MarinaNova Asylum

[Plink, plink, plink.

Flashing lights. Beeps, clicks, spinning, clacking.

The sun isn't up, but it makes everything glitter all the more starkly. Find a table or a machine or a buffet and make yourself comfortable.

What happens in the Marina casino stays in the Marina casino.

Plink, plink, plink.]

(OOC: Casino Night information)

[April looks bored, because she always looks bored.]

If I don't get to see someone being hit in the face with a pie today, I'm going to be very disappointed in all of you.

(( ooc: EVENT INFO! Enjoy!

Hey. I want to talk about yesterday. [Without actually talking about his own experiences, because why make it personal, right?]

What did you see when you looked at yourself?

If we know more about what happened maybe we can figure out who made it happen and why.

[He'd spent a long time in the mirror this morning making sure what he'd seen—two all black, demon eyes—were really gone.]

And I wanted to make sure everyone is doing okay now. [Because he's been here awhile and maybe he's started to care about the people here as more than just people he needs to protect. There maybe be some specific people he doesn't call by name that he's thinking about too.]

[ The audio is a little fuzzy, Clay realizes, but that doesn't matter. He's not looking for quality, here, and he's not showing his face. The people who need to hear this message will know who he is soon enough. ]

So, Marina. It's a balmy sort of day. Cool, pleasant, nice. You know, besides being stuck a thousand leagues under the ocean. Makes everything distinctly less pleasant.

[ A long, long pause, before Clay laughs, manic and strung out. ]

What's your stance on revenge, Marina?

[ The feed starts long before anyone speaks, lingers in eerie silence broken by the clicks of a stubborn lighter, the dry crackle of tobacco being set alight, the hollow intake of smoke in dead lungs. The trembling exhale, functioning as an initial indicator to just how rough and ragged his voice is when he does speak. Strained, like he's been screaming himself raw or perhaps the measured and stilted words are a product of him trying to keep himself from doing just that. ]

Are you happy now? Is the world all bright, full of puppydogs and rainbows again? Messing with things you don't understand... makes you feel powerful, doesn't it? Like you're in control. Like you know something. Let me tell you a lit'le secret: you don't know shit. You've never been in control and you never will be. Always somethin' else, calling the shots... whether you realize it or not.

The real monsters aren't out there... but in here. [ Punctuated by the hollow knock of knuckles against breastbone and then he cuts the feed. ]

[ It's been a while since Piter's eerie gaze popped up on the network, but here he is once more in all his venomous glory — if only for a day. Glitched in, he has been spared the dreaded orange jumpsuit, appearing instead in a high-collared jacket emblazoned with Harkonnen insignia that, to his knowledge, he hasn't worn in more than a hundred days. ]

The last I recall, it was Day 270.

[ Ordinarily, Piter forgets nothing, but there is a wide blank chasm in his mind now where things that should be are simply not. Lost time. He is all too aware of the implications of it all, and his whiteless eyes crinkle at the corners in a humorless smile. This is not ideal in the least. Wetting his lips, he takes a moment to recover his bearings. His backdrop might be recognizable to some as Sector 2, somewhere between the education center and the library. ]

If the Wardens seek to put me down, I suggest they do so permanently. This is most wearisome. I am no toy to be tossed about. [ His cold voice is touched with incredulity, with frustration. This, all of it, is an unknown — Marina has become the most dreadful unknown: always strange, never enough data available, ever the unsolvable problem. ]

Ah, but this is still so very typical, is it not? [ He laughs brightly and abruptly, voice harsh with mockery. The chill in his voice still remains, but his particular jarring brand of levity is just as intact. ] I am hardly the only one faced with this predicament; neither am I the first. It's a well-documented phenomenon, and the odds are high that it will be rectified in under twenty-four hours. Nonetheless, I am willing to surmise that a large percentage of us, myself included, meet the criteria for having been quite bamboozled. How very, very droll.

[ After a brief pause, he heaves a sigh, reconciling himself at last to the idea that he is Back, even for just a little while. ] What have I missed? Only the most relevant details, if you please. Do not attempt to clutter my mind with immaterial data.

