MISSION 001

[etrayamods]

WHO: Everyone!
WHEN: March 29th-April 20th
WHERE: Everywhere on Etraya
WHAT: Mission 001!
NOTES\WARNINGS: Potential violence, death.

⏵ mission prep ⏴ On the morning of the 29th, characters will receive a notification from Aurora to come to the hospital’s ground floor to prepare for their first mission. On this floor, pairs will be given slips of paper with matching numbers. If characters have chosen their partners, they too will receive small slips of paper with matching numbers, as these numbers match the room assignment they will be asked to please step inside. The rooms themselves are bare. There’s a cot, two chairs pushed up against a small table, a miniature fridge set up below a sink, and a television that only plays static. On the table is a note, which simply reads: Welcome. To prepare you for your first mission, we are giving you time to get to know your partner. You have a twelve-hour time limit to discuss your lives together. We recommend talking about moments throughout your life that have defined the person you have become. In addition, we have included several ingredients inside the miniature refrigerator. You must, without telling your partner specifically what it is, create their favorite drink using the ingredients within and above the refrigerator. Do not attempt to cheat. Do not make your own drink. If you pass, you will both be given two points and the door will unlock. If you fail, you may try again with the same partner or a new partner may be reassigned to you. Good luck. Within the mini fridge will be numerous ingredients - these ingredients could be anything, from Bantha milk to dragon fruit - whatever their favorite drinks are, they will find all the correct ingredients to make them. There will also be numerous extra ingredients. Maybe a character’s favorite drink is a nice cup of peppermint tea. The kettle, and the tea bags, will be present on top of the mini fridge, but there may also be soda bottles inside the fridge and various milk substitutes. Cheating by making their own drink will result in the game being reset, and a new partner being assigned or no partner at all being assigned and they will simply be removed from this part of the exercise. ⏵ the secret's out⏴ Numerous notes can be found throughout Etraya’s populated areas - falling from the sky, taped to doors, slid under them, or perhaps being handed out by a few of the companion bots who will eagerly note how these are meant to help, but a quick read may show that they’re not things anyone wants to be given out so freely. After all, on the notes are secrets, untold truths, things that were never meant to be shared nor wanted out in the open. Some of these aren’t notes at all, but small packages that are not addressed to anyone in particular, or addressed to the incorrect party. Inside the packages are items that may be associated with a particular event: a knife that had been used to betray a friend still stained with blood, a mask meant to conceal identity, a picture featuring a moment in time that had best been left forgotten. The goal of the game becomes clear by the notes written on the back or thin slips within the packages: match the secret to the person. You could simply ignore them, but the note also includes an addendum: more notes will continue to be sent until the person is matched to their secret. ⏵ cracked reflection ⏴ Every person is an intricate mosaic, composed of numerous facets that shape what makes them - themselves. After all, one person is not simply one picture, but rather, a puzzle comprised of myriad pieces. These pieces may shape their strengths, their sense of humor, the influences of their upbringing, and who they admired in their formative years. Together, these fragments coalesce into a singular form: you. But what if those pieces were rearranged? What if the fundamental aspects that define who you are simply… didn’t exist? What if, rather than being a courageous hero, you were cast as a formidable villain? What if, instead of pursuing the path that led you to greatness, you veered in a different direction? A new dawn breaks over Etraya. The artificial sun rises over the horizon, accompanied by the melodic chirping of birds. As the denizens of Etraya awaken, they sense... a shift in the air - a feeling of dissonance, as if a piece of themselves has suddenly gone missing. Because it has. Doubles of every current inhabitant of Etraya roam the corridors of the apartment building and the surrounding