Log:The Survivors Arrive at the Facility

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The Survivors Arrive at the Facility
Characters  •   The Visionary  •  The Perfectionist  •  The Loner  •  The Confidant  •  The Hunter  •  The Survivor  •  The Beast  •  The Capitalist  •  The Healer  •  The Judge  •  The Heretic  •  The Avant-Garde  •  The Creepshow  •
Location  •  The Facility Parlor
Date  •  2018-08-01
Summary  •  Many new Archetypes appear in the Facility, those of the survivors, thus stirring up confusion on whether they are all dead or alive or what.

There's a brief glimmer of relief on the Visionary's face as she sees the Penitent emerge, as though expecting she might have a comrade-in-arms in explaining their predicament. That hope is short-lived, and the look of despair that dawns on her face is downright comical as she watches the woman make her way down to her standard position in the common room. "Yes! Yes, there are a lot more people!" she calls down the hall in desperation.

But then, there's really only one word she focuses on at all: 'saved'. She sucks in a quick breath, and her features brighten like the sun's just come up all over her. The part about those still missing isn't processing yet, likely for a reason. All of a sudden, she doesn't seem to care much if that chair leg is going to come sailing toward her head. She literally spins off down the hallway, leaping like an utter madwoman. Sure, they're all collectively fucked in this no man's land, but the newest arrivals haven't come bearing the horrible recollections of a painful demise. "Did you hear that? They were saved!"

The Perfectionist laughs. It's the first time she's laughed since arriving. The books don't matter. Why did she ever think the books mattered? Or the wet towels or the abandoned coffee cups or Maata's lack of pants? She beams and rushes over to the leaping Visionary, reaching to take the other woman's hands and spin with her. "We did it!" Okay, some of them got exploded or something, but it was a TEAM EFFORT. Go team!

The Loner stops in his tracks, looking right at not-Dahlia, raising a brow. "I'm not feeling very saved." He shoves his hands in the pocket on the front of his hoodie and makes his way over to one of the couches. He seems calm, but those good at reading body language can probably tell he's just holding it together. Someone who has too much to worry about right now to panic. "Feels wrong waking up with the dead if I'm supposed to be alive." He finds an empty couch and sits on it cross-legged.

The Confidant starts to smile, nodding. "Yeah. Saved." He looks to the Healer when she calls that name. "Chance? Chance. Chance! Yeah, that's me!" Beat. "Or...was?" He shakes his head. "I don't know. It's a good name." He pauses and looks confused again. He looks around from face to face. You can tell who he remembers from the way his eyes widen. When they fall to the Healer again, he smiles. "Vee. No, uh...Veronique." The name flows easily from his lips. Stark contrast there. "I'm going to put on a shirt..." He turns and heads back towards his room.

Another door opens. This one has a female archer upon it, wielding a bow and arrow and crouching within brush. From behind that door is first a woman that looks very much like Maata. She is not, however, dressed like Maata. She's wearing black BDUs and an olive green top. A few steps behind the Hunter is a man who looks like Conrad, dressed in a suit. The suit may, however, be just a bit rumpled. Both look rather healthy and hale and not at all exploded. The woman's eyes track the hall and down towards the parlor. "That's a lot of new people," she says to the Capitalist, just over her shoulder. "Do you think something happened?" It's clear she hasn't picked up on the news just yet. But anyone close to the room might pick up something notable in that first sentence: a clear lack of an islander accent. She sounds American. Midwestern, even.

The Survivor is going to be a font of good news. "No," she says after a few moments. "They weren't saved. The island was destroyed on it. The natives? All died. Do you feel good about that?" It is almost an abstract question. There is little emotion in it. Maybe some curiosity. Maybe some latent anger, but with no target, no outlet to lash at, it doesn't burn for very long. The laughter washes over her and she can but shake her head. Can turn and begin making her way back toward the hallway. Back toward her door, the grip on her busted table leg tightened again. About halfway back she spots the Hunter and stops. And stares, that line appearing on her brow again, but she doesn't speak any further, only turns sharply and pushes into one of the rooms. Maybe it's hers?

The former Dahlia grabs the former diva's hands immediately, and literally leaps with glee. "We didn't die for no reason whatsoever and that is totally awesome!" comes tumbling out of her mouth so fast it all sounds like a single word. It's so sincere, too! "We may all be completely trapped here, wherever the hell here is, but we did something right back there, at least!" She's positively giddy; this is the best news they could have hoped for.

This is the best news they could have hoped for. That, in itself, suggests just how bad the actual bad news really is.

She's still flushed and wide-eyed, even if the Loner's remark stops her dead, mid-spin. Breathing quickly, wispy curls fluttering in every direction, she insists, "Oh, we're absolutely trapped here. There is no apparent way out. There is precious little logic in this place at all, though there's food, smokes, liquor, reading material, and a piano. No windows, means of telling time-" She seems to be rattling off a well-practiced list. "-no communication with the outside, and we all fall asleep around the same time, wherever we are, and wake up in our rooms. And anything we moved around out here, or broke, or set on fire like some people just had to try early on, is back to just the way it was."

"There's a lot of bad news," she insists, "and nothing makes much, if any sense. But I got blown to tiny little pieces by a shady tinpot dictator, and some of the lovely people here signed up to die in hope of saving everyone else, which I cannot imagine was a terribly pleasant experience, either. So," she huffs, "if you don't mind, I think we deserve a moment to appreciate the fact that we didn't endure horrible pain and death for absolutely nothing."

Elena's news stops her completely cold. Those who have been here for more than one wakeup will perhaps realize just how out of character her next words are. "I'll be in my room," she says quietly, before turning to walk back in that direction.

The Beast remains by the hallway, standing near the lounge and watching people as they move about. The familiar faces, he lingers on for a longer time than those he didn't spend much time with on the island. His gaze shifts from The Survivor over to The Perfectionist and the former Valerity catches his attention for a bit as she jumps up and down, a good sight more alive than the last time he had seen her, or part of him had seen her, a version of him? He still wasn't sure what to think about that, and this, and the way that he felt about it all. His gaze shifts over toward The Loner then, not even recognizing him for a moment with his face obscured and looking younger. But then, he'd known "Andrew" for most of his life, what he remembered as his life. Reaching up with one hand, he rubs a bit at the back of his neck absently, but The Visionary catches his attention with her announcements about their surroundings, and his expression only darkens further.

The Perfectionist goes pale. Paler than she was. She drops The Visionary's hand. "Wait!" But The Survivor is gone. She looks wildly about. "No. No. Someone said..." Another look around. WHO SAID IT? "Someone said they were saved..."

He could easily make out the voices of several people from within the Hunter's room, but what the Capitalist does see surprises him. This many of them? Yes, he is still dressed in a dress shirt, tie and slacks. All he is missing is a suit jacket. And yes, that buttoned down shirt looks a little wrinkled and his tie a bit askew, but he's working on fixing that right now, being the natural thing for him to do.

His features hold this look of bewilderment, dark eyes looking at all of the new, no, familiar faces. Or at least some of them are. Some of the celebration going on does capture his attention and to this news he blinks, "What's going on here? Did everyone..." He doesn't want to be the one to break the news to the new arrivals, but they were all dead, as far as he knew. His chin lifts to seek out Dahlia in the distance, as hers is the voice he hears most of all over the chaos.

The Healer nods her head and then says as Chance aka Confidant leaves, "Veronique?" It sounds strange coming from her mouth. "Veronique... Ve?" She listens for a moment and then stands from the couch to move to her door down the hall... "I... I need to ... take a ..."and then she stops, before saying, "Andrea ... is gone? And ... The rest are dead?" she looks flustered and then moves over to the baby grand piano and looks down at the keys. for a moment, opening the lid and putting a hand to the keys in the precise finger order it would take to play a piano. She moves her fingers over the keys for a moment in a scale, before her lip trembles and she blinks. Slamming the lid, she walks over to the dining room, past the door and to that dispensery, trying not to just cry. She doesn't know why the news of dead people effects her so much, unless one was her friend and the other... The other... her assistant. Before she can make a fool of herself, and damn it she can play that piano... she moves out into the dining room and to the dispensor. But how the fuck does she know how to play?

