sidelines, chatting a few people up here and there and admiring the revelry. she may not be involved much, but she thinks it's incredible. the amount of bodies all in one place, enjoying themselves, leaves her somewhat dazzled. a part of her wants to be involved, but she's not interested in how sexual it is, she'd rather dance on her own. she keeps away from any sorts of alcohol, choosing water instead. there's a chance she can be caught swaying to the beat, but there's no way she's pushing her way to the center of that crowd.

if someone is nearby, she might turn to the casually,]

This is amazing, don't you think?

OTHER
[henna! babydoll is enchanted by the art, another never for her. she watches as artists paint those around her before one of them coaxes her to them. a woman draws complex and intricate designs over her left hand and up her arm, nearly covering all of her skin. the smell is warm and unique and the art is gorgeous. she sticks around to watch as they paint others as well, so she may be peering over a shoulder here and there.

much, much later and unable to sleep, she can be found cleaning up the mess of the party, or helping a few intoxicated bodies to a nearby bed. she manages to put together a small plate of snacks since she can't see herself returning to her home and lingers in a quiet area of the cavern. she ends up settling on the edge of one of the beds provided and picks at her food, and if anyone is nearby, she won't mind the company, even going so far to start small conversation like how was your night? and if you need to rest, i'll go.]

ｄａｎｃｅ ａｎｄ ｍｕｓｉｃ

[echopraxia]

( it feels very sudden, to be addressed. anya's response is- less that way, more like she's being drawn out of something, her attention thus far rather focused on the people who are participating, almost awkward. not judgmental, but a sort of frustrated envy; she doesn't know where she is in something like this, but she would quite like it to be 'somewhere in the middle, doing whatever that is, it looks awesome'. some part of her wants to say something like, as will probably say anna kendrick's tombstone, 'i can do that. hold my beer.'

thus far she does not. also, she doesn't have a beer, and that's terrible. )

I do, ( after a moment, very decisive. ) Yes, I do think.

skye / open

[hacker]

THE FEASTS ◀

The first week she was conscious went by in a haze of physical therapy, vomiting, and crippling disbelief.

This isn't the first time, precisely, that she's made it out to mingle, but it's close to the line. Muscle weakness and shortness of breath threaten her steadiness on her feet, but neither stop her from helping some of the locals with the set-up of the event. It helps get her moving, carrying food dishes, and it works on all those natural reflexes that she should still have, but doesn't.

Perhaps the aid would be more worthwhile if each task weren't completed with the hindrance of a crutch supporting her weight and helping her strengthen her weak side. Plenty of people are ready and willing to tell her about how lucky she is while she's moving plates, pots, and serving tools around. Lucky, because it didn't always used to be like this. That's why they're celebrating, after all. Their resources expanded with the Architect's deal, and the human race saw a light towards thriving again.

But the way she sees it, she went from one underground temple to another, and she still hasn't managed to shake the gaunt look she wears, and the twitch of nervousness each time a loud noise or a sharp voice twists her gut into an anxious pool. Back in the Matrix, that would have been the recipe for a tremor—the kind that could bring the whole cave down on them, like it had done to Trip.

"Yeah," she dismisses coolly, voice still scratchy and unused. "I feel lucky." She drops a pile of serving utensils with a clang to the front of a stand, rubbing her hand over her forehead and turning away to look out at the bustling, beaming populace without feeling truly capable of engaging with or celebrating their happiness, let alone joining in on it.

MUSIC & DANCE ◀

In theory, she should still be using her crutch. It's early enough still that she's supposed to be taking it easy, but Skye's been a doctor's worst nightmare as she pushes herself to get back to where she had been before, before—

Well. There was no before. Before, she had been a naked baby tied to tubes in a pod, feeding on slurried people juice and believing she was a superhero. Still. You'd think a one-time metahuman could at least walk on her own, and she takes it with considerable frustration and very little grace that she can't quite do it properly yet.

Her steps are uneven, so her dancing is narrower than it would normally be. Exhaustion comes more quickly, her lungs not quite ready to bear the exertion, so she doesn't move quite as much, feet rooted to one place, hands lifted above her head as she presses herself amongst the stifling crowd, sandwiched between warm bodies.

Sweat sticks to the back of her neck, a sensation she's still not thoroughly used to. Her hair has grown to a stubbly buzzcut, but it's shorter than she can ever remember having it, and the air on the back of her neck still startles.

A close look makes it apparent that she's still thin-limbed, favoring her right side, and sporting dark circles under her eyes, telling of her still-dubious health.

The feasts!

[mithrarin]

"You get the feeling they don't realize not everyone is happy," came an agreement from a further corner, where Dust was doing his damndest to not be around people and completely failing at the task.

If he couldn't avoid people, maybe the best thing to do was just stay near the grumpy people.

"Of course," he added after a moment of thought, "if all the stories are true, than it was never about celebrating, not really. It was just desperation, trying to hide from the knowledge that the situation was hopeless and doomed."

sam winchester ; ota

[familybusiness]

the feasts;

[Given how hungry he is, Sam find himself needing to deliberate slow his pace. His body wants the food, but he knows all too well that his system isn't ready for any kind of intense exertion, as evidenced by the first few times he ate anything resembling solid food.