facilities. They let themselves into Roxx to get a few new outfits, get themselves a meal at the hospital cafeteria, or maybe they’re raiding the snack shelves at Kwik Trip. They may bear a striking resemblance to their counterpart and act very similarly, but there is something off about them. A quality that sets them apart. Remember that step you took, that led you to your current career? The step you’ve kept secret for so long, that has defined your actions ever since? They didn’t take it. They went down a different path, something darker, or perhaps something lighter. They took the path you most feared, the one you knew would turn out terribly. And they in turn - turned out for the worst. Characters will find they are facing one of their worst fears: themselves, but their worst selves. The version of them that they fought so hard not to become, that they strove against rather than towards. And the mission? They need to take out their worst selves. But there’s a twist: interaction with their doubles isn’t possible. Both halves are cognizant of each other’s existence, yet they are incapable of verbally or physically interacting with each other. And while the double understands what they are, the original? Well… how do you truly know you are who you’re supposed to be? What if you were the double all along? What if you are your own worst self? There is one way to be sure: the color of the copies’ blood is slightly darker than what it should be. Running closer to a red-black than the red you would anticipate. Or for some, perhaps their blood is red where it should be running black. While they feel and look real, driving a unique blade straight through where their heart would be will cause doubles to dissipate into nothing once the knife penetrates deep enough. As for the genuine articles, well, the blade is sharp—and it’s going to hurt. A blade is provided for every authentic copy. Those who were sleeping through the night will find it beside them upon awakening. As for those who remain vigilant throughout the night, the blade will manifest beside them in the early hours of April 2nd. Guess someone is going to have to kill your double. ⏵ quicksilver has no sense of tact ⏴ Aurora’s announcement left out several crucial details: the existence of the doubles, for one. But also the looming deadline to take care of the mess that has been dropped onto Etraya. Inside the characters’ wrists, they will discover a timer gradually counting down. The timers are only visible for the person who dons it, as is the amount of time given. Every person is given an individual time limit, but it cannot be longer than two weeks. As the numbers dwindle, more black marks appear going up the inside of their arms toward the inside of their elbow. And what are the black marks? With each additional black mark, they begin to feel… less like themselves, and more like their doppelgangers. In the beginning, maybe they barely notice the change. Maybe it’s a favorite food they loved that they now hate, or perhaps it’s an event that has shifted: something small but important - a decision to save a life changed to taking one. Maybe they’ll feel like a piece of themselves is no longer the same, replaced with another feeling or sensation. Where something would have usually made them empathetic to another's blight, now they find their suffering funny. Regardless, the longer their doubles are around, the longer they slowly begin to become their doubles - and their doubles begin to become just like them. If their doppelganger is not taken out at the end of their provided time, it will simply dissipate and the original will remain changed. The only way to return to normal is to kill the original. After death, the character will remain dead for twenty-four hours before returning to their normal selves as if the death had never occurred. While killing them to return them to normal is information Aurora will readily share, no one will inform them that they will simply return to normal by April 20th. ⏵ OOC ⏴ Welcome to the first mission! For any questions relating to this mission please reply below. All other questions can be directed to the FAQ. Please note that while ICly, characters are not given a choice, players can choose which missions they wish for their characters to participate in. They may have missed receiving room assignments, or their secrets may not have been dropped, or a copy may not have shown up for them. This may not always be an option in future missions! ⏵FULL NAVIGATION⏴