Another of the previously vacant doors opens, the frame filled by a brick of a man who took the few minutes needed to dress in a green polo shirt, belted jeans, and short leather ankle boots. Brown eyes are narrowed in scrutiny of those filing the hallway and for a long moment, the blunt man says nothing.

"Nope, they dropped the bomb." The Loner doesn't say it to be cruel, he doesn't even particularly sound like he enjoys relaying the information. He just says it. "Some of us were taken off the island and sent home, those left behind?" He shakes his head. His accent is still decidedly Scottish, though a bit smoother and relaxed than it was on the island. His eyes catch Connor's face, and a small smile spreads across his expression, quickly hidden. At least there is someone here he trusts. But does he? Andrew did? But is this the same man? The thoughts run through his head as he looks over towards the bookcase. "I was on a plane home, fell asleep, and..." He motions to the room around them.

The Visionary does, indeed, catch the Capitalist's eyes, but she says nothing at all. She shakes her head, pausing briefly at her door. She's careful to open it only so much as to let herself slip inside, and not allow more than the barest crack of it to be visible to the others gathered in the hall.

"Don't slam the God damned piano!" The Perfectionist shouts after The Healer. "What is the problem with you peop -- "

The bomb. The Perfectionist looks like she's going to be sick. She leaps over the back of the couch, breathing hard and fast, nostrils flaring. "Who was left behind?" she asks The Loner. "Who?"

"I was on a plane on the way home as well, when I woke up here," Connor says. Glancing over at The Loner, there's a bit of a nod. It was the same plane, after all. They'd been headed back to the same place. He is exactly the same as he was on the island. He looks the same. His accent is still British. The only thing about him that looks different is his clothing. He then turns toward The Perfectionist and says, "The lost tribe in the ruins. They retreated back to the ruins after the skeletons dissolved. And the Americans nuked the island after we were taken off of it. So unless they had a bomb shelter down under those ruins.." He trails off.

The Healer doesn't stop when she's cursed at. It's almost as if she's not used to getting so much news, or perhaps it's because the world has shattered just a little. From the way she walks, she looks chastized, her head down, but if she wasn't in a panic perhaps she wouldn't have slammed the piano. Now, though, the woman walks with her eyes watering and face contorted as if not to cry where people could see it. For some reason, she holds back her tears. She rubs the side of her face and moves into the dining room, biting down on her lip to keep the overwhelmed tears at bay for now.

Reaching behind her, the Hunter searches for the Capitalist's hand until she finds it (likely once he's done fixing his tie). She weaves fingers through his and grabs hold. "They got out," she says quietly, processing everything she hears, "but they didn't stop the bomb." The words are mostly to herself, but still audible enough. She counts heads, processes faces. Tries to figure out who she knew that's still missing. There's nothing as happy to her as some of those who seem pleased with their survival. She just leans back into the man behind her. "Still so many gone," she says in a quiet voice. "They must be... sorting us somehow, Conrad."

There's a quiet laugh from the woman formerly known as Maata. "Or it's some cruel joke, the way they arrange us. Then there's that large form in one of the doors and she's turning towards Tommy: "You made it! What about Ngaire? Tipene?"

The Loner shifts back on the couch as there's suddenly a woman screaming in his face. Someone's in his personal space bubble and he's not appreciating that at the moment judging by his expression. Though thankfully Connor-not-Connor answers the question, and he just jerks his thumb in his direction, seconding what he says out loud. He inches over a bit, putting some more distance between himself and the Perfectionist.

When the Loner speaks, the Capitalist recognizes him immediately as the lead singer from that one band they hired. "McInverness." He then turns to the one he recognizes as Andrew's bodyguard when he adds more to the story. "Wait. So all of you escaped? You were all rescued, is that what you're telling us?" That makes no sense to him though, because they all ended up here. Still, at first he is relieved by this news, even if it leaves him confused.

The Hunter's closeness does bring him comfort, his own hand squeezing hers once their fingers are laced together. "Sorting us out how...? No, something's not right." The Capitalist decides to explain, "Akala had a man on the island. Someone who was supposed to have ensured that there was no survivors. Could they have done something during your escape?"

The Beast nods to The Capitalist and says, "Yes, we were all lined up on the beach, put through decontamination, then into quarantine on a U.S. Military ship, and then we were eventually flown back to Hawaii and then on to planes to our final destinations, at least for those of us who weren't native to the islands or Hawaii. Andrew and I were headed back to the U.K. when we ended up back here." He keeps looking at those who died though and says, "But you.. you should be.. how is it that you are here, and .." he looks over at Valerity.

The Judge stays in the doorway, taking in each speaker with a studious frown in turn. A slightly longer look at the harried, wild-haired girl (Perfectionist). When the appearance of Maata speaks to him, he regards her for a long, silent moment, then nods. When he speaks, his deep voice is slow and deliberate. A subtle accent, but sounding much like if Tommy had received a better education. "Both went home. Together. Along with three hundred and nine others." His eyes tick more narrow, considering Conrad's words. "I was returning to the main island, with Hiwa." A slow shake of his head. "Different flight, different direction."

"It's been well over two weeks since we were even on the island." The artist formerly known as Andrew McInverness adds to his former bodyguard's spiel." The Loner looks at the man his brain wants to call Wellson. He blinks a few times and shakes his head trying to clear it. His eyes dart between not-Conrad and not-Maata. "Everything seemed..." He doesn't finish that sentence. "My guitar is in my room. I left that on the island."

The Perfectionist gives The Loner his space. In fact, she sits back in a boneless heap, pulling a hand over her face. She looks... relieved. Perhaps a little ashamed, but overwhelmingly relieved. "I'll see Nae again," she says. Her accent, in turn, has taken a huge-ass nosedive into the backwoods of Hillbilly Country. (Ah'll say Nay agin.) Deeeep breath. "An' Gregory." Her head lolls to the side, frowning at Connor. "I'm pretty sure you were there when I got bled out like a hog. Weren't you?"

When she's calmed down sufficiently, The Healer moves back into the living room and is holding a glass in her hand. It looks like wine is in that cup, but who is watching? Moving over, the woman sits herself down at the Piano and carefully opens the lid. She taps on the keys for a moment with her fingers before taking a small breath. No, she doesn't slam it open this time. Taking a sip of wine, she sets it aside on a napkin she got from the dining room and begins to play. It seems to calm her, for she just plays a soft melody on the piano and her eyes begin to stare over the notes as she plays a randition of something... The song is unfamiliar, but it's like muscle memory. She knows how to do it yet she doesn't even know what song it is. Probably in her imagination somewhere. She tries to not disturb anyone with her playing, playing as soft as possible, though honestly you can't play very soft with an instrument, so she does her best with what she has. Apparently, music calms her down and she continues to play. Until told to stop, that is. She'll play for a little while, at least.

The Capitalist can't help himself now, some of this discussion has given him some form of hope about his own situation. "If they left the island... maybe that means that we aren't dead either." He turns to look at Maata, this false sense of relief on his face. "I don't know how." But then Valerity speaks up, reminding the room that there were some here who witnessed her death, his eyes now turning to Connor for confirmation of this.

The fact that everyone was on separate flights certainly makes no sense in regards to what he knows of Akala's plans, but he does decide to say, "Do the authorities know about David Akala? That he not only trapped us on that island but lured us there to begin with. It was his plan all along to have us sacrificed." Some of which he says is something only he and those at the security trailer know, but it bleeds in with what he had already informed the attendees about. Despite having died, he does have one track mind when it comes to vengeance.