He doesn't want to make a spectacle, nor be wasteful, so he sits in his seat, taking one slow bite at a time, chewing carefully, making sure that he stops the moment he isn't feeling the hunger pangs anymore.

It's exhausting just chewing, honestly, and it shows in the dark circles under his eyes, but he seems to find validation in each bite he manages to get down his throat.

There wasn't any real food in Hell. He's all too used to illusions and tricks that feel real but aren't, mind games that were apparently playing by both the Matrix and his previous torturers in tandem. The ultimate cosmic joke. Even the creators of the illusions were illusions themselves.

And then suddenly, his appetite was gone.]

music & dance;

[Sam shows all the signs of one of the newly unplugged, if anyone spots him on the more lonely outskirts of the party. His lean body only looks that much more frail given that he stands at nearly 5'5", and he leans against a cane that seems to be the only thing keeping him from toppling over at times.

Still, his eyes seem sharp, though cautious, as they fall over the people nearby that flit in and out of the heavier crowd nearby. He doesn't seem to be particularly enjoying himself; if anything, he seems tense, as if anything or anyone nearby might lash out at him at any moment.]

feasts;

[righteously]

[ Bumping into Crowley gives Dean an uncrushable new level of hope. After he'd regained his ability to think clearly, his extraction team told him it was incredibly unlikely that his brother would have been pulled out at the same time as him, that they'd never heard of a Sam Winchester, that often they didn't bother going for family members without the prompting of someone that had already unplugged long enough to form their own extraction team, and that no, they would not be stopping right now and turning around thank you very much.

He'd been pissed. He'd been furious, but he'd also been a limp noodle completely incapable of doing a damn thing about it. He'd resigned himself to dealing with all of this crap alone, resigned himself spending the next several weeks strong arming (not literally, because this body's freakin' useless a group of strangers into going in for his brother. And then he bashed headfirst into The Artist Formerly Known As the King of Hell, and that resignation fell through in an instant. Because if Crowley had come unplugged at the same time as him, it meant there were other extraction teams working on Dean's matrix.

It meant that there was a chance.

And it meant that this gathering of just about every notable new extraction and established civilian at the Zion docks was the perfect opportunity to search. Granted, doing that after one and a half cups of what apparently passes for liquor in the real world made things a little more complicated, but a Winchester is a Winchester and sheer determination can't be swayed by damn near anything.

It takes a few hours, it takes pushing and weaving through masses of bodies, it takes moving from kitchen to kitchen and hub to hub, but eventually his eyes settle on a familiar form. Well, a sort of familiar form- his body, though tall and more or less healthy, is slender and unhardened. His eyes are sunken and bruised, his posture weak, and his hair-

Dear god, his hair. Holy crap, his hair. His stupid hair is what sets Dean off, something like laughter in his chest, something choked and disbelieving and relieved, and his voice catches a little as he pushes through the last of the dozen bodies separating him from the tables. ]

Sam!

[ The call rises out of him before he can help it, impatient and frustrated and urgent. ]

ota! pardon me if i mix up deets, i'm still shaky on all the setting info

[grounderpounder]

MUSIC AND DANCE, EARLY EVENING

[ octavia's not got the slightest clue why the hell she's here. she hates dances - no, not even that. she's haunted by them. maybe that in itself is why. maybe some part of her's decided there's no chance in hell she's letting something that wasn't even fucking real tell her what she is and isn't unnerved by. what does or doesn't make her skin crawl.

but despite that, o's still hovering around the edges of the rave. her fingers slide through her bare inch of hair, a reflex from a nonexistent reality when it flowed halfway down her back, and she exhales a plaintive breath through her nose as she casts a glance off in the direction everyone with drinks seems to be coming from. this would be so much easier with booze, right? ...she actually has no idea. despite having taken mouthfuls of a couple of different kinds of hard liquor, she's never actually had enough to achieve any kind of 'drunk'.

( now would be a perfect time to show up and drag her into the party, or question her on why she's not. maybe even sense her deliberation and put some booze in her hand, it doesn't even matter what kind.

or on the other hand, you could also join her in lurking on the fringe - especially if parties aren't so much your thing either. ) ]

MUSIC AND DANCE, ~2 HOURS LATER

[ it's a big ??? on how but sometime in the last couple of hours, she's ended up immersed in the crowd on the dance floor. there may or may not be a couple of drinks pounding through her bloodstream to the beat of the music, but at this point she's more drunk on the rhythm in her chest and the energy of the bodies in every direction.

and despite her apprehension, octavia's having the time of her life. she's actually not half bad at dancing for someone who's never really done shit like this, and she's ended up pretty far from her lurking spot on the edge of the crowd, hands hovering up around her head, half-jumping to the beat in a groove that's mostly hips. at one point, when the crowd's energy surges to an all-time high, she can't help but let her head drop back as she busts into a fit of exhilarated laughter. she doesn't know how she feels about the rave on any level involving actual thought, but on a deeper one, she freaking loves it. it's like a release, like going so far out in the forest that nobody can hear you scream and then doing it just to let it out, but without the underlying fear that the enemy will hear you and hunt you down before you can get back to camp.