Comments

secret's out

[shabuir]

[ Generally speaking, Fett doesn't really care about people enough to go out of his way to learn their secrets. When one of Aurora's droids trundles over and places a box in his hand, he views it as a burden more than anything—something to be sorted out and completed rather than an object of personal interest.

Still, when he opens the package and sees what lies inside, he'll admit his curiosity is slightly piqued. There's a knife—and a pair of severed Human fingers.

The finger's don't shock him; Fett has been taking trophies from his kills since he was a boy, as requested by his employers. The knife, though... He slides it out of the box for closer examination. It's clearly no artisan's work, crudely made out of what appears to be scrap metal from a starship, the handle nothing but the blade bent back on itself. Of course, it'd still kill someone just as dead if handled correctly—and it wouldn't be hard to take someone's fingers off with it, either.

Fett doesn't know that many people here, but he does a quick run through his list anyway. This isn't a Jedi's weapon and certainly not a diplomat's—more likely, it's a spacer's, someone accustomed to making use of recycled resources.

Come to think of it, he does know someone like that...

Shortly afterward, Clarke will receive a message in her network inbox. All it contains is a picture of the knife in Fett's hand and two words: ]

Look familiar?

[skaikru]

( one can try their best in times of war to be diplomatic, but still need to have a knife at their side.

the original ownership of this blade can be traced back to one john murphy, fresh on earth and following bellamy blake's lead in the early days of their occupation on earth. but at some point a twelve year old girl named charlotte had stolen his blade, and used it to slit the chancellor's son's jugular vein and, in a panic, sliced off his fingers when he'd reached out for her in protest. the crime had been traced back to murphy, the "j.m." etched into the interior of the handle proof enough to hang him in front of a crowd that'd chanted eagerly for his death. float him, float him, float him. the truth had come to light at the last moment, and clarke griffin had been the one to cut him down, just to find that same young man with that same rough-made knife pressed to her throat by nightfall.

she'd thought very little about that moment until it'd arrived in a nautically themed box in her last reality. and may have mourned the comfort the knife provided when she wore it on her hip since arriving here, but had adapted since. clarke had secreted scalpels from the upper levels of the hospital room and pocketed steak knives from the diner and counted that as good enough, at least until the moment she clicks on the message from fett and it opens to display —

oh.

it feels like she's been punched in the stomach. it feels like her heart has swollen to twice it's normal size. she'd recognize that black and yellow striped handle anywhere, knows the curve of the handle doubles as a set of brass knuckles in one's most desperate hour. homesickness overwhelms for the briefest of second, to the point it's almost impossible to type. but a deep breath and the realization that this moment is manufactured helps.

doesn't mean she wants that knife back in her possession any less, but at least provides an anchor point to regulate her emotions against. )

Yeah, that's mine.

( "sort of", but also very much hers in the sense she'd used it to kill a man. this place somehow know to dig at the most accurate angle to get under her skin, and serves up her blade and handmade garrot all in one day.

it is with the vague notion that the man on the other end of this conversation appreciates efficient communication to the point it borders on rudely perfunctory that clarke doesn't seek to gentle herself when asking: )

I want it back. Where are you?

[shabuir]

[ So his instincts had been correct. It does seem a little too coincidental that he should end up with something belonging to his erstwhile mission prep partner. Perhaps this is Aurora or Echo's way of encouraging more "bonding" between the two of them. Fett certainly wouldn't attach such a term to their acquaintanceship, but he will admit that Clarke seems to possess a certain practicality that he wishes were more represented on his own team. Instead, he's been saddled with a bunch of starry-eyed diplomats and mystics.

He responds to her message in kind. ]

Outside the hospital.

[ And then, he pauses. He knows, in the distant sort of way one knows things that they've only ever encountered in books, that there are people for whom severed body parts are shocking and taboo rather than straightforward, practical articles of their trade. He considers that perhaps such people would like some kind of delicate forewarning before coming into contact with said articles.

But then, it's Clarke's knife. And he doesn't recall her missing any fingers. Which means there's a decent likelihood that she's the one that had done the severing. Surely then, she wouldn't find it so shocking?

(This is generally the part of the interaction where Fett would look at Beviin, and Beviin would either nod or shake his head to signal how to proceed. But Beviin isn't here—so Fett will just have to muddle through.) ]

There are two fingers in the box as well.

[ Delicate? No. Forewarning? Yes. At least he managed one of the two. ]

[skaikru]

( the first message is enough to set clarke to pulling on brand new white sneakers and heading for the door to exit her apartment, but the second?

the second has her pausing. weathering a moment of confusion, followed almost immediately by a metaphysical punch to the gut that drives all the air out of her lungs. it's a good thing, she'll reflect at some point during her walk towards the hospital, that this wasn't an exchange they were having on the audio frequency, because the shuddering inhale of breath she manages to reinflate her chest cavity with is high pitched and very, very obviously hurt. it's been a disrespectfully long time since she'd spared the ghost of wells jaha any thought. her childhood best friend, who'd defaced the only vestige of plantlife on board the ark in an effort to follow her down to earth in what'd been equal part science experiment and death sentence; the young man she'd grown up with, and probably once upon a time pictured marrying and having a child with to fulfill their role as part of the transitional generation, the boy who'd let her hate and blame him for her fathers execution because he hadn't wanted to drive a wedge between clarke and her mother — the actual responsible party. the boy she'd buried. the boy she'd almost seen an innocent person hanged to atone for the murder.

there's instantly a lump in the back of her throat that threatens to choke her, but with a hard swallow she manages to get past it. and she doesn't cry, simply and slowly types back: )

Thanks. For the heads up.