"My knife is with me," the Hunter says to the Loner. "the one I gave Conrad." She hesitates, looking around. Seeking out one of the medical crew, perhaps. "I don't know if he had it with him when we were put on the helicopter. But when I woke up here... it was on the nightstand." She leans back into the man behind her when he speaks of them not being dead again. She's spoken on that too much. They all have. She just swallows. Again, still, her accent: it has not a bit of the island at all. It's solidly American. Midwestern, but even-keeled. There's a solidness to her, throughout her. She has an awareness of her surroundings that seems more refined than she had on the island. It's a twitch reflex, almost.

This woman has a militaristic training that Kahloa lacked. But she also has something else. It's not a fear, not quite. It's that creeping thing that leaves you watching over your shoulder in the middle of the night. Like someone who has seen and done too much. Trained too long, too hard. "Two weeks," she says to McInverness. "We haven't even been in here for a week. The time doesn't work. It's been..." she looks over her shoulder to the Capitalist, searching his face. "Three days? since we died?"

Wait. No. The Perfectionist shakes her head. "Dammit," she whispers. "This is all... backward. I got it backward. I won't see them." That's... bittersweet, it seems. "They lived." She nods, then chuckles painfully. "Not 'cause of anything I did..." She pushes her inner diva aside, for a moment. Other people died. For nothing. Other people bled out like hogs, too. "Well..."

Her eyes snap to The Capitalist. "What the fuck d'you mean, Wells?" Ah, she's comin' on back, backwoods accent or not. "What d'you mean, his plan?"

The Judge states in his methodical manner to 'Conrad', "The Americans caught Akala in Fiji. He ran. Didn't make it." Maata is answered in turn, "Time... is only one thing here that makes no sense. Not yet, anyway." Turning a look down the length of the corridor, he rumbles, "How many are here?"

The music stops after a pause, because she hears familiar words. The Healer looks over to Maata and murmurs, "I saw you die. My ... Nurse friend was with you. She died also." Her voice is still american, yet she still plays that piano. She is speaking crisply, perhaps a bit stiffly, though it is kindly and not panicked like she was before. "I got blown in the grass. I lost my hearing for a spell." She moves her lips for a moment, as if testing that they still work. Another sip of wine is taken, set down on that napkin, fingers still moving like she's played for years. "I was upset that you died, when we had tried to save you so much, but ... We didn't know."

Though he was accepting of the fact that he had died in some explosion or other, there were people here who were not dead! And then the Healer rains on his parade and whatever hope that he had diminishes immediately. The Capitalist's feature grow more solemn now, hearing everone's voices at once again. "Three days sounds about right." He says in response to the Hunter. "So I am surprised that a couple of weeks had passed since then." For a moment, his gaze looks to Dahlia's room, expecting the woman to return out here at some point as she tends to do. Nothing.

He doesn't even look at Valerity when he responds to her now. "During our conversation with Akala in the security trailer that night, he confessed that he knew of the existence of the lost tribe." And only then do his eyes flicker in the Perfectionist's direction, "They were going to sacrifice him as a swearbreaker, but he promised them that he would bring... well, us, pale people to be sacrificed instead. So when we were looking for an island to hold the festival on, as much as I wanted that one in particular, he was eager to give it to us. Paying back some debt."

The piano music is somewhat calming and he appreciates that fact. However, once Tommy speaks up and informs them of what happened to Akala, all he can do is blink. "He was caught? That piece of shit... He /was/ arrested." Whatever confusion, annoyance and concerns that had come over him throughout all of this, they simply washed away in that one moment. Maata can feel a squeeze to her hand now. "So the weasel was caught and there were survivors." There is some cheer heard in his voice.

The Beast nods in confirmation that he witnessed The Perfectionist's death, "I was there." He listens for a while longer to those around him as they talk, but after a while, he seems like he has had enough for one bout after just waking up, and he begins to pull away from the wall and turn back down the hall toward the rooms that they had come out of. He shakes his head just a little bit as he goes, clearly still processing all of it.

"I feel like an emotional milkshake," says The Perfectionist, sinking back down again. "Well. Admiral Upchuck didn' get his way, all the way. Only six of us. An' it made all the skellies dust. Wind. Dude."

A door opens slowly, The Heretic's green eyes blinking against the light as if sampling it for the first time before it widens and a man emerges. Stopping after a moment, he turns and closes the door behind him, quietly, dutifully then starts to walk down the hall towards the sound of voices. The confusion is present on his features, the steps measured however as -he who shall not be named- arrives with a calm disposition laced over with confusion etched brow.

The Healer speaks little after that, moving into a randition of a classical song that probably means very little to anyone, yet her fingers know it and she plays it like anything else she has done with music, like she knows it like the back of her hand. She sips wine occasionally, but otherwise plays.

The Hunter is quiet as she processes. It's a lot to roll over and take in. She finally extracts her hand from the Capitalist's. "Two weeks," she says again before letting out a sudden breath. "Fuck." She turns and places a hand to his chest, patting once. "I need to eat. You want anything?" There's no immediate path or plans for destruction today, it'd seem. Not since the morning and not the afternoon, either. Anyone glancing past 'Conrad' to the room they emerged from will see, well, practically a prepper's paradise. Tons of survival gear. Weapons galore. But right now it's just scattered all over the place. Once she has his answer (or denial), the woman will turn and start her way past the parlor proper and towards the dining area, pulling the pack of cigarettes she has taken to carrying from her pocket to light one.

Another thing Maata never did that the Hunter appears to: smoke.

The Perfectionist leans her head against her hand and closes her eyes. "Ash onna floor an' I'ma kill you in your sleep," she says to the smoker.

The Judge nods slowly, eyes narrowing at Conrad's hint of cheer. "True. A civilization also died along with hundreds of people, but yes: a man who betrayed you was arrested." He doesn't doesn't sound like he considers it a happy ending. To no one in particular, he repeats deliberately, "How many others are here? Are there any we don't already know?"

The Healer drinks quietly, then as she slows down on her playing, a small smile graces her features and she finally stops playing to briefly rest her head on her hand. Wineglass in hand, she picks up the napkin and holds it beneath the glass. Quietly, she closes the piano and stands from the piano binch to quietly push it beneath the instrument. She walks barefoot to the edge of the parlor, before walking out into the hall and briefly to the dispensor to recycle her glass. Coming back, she moves toward her room, opening the door a crack and peeking inside, before opening it fully. A glimpse of an emmaculately kept room with a painting of an abstract landscape is seen, before she closes the door and is inside.

Tommy just made the Capitalist's day, so whatever else that is said about some natives dying, it doesn't concern him overly much at this very moment. That doesn't mean he isn't overly sympathetic, as he asks, "Why though? The ritual went as planned right? The monsters disappeared? So why was the island nuked?" When the Hunter withdraws from him, he turns to watch her as she departs. "No need. I'm good." In fact, he sounds great! To answer the Judge's questions though, he tries to remember. "Madison was here first, from what I'm told, along with the hacker and Dahlia. Then Maata and I appeared in our rooms together." The next person has him furrowing his brow now, "Followed by someone who I have never seen before in my life. There were a ton of people at the festival, so I won't pretend that I knew everyone, even if most of who have shown up since are people who I've encountered before. Though, I heard that the emo kids were also killed after the explosions. While this one doesn't look like a kid." Here he shrugs. "A group of them then appeared together, Professor Drake, Cross, Valerity." He looks to the Diva when he says this, "That strange woman who is obsessed with pissing people off. And maybe even death. Blue." A pause, "They said that there was another. Valeh's friend? But he has not shown up here."

"No Rosa." The Loner doesn't sound disappointed that his bandmate never showed up according to Conrad, just curious. He let's out a deep sigh, reaching up to push back his hood. "But everyone in this group.." He presses a hand to his chest indicating himself. "Were safe and off the island. So unless we all up and died at once...." He shrugs and slowly gets to his feet. He disappears through the door to the dining area, muttering under his breath.