( if anyone wants to dance with her at any point, that is absolutely a thing she's open to. asking her what the fuck's so funny is also valid, even if it's a totally different sort of laughter. )

otherwise, there comes a point - much earlier than it should come, enough so that it catches her off guard - where all at once she realizes her legs are shaking, and that she's short of breath in a way the heat of the pressing bodies can't explain. octavia was so caught up in the dancing, she doesn't even know how long it's been like this...

( but as if given permission by her sudden awareness, her knees are absolutely buckling now, dropping a good chunk of her weight against some poor stranger as her hand fumbles up to their shoulder to catch herself with a mumbled apology they probably can't even hear. )

this was stupid, jumping in on this shit so soon. she's making great progress on rehab, but her muscles were pretty much totally atrophied like three weeks ago and this isn't exactly what they'd call 'taking it easy'. lesson learned, i guess. but how the hell's she getting out of this crowd? ]

OTHER (THE GYM), STUPIDLY LATE

[ all that dancing had her slip into a hell of a nap once she got back to where she's been staying, but now she's up. not only is she up, but she's frustrated as hell that she couldn't keep up. like - sure, most of them are months or even years out from their own rehab. she knows that, objectively. but her pride's still ten kinds of bruised and fuck if she's not hauling her ass down to the gym at whatever godawful hour this happens to be (she doesn't even check on her way out) to work out.

( anyone who comes in can find her on one of various exercises - some cardo, some back, mostly legs. she doesn't even look to see who's showing up. all they get is... ) ]

Don't even try and boot me out right now. [ why else would anyone be here this late? ]

Gym

[mithrarin]

I'm pretty sure that's my line.

[Dust manages a small laugh from beneath his hat, which he reflexively tugs down a little as he comes further in. More now than ever, his clothing choices exist to isolate and keep people at a distance, and he feels that all the more keenly after being surrounded by people.]

...Seriously, don't mind me.

john kennex | open

[nutsaboutscans]

» The Feasts

[Food. So much food. John's interested in all of it, though his body can't hold as much as it did before. Still, he wolfs it down, occasionally stopping to talk with someone nearby.] Not a bad party.

» Music and Dance

[He's goddamn forty-one years old. He's too old for this. Clearly. That's exactly why he's had a few drinks and is making his way to the dance floor. John doesn't know what to do at first, is simply getting bumped into. Someone could help him out.

Or he figures it out after a bit, and soon he's jumping with the crowd, sweat running down his back, his legs wobbling dangerously. It's always been like him to push himself as far as he could go, and he's stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the sweat that's wet his shirt, the wobble to his step, or the pink flush to his cheeks. Nothing's felt this real in a while. It has his blood pumping and his heart racing.]

» Other

[He makes it out of there and down a hallway before he slides down the wall, sinking to the ground. It feels like he just ran a marathon. His legs are shaking slightly. He runs a hand through the short scruff on his head. Just another reminder that things had changed. And he's feeling alone in it. Sure, he found a few people to talk to, to drink with, but none of them were Dorian or Sandra. He didn't feel like he could open up to anyone about anything.] Goddamnit,

[he swears, his head in his hands.]

>> Other

[mrsnippy]

[Charles is having trouble walking in a straight line. He's sure he'd eaten enough to soak up the booze, and he'd been jumping about in the deafening noise just fine, but here he is now, slowly wobbling between the two sides of the hall as he made his way home.

He spots the stranger on the floor and wobbles over to make sure the man isn't having a heart attack or something else equally mood-spoiling]

Hey? Hey, are you alright? You're not going to be sick, are you?

OTA

[emptychamber]

Emily has been to a wild party or two in her day, but nothing on quite this scale. Part of her would prefer to stick to partaking of the feasts, to listening to the oral histories clearly bleeding into legends, and she does both of these things. But she can't quite keep away from the dancing. For all that she knows she is profoundly alone here in the Real, she's always preferred people - even strangers - to solitude. She skirts the edges, mainly, but the way she moves betrays a temptation to give in to the beat for a while. She could - or someone could pull her away. She's on the edge where a little tug either direction would be enough. In the meantime, she watches, swaying a little.

[onyourfeet]

You know.

[ From behind her comes Cage's voice; friendly, hiked up to be heard just well enough over the drums. This event calls for casual dress, and he is bare armed save for the henna pattern, starting to smear, from wrist to elbow. ]

I bet this Neo guy was just like you. Or any of us. [ In his hand is a glass bottle of something that suggests beer, the smell of is detected by the time he steps nearer. He gestures with it. ]

Wondering where he fit in to all this.

william cage. traders; music and dance.