( it means that she gets to weather the repeated five stages of grief in privacy before buckling all of that back into the neat emotional box labeled DO NOT OPEN and yank open her door.

she'll be at the entrance of the hospital in about five minutes, blank-faced but searching for the sheen of sunlight reflecting off beskar. )

[shabuir]

[ Fett notes the delay in her response. Really, he's just hoping she'll still show up to take the parcel. He has no use for an extra knife and even less for extra fingers. Plus, it will mean fewer secrets being passed around going forward.

He doesn't reply to her thanks, just takes up position to the side of the hospital entrance and turns his attention back to the knife. He tests the weight of it in his free hand. For all that it's clearly not the work of a well-supplied smith, he has to admit that the construction's not quite as slipshod as it had looked at first glance. He slips a few fingers through the looped handle, testing its function as a knuckleduster, then practices flipping between that and a more stabbing-oriented grip.

His free hand is still taking the knife through its paces when Clarke arrives, though he stops when he sees her approach, flipping the knife around to hand it to her handle first. It appears he's quicker to befriend weapons than he is people. ]

Here.

[ Once she's taken it, he raises the box in his other hand. There's the muffled sound of two shapes rolling about within. He doesn't ask for their story, just inquires in the professional, detached tone of someone for whom such hand-offs are a regular part of his job: ]

You want these as well?

[skaikru]

( ultimately she has no qualms with spotting boba fett putting john murphy's knife though its paces while he waits for her to arrive. all that strikes clarke is that the weapon looks much more deadly, better practiced in his hands. but a knife is a knife, it still cuts and stabs even in possession of someone who isn't well suited to wield it. her weapon of choice had always been a gun, but during the two years she'd just spent on a hell-ship based around murder and existential suffering she'd only killed a single person. and had used that exact blade to do so. it'd become a comforting weight to wear at her hip as much as it'd been a reminder of home and people she'd never see again, but better understood in their absence.

and it's not like fett turns the knife on her and gives any validity to the knot of apprehension that blooms in her stomach upon approaching someone obviously armed. he just flips the blade around in his hand and proffers it as promised. and clarke wordlessly slips her fingers into the bent grip, and allows the weight of all this knife holds in its memory to drag her left arm back down to her side.

then he rattles the box, and unbiddenly clarke pales. dark blood stains up her throat as heat and nausea rise into her face — she can feel her emotions playing all over her face (sick, gutted, remorse reawaken and ruling her) but can't seem to tamper it down immediately. for the first time she thinks she understands why she never sees this man without his helmet, and maybe partially wishes she had something similar to better mask her face.

she does not want the fingers. what possible reason would she ever want this box, a small coffin-like reminder of a long-dead friend, the worst remedy for homesickness and not even a particularly encouraging token from home; how many people has she lost back on earth, after all? but reaches out her right hand to accept the box. )

...thanks.

( there's the bite of actual bile on the back of her tongue, but clarke swallows thickly around it. and then there's a moment of silence that drags on to the point of being awkward, and she flounders for something to fill it. )

I buried these back on my world. I don't know how they could be here as well, unless Echo — ( unless echo what? had a propensity for grave robbing, or a personal desire to emotionally fuck her up specifically? that feels too small minded, and clarke doesn't even try to finish her statement. she doesn't know, it's okay not to know so long as it reinforces the drive to figure it out. )

[shabuir]

[ Fett nods at her thanks, saying nothing. The emotions playing out on Clarke's face are clear to see, and are far too personal for someone like him to comment on. He turns his visor away by a few degrees, like he's taking an interest in something over her shoulder, hooking the thumb of his newly-freed hand on his belt.

It makes sense, he thinks distantly. The object that Echo had brought over from his own past hadn't exactly come with happy memories, either. ]

The same way we're here, I expect, [ he says quietly to her thought, face still turned away. ] Nothing seems off-limits to Echo.

[ Not physically, and certainly not ethically. As far as Fett is concerned, the pain and distress are the point. Echo wants to see how much they can take.