The Perfectionist points at The Capitalist when he asks about the bomb. "That's the billion dollar question, ain't it?" She shrugs. "I don't reckon you count shit in millions or less." A sigh and she tips her head back against the couch. "Thank you for recycling!" she calls after The Healer. "An' usin' a coaster!" Because seriously, these people are fucking savages. "The necrographer's named Esme. She was one of the first t'volunteer. Along with the professor. I thought I was first, but they got the jump on me. Damn divas."

The Judge hears out Conrad's summary, drawing a slow breath as he frowns in thought. "That's five. Wilson?" he prompts, evenly of the Capitalist, before looking to the Perfectionist, and doing a brief double take. "Did Scott Wilson arrive with you?" As for the bomb, he exhales tersely, in a bullish snort that is extremely reminiscent of a recently surly Samoan. "To deny a potentially uncontrollable biological weapon from being exploited by rival states. A tactical warhead, to minimize fallout."

Either the Hunter doesn't hear the plea to not ash on the floor or she blatantly ignores it because she does exactly that before stepping through into the dining room. What remains of her, for the moment, is the curl of exhaled smoke behind her in the archway. The woman has left the room. For now. It's time to get something to eat. Or maybe drink. It could be a good time for some liquor.

The Perfectionist sits up sharply. "What'n the fuck -- but we dusted the... biological... whatnots! We died to dust the... What'n the fuck?" She hasn't been this pleased since she got whole milk in her soy latte, once. Once. She flips her middle finger at The Hunter as the smoking woman passes. "Bitch." THIS IS WHY THEY CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS.

The Avant-Garde steps into the parlor, his expression... happy. He's a roller coaster of emotion. But in his hand is.. an iPhone, and since he's tapping on its screen, its _working_. He's dressed in practically skin-tight khaki's and a half buttoned up short sleeve silk blue shirt with abstract designs made of whites and darker blues.

The Loner returns after a moment carrying a cup of some steaming beverage. Tea or maybe coffee. He looks around at the group still assembled in the room. "Well, as enthralling it is to hear a bunch of not dead people go on about the reason they died." There's maybe a hint of sarcastic lip in his tone. This is why he doesn't have any friends, well, not many. "I'm going to go back to my room and contemplate why I've suddenly ended up in hell." Gruff and crass Andrew this is not, but he certainly still has some of the same attitude. "Trapped here with a bunch of.." His muttering cuts off as he turns to walk back towards the rooms.

The Heretic continues walking forward, glancing around in the area. For long moments he's quiet before he clears his throat and lifts a hand, glancing down almost in surprise at the golden wrapped chain with the cross at the end of it coiled around his wrist. "Can... anyone tell me just what is going on here?" When he speaks, his own voice catches him offguard. Soft and gentle, sympathetic in tone.

When the Judge gives him a name, the Capitalist shakes his head slowly, though now that he's been told, he knows Scott Wilson III. "Strangely, he has not shown up here yet. And, Professor Drake," He clears his throat when he says this, "He looks several years younger than I remember. So there is that. A lot of things happen here that cannot be explained, but with your arrival." He gestures to Tommy and wherever Andrew went off to. "You were not the faces that I had expected to see here. Not if you were rescued. That crosses off this idea that we're dead or in hell, limbo. Whatever people want to call it. No, this is different."

He ignores much of the background noise and that includes Valerity's harping over ashes. And when the Loner seemingly checks out of the conversation, the Capitalist considers everything said, when he asks, "Do you know if Leo Wellington made it out?" This he asks of Tommy, before he shakes his head, "I figure it would be difficult to keep track of everyone." No inquiries are made of his PA.

That's when the Heretic steps in and though the Capitalist doesn't immediately recognize the man, there is some familiarity to him. That face is so familiar, but not without his shades on. "I'm afraid we're trying to figure that out as well. Were you an attendee of the festival?" As he asks this question, his eyes narrow, to better study the man.

"Conrad--" 'Cameron' looks over to the Capitalist, "The island was _real_ and this is _real_. I have _proof_." He holds up his iPhone and offers it to the man, and on it? Is a video of a shirtless Cam and Chase doing cartwheels on the beach of the island. The Avant-Garde shakes his head slowly, bemusedly, "Found this in my desk drawer, hadn't looked before. This is my iPhone. These are the videos and pictures I took of my Chase while on the island."

"Yeah, we'll miss you an awful lot, honey bunches of oats," The Perfectionist waves farewell to The Loner. She rolls her eyes, then tips her head back to view The Heretic upside down. "If you don't know if this is Heaven or Hell, padre, we sure ain't got a fuckin' clue." Her eyes close. "An' if I never gotta see a collar again, it'll be too soon. But you look like a papist, so I guess that's all right."

When the Hunter returns, it's with a plate full of eggs, bacon, and toast, as well as a fresh mug of coffee. She either finished her cigarette while she was gone or put it out. Rather than eat in the other room, she takes up a spot on the sofa nearest a corner of table the meal can be set down on and starts to tuck in. "I still think it's some sort of limbo," she says as she starts piling eggs and bacon onto a piece of bread. When the Capitalist speaks to the new arrival, she looks over. "A priest, at a festival? Doubt it." Then a pause, fork and makeshift sandwich in hand. "...unless he's here to judge us before we're sent on to our respective afterlife."

The Judge slowly turns his eye back to the Perfectionist. "And that sacrifice saved three hundred and eleven lives. The American military feared the ability of the Lost Tribe to control the dead. As was proven in the ritual dismissing them." Andrew passing through and griping gets a dry sniff of deadpan humor. Finally stepping fully out of his door, and drawing the portal shut behind him, he again looks the length of the hall, inquuisitively. He notes the Heretic and his question, drawing a slow breath, before deciding aloud. "...no."

"Liar. No you won't." The Loner says over his shoulder looking back at the ex-diva. He brushes by both Cameron and Victor on his way back down the hallway, peering at the different doors. He comes to a stop in front of his, now finally seeing the wood-grain pattern on the door. He frowns at it, as if whatever image he sees on it bothers or displeases him. Then he opens the door and disappears inside, shutting it softly behind him.

The Perfectionist turns and drapes an arm over the back of the couch, frowning at Tommy. "Doesn't seem to me like our 'sacrifice' save any amount'a lives. If dismissin' the skellies is what convinced the God-fuckin'-Blessed-U.S.A that they could be controlled, in the first place." She pushes a hand back through the mess of her hair. "My head hurts. I should shelve the books, mebbe. Or figure where Miss Ain't-Been-Housebroke over here put out her cigarette."

"People?!" 'Cameron' looks around at everyone in frustration, "Look at marvelous piece of technology I hold in my hands which I have, in here, with video and photographic documentation of our time on the island. Well, Chase and my time. I'm seeing some new people. Has anyone seen Chase? Tallish, slender young guy? Handsome?" He points at the iPhone, "Him?! But anyways look this means this place is _real_, its a place. And the island wasn't some dream or I don't know, simulation. It was real too."

"Yeah, bebe, we see you got an iPhone. Steve Jobs just jizzed in his grave. I saw that boy -- " she points at the picture, " -- struttin' around without his shirt and makin' moony eyes at the sniffly girl who slammed the piano. Oh, and put her wine glass away and used a coaster, so I guess she's ahead of the game. An' havin' a picture of the island don't prove squat. Just means you have a picture. Could have all been faked, like the moon landing."

Around a mouthful of food, the Hunter counters to the Perfectionist: "I can put the next one out in your eye if you'd like. Got a theory I wanna test."

When he iPhone is waved in front of his face, the Capitalist decides to take a look. Not that he has a choice as the images are shown to him. The island looked lovely in those pictures, as did Cameron and Chase, he supposes. It looked very fun in the sun and right now and ever since his arrival to this place, it has been something he had longed to return to. "I didn't doubt that the island was real. I mean, that's the one memory that's most vivid in my mind."