[onyourfeet]

OTHER (TRADING AREA);

[ The artist wielding the henna pen is a child, under the careful supervision of his mother, and here and there, the weightings of the line thicken where they should not, demonstrate a wobbly uncertainty, but the distant affect is proving clean. Cage had explained that the Nidhoggr is a dragon, and then explained that a dragon is like a snake, with wings, with claws.

And so although the design on his arm does not depict a dragon, exactly, it does abstractly suggest a snake, and wings, and claws. ]

It's terrific, [ he says, looking down at where the pale underside of his forearm is now textured in lines written in dye, and he idly wonders how long it sticks around for. Resigned to that answer being a while. He makes it a transaction via a block of delicate, amber hard candy, which he hears (with some satisfaction) being snapped into pieces as he stands to leave. Around him, this area has been filled with vendors for trade and barter, fresh produce from Kosala, a whole manner of things from Antioch, including a case of beer he's had sent to store on the Nidhoggr.

Cage takes care to step around where someone is laying down chalk art on the concrete ground, looking up again to see what else might capture his interest, or who. ]

MUSIC AND DANCE (NEARBY);

[ This is his third Neo's Truce ever. Maybe forty-four is too old to learn how to rave, to celebrate in this unique way. To celebrate at all. He has caught himself observing the unplugged buzzkills edging around the fringes of a culture they are not integrated into just yet, but he's only ever done so from the edges himself. So, you know. But it's okay. He doesn't have to dance or be in the middle of this crush of people to feel the reverberations of the drum line coming up through his feet.

To get the point. To feel human.

So, like some, he watches. Not individual people, but the crowd stretching on and on to the far limits of the giant cavern. His place is one of the raised platforms, under the stalactites lit up to glow a warm amber, with elbows set against a railing and a beer in hand. The henna design on his right arm is smudged, minimally, here and there. On the other side, on both arms, black, button-sized plugs are more permanent features. ]

ＭＵＳＩＣ ＡＮＤ ＤＡＮＣＥ ◀

[ironwork]

Oi, Bill-- hold my beer.

( forty-four is not too old to learn how to rave. it is in fact the perfect age to learn how to rave, if you ask seoraj - you shouldn't ask seoraj about these things - who didn't wait for a response before pressing his beer into cage's free hand and lifting him with really terribly unfair ease from floor to shoulder. this is probably not the first time this has happened.

the fact that this is probably not the first time this has happened is really all the warning that he gets, mind. )

closed.

[dostoevsky]

(PRIVATE RESIDENCE) (NOT HIS OWN) (SHH)

He does knock first. Maybe that looks a little bit like minimal respect for boundaries, if you squint—like at the end of the day, he learned something. But he only knocks once, and when there's no answer he picks the lock with casual efficiency. It isn't hard. Most of the locks around here are simple. Most of the people around here don't have much worth stealing.

This room isn't any different. Stephen isn't sure what he was expecting. A bowler hat on the corner of the chair back, maybe, or a hammock and a dozen empty bottles, sketches and a sea breeze, comfortable weary silence instead of the not-too-distant pounding of drums. But there's no real sign that whoever has been sleeping here is his brother, which is fitting, maybe, given the circumstances. Stephen has his ear close enough to the ground to know how this works, even if he never tipped his hand by asking anyone outright. There aren't any genes tying them together, and there might not be any history, either. One of them might be from a discarded early draft, the other from an unrecognizable revision.

But some version of Bloom is here, so this version of Stephen is, too.

He twists a dingy chair around on one of its legs and sits down as if he belongs here, lock pick hanging out of his mouth like a cigarette (or a pixie stick). He could have done better than breaking and entering and waiting, if he'd taken the time, but Kate said his brother might be here, Natch matched a description to a door, and Stephen doesn't even know what he's going to say. Maybe he'll be sitting here long enough to figure it out. More likely he'll wing it.

After a few minutes of fidgeting, he gets up long enough to turn out the lights.

Better.

[unwrit]

They've always played the odds, a little. They, which really means Stephen, who loved chance, but not as much as he loved a stacked deck, or an ace up his crisp white sleeve. So, okay: the odds, of walking out and finding Stephen leaned against a lightpost, with his arms folded over his chest, or sitting on a half-wall with a cigarillo between his teeth, or even just-- standing in the crowd, but expectantly, with his hands in his pockets. One in a million? One in ten million? There's all those pods out there, and all those people.

When Bloom shuts his eyes, he sees his brother, who he knows is not his brother. They explained it all pretty well, and he had nodded, and nodded, and curled his fingers around to press against his palm. And he had still gone out looking, as soon as he could remember what it was to really walk. Or, more likely: he had gone outside and sat down, and-- watched. Or waited. Something. His hands heavy and his shoulders sloped.

When he opens the door and reaches for the lightswitch, Bloom freezes. His fingers curl and close over nothing; his hand drops to his side. The pap it makes against the leg of his trousers (heavy, standard issue, grey) is audible in the silence that is too silent, crisp, and patient. The room has only one small window, in the corner. Its light isn't good enough to do much illumination, but Bloom doesn't need it. He knows the shape of his brother in a room. Please let it be. Please let it not be.