And his instincts tell him this is only the beginning. ]

[skaikru]

Yeah, but you'd think if even the dead weren't off limits, least Echo could do would be bring them back whole.

( it's a sentiment as wanting as it is bitter, and it slips out mostly unbidden — to the point that immediately after her voice hinges towards breaking on that last word, clarke's clamping her teeth together so tightly her jaw twinges. and she hisses slightly, dropping her chin towards her chest and racking her shoulders up like maybe if she holds her muscles perfectly tense she can weather this storm of sadness (folded over itself so many times it comes out more like anger).

obviously, grief doesn't work like that. but staying perfectly still and silent for a beat provides her the chance to tamp all of that back down into its neat little compartmentalized bottle and replace the stopper. she busies herself with slipping the handle of the knife into the waistline of her pants, and drops the hand holding the box to rest at her side — ignoring the sickening rattle of fingers bouncing around inside.

clarke resolutely raises her face back up to look fett in the, well not face, but visor. still a little pale across the face, but composed to the point she feels she can open her mouth without gagging or sobbing; weak to her emotions but not ruled by them completely. )

How'd you figure this was mine? Or have you just been texting everyone around here.

[shabuir]

[ Ah. So there's the rub. It's something Fett hasn't real thought of until now—that, with all Echo's power, they could bring whomever they wanted to this place, from any point in history. And yet, they'd chosen to toss pieces of a loved one to Clarke.

Empathy, in Fett's experience, is a dangerous thing. Certainly, when he imagines what it would do to him if Echo were to dredge up pieces of his father, it feels dangerous.

He'd let the whole multiverse burn. Hell, he'd burn it himself.

In other words: Clarke's taking it better than he likely would have. Fett is perfectly still as he smothers the wayward spark of empathy in his chest, reminding himself of just what Clarke—and nearly everyone else here—represents to him and his galaxy: competition. Fett can be civil, but anything more than that is a liability.

There's an extended pause before he responds. ]

Figured you for a spacer after our first meeting. [ He nods towards the knife at her side. ] The metal looked like starship salvage. You seemed like a logical place to start.

[skaikru]

( echo may not know it, fett may not entirely understand it, and clarke may not fully embody it in this moment — but, yeah. having the fingers and murder weapon of her childhood best friend delivered to her in neat packaging and under the guise of a bonding activity is dangerous. at least in that it fully cements her idea of exactly what sort of world they're currently living in, and leaves a really awful vestige of bile on the back of her tongue.

the idea of competition pales in comparison to the deep rooted drive to upset the status quo, if these were the types of scraps they were to expect as supposed saviors of their worlds. if suffering was a requirement to spare their people, how long could they really be expected to weather it before outright breaking? she's burned entire armies alive before, erased whole groups of people, broken a world or two... what's one more, really? the only difference in how the two of them would take this is that clarke's anger is quite and marinating instead of outrightly explosive.

but she catches herself before she tips off the edge of that downward spiral. shakes her head infinitesimally from side to side, and takes a deep breath. she folds anger and hatred back into herself, and squares her shoulders in the face of idle conversation given he's answered her question and now she needs to respond in kind. )

...Dropship salvage. ( it's a mild correction, and she doesn't know why she puts so much importance on the small particulars. but, carrying on: ) One of my friends made it out of the wreckage, after we were sent to Earth. He wasn't the one who killed or chopped off Wells' fingers. And we're not called "spacers" where I come from. It's Sky People, or Skai Kru.

[shabuir]

[ Fett listens in silence as Clarke shares pieces of the knife's history. He's heard it helps some people, talking about things like this. It's something he's never really learned to do himself, despite the fact that he has people now who'd be willing to hear it. Beviin always says he can tell him whenever he's ready, but that might be never as far as Fett is concerned. ]

Sounds like it was a one-way trip, [ Fett remarks, mostly for lack of anything else to say. He doesn't have all the context, though what implications he can glean are at least interesting. "Sent to earth" isn't a phrase he's familiar with, for one. Perhaps it's just a euphemism for landfall in general. "Sky People" sounds strange to him, too—almost primitive. ]

You could bury them again, [ he says, nodding towards the box in her hand. ] I doubt you need the reminder of what this place really is.

