0006: NEW ARRIVAL BRIEFING

[crux_npcs]

Who: New Arrivals, Graham Baker
Where: Briefing Room
When: Late afternoon, Aprilo 1st
Warnings: None

When awakening, the immediate surroundings are swarming with activity. The people in the medical ward are polite and understanding, but firmly refuse to answer questions until the briefing. They move with a practiced efficiency, already veterans of this kind of thing. 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 giant, but spacious enough for several dozen people. The tiles are black and featureless while the walls are nice, soothing colors. The chairs are high-backed and well-cushioned, more like comforting eggs floating a foot or so off the ground than anything else. Set into the ceiling and floor near the front is a large holographic projector. The floor in front of each seat also has a smaller projector, allowing people to see what the bigger device is showing without having to angle for a view. As of now, it merely displays a rotating pyramid.

Three Security personnel, dressed in their red and black uniforms, stand at ease in the rooms in strategic areas. One man stands at the head. Graham Baker, a middle-aged man showing the first signs of balding and wearing a wrinkled business suit, clasps his hands behind his back 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 a single up to ward off any early questions or demands. When he speaks, it's in a language that isn't English, Japanese, or anything recognizable, but it still makes perfect sense. Much like the alien writing all over the place that shouldn't make sense, but does. "Please, hold your questions until we're done. I'm going to go through this once, but I'll go over something after that 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." The speech sounds memorized, despite the troubles he went through over the past few weeks to make it seem off the cuff.

"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 was 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 bobs his head apologetically. "Bear with me, there's a point to this. Over one hundred years ago, we ran into 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 territory claimed by the Wadjit Empire. The Wadjit thought of us as thieves and declared war soon after. Right now, we're still officially at war with the Empire." The holo displays show their current position in the galaxy, with a large red splotch covering several thousand light years surrounding them. It's clearly labelled as the claimed territory of the Wadjit, and it's clear that they aren't getting out any time soon.

"Months ago, we tried an experimental new method for faster than light travel by means of folding space. It involved manipulation of multiple dimensions and an artificial gravity well, which, as you can probably guess, was rather risky." Graham pulls a small orb out of his pocket and aims it at the main display. Equations and proofs rotate slowly through it, intensely complex. "The experiment failed. Five hundred of our people died and you were dragged here from your relative universes and time periods. 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, just to get moving. "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 adjusts his tie, frowning ever so slightly. "If you don't do so, he has ordered anyone who has not started work or training by the deadline to be, ah. Left 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. If you were military in your own world, we will give you special 'guest' status, 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 your racial equivalent for 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, of course. No need to make you go over what you already know."

He smooths his jacket and clears his throat. "When you leave this room, your personal possessions can be signed for at the left. Any weapons will require a registration 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. They have cubes, flip-tops, ones set on bracelets or bracers, small tablets... Really, 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 or family were brought over with you."

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

Pavel Chekov | Star Trek TOS

[commanderchekov]

[Chekov had many questions and the debriefing only answered a handful of them. He knew a lot of his questions would never be answered since they concerned his home world and his people. He tried to push those concerns to the side for now as he focused on trying to get his belongings back and his phaser.

The one thing he could say that this was all a familiar setting to him and he could quickly adjust to the ships rules and regulations. As soon as he had work the better. Immediately he signed up for the military and listed his rank and skills. The last thing he wanted to do was do civilian work or go back to school.

Warily he studied those around him trying not to be too obvious about it. The different cultures and races didn't bother him the least. It only made him more curious. He was actually hoping to find people from his own world, but tried not to get his hopes up too high.]

[act_of_god]

Right now, Kelly is standing as close to an exit as she can get, eyeing the security guards, Graham Baker, and the others gathered there. She's already made one escape attempt, and seems like she's in the process of formulating a second. her body is tense, in part uncomfortable being on display without her armor as well as coiled to spring at the first sign of trouble.

Even out of armor, she's not exactly discreet; skirting just below seven feet, muscled and marked with precise lines of medical scarring. Her face is young, pale features, dark brown hair, and fierce blue eyes that flick to every corner of the room. She's listening to Baker's every word, expression shifting subtly as she processes it.

It could all be a lie; a brilliant fabrication by the Innies to keep their prisoners from rioting.

[smallest]

After the briefing, Francœur lingered about looking quite lost. It was a lot of information to absorb all at once; he could not possibly understand it entirely. What he could understand was that, once again, he was separated from home with no way to return on his own. At least it sounded like they were fixing this problem. He focused instead on recovering his belongings, especially his guitar. He touched his face and he noticed that his hat and mask were missing as well.

Where could he find those again? Those large, red eyes of his looked eerie yet helpless. He looked around to see where everyone else was going. If only he could just ask someone. Yet without as much as a pen, he had no way to communicate with them. He softly chirped in an uncertain tone.

[whatbedsidemanners]

[There were many things Red Alert expected to do with her day today, and this was not one of them. She has absolutely no time for this nonsense, and the first person to talk to her will get an audio-receptor full of why all of this was total nonsense.

Yes, she understands, sort of, what's going on, but she certainly doesn't like it. The part she likes least of all is the part where she's here because of someone else's mistake.

Whatever. The first thing she looks to do is find a way out of this room. There are far too many organics here, and she's faintly worried that she might step on someone. The medic sighs and edges around the room, hoping to get to a doorway and out of this mess.]

Charlie Cutter | Uncharted | OTA

[alittlesweptup]

It's not the first time he's found himself in a hospital bed, too bright lights and being guided around like a lamb trying to find its footing for the first time. He finds the repetition makes it easier to swallow, means he doesn't have any questions in the brief expect for cursory ones. The bigger ones - like how this all falls into place with the rest - aren't going to be something a simple QnA is likely to net any answers to. Something's slid out of place, which means the people running this ship (fleet, whatever) likely won't remember it and leaves him to fend for himself.

In summary: same shit, different day.

Charlie shoulders his way free from the briefing room, bypassing any offers of joining the military to retrieve his things. They're sparse: a handgun and a handkerchief, the former requiring a few extra hoops to junk through before they'll actually hand it over to him. He realizes with some dismay that he hasn't got anywhere to holster the bloody thing, awkwardly checking the safety before he jams it into the waist of his trousers. The handkerchief he carefully folds and forgets to pocket, absently scuffing his thumb across the fabric as he scans the immediate area.