Like a kid in a haunted house, he reaches again for the lightswitch. The light flickers on.

Bloom smiles, tiredly. Drawn lines, sloped shoulders. Relieved and weary and incredulous and helpless and happy. He stays where he is. He doesn't really trust himself to step in to the room, like it's a scene he might disturb: Stephen Bloom, sitting in a chair. Alive, no hat. The light is duller than the spotlight had been. That had never really happened. Bloom feels the pinch in his nose, the sharpness of sinus pressure you get before you cry. He doesn't cry.

"Understated." The entrance, that is.

ota.

[ex_paragon697]

[ Steve isn't sure what makes for a good oration, but from what he can tell, most of those speaking are managing to say that the stories are more than just history without actually saying it, and that probably helps. He's not even inclined to disagree; it's just that there's also a difference between history and the past, namely that history is for those who didn't live it.

It's a strange feeling, waking up from a long nap to find out that the past is no longer yours, and Steve's done it twice now. He likes to think it's the price of humanity, though, not an invention of the machines: everything moves forward. At least, that's what he'd told himself while looking at his own face in a museum, and he figures in that situation he gets to tell himself whatever the hell he wants.

The holograms remind him of Tony's work, and Steve wonders in a bemused sort of way if he lent his skills to the occasion. The beat of the music is a constant undertone to the oration, even here where it's far enough away to make out the words, and he feels it in his chest where there's not much of anything to buffer the sensation. There likely won't be; he's past the point where he should have his strength back, but it turns out there was never much to be had here in the first place.

It's not why he stays back, though. And the cavern may be a far cry from a dance hall, the amassed bodies a poor approximation of intimacy, but that's not really why, either (—okay, it's no small part the latter). It's just that he's never danced. ]

yoooo

[paracosmic]

[it takes a lot for babydoll to approach a man, but something about steve has her curious. maybe it's only because he's nearly her height, but she'd like to think it's because he looks a little out of place when it comes to the dance, probably more than she does. she doesn't dance, never has.

well, that would be a lie. she danced in her mind, but never here. even then, it doesn't really count, does it? she understands the movements, she just doesn't want to be involved in the sexual theme. it's still too early for her to even want to. sure, watching it came be interesting, but being involved? no thanks.

she sees him looking over the holograms and decides to pipe up,]

Did you have anything like this before you were unplugged?

ellie | various places (open!)

[punned]

» MUSIC/DANCE

[ Honestly, deciding to check out this dance thing was a bad fucking idea.

The sheer amount of people crammed into the giant cave-like place is beyond overwhelming. The noise. The smell of sweat and dirt and earth. The way everyone is swarmed together.

Oookay. Ellie's pulse is picking up pace and it's becoming a little hard to breathe. Suddenly she's thinking of swarming Clickers and the thunderous boom of the drums makes it real hard to try to think rationally. She's gotta get the fuck outta here. She starts elbowing her way past people, nudging at first, then pushing, then hurriedly shoving, panic rising up her throat like bile.

Someone's hand grabbing at her elbow has her reeling around with a frantic yank of her arm, twisting it out of their grasp. [

Get the fuck off of me.

» FEASTS

A. at the feast
[ Ellie has never seen so much food. Never seen so much variety, either. If anything, the vast spread of food is a welcome distraction from everything that's otherwise been eating away at her thoughts over the past few months. All conflicted fear and nervousness are swept aside for the moment as she curiously stuffs a chunk of bread into her mouth here and hungrily bites into a juicy tomato there.

And then she comes across the candy.

Ellie has never really understood moderation. Not when it comes to an abundance of candy, anyway. She'd sampled the first bit of candy with an equal measure of curiosity that she'd employed eating the other food. Her eyes had widened as the taste of sugar and sweetness melted in her mouth, and then she was grabbing another piece of candy. Then a small handful of candy. Then a large handful.

She's standing off the side, shoving a piece of candy into her mouth, chewing, shoving another piece into her mouth mid-chew, chewing some more, shoving another piece in her mouth, cheeks starting to fill out before she swallows, and starts all over again with shoving a few more pieces into her mouth. ]

B. a little time afterwards…
[ She ate too much fucking candy.

In a small alcove on the way back to the residential areas, Ellie is stooped over with a hand braced against the wall, other hand clutching her stomach. She's going to be sick.

Oh. Ohh shit. Her stomach does an ominous churn and she clutches her arm around her middle that bit tighter. Aaaand then she pukes. Nasty. ]

» OTHER?

[[ ooc; feel free to set up or suggest something else! i'll happily write up a starter if need be. c: ]]

b!

[paracosmic]

[uh oh. this looks bad, but instead of ignoring ellie's discomfort, she hurries to find some water and a bucket. by some ridiculous miracle she arrives back just in time to unceremoniously shove the bucket in front of ellie's face, catching whatever comes out of her mouth.

yeah, it's gross, but at least it's not on the floor.]

You okay?