[ A punishment doesn't always have to be a terrible thing and Aidan is actually pretty excited about this potluck — not counting a small break for baseball, he's spent most of the day setting up and with a little help from his friends, the beach is looking pretty great. There are tables set up for the food, legs buried deep in the sand for stability and plenty of blankets and beach towels to hang out on. Candles are shoved down into the sand, ready to be lit as the sun sets and he's already got a good fire going in the fire pit, ready for barbeque.

With the waves lapping at the sand, the breeze in the palm trees and the slowly sinking sun, it really couldn't be a more perfect time for a casual party at the beach. Come one, come all, mingle away! ]

[ It is a sheepish looking Aidan that turns on the video feed this fine day. He diddly-done fucked up and now he has to do something he really enjoys to pay for it. His life is hard. The hardest. ]

Hey, uhm... so a while back I kinda got m'self in trouble, an' th' Wardens want me to throw a party or somethin' for y'all to make up for it. [ Such punishment. Very unfair. ]

I was thinkin' maybe a barbeque or a potluck or somethin' at th' beach? Everyone brings whatever they wanna drink an' maybe something else to eat like salad or if you want vegetarian. I can bring th' meat an' uh... I guess I could make some punch or lemonade or somethin'. [ Hmn. ] We can play games an' roast marshmallows. Stuff like that, nothin' fancy. Just... hang out, I guess.

Sounds good? Kinda thinkin' 'bout 278, so in two days time? Is that enough for everyone to prepare?

[ He didn't plan to return to civilisation quite so soon but not even Sector 6 is capable of hiding him from the pesky Sentinels. After a few rounds of electroshocks by taser, you're willing to do whatever it takes just to stop pissing yourself. So by early morning on Day 276, Spike slunk back into Marina proper, desperate to get this bollocks over and done with before anyone noticed him back.

The first part is easy. Cleaning public bathrooms is gross as hell but manual labor isn't exactly difficult and you'd be surprised how quickly you can get done with the time pressure of ordinary people waking up. Still, the chance of getting caught is a real one. Want the chance of humiliating him properly? Potentially get a mop in your face? Then now would be the time to use the public restrooms.

His next punishment is... surprisingly enough even more painful. Arts and crafts? Fucking really? Still, it gives him the opportunity to hide out in the art center for a while, writing inspirational messages on rocks and by inspirational I of course mean such motivational phrases as "wanker" and "your mum". To be on the safe side, he'll cover them in the herpes of the craft world — glitter — before dumping them around the dome in the provided baskets. Have fun with that one.

And then all remains is volunteer work, which isn't that bad when you got a murderbro that owns a bar. He's bartended before around here and hanging out at the Devil's Compass doing whatever isn't the worst way he could spend an evening. Only problem is the great risk of exposure, but he doubts the goody-two-shoes of prison would stick their nose in here for no good reason... ]


((ooc: Feel free to run into Spike while he's busying himself fulfilling some much belated punishments! Confrontations are a-okay, as long as they don't mess too badly with the ongoing resouling plot! Pearl shenanigans also welcome, if that's of interest! ))

Wait... what? What's going on?! Where is -- [On the video feed, a pale Garcia looks around frantically -- then has to pause, her eyes closing. Holy dizziness, Batman.]

Whoa. Okay, this is not fair, do you hear me? I'm not sure I can even hear right, I never expected it to be so loud, I mean sure I've heard gunfire up close before but that was really really loud... and now I'm back in the Land of Creepy Underwater Oz, apparently...

[Her eyes fly open, even more color draining from her skin which makes her bright makeup all the more prominent.] Reid?! Are you okay? Are you... here? Please tell me you can answer because I'm like, this close to losing it completely.

((OOC: spoilers for the Season 9 finale may ensue! If you want a spoiler-free thread, please let me know and I'll dance around it.))

[After exploring a bit on her own, Shallan has managed to procure a sketchbook and some charcoal pencils, as well as some colored pencils. She is sitting in Trois Park, next to the koi pond and sketching the different fish while recording her thoughts on the paper.]

