0004: NEW ARRIVAL BRIEFING

[crux_npcs]

Who: New Arrivals, Graham Baker
Where: Briefing Room
When: Late afternoon, Februaro 30th
Warnings: None

When awakening, you'll find the area you're in to be very busy. The people in the medical ward are polite and understanding, but firmly refuse to answer questions until the briefing. The same goes for the robots in the hangars. Either given hospital outfits resembling very comfortable pajamas, drone bodies, or their own bodies, they are escorted by polite, unyielding people in red and black uniforms to the briefing room.

The Briefing room is large. Not enough to accommodate a Cybertronian, but spacious enough for several dozen people. The chairs are high-backed and well-cushioned, more like comforting eggs floating a foot or so off the ground than anything else. A half completed, but still functional, holographic display is settled into the floor, showing a slowly rotating pyramid.

A few Security personnel, dressed in their red and black uniforms, stand at ease in the rooms in strategic areas. They seem fairly relaxed. One man stands at the head. Graham Baker, a middle-aged man, showing the first signs of balding and wearing a rumpled business suit perhaps a size too large, nervously clasps his hands together and smiles.

[Questions to the NPCs will go in the briefing thread. The rest of the post is there for people to mill about and do whatever with. The mods will not be doing hangar/medical awakenings unless it's specifically asked for.]

Comments

THE BRIEFING

[crux_npcs]

Baker holds both hands up to ward off any early questions. "Please, hold your questions until we're done. I'm going to go through this once, but I'll go over something again if you need me to. I ask that you pay attention to what everyone else is asking, to keep us from hearing a lot of repeats. I'm sure you all want to know what's going on, so we'll just get down to business." He sounds confident, or at least as confident as he can when he's practiced this in front of a mirror fifteen times a night since the last group came through.

"We, being myself and our Security personnel, represent the Confederacy of Inhabited Systems. We are the 43rd Scutum-Crux Fleet, consisting of a science vessel, two agricultural ships, and seven battleships. Our mission is to explore and found a new colony. This vessel is the Teuberg, a colony-ready city-ship that is home to some five hundred thousand beings. And, though freakishly bad luck, you and many others." He holds up a hand. "Let me finish, please. Over one hundred years ago, we ran afoul of a sixth-dimensional being who felt it would be amusing if it helped us 'explore' on the opposite side of the galaxy, dropping us into the territory claimed by the Wadjit Empire. The Wadjit thought of us as thieves trying to steal their territory and declared war soon after. We've yet to make peace." He clasps his hands behind his back, mainly so that no one could see his hands trembling.

"Over a month ago, we attempted a radical new method for faster than light travel by means of folding space through manipulation of subspace and hyperspace. The experiment failed rather horribly. Five hundred people died and you were dragged here from beyond space, time, and dimensional barriers. For which, we cannot apologize enough. Some of our greatest minds are working on a way to restore you to your rightful homes."

He paces a bit. "However, we don't have enough resources to support everyone if they aren't working. Fleet Admiral Bulsara has, therefore, ordered that all 'New Arrivals' have two months, which is sixty days, to adjust and find either employment, training, or registration for school. In return, you will be granted citizenship into the Confederacy until you can go home." Here, he pauses and wrings his hands nervously. "I-if you don't do so, he has ordered anyone who has not started work by the deadline to be, ah. Marooned on the nearest neutral space station or habitable planet. But I hope it won't come to that."

He coughs nervously and adjusts his tie. "We will supply you with temporary housing, fabricators to make food and clothing, a comm device, some money to get you started, while any training you need to perform in your chosen field will be provided for free. Again, you can find work in the civilian sector, join our civilian-run militia, enlist in the military, or go to school. Any of these works. If you were military in your own world, we will accept you as a 'transfer', allowing you to keep your rank. However, you'll still need some training to familiarize yourselves with our tactics and weapons."

"Whatever your choice, you'll be able to register at the Renaissance Center. When you choose your communications device, it will have a map of the city, as well as instructions on how to get anywhere you want to go, and some information on public transportation. For paperwork's sake, the legal age for adulthood is the racial equivalent of sixteen years old. Until then, education is mandatory, whether it's in school or part of an apprenticeship somewhere. You'll have the option to test out of basic courses if you like, but you'll still need some kind of classes."

He smooths his jacket and coughs nervously. "When you leave this room, your personal possessions can be signed for at the left. Any weapons will require a registration and signing for a permit. You can find comm devices of several makes and models a little further down. These devices contact anyone on the Fleet, providing you have their communications code, supply you with maps and information, access our infonet and other information networks broadcast, and other functions that will be explained in a brief tutorial when you first activate and register your devices. They have a range of several hundred miles and can be in nearly any design you like." He pulls out an orb with several glowing lights. "I prefer the spherical models, but it's your choice."

He pockets the device and folds his hands behind his back again. "In addition, we've already had several people wake up. We've included them on your commlinks, so you can skim through that to see if any of your friends were brought over with you. Mind you, some of them are currently on the Eye of Sharef, a trading hub, so they aren't in range of our communicators at the moment."

He clasps the lapels of his jacket and beams, pleased with himself for not stumbling too much this time around. "Now! Any questions? I'll be glad to give what answers I can."

Arcee | Transformers Prime | Post-Briefing

[robotfightclub]

Not one to sit around, Arcee's time during the briefing can easily be described as "get in and get out". Oh, she listened, of course, and it kept everything inside her to keep her from exploding. Greatest minds her aft, if these really were the best and brightest working on a way back home, it'd be done already. Which, in turn, really made her question the entire fleet. Perhaps it's the whole uncontrollable rage that's making her unreasonably judgmental, but considering all the mistakes listed to her during the briefing, she thinks it's safe to assume she's dealing with a lot of inexperienced space goers.