[skaikru]

Mostly.

( if "sky people" sounds primitive, wait until he hears what they called those who'd lived on earth for the last century. it's a whole other beast to drag up the memories of all her other friends leaving her behind on earth as it burned, escaping the deathwave back to space... so perhaps it's lucky fett chimes in with what strikes clarke as an almost offensive suggestion. she winces and wrinkles her nose. )

Something about burying him in dirt he didn't even get a chance to walk upon feels wrong. ( vehemence and hurt intermingle like two ends of a snake currently set on consuming itself, and leads to a sort of choice paralysis. and a long pause before clarke seemingly shakes herself off the proverbial ledge of grief; before she fully remembers the company she's in, and slams shut the bars that cage her worst thoughts.

she sniffs, and lifts up her chin. smooths her face into a faux, delicate sort of calm and shrugs her shoulders. )

But I'll figure it out. ...thanks. For getting me my knife back. Sorry about everything else. ( the waste of time, being strong armed into this game of echo's, and having to stand there awkwardly while she weathered an emotional car crash like a chipped bollard. )

[shabuir]

[ 'Blame Echo for that,' Fett thinks, but doesn't say. The power to reach across time and space, and they'd used it to desecrate a grave—it gives a strange sort of glimpse into the psyche of the one deciding the fates of their universes.

Fett lets Clarke gets a hold of her grief in silence, returning to his "standing while paying attention to something slightly off to the side" holding position. He's not just being polite; seeing the way Clarke shutters her anguish makes him think of Mirta, and that's not an association he wants to encourage in his own mind. After all, it's not unlikely that she and hers will have to die for Mirta to live.

When she apologizes, he just shrugs, still looking away. ]

It's a decent knife. Should serve you well.

[skaikru]

( oh trust, clarke is at the point where if she woke up late at night, stumbled to the mini fridge in her apartment, and stubbed her toe on the edge of her coffee table — she'd blame echo for everything from her pain and the apartment layout, to her inherent thirst. it will be so easy to blame the unseen force that dragged them here for all their future misadventures as well, and they're just going to add up in the back of her mind: the doppelgangers, daisy johnson's plight, clarke's own inevitable murder, stamping out the imposters that wear her friends faces, the labyrinth and all the monsters she meets within...

but it all starts here. )

It has.

( if clarke looks too closely, she can still see rusty lines in the scratch marks of john murphy's craft. or is she just imagining those? doesn't matter, when the blade hangs on her waistline all she has to do is feel its weight, not look at it. )

You looked pretty comfortable with it, too. Got any tips?

( she is not outright asking for knife wielding lessons, and honestly thinks she's fared pretty well with a base medical background — knows where to make someone bleed, knows where to make someone hurt — and primal, mid-fight instinct. but, what else is there to say in this moment? )

[shabuir]

[ For all that Fett is doing his best not to look at Clarke, the question does get him to glance over again. There's the slightest tilt to his helmet, as well, something that might be surprise, amusement, or a dozen other emotions she's free to project onto him.

Really, he's thinking: ah, yes. Violence as a means of quashing down all those messy, inconvenient emotions. He's familiar with this particular coping strategy.

He really must be getting soft in his old age, though, because he obliges her. ]

Learn to use it with both hands, and keep it moving. It'll be harder for someone to counter if they don't know which direction an attack's coming from.

[skaikru]

( clarke clocks the very small tilt of fett's head, but the helmet does its job and for the life of her it's impossible to discern exactly what exactly prompted it.

if ever clued in to his internal dialogue, she'd argue: it's not violence, it's practicality. outsourcing information to be more effective at violence whenever the time called for it, but no deep burning desire to get in another knife fight. sure, the adrenaline dump that follows clawing for her own survival is the closest she can get to true catharsis, but clarke will maintain she's not that sort of person.

which may be why she's never thought of switching up her knife hand. both eyebrows arch up with a delicate sort of enlightened inspiration; very much listening and taking his advice to heart. she doesn't immediately reach for the knife handle to try out how it feels in her right hand, but will later. )

That's smart. I'll try it out.