This place really is vastly different than Roshar, Pattern. Just look at the fish, they have no fear that their little pond is going to be blown away or flooded by a highstorm.

[ Video ]

Hello! I'm not going to steal your attention for long — I just wanted to let everyone know that I'll be moving into Sector 3 today. In case anyone was planning any surprise visits.

Ianto, Jack... you've been really great neighbors. We need to keep having coffee and pie dates, okay? No excuses.


[ Action ]

[ Chuck will be making her way from Sector 4 to Sector 2, wearing... well. Not a whole lot. You can't surprise your boyfriend like this after you've moved in together after all. It'd be weird! Obvious warning for adult themes in the thread with Ton Phanan. ]

[ welcome to forensics: ]

[ He had selected one of the large lecture halls for this class: the distinct separation between the seating and the teaching space was ideal for what he had in mind. Anyone attending will immediately understand why.

Dexter's not standing there in that space where you'd expect to find him - instead, he's at the front of the seating, standing in the second row and leaning against the backs of the first row of seats. He's facing the rest of the seats, giving a 'friendly' nod to each individual as they enter. It's a bit harder to keep this up right now, just after the dream event, but the best form of dealing with it seems to be to dismiss things at dreams and keep up appearances. Everything is normal. Especially him.

Behind him, where you'd typically expect the teacher to be standing, is instead a staged crime scene. He waits for when it seems like everyone has settled in, and then he speaks with one of his carefully crafted cordial smiles. ]

Good afternoon. My name is Dexter Morgan and, where I'm from, I work in forensics for Miami Metro Police's homicide department. Specifically, my specialization is in blood spatter analysis. During the course of this class, I'll be covering the basics of forensic science and investigation processes and how identification, gathering, and scientific analysis of evidence is used to reconstruct the narrative of a crime scene. I thought I would get you all started with a basic assessment of your investigative instincts and a quick introduction to how observation and reasoning are applied in this process.

[ And he glances over his shoulder, gesturing at the 'scene.' ]

This is an extremely simple example of the type of scenes I deal with on a daily basis. I'm going to ask you all to go ahead and take a look at it, see what sticks out to you immediately, and - when you're satisfied with your initial investigation - let me know what you think happened here. It would probably be best if you came up and took a closer look for yourself.

[ And he goes quiet, picking up a box of rubber gloves that he had on the arm of the chair next to him. He moves to the end of the row, where there's room to walk down to the scene, and stands there with them. He smirks lightly as he lifts the box of them. ]

Do be careful not to contaminate my scene.


[ the scene: ]

There's a desk at the front of the room, which is slightly askew, a small amount of fake blood on the front corner of the side that's pushed further back. It's rather convincing stuff - Dexter's personal formula.

His rather convincing dummy victim lies lengthwise along the front of the desk, on their back. There's a sharp puncture wound on the dummy's temple, which has created what would be considered a small pooling around where the the head has landed, alongside the desk just past that corner. It's an extremely simple scene, yet something is most certainly off about it.

If your character would be inclined to look a bit more closely and have the skill or instinct to do so, there are a few additional details they might note.

Clues:

• The puncture wound on the dummy's head is set within a subtle round indentation, slightly larger, which has bruised around the edge. The blood and the puncture wound itself is partially obscuring this, so it will require close examination.
  
  
• There is a spatter of blood on the far wall, toward the bottom of the wall. Just above this is some very light streaking of blood. Neither of these are really noticeable unless you give the entire area a good look-over.
  
  
• You may also note, the dummy is on top of one of its arms, and its legs slightly bent at the knee. That's certainly an odd way to fall.
  
  
• If your character has the knowledge or intuition... that pool of blood by the head really is far too small.

[ i. the shipping container ]

[ The space is small, enclosed, and dark, but what might be the most prominent characteristic of all is the smell. It's overpowering, heavy with that telltale hint of copper that leaves it unmistakable to those familiar with it. Should you be one of those familiar, your suspicions would find themselves confirmed when you move. The resistance pulling at your steps is thanks to the viscous fluid thickly coating the floor - blood, congealing after being left undisturbed for days on the metallic surface.

