MarinaNova Asylum

Good morning, inmates. Today is day [ 278 ] of the first generation. The weather scheduled for today is [ sunny with moderate winds ].

For this day only the facility will provide material for building [ aircrafts consisting of multiple wings tethered to an anchor system ]. Please take this opportunity to further your knowledge of aviation engineering.

Due to recent events, [ the clinic ] is no longer open for business. Inmates interested in operating said establishment are encouraged to contact the kiosk. We appreciate your cooperation. The [ hospital ] is still available for all your health related concerns.

Have a nice day.

[ And like always, we end this message with a jaunty tune! You're welcome. ]

(OOC: Kiosk requests will be handled by Conscienti unless otherwise requested! Today the inmates will be able to find material for building kites placed in open areas of the dome. The winds are strong enough to lift a kite, but not so strong that they're disruptive to every day activities. Have fun!

Mail submissions go here! Don't forget the ONGOING SIRENS PEARL EVENT!)

Scenario 1 [Can we build it?]

[Why the hell not? Gwen was a capable woman. There was no lack of drive or will in her. Nobody could perhaps call her well read but maybe that wasn't important, maybe that didn't really matter when you had started to get used to being stuck somewhere for a very, very long time.

Who said she couldn't build a damn aircraft in one day?

But as she is standing in front of the material itself, there is something in her that starts to think that drive and determination maybe isn't all it takes. Scratching her head Gwen makes a grimace.]

Maybe... Start with the wings? And what bits are that then?

Scenario 2 [Have a drink.]

[The crystal clear liquid swirls in its thick glass casing. The smell it gives of is very distinctive for anyone who has ever drunk it. Of course there is the underlaying aceton smell of alcohol, an absolute of any liquid that could make you stupid for a night or two or fifteen. But over it is something different, worse than the nailpolish-remover-stench of the alcohol. This smells like it could remove the paint from a car, with just the slightest touch of lemon.
Tequila demands to be remembered.

Gwen stares at the drink. Since it was poured in her glass it has not moved closer to her lips. A little plate of lemonwedges, and a pile of salt, stands in front of her, along with the three other shots that she asked for. There is no doubt she wants this. No doubt in all of her. The mist of grief in her head needs to be replaced, if just for one night, by something else. Something that isn’t the faces or voices of people not here.

The liquid remains untouched, and Gwen sighs, putting her forehead to the bars wooden surface in defeat.]