[dumb question, but she'd rather ask than not.]

johanna mason || OTA

[axeyou]

[ feast ]

Like every good child raised in the Districts, Johanna likes to eat. Never mind that the Districts weren't actually real, and that her memories of crappy food eaten half outdoors were't real either. The excuse can be used if she likes, and if it gets her a plate piled high with everything the tables have to offer? Then she does like.

So she's not afraid to take her fair share, and then some. Two plates, both loaded down with a little bit of everything, though she deliberately skirts the candy and sticking with what's real. She snags extra bread off the end of the table--two slabs, too flat; she snorts, taps one against the table--but adds it to her plate anyways. The flavors are good even if the food itself is lacking. Nothing like the shit they eat on the ships. No cream swans or spiced plums, either, but hey. Reality comes with its sacrifices. All praise whoever unplugged you.

As she sits down, Johanna makes a gesture with her bread, almost a toast, her eyes turned toward the ceiling. Inside joke; she folds the bread in half and shoves it into the mush of corn and creamy crap, sopping some up before she shoves it into her mouth, tears, and chews. Her mouth full, she grins down at her plates. Dancing and drinking have both left her with a good appetite, and she digs in, without any pretense of table manners. If anyone looks at her funny, she'll have something to say. And she will notice. Her instincts are as sharp as the rest of her.


[ music & dance ]

It's easy to ignore the parts of this festival that Johanna doesn't care about. Storytelling, history, remembrance, singing, blah, blah, blah. It's not that she's not grateful, in her way. But none of that's is what she's here for.

Dancing and drinking, both mindless and real at once. That's the kind of thing she can appreciate, and she does. There's sometimes where everything can seem so empty. She never liked emptiness, even if she'd ended up in a lot of it. But there's value in anonymity, too, in shoving your way into a crush of people and dancing with the rest of them, all writhing and pulsing. Her hair is plastered to her forehead with sweat; her clothes are pretty sticky. She can feel the music in her teeth, in her fingernails, and Johanna grins anyways. Better than any ball or after-party.

Every now and then, she has to take a break. A year and a half out, and she doesn't have the shakiness that the newly unplugged do. Don't mistake her for one of them. It's drinks that she's after when she shoves her way out to rest, heavy, against what's passing as a bar. A breather before she shoves her way back in again. She's always been a girl who knew how to have a good time. The real world hasn't done much to change that--it's just real fun now, that's all.

music & dance

[enkindles]

Katniss skirts around the throngs of dancers with all the shakiness characteristic of the newly unplugged and then some. The sheer volume of the music doesn’t help, rattling her still weakened bones to the very core. The only thing keeping her from meeting the ground is the cane that her caretakers have so thoughtfully gifted to her. Apparently, they believe that her partaking in the celebration would help her with her “problem”. To go out there and experience a taste of reality outside of rehabilitation. She’s not sure how the overindulgence of food, dance and skin to the point of debauchery is supposed to ease night terrors. She wonders who gave them the credentials to take care of anyone, especially those as vulnerable as the unplugged, in the first place.

What she does know with absolute certainty is that they would not approve of her drinking hard liquor. And of course, being the model patient that she is, she intends to drink her weight in it. Approaching the makeshift bar, she pushes her way to the counter, using her short height and cane to her advantage, ignoring those around her. She probably hit a certain someone in the leg with that cane, but she wouldn't know it. She has only one thing on her mind and she makes sure that it is known.

“Give me the strongest of whatever you have.”

Rile Abel; ota ; will match brackets or prose

[poeticend]

The Feasts

[ Riley spends a good chunk of her time where the food is, eating anything that looks even remotely good. It's almost like she doesn't ever expect to see food again, which given the matrix she came from, is a legitimate concern for her. She's been in the real world long enough to get used to some things, but not enough time has passed to break old habits and concerns.

Which means she also spends a good chunk of her time looking tense and wary. There are too many people (understandably so, it's a celebration) and it's got her on edge. It's not that she's not friendly, she just feels surrounded, life if things got ugly...

She shouldn't be thinking like this, like a survivor. The people here aren't about to hurt her (probably). But she looks for ways out anyway, and keeps a careful eye on her plate. Once she's had her fill of regular food, Riley turns her attention to the candy. Unfortunately, there are too many people and she can't squeeze close enough to grab some, so she resorts to shouting. ]

Hey! Yeah, I'm talking to you buddy. Wanna toss me some of that?

Music and Dance;

[ Riley is nowhere near the center of the dance. She's all for a good time, and god does she needs a distraction, but she has no interest in being pressed up against that many bodies. The thought is uncomfortable. It would put her in a place she couldn't easily get out of, and that's something she would rather avoid. Safe place or no, she likes being able to high tail it if she needs to.

Not being in the center of things doesn't mean she's not enjoying herself, though. She's just hanging out near the edges of the dance, keeping herself to a party of few. It's easier that way, more comfortable and personal. It gives her room to dance with people instead of against them. She's got a drink in one hand as she sways and moves to the beat.