Now, he wished he had taken more pictures, but selfies weren't really his thing. "So two people are here with phones. Phones that don't work, but are there to remind us of our time on the island. My memento is my watch." And this he shows to the gruop because he's wearing right now. "It stopped telling time, but it is a reminder, for me, of when I constantly used to check it to see how many more hours of daylight we had before the inevitable."

"No I mean have you seen him /here/." The Avant-Garde gives the Perfectionist an exasperated thing, "I'm telling you this is *my* iPhone and this has all the videoes and pictures *I* took of Chase while we were on the island. Also, the mooney eyes are fake, he's as gay as me. We weren't out for professional reasons. Which is kinda bullshit, I don't think I really /like/ Cameron Cross, who is the one of the two who insisted on it." He looks at 'Maata', hesitates, "We've already discovered if you kill yourself you come back the next day fine. I assume damage to self is like..." He points to the wall he mutilated the day before. He glances at Conrad, frowning, "Its the fact that my phone with all the stuff I took of Chase is _here_ that I find significant." He hesitates, "Because he's _not_ here."

"Bitch, I got a theory I can pull out your weave and feed it to you," says The Perfectionist. Who apparently doesn't have perfect control of her temper.

Waving her fork at 'Cameron,' the Hunter shakes her head. She finishes chewing and washes it down with a mouthful of coffee. "No, no, not death. Suffering. My theory is that this place doesn't allow suffering. Limited pain, yes. But I don't believe we can actually truly suffer here." She leans back, meal finished, to nurse her coffee. The woman takes up a lounging position, glancing over to the Perfectionist. There's a sort of grin, but it has a bit too much teeth to actually be anything but... well, feral. "I'd really like to see you try."

When Cameron explains himself, The Capitalist comes to some sort of understanding. "My condolences then. Though, if I will be honest, wherever this Chase might be is probably better than this place." He's been holding a mostly empty cup of coffee in this hand this whole time, so he makes his way over to the tables to set it down before both of his hands retreat into pants pockets. "A lot of us are missing our friends, loved ones, employees. I have no good answer for you about where they may be. Though I wish I did, because it might help clear everything up." A look is given to both the Perfectionist and the Hunter when he hears their little bickering, but he doesn't seem inclined to make them stop.

"I did think 'purgatory' before I found my phone." admits 'Cameron' to 'Maata', "This is clearly not hell, there's no punishment here. We even have mildly diverting entertainment-- but nothing REALLY fun, so its not heaven either. You know something I noticed this morning? The bookcase, hey, its impressive size-wise. But its not _that_ impressive. But every book I look for I find. Every one. The food is good, we get mai tai's, but no pot. I tried pot, ectsasy too. I don't know if 'doesnt allow suffering' is the thing or if its, neither rewards nor punishes more then a very little bit." He looks to 'Conrad', hesitates, "I volunteered so he'd live, and if he's still alive... but... augh, there's all kinds of weird metaphyiscal questions at this point and I don't read enough sci-fi."

The Perfectionist stands. "Good. I'd like to see me try, too," she says to The Hunter. "This place's got me all stressed out. Since there ain't nobody I wanna fuck and I don't think I need to eat, might as well throw down some healthy violence." She doesn't look at Cameron, but smiles as she says, "I think it's about to get a lot more entertainin'."

Enter the Survivor, stage left. She wasn't there before but now she is, damnably silent in strange, soft-soled boots that blouse under urban-flavor camo BDUs and a clingy, long-sleeved black shirt. She probably looks quite familiar, except that her hair is a bit longer, long enough to be bedhead instead of sleepless pixie, and she's lost every bit of the healthy tan she had and is now right about the color of a wax candle. Though she comes in from the hallway she doesn't get very far at all, only stops just there, two steps sideways from the entry, so that she can watch and listen.

There's a shrug from the Hunter and she shifts to her feet, shoving the sofa back as she does. She gets a foot up on the table, unlaces her boot. The next one follows. Those are cast aside and the table is pushed aside as well. It doesn't clear a large area, but it clears an area nonetheless. When she turns towards the Perfectionist, it's taking a stance that some might recognize as judo. It just seems to come naturally; the woman herself doesn't even seem to notice. "All right then. Let's see what you've got. I was gonna go try to take apart a bookshelf or find that suicide chick, but this works."

Thinking on what the Avant-Garde says, the Capitalist decides to bring up, "My sister, Madison, her keepsake is a phone as well, but unlike yours," he lifts a chin in Cameron's direction, "hers does not remind her of fond memories. Instead, all she can access is her email conversations with David Akala, a reminder of what brought us all together on that island." A curious glance is given Elena when she joins them in the parlor, but unlike the priest, this is a face that he recognizes. A nod is given her, as he makes his way into the kitchen for more coffee... just as he notices tables and such being moved. All he can do is release a heavy sigh and push some buttons on one of the moniters in the kitchen before waiting for his order to be filled by some machine.

The Perfectionist looks entirely nonplussed. She doesn't even seem interested in fighting. For the moment. More important: "Why'n the fuck would you take apart a bookshelf?"

Does the Survivor look pleased to see The Capitalist? No. On the contrary she frowns at him. A 'hey I saw your insides become your outsides you maybe shouldn't be up walking around' sort of frown. It's a bit like the look she gives the Avant-Garde. Faint bemusement, but not the whimsical sort. These notes of serendipity are sour. She does offer a little nod by way of greeting however, not completely sans manners. She pushes away from the wall then, glancing toward the dining room area, then heads for the bookcase. Left with the former-Cameron, she has little choice but to ask him, "So they don't know what's going on?"

"I'm... not sure I'd call these fond memories. I mean, they were fond memories, but I can't stop thinking about them." The Avant-Garde nods to the Capitalist, "And worrying." He sighs, slips his phone away with difficulty, then looks between 'Maata' and 'Valerity', "Seriously, _fighting_ is the stupid we're getting to? I hate you all. No one is fascinated by magic bookshelves but fighting? Yay." He looks to Elena, "No one dies. I volunteered to be sacrificed. Some people died before. One person no one recognizes. We can't change the place or find an exit-- I'm not giving up on that-- we all fall asleep about the same time and when we wake up everything is clean, net and repaired. But... that's all we know."

"Because the shelves are made of wood," the Hunter tells the Perfectionist. The woman does not fully relax her stance, just in case the other comes at her in the process. "There might be a door or other opening behind them." Almost like she's explaining to a child. She does cast a brief, sidelong glance to 'Cameron.' "Two people we don't recognize now. The one that arrived before you lot and the man that was out here just moments ago. That looked like a priest." She finally does step away, grabbing her coffee quickly as she does from the moved table. Her eyes are still keenly on the Perfectionist. "I'll be back," she says carefully. Ominously. She's sipping at the coffee as she makes to depart, padding by on socked feet. She almost just passes on, but stalls by Elena. There's a steady look for the Survivor. "I had given Conrad a knife. It... would have been on him in the first explosion. Was it removed before we were put on the helicopter?"

Yes, 'Elena.' A dead woman is talking to you. And asking intimate details about the period of her death... or at least the hours leading up to it.

"Really? How many times were you dropped on the head as a child?" The Perfectionist asks The Hunter. "There ain't no doors here -- none that lead anywhere. What, you think we're in the Big Brother House? We're being Punk'd? You do remember dyin', right? Where's a dead girl gonna go?"

With a fresh cup of coffee and a bagel in hand (see, he does eat), the Capitalist steps out from the kitchen. The fight seems to have been postponed, which is fine by him, but then he takes pause when he hears the question which the Hunter poses to the Survivor. Very little have been told to them regarding their deaths, so this does draw some interest. "I can't say I remember the helicopter ride the way Maata does, but I do recall having the knife on me that night in the security trailer, yes." He takes a bite from his bagel. Though when Valerity speaks up, his lips form a tight line before he speak. "How did we get here then? And not all of us are dead." He looks to Elena, "Do you recall dying or were you one of the rescued?"