There is no other trace remaining of the crime, not the killer nor the victim. It's simply an enclosed metal room coated in blood. Though nobody else is immediately visible, you may sense that you aren't entirely on your own. Someone is watching you, but whoever it may be is not apparent - not yet decided for your particular case. It could be a traumatized child, or it could be a predator waiting to strike. ]

[ ii. the sunshine state ]

[ This setting is certainly quite different. It's one of Miami's sunny beaches, teeming with tourists and locals alike, children playing in the water or on the beachfront playground as their families watch from their lounge chairs.

Dexter is here, and perhaps you find yourself near him, standing at the edge of the beach where sand meets grass, removed from the crowds and watching, more observer than participant himself. ]

The fact that Dexter went to the Wardens for something surprises him, a bit.  Brian's been avoiding them for the obvious reasons; they know everything, and he doesn't particularly want to talk about it.  The more he can fly under their radar, the better.  (Plus, there's the matter of names; he wouldn't much care, he has no attachment to being Rudy Cooper, except that Dexter is here and doesn't remember.  The last thing he needs is an announcement spoiling his games, curtailed as they are.)  He's been assuming his little brother would be avoiding them, too, if only because of that uncomfortable knowledge.  

Surprises have the potential to undermine his plans, which means now he's dying to know what Dexter asked for, what he's received, how this will change things.  It leaves him oddly anxious, which means he's brooding about their apartment more actively than usual, poking and prodding at things to kill time until Dexter gets back.  And trying to act casual about it.  

For once, he's not doing a great job.

[You know the phrase about waking up on the wrong side of the bed? Well, today you wake up exactly where you planned to, just not how you planned to. Taller, blonder, now with dangerous and unpredictable powers? So maybe the phrase about not feeling comfortable in your own skin applies more today. After all, it's not exactly your skin is it?]

(OOC: Use this mingle to run into people anywhere in the dome. Body swap info.)

( Nathan is out walking. Again. (Cut for mentions of murder and suicide and stuff.) )


[ooc: Run into a serial killer in the making?]

[ having had no desire to be locked into kissing whoever entered his classroom on day 255, toxicology was not held for a day— but now it's quite back in action, and with a particularly special topic. he's also considering incurring a ban on tribbles in the classroom, and any present will be thoroughly side-eyed. ]

I have made a point to familiarize you with foundational toxicology "classics"— hemlock and arsenic, thus far, and I assure you that strychnine and nightshade and their many fellows will be given their opportunity in due time. Today, however, I shall address a man-made toxin.
( ❝The absence of a thing: this can be as deadly as the presence. The absence of air, eh? The absence of water? The absence of anything else we're addicted to.❞ )

Today, there are no fruits or flowers or artful arrangements of oddly-shaped bottles to render in ink or paint or chalks. Today, there is a box. It’s not a very exciting box, in and of itself; just a small, locked metal box, the sort people use as cash boxes. Nothing fancy. The only reason it’s remarkable is that it’s sitting on a pedestal in the center of the room, well-lit and mysterious, in lieu of something more interesting to draw.

Sitting near it is a flyer (and more are piled on a desk by the door) with today’s assignment.

DRAW WHAT IS IN THE BOX. You may: look at the box; pick it up; turn it over; shake it and listen; smell the box (though I don’t know why you’d want to); use your imagination You may not: open the box; "accidentally" open the box; drop the box on the floor in the hopes that it will "accidentally" break; lick the box (because other people need to touch it too.) X-Ray Vision, astral projection, extrasensory perception, etc, are CHEATING!


Rudy Cooper is already perched by a wall, doodling in a large spiral-bound sketchbook, since obviously he can’t imagine what’s in the box when he put it there. When people get started he’ll wander around to check in on their progress, and make sure no one’s obviously violating the rules of the exercise.

Should you choose to shake the box, you’ll find it rattles a bit as though there’s one reasonably large object in it, longer than it is wide, not very heavy and poorly balanced, as though it’s an irregular shape. Sometimes it hits the wall of the box with a soft thud, more often a lighter clatter.

Should you smell it, it will smell like a metal box.

Seriously. What were you expecting?

|[ooc; feel free to mingle about!]|