She'll approach others near the edge of the crowd, too. If they're dancing, she'll dance with them, but if they're standing around looking mopey or uncomfortable she forces a laugh and waves them over. ]

This is a party, so get in here and party already.

Other;

[ Eventually, Riley grows tired of the festivities. She's had enough to drink that the sound of people and music grates on her, makes her head hurt. So she stumbles off into Zion with no real direction in mind. She eventually finds a place to sit and relax. It's nowhere special, just a metal walkway among hundreds overlooking a section of city. It's not beautiful, Zion could never really be considered a beautiful place, in Riley's opinion. But looking out over something mad her feel big. It made her feel like maybe she had a purpose out there, somewhere. Something she could do with herself, once her limbs stopped feeling stiff and sore.

She rests her cheek against metal and closes her eyes. Not to sleep, but to just sit, breathe, and try not to think. She doesn't expect anyone else to be around, but when they walk by she looks up and puts on a friendly enough face. ]

You had enough of the party, too, huh?

[ ooc; Feel free to write up a prompt of your own, too, if none of these work for you. ]

feasts!!

[axeyou]

[Johanna's instincts run similar: get as much food as you can, as quickly as you can. District 7 hadn't been exactly poverty stricken, not by a long shot. But, after spending so much time in the Capitol, Johanna's tastes had quickly grown more expensive. She'd never seen the point in playing the martyr and restricting herself from what she really wanted--and in a place like Zion, where a plate of scallops in garlic and a slab of spinach and lobster quiche with that crumbly white cheese are the stuff only of sad little dreams--well. Eat while you can.

But sweets? Those were never her thing. Like, not at all. Her placement by the table of candy is coincidence: she's drinking, standing off to the side and surveying the crowds around the tables with cool disinterest. It's almost regal, a narrow gaze that she turns on Riley when the girl shouts at her.

There's a moment, where she looks like maybe she'll consider it. And then she smirks.]

Nope.

[--And tosses back a swallow of her drink, without breaking eye contact. What're you going to do about it.]

OTA.

[ex_spins462]

SINGING

Natasha takes the mic because she's tired of being asked to dance.

There's a time when she would have enjoyed losing herself in this, the thrum of movement. There was a time when she loved to dance because she trusted her body. Not here, not now, still recovering from being unplugged. She knows that if her body gave out in front of this many people, if she showed that much weakness — it's not worth thinking about, because she won't let it happen. Every movement she takes tonight is premeditated, every time she sucks into the crowd to get something and weaves gracefully through it it's because she has already calculated whether or not she'll be able.

Dancing, though, reaching for an old skill and finding it gone? That sounds like a little too much just yet.

So she volunteers to sing instead, her voice a low and husky alto, promising a strong belt. The electronica synth-noise and the drums are loud, and she croons an old folk song called Summertime over the top of them. Later, you might catch her returning for a more poppy New Order cover. Do they have New Order in every Matrix?


CHRONICLES

They must think she's a sucker for stories, because she talks to about five different orators, hearing their versions of the oral histories, letting them point out interesting aspects of the holograms. Each one tells her something new and different, which is good — one of Natasha's life rafts in an unfamiliar situation is knowledge. She wants to know more. She wants to know what she's supposed to do next.


THE BAR

She nurses the same drink for hours when she's seated here, listening in on conversations, letting guys chat her up, occasionally sliding out of her deliberately draped position to go start her own, maybe find and bother Steve.

Or, mostly the same drink. one point her grace fails her: someone knocks their elbow accidentally out, it collides with the bottom of her glass, and whatever clear liquid she's been drinking (a vodka tonic, actually) splashes all over her dark, tight clothing. Her eyes widen, face blanching even if she's careful to stay expressionless in the face of her panic — probably an overreaction in the face of such a minor accident, but it's clumsy.

Clumsy is fatal in her line of work. Or it was.

It's all too real, too much vulnerability, too much loss. More than she can cope with, and she abruptly decides to leave, get some air: "Excuse me."

chonicles

[axeyou]

She's seen Natasha around, here and there. Mostly these nights, since--after she's helped to unplug them--Johanna purposefully avoids much contact with the newer residents of Zion. Some people do the work for the good feelings; some people do it because they feel sorry for the people still feeding the system and giving live to the Machines. Everyone's got their reasons, and Johanna's aren't all that altruistic. She doesn't like to hang around for the parts that come after. It feels a little too much like what she remembers of being a Mentor. It feels a little too real. Maybe it's too much to remember, too--not about the Matrix, but about getting sucked up into a hovercraft, all shriveled muscle.

But there's always exceptions, even to Johanna's rules. And Natasha had been interesting. There's no sleep lost over the voyeuristic enjoyment that comes of knowing someone's Matrix so fully--but it wasn't even the Matrix that had interested her. It was Natasha herself.

So maybe it makes sense, that she keeps seeing her out of the corner of her eye. Walking around like she was born here, like she hasn't got ports hidden under the tight swaths of her clothes. It makes Johanna smile, a little. Not that she'll approach her and give her a hug, or even a pat on the back. But still: good job, Black Widow.