The Perfectionist adds, jabbing a finger at Cameron, "Those bookshelves and I've spend lots of quality time together. I've had time to get excited, spend a couple of hours with the shower jet, and get excited again. So calm down, Bieber."

The Survivor listens to the Avant-Garde's little rundown with some interest. The neutral sort, like he's giving her a weather report or something. By the end of it there's that continued discourse between the other woman, which prompts her next question, "They've been here long enough to run out of things to do other than argue with each other? How long have you been here?" That is a much more general question, open-ended, no target. As the Hunter approaches her posture changes. Subtly. She was fairly indolent, neutral to idle, but proximity pushes in tension, coils her up without her moving so much as an inch from her spot, without giving any ground. The question, though? That wins a slight tilt of her head. Rather than answer the question though, she asks one of her own. "Why?"

"Yes, I remember dying, yet I am obviously not dead. Something more complicated is going on. Just while we're on the subject of name calling, you're making yourself look like an idiot, and not at all cool, with this bitch queen shit you're trying to sell that no one-- no one-- is buying." 'Cameron' rolls his eyes as he shakes his head, "I don't know who I am, but Cameron Cross didn't sing or act like a bitch or get hideous tats all over, so this Bieber comment is just you trying to sound relevant. Which you don't. At all." He looks back over to Maata and frowns, "Two? I still stand by we need to watch anyone -no-one- recognizes." He then looks at Elena, "I... couldn't honestly say. There's no clocks. I think its been two days but it might have been three or four for me. There's no way to tell what time it is... at some point... you just get tired and go to sleep. When I say 'you' I mean _everyone_. At once. You wake up however long later-- who can say how long?-- and the whole place is pristine again. Anything broken is fixed. Everything is back right where its supposed to be. First day I was here I did a lot of damage. I heard..." He nods to Maata, "...She might have too. It might be we sleep as long as it takes to repair everything. Or maybe not. There's no way to know that I can find _yet_." But his voice says: I'm still LOOKING.

It's almost in slow motion. One moment, the Hunter is just downing the rest of her coffee as she listens to 'Elena' speak. It's only once the mug is empty that she snaps into motion. It's like a trap being sprung. A snake striking at a target. An arrow released from the bow. It's all that pent up tension she's had released in one go and it's all... in that mug as she lets it fly at the Perfectionist. And the Hunter does not just fling. She does not just toss. There is aim, momentum, and the fluid motion of body and form. The release has the follow-through that goes not just from the wrist like most, but from the very tips of her fingers up through her arm, shoulder, and through her torso and waist as she rotates with it like a pitcher at their mound. The entire thing is done without a single word and just a flash of fury that dashes across her features.

In the wake of it, however, she turns back to face Elena and, perfectly calm, states: "Because that knife was on the table next to my bed when I first woke here. If you -- or Liam or someone -- removed it from Conrad after the trailer, but before the helicopter... how did it end up here? It's in perfect condition, too... Even the leather sheath. I can show you."

"Thank you, Dr. Phil, but you forgot to ask, 'How's that workin' for you.'" The Perfectionist says to The Avant-Garde. "Lord, I am tired of you people. I am without question in -- Christ Jesus can you stand to not break something for two minutes?"

The Capitalist is just taking a sip from his coffee when the Hunter takes aim at the Perfectionist, throwing a mug at her as if it were a baseball. There's nothing that he can do about it from where he's standing except watch to see if contact is made and hopefully it's not. But if it is... well, they get to witness how an actual injury works in this place. The conversation with the Avant-Garde, however, does get him to state, "Does anyone even remember a priest at the event? I can't say that I do, but... then again, I didn't personally hire all of my staff and if there was a priest on our payroll, while that would be news to me, it's not something that I would dismiss outright." They did hire a new age hippie after all. "As for how long we've been here. 3-4 days. Can't really tell, but it definitely wasn't 2 weeks."

Is the former Elena impressed by this throw? Not really. She watches the coil, the throw, the way the flash of fury and the launch of the mug. She was already coiled to begin with. The tension isn't going anywhere, but neither is the Survivor. She looks between the lot again, eyes cool and blue as glacial ice. Appraising, assessing, though whatever conclusion she arrives at is not shared with the rest of the class. "There are fifty-odd doors in the hall, and over six hundred people on that island. It stands to reason that not all of you are here; there is not enough room. As for the knife? How did it get here? How did you get here?" She is an oracle of bad news and unanswerable questions. The Oracle of Purgatory. "No one left the island with anything they could keep. And yet. It sounds as if everyone has something despite that, doesn't it. How curious." She has the barest trace of an accent that comes through when she speaks more than a few words at a time. Not British, properly, but near to it. Received Pronunciation, burned down to ashes, strained through her words. Posh and clipped. Not at all what she sounded like on the island either, for all that it matters. Her attention drifts back to the Capitalist, then. "A priest?"

The Perfectionist throws up an arm to shield her face. The mug re-breaks itself on her forearm, lacerating it quite nicely. Yeah, she's bleeding, but the mug's in a hundred pieces! TAKE THAT, MUG.

The Perfectionist yelps in surprise and pain. "Fuck!" She snarls. "Which part couldn't you handle? That there's no door, nowhere to go, you're dead, or you'll never be drafted into the majors?" 'Cause that mug TOTALLY would not have hit her hair, brained her, took out an eye, and left her out cold. Nope.

"If you think we're dead, you're dumb. If you think there's no door, you're super dumb. If you think there's nowhere to go, you need a shrink because your giving up into swelling depression is taking charge. I have no opinion on the whole major league thing, that looked like a good throw to me, but I am not a sports gay." the Avant-Garde shrugs, looks to Elena, "Its not that not everyone is here, the question is, why is... some, and not others, and what's that mean? And where the fuck is Chase? You know what, I can't deal with this shit. I need a fuzzy naval." with that, Cameron stalks towards the dispensary, adding as he goes, "If I noticed a priest I woulda taken a picture of him because my followers would lawl."

"My question was not how it got here. I don't expect you to answer that. The question was did you remove it from him? During triage, before the helo. Did you remove the items we had on us? I presume they were heavily damaged. Melted. Shrapnel. Did you leave them in place or remove them? I'm trying to figure a... proximity, perhaps." The Hunter's attention shifts past 'Elena' and towards the other woman. She starts walking that way at a brisk pace. "The fact that you won't shut up. There's a way in, there's a way out. You got here somehow, unlucky for us." She reaches out, trying to grab at that injured arm; intent on grinding in any shards that may be left in the injury. To just grab and apply pressure, but not in a way that would staunch bleeding. Oh no. To press. To make it worse. "Does it hurt? Did I mention I have a theory about suffering in this place? That it won't let us suffer. That we'll pass out first or simply not feel it. I want to see if I'm right."

The Perfectionist goes whiter than her (blood-spattered) shirt. Yep. Yep, that smarts. Her knees nearly give at the pain. "Fuck. You. Cunt." She spits at The Hunter.

She must really like pain.

So contact is made and the mug is completely shattered into dangerous shards on the floor. There's even blood to be seen. Now this has the Capitalist concerned. That cut looked pretty bad and from Conrad's memories of his time on the island, Valerity was one of those whom he always found himself needing to cater to in some way. "Are we done here?" He asks the women, despite the danger of putting himself between two crazy ladies. Turning to Elena, who he remembers as an EMT, he gestures, "You might want to take a look at that. But she bleeds. That's something." He then asks of the Diva, "Did it hurt?" From the sound of it, it certainly did. The commotion has him setting down both his breakfast bagel and his own mug of coffee to see if he can help remedy this situation before it flares up even more, but as he approaches them, he nods quickly, "Yeah. There was a bald priest here earlier. He looked familiar, but I don't remember seeing a priest anywhere."