Unfortunately, it's not the time to rant, as Arcee needs to find a place where she can actually stand comfortably. She never doubted the usefulness of her size, but the compactness of her alt mode has proven itself once again. At least a bike can fit into rooms. Granted, it's bizarre, but Arcee's stubborn. She'd rather waddle around on her wheels than take up a drone. Can anyone blame her? When you're seething with rage, it's kind of difficult to use common sense.

So there she was, a wee little bike doing its best to go walking-pace so she doesn't run anyone over, all the way towards the hangar. Needless to say, it only proves to further frustrate her because it'd just be SO much easier to race through without regard. A riderless motorcycle occasionally muttering "scrap" to itself, yup, that's happening right now. That's what her life has become. Thank you, magical space mishap. This is EXACTLY what she needed right now.

But boy, what a reward it is for her to finally make it to her destination. Is it even possible for motorcycles to look cheerful? That's the looks she's going for, anyway.

Jonathan / Shin Megami Tensei IV

[law_and_order]

Jonathan somehow managed to wander his way down to the city after the briefing, where he promptly almost got run over by a passenger trolley. He scrambled out of the way, his face pale. "What sort of mystic relics are these?" he asked, mostly of himself.

Though he longed for the comforting presence of his friends, it appeared that he was on his own out here, stranded in yet another city of Unclean Ones. By exploring this place, could he somehow make his way back to his home soil?

"Pardon me," he asked of someone who might be in the know, "Have you any knowledge of the Yamato Perpetual Reactor?"

Leonard McCoy » star trek aos

[sickbays]

McCoy was certainly in a right mood once the briefing concluded. He avoided speaking to anyone afterward and made a beeline to go collect his belongings. Granted, there wasn't much for him to collect, just his Starfleet uniform and a small silver ring, but those things were important to him. Well, the ring more so than the uniform. He didn't really need his Science Blues anymore now that he's been taken in by this Confederacy. But he did need something to change into that wasn't hospital-issue clothing, so he promptly did just that.

Once everything was in order, he then went to the next area to receive his comm device. First thing he did was search through the commlinks for any of his shipmates names. No such luck, however. Damn, that figures. He frowned deeply at the device, scrolling through the list of names once more before storing it away in the pocket of his slacks.

He may not look like the most approachable guy right now, not with his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his lips, but he mills around the area regardless. Maybe he'll find some poor soul who's just as annoyed with the situation as he is. McCoy can never keep his complaints to himself, after all. There's no satisfaction in that.

Chloe Frazer | post-briefing | OTA

[totallytrustworthy]

It's not living the dream, getting plucked from shit scenario A and turning up in yet another. Par for the course these days maybe, but it goes without saying that Chloe isn't thrilled about finding herself so far from the familiar in any amount: no sign of her companions from either home or Exsilium.

And no guarantee they'll ever turn up again, though she doesn't burn more than a few seconds on that thought, busy as she is assessing the city layout through all the information she's been left to absorb on a thin bit of futuristic tech. Chloe Frazer is-- has always been-- a creature of momentum, after all; the less time spent dwelling on what's been lost the better her chances of adapting.

Which, propped up against the outer wall of the building she (and just about everyone else) had previously been occupying, tugging irritably at the somewhat dull collar of her freshly fabricated clothing, is a top priority. Purposefully tucked away from the crowds means she can at least not look like a gawking tourist while she plucks out points of interest, places to start. If all else fails, she can give in and track one of the other newcomers as they fumble their way along.

Why do all the hard work when someone else can do it for you?

grell sutcliffe | black butler

[erythristic]

[dazed is the best word to describe how she feels.

she would have said she was dreaming, but the dream was too insane, too detailed, she can touch and taste and smell things, and the wound on her chest has resolved itself into a thick scar, thankfully concealed under fabric. the briefing filters through her brain while she barely pays attention, for it's all many words that amount to one thing in her mind: magic. getting her clothes and items (because she feels even more ill at ease in this strange attire) is top priority afterward, and she bitterly wishes she had put at least powder in her pockets before all of this. worrying about something trivial takes her mind off of jumping up and declaring this all an elaborate fabrication--how could any of this even be possible? manipulation of space? even demons couldn't do such things, she imagined.

so when they are free, she walks, trying not to look as lost as she feels. magic, she tells herself. magic is how this world operates, harmonises industry with plants. whether she's in the centre of town jumping in surprise at the memorial reacting to her saying one of the many names or walking in the Sky Park nervously eyeing the edge, it's magic. right?]

hajime ichinose / gatchaman crowds

[embellishes]

None of what's explained to Hajime goes over her head. Sure, she doesn't understand all of it now, but she assumes she will once she understands this place better. It's all filed away in her head for later reference. One thing sticks out to her -- she has to get a job now. In a way, she supposes that being a Gatchaman was her job. She fiddles with her note, balancing it in her hand.

"Policewoman?" She says out loud, a curious lilt to her voice. Maybe, maybe not. Would she qualify for that? Don't you need training for that? But then, does she need training with the G Suit? Then again, no one knows what a G Suit is here. Or do they? She has so many questions, and she looks around. There are enough people here that she doesn't feel isolated, so she perks up.

As someone passes by her, she speaks up, perhaps a bit suddenly.

"What do you think? What kind of job are you going to get?"

It doesn't really matter who answers as long as they're honest, Hajime reasons -- as long as she gets an idea of what kind of jobs she should be looking into.