When Natasha steps away from one of the orators, Johanna is there. Coincidence, from her pace--like she was just passing by, and their paths converged, and now she's free to stop with one eyebrow ticked up just slightly. A beat, and then recognition. Huh, and with a little grin, she flicks her gaze back to where Natasha just came from. Storytelling.

"Are you bored?"

dated after 2nd log

[dreamcatcher]

THE FEASTS
( Emma was never particularly fond of food featured on the outside. what she'd do for a piece of pizza or a bagel or god, she might actually kill for ice cream. the weird slurry pastes they usually had to eat really didn't do it for her, but she ate her rations just to keep her weight up. when she'd first been unplugged she'd lost weight fast; she was still trying to recover it.

she didn't realize how much she missed bread until she had some in front of her. okay, bread was maybe a stretch, but the tortillas actually tasted like something she could have had (at home? was that the right vocabulary? no, no it wasn't, and it stung a little) before. that and the fresh vegetables in her slurry that almost tasted like salsa, well... it was almost a decent meal, the first in months.

she's not exactly making conversation, just eating quietly. then again, she never really makes much conversation, anyway. )

MUSIC AND DANCE
( Emma liked to dance, once. it feels like a really long time ago, though. back even before she'd been unplugged. as a teenager, she'd loved it, sneaking in with a fake ID, forgetting her own name between the music and the beat. . . it'd been a wonderful escape, and a good distraction from the fact she didn't know where she'd be spending the night. it had been a long time since she was a teenager, and hell she wasn't even sure she remembered how to dance.

she remembered how to drink, though; she settled in a quieter spot and worked at a drink, just watching the movement of the crowd and a part of her enjoying the music. she had no intentions on joining, but she was happy watching. after her last couple of days, something that managed to distract her for even a limited amount of time was highly desired.

or maybe her drink was hitting her a little. hard to tell.

a touch at her back makes her straighten, glancing over her shoulder. ) Sorry. Crowded. ( a halfhearted apology at best, considering she doesn't seem much interested in leaving her spot. )

[music and dance]

[hellbrokeloose]

Sorry it’s crowded or sorry you won’t make way.

[ Metzger doesn’t wait for her to decide, at any rate -- he makes room himself, sidling around next to her like a mutt squeezing through a closed gate, drink in hand. A look up and down her ex-neighbor is enough to quell confrontation in the form of dance one-hundred and eighty degrees in the opposite direction.

He’s taller than Emma, but not by much, hair clipped and whiskers sanded down sharp for the occasion -- more like his construct in the Matrix than he typically fusses with, these days. ]

How are you feeling?

music and dance ◀

[chuvihani]

Once upon a time, in a world that never existed, Wanda had learned traditional Romani dances, belly dances, ways to move that would never get you all that far in a ballroom but nevertheless made you feel alive. The feeling was, at that time, more relevant than the reality, but at least in Zion, at moments like these, there is an intersection of the two. Joy is scarce, but vivacity is a little less so, and that, at least, she can offer here on the dance floor, where she moves with snake hips and, yes, ridiculous curls are everywhere. She does try not to hit anyone in the face, though.

It is not entirely sexual -- she somehow manages to know that despite occasionally sliding her body against other willing participants, casual yet experimental about it -- but she ekes out a tiny bit of space in which to move, her sleeveless shirt tied high on her ribcage, rough-hewn skirt flying around her ankles. When the bass makes the whole floor vibrate, she twirls with it until she's dizzy. Eventually that purposeful dizziness sends her spinning out of the crush of strangers and acquaintances alike, where she collapses at the outskirts of the dance floor, half-in a very slightly quieter doorway. She sinks down to lean against it while sitting, her feet aching, and rakes her hands through her hair.

She's smiling. She just needs a minute. But if anyone crosses the threshold to peek in curiously but unwilling to join the festivities, or to make their way back inside or out, Wanda will obligingly tuck her knees back, offering up a little "oh, sorry!" they may only hear half of, given the relentless noise all around.

If they stop at the gate of her outstretched legs instead of continuing on, of course, she may playfully request a dance tax.

[dreamcatcher]

Emma didn't manage to make too many connections in her time in Zion, generally favoring sticking to herself whenever she could. Still, some acquaintances tend to make themselves, and considering Wanda was privy to her first steps, so to speak, she's a very familiar face, even though Emma has been out of rehabilitation for awhile now. She's more of a spectator than a dancer. . . she'd liked it, a long time ago, but anything she did in her matrix no longer feels entirely real to her.

It's a conundrum, when reality feels false, and so does every memory she had prior to being unplugged.

She's found a wall to lean on, instead of the doorway, but she's close enough to Wanda to make conversation. Not something she frequently does, actually, so perhaps it's the drink that compelled her to speak the little voice in her head. It's been awhile since she's sampled alcohol, and the looseness of her body and tongue is a welcome change to the heaviness she's started to get used to.

"You make that look easy." It's not a judgement, it's actually a compliment, it's just that Emma isn't terribly graceful with words sometimes. Well, most of the time. She was never meant to be a poet.