Nope, she is very much not all right. The Visionary is a mess as she steps out of her room; her steps are quiet enough, barefoot as she is, but she closes the door with enough care as to not let it make so much as a sound. She hears voices at the end of the hall, in the common room, and bites back a flinch. She doesn't see fire. She doesn't even smell fire. Well, that's an improvement? But then she hears the Perfectionist's reaction, and her lips wrinkle. Getting her feet to move just got harder, but she does it. Still quiet.

So many questions. The Hunter is not going to get one from the Survivor. All that winding up to demand information about the knife and.... nothing. Just perfect profanity. The Capitalist's gesture wins him a loft of an eyebrow, and a quiet, "No. I don't think so." Polished. Crisp. And then she moves, heading for the one room she has not yet been in: the dining room. Either she intuited what ex-Cam meant about the fuzzy navel or figured out that's where the coffee came from. Either of these might be preferable to this situation.

"You couldn't handle me," the Hunter answers the Perfectionist in a curt tone with another of those nigh-feral grins before she draws back with her other arm and just outright punches the woman. Just decks her.

Maybe she's just putting her out of her misery?

The Hunter is putting The Perfectionist out of someone's misery, that's for sure. BAM! Crunchy, nose-breaky impact! DOWN does the diva!

Do they have rhinoplasty in Hell?

As the punch lands, the Visionary freezes in place. As the Perfectionist falls to the ground, her gaze follows. No, she doesn't want to know. She doesn't dare look at the Hunter. If she could blend into the walls like a chameleon, she would, but slim chance of that in the loudest tie dye tent dress in the known universe. Instead, she edges closer to the wall, and resumes walking as quietly as she can. She could just go back and hide in her shower for another few hours, but she's out of liquor and cloves, and that's only making her climb the walls more than she normally would. Nope. Nope, just going to pretend to be calm, no matter how poorly, and with one foot in front of the other, she continues to make her way toward the dispensary.

They've been here for 4 days. Was it 4? And there was no violence to be had, despite coming close that once. And then there was the failed suicide attempt, but that aside, this was the first real tussle that anyone's had here and with more people showing up, it seems that personalities won't be mixing very well, especially as the group becomes stir crazy with confusion.

"Dahlia." Oh look, the Capitalist had spotted here. "I was wondering where you went off to. Usually, you're somewhere out here.." This is all said as he winces a little at the blow given to the Perfectionist. Pinching at the bridge of his nose, he just has to sigh. Nevermind that the EMT had refused his suggestion that she help out! "So is she supposed to magically disappear back to her bed? How does this work? How does anything work?"

As the Perfectionist crumples to the floor, the Hunter lets go of her arm. She looks down to the blood smeared on her hand with a detached sort of look. She scrubs it across her BDUs and takes a step back. There's a nudge to the unconscious body. "I don't know," the woman formerly known as Maata answers. "She's alive, so maybe she'll stay put until we all fall asleep." She lets out a long sigh and hikes her way over and past towards the dispensary. "I need a fucking drink."

She returns a moment later with a trio of rocks glasses in one hand (thankfully not the one that just had blood on it) and a bottle of whiskey in the other. This isn't even the highest-grade of whiskey. It's good whiskey, just not 'oh look this would cost $300 normally' whiskey. More like a $50 bottle of the stuff at best. She finally sits down in a chair, sets the glasses down, and opens the bottle to pour one. Some blood is left behind on the label after she does. "So two faces we don't know. One's a priest. A number of people who had escaped and ended up here on their way home." The Hunter picks up the glass poured, taking a long sip of it. "Maybe someone killed them after the island. Put something into their drink. Assassinated them."

The Visionary freezes in place at the mention of her former name, visibly cringing. She looks at Conrad, and it's clear enough she's been crying her eyes out; they're bloodshot and swollen, and her face is a mess of blotches. "I don't like it in there. It's not a good place," is all she says, which isn't exactly something everyone hasn't managed to intuit already. "Too many people, now. I got them all killed. I tried to save them, and I got everyone killed." The words just fall out of her mouth flat, in the sort of deadpan tone that suggests it's either that, or wordless screaming on her option list.

"No more liquor. Or cloves. It sounded almost a little more quiet." Until the fist-fight, that is. Her lips twitch between a smile and a frown. "Restock. I don't think it's... " A hand comes up to rub uncomfortably at her upper arm, crossing her chest. " ...safe to be out here any more."

Very quietly, she says, "Someone said they'd been saved. Rescued. For just a moment, I was so happy." Her eyes shift toward the body of the Perfectionist on the floor, and she tips her chin slightly in the unconscious woman's direction. "We were happy. Because after all of that, even in all of-" Her fingertips come away from her arm just long enough to half-heartedly flick a gesture to their surroundings. "-this, at least maybe we hadn't died for nothing."

Her eyes narrow suspiciously as she looks at the Hunter. "Wait. They did escape?" Visibly confused, her chin tips down. "She said they all- " Her head shakes. No, she's not processing well at all.

With the Hunter simply leaving the Perfectionist's unconscious and still bleeding body on the floor admist the broken ceramic bits from the shattered mug, the Capitalist moves in to atleast carry Valerity over to one of the couches. His Italian shoes protect his feet from the shards, though when he's reaching to grasp at the Perfectionist's unconscious form, he does cut his arm as he attempts to scoop her up. Nothing too deep as it's merely a flesh wound, but he does know that you still feel pain here and that you still bleed. He unceremoniously deposits her onto one of the couches for now, not really caring if she bleeds all over it. He has a feeling this place will sort itself out.

It's only after he's finished with this task, rubbing a hand at the scratch on his arm does he notice the frazzled state that the Visionary is in. He says nothing of this, of course, as he makes his way to where Maata had set down the whiskey, the crunch of bits of broken mug can be heard underfoot. It's only when he draws near to the Hunter tha the leans in close to speak to her in quieter tones, his eyes now looking towards the Visionary once more, "All of this today worries me. First Valerity and now... Dahlia. It's as if everyone were losing their minds right about now."

When the Capitalist comes over to her, the Hunter sets down her whiskey after another drink. She reaches out to his arm to turn it over and examine his cut. If there's any remaining bit of ceramic in it, she'll pull it out quickly and unceremoniously. Her hand is placed firmly over the wound for a moment to stop the bleeding as she listens to him. "Valerity was just as bad her first day," she reminds him quietly. "And she'll keep spinning out of control if she's not brought down to earth. Or wherever this is." There is a look over to the Visionary and she finally lets go of the Capitalist's arm before leaning forward to pour two more glasses. One is offered to him, the other held out to the woman in tie-dye.

"From what we've been told, they got off the island and were on their way home before they woke up here. A tac nuke was still set off on the island itself, out of fear the tribe might bring back the Ancestors." It's delivered in the tone a soldier might provide a debrief. Who knows, maybe the detached, educational words might help in the moment. "This afternoon's arrivals did not die. They fell asleep somewhere, like a plane, and woke up here."

"I've never been sane, Mister Wellson," the Visionary says simply. It's that empty deadpan again, as though she's simply relaying a fact. Her expression is pained, but it can't be heard in the words themselves at all. "Maybe if I was, I wouldn't have killed everyone." It's simple logic, some fallback subroutine that must kick in when everything else is simply too much. "I wanted to help people survive, but I didn't. I got them all killed instead." She's still too bloody perceptive. "Excuse me a moment, I need to get something to smoke, please hold on to that for me?" she asks the Hunter. And with that, she tries to smile. She fails, but she still makes the effort before ducking into the dispensary for a moment. She isn't gone long; she has the sequence for mug, thermos of espresso, bottle of something strong, and clove cigarettes down to a science. Besides, there are people in there, and in her head, they all want to murder her, even if she attempts to process what the Hunter tells her over the half minute she's out of sight. "I suppose it doesn't matter, anyway. We're all here. I didn't save anyone. And so many of us aren't here. Jack. Heather. Hal." She takes the glass, and drains it in a single swallow; it's the biggest thing she's been trying to not think about, and there she went and just said it.

The Capitalist doesn't make much of a fuss about the cut, though he does appreciate the efforts the Hunter has taken to ensure his comfort over this minor wound. It still stings, but it's nothing unbearable. It might still be earlier in the day, but he can't quite tell, so when the whiskey is offered, he'll graciously accept. In fact, he could use a smoke about now too, something which Conrad only did when stressed. This may reflect the building tension within the Capitalist about now.

When the Visionary addresses him, he can't help but narrow his eyes at what she says. "Let's not start this again. What happened at the festival was not your fault, it was /not/ Madison's fault. The only person whose fault it was was Akala and from what I heard, he was picked up in Fiji and everyone else was sent on their way home." Taking a sip from his glass now, he adds, "The... natives aside, of course. But I don't know why people are missing and I don't know why we are here gathered together with those who were supposed to have escaped from the island."

"You did not get everyone killed," the Hunter says, wryly. She sets the glass down, but offers it once the Visionary has returned. She takes a sip from her own then. "If we assign blame in that fashion, then I got everyone killed, right?" She takes another drink, settling back in her seat. She reaches to pull the Capitalist along in beside her on the couch. "I was the Head of Security and not only did I die in an explosion, others died as well-" she gestures to the other woman with her glass, index finger unfurling to point right at her. "Including you. Two hundred died the first night, including most of my security team. You want to assign blame, put it on me." She downs the rest of her glass, leaning forward again to refill it.

"We're here. The rooms are filling up fast. Many others aren't here. Obviously there's a way in. I think we need to focus on a way out rather than obsessing over who isn't here."

"Then why did she-" The Visionary begins, but it is a pointless question, and she has enough clarity to realize that much, at least. That horrible lost look is still living in her eyes as she sinks to a seat and begins opening the box of cloves with trembling fingers. "I couldn't keep them out a second night. We know I couldn't have. They found a way around it. They would have gotten in. I saw them on the monitors," she says, sounding much like the Hunter: just the facts. "Archers. Others. Starting to come like the night before. Then, Jonas broke through."

"They stopped. We thought that maybe we would be all right." She sets the clove to her lips, and lights it with one of the wooden matches from the little box beside the cigarettes themselves. Once she's taken her first drag, she actually laughs. There's not even any madness in the sound, which may make it all the more unnerving for it: it's a genuine, honest laugh. "And then we went to sleep, thinking there was hope, even if it meant right back to work in the morning." It is a little funny, but only in the darkest possible way.

"It's not as if that woman suggested fencing off the beach, Maata, and if the one who supposedly knows better than the rest of us didn't think of it, how could you?" Yes, she'll make excuses for everyone other than herself, clearly. "No one gave any of us a memo on 'what to do in case of-" And then, she pauses. She looks incredibly petty for just a moment, as she says, "Actually, that's not at all true. First responders all over the country run 'zombie drills', because they cover the broadest spread of potential crises in one exercise. People think it's funny until they realize it's actually something that's done. So where was all of her expertise, then? What excuse does she have for not saving us all?"

"If anything," The Capitalist says, settling in beside the Hunter on the couch with one of his hands pressed against the bloody sleeve of his shirt, "the arrival of 'the ones who got away' opens up this can of worms about this place. If it's nost just the dead here, then what is this place.... and what happened to all of us." Though at that the Hunter says, he slowly nods. "It might be a good time to dismantle the bookcase while she's still out... unless you want to torture her further by letting her watch you do it." Dark eyes look over at Maata when he says this, just a hint of a wry smirk tugs at his lips.

Listening to the Visionary speak once more, he then has to ask, "Who are you talking about? What woman?" Though he has to arch a brow to some of this, "Are they really such things as zombie drills? It's the first I've heard of it. But really, wht more could we have done to protect ourselves? And no, it didn't look like our light show was going to hold them back for much longer, but then Jonas did his thing and that bought us time. People were saved, or that's what these new arrivals have been telling us."

"We only had so many hours that first day. If I could have put walls around the entire resort, I would have. But we had a window to work in. The most logical route of approach was the jungle. We didn't know they had an intelligence. That they thought, reasoned..." Maata leans in against the Capitalist as he settles, lifting a hand to rub at her scalp. She lets out a sigh as she lifts her glass to take a sip. "Just like Jonas didn't know that getting out the word would cause the US military to want to drop a nuke. We acted to the best of our abilities based on what intel we had. Hindsight is twenty-twenty. And it's over. You can go around and around in circles on it or you can focus on what we have here and now."

At the suggestion for the shelves, she looks over to the Perfectionist's prone form on a nearby couch and makes a thoughtful sound, leaning up to press a kiss to the corner of the Capitalist's mouth. "You're right. I should probably go grab what I can to try to break through them." She downs the rest of her whiskey and shifts to her feet.

"The EMT woman," the Visionary says with a quiet shrug. "Maybe she just doesn't like me. I don't know. I just know someone said they'd been saved, and Valerity and I were happy we hadn't died for nothing, and she said we hadn't saved anyone, the island was nuked, everyone was dead, and was I happy about it still."

"And, yes. Zombie drills. The CDC runs them in particular; they cover many of the potential risks of a real pandemic and a natural disaster at the same time. The fictional scenario supposedly makes it 'fun', but it's more just to condense the various conditions into a single scenario that covers all the bases." With that, she refills her glass with half espresso, half whatever is in that bottle she brought out with her, and takes another drag from her clove. "So if anyone has no excuse... " Somebody's a little huffy, but it falls away from her features as quickly as it came.

"I'm still tempted to camp out in front of his door and not let him out without a warning about... whatever that's all about. Just. Why would someone say that, if they were rescued? What purpose does that serve? And... I can't help but think of someone thinking that way as a danger, maybe more to Jonas than me, but certainly to both of us."

Down the hall comes barely five feet of ambulatory heebie-jeebies. Creepshow has apparently decided to dress herself instead of simply wandering around forever in boxers and a tanktop. Those clothes consist of a red track suit with a hood, currently up, and a Salvador Dali mask. How do they know it's her? Who the fuck else WOULD it be?

The Capitalist takes another quick drink of his whiskey before he pulls himself to stand. From where he is positioned and what he can see from the unconscious Perfectionist, he comments, "You really did a number on her. And some of that ceramic might be stuck in her skin when she fell." His tone is more matter-of-fact than scolding when he says this. Nor does he offer to help with any of that. "I'm going to change out of this." He says of his blood-stained shirt, "And probably get this dissinfected while I'm at it. I'll be back once I'm done with that to assist."

As he's about to head back into the hallway, though the mask may conceal the Creepshow's identity, there's very few people here that he can recognize just for their creep value. He doesn't utter a word at her arrival, however, but he does say to the Visionary now. "Elena? I can't say I know anything about her, but everyone else was saying that they were rescued, so I'll believe that much." As he heads out, he does add, "If anyone should be expecting anger from the masses, I think I'd be one of the primary targets." But it looks as if he's been preparing for such anger for a while now.

The Fool is humming because of course he is. It all worked out like he figured in the end, minus that last flash of light. Speaking of which, "Holy shit, there wasn't even a seizure warning to that ride, amirite?" He doesn't care if you laugh, he knows he's a fucky fucker. "Seriously though, we can smoke and drink right? This isn't like...The Good Place?"

"Because," the Hunter answers 'Dahlia' as she passes down the hall, "everyone here freaks out on their first day." She doesn't appear to have any remorse for the Perfectionist's current state. In her mind, the woman deserved it! When the Fool appears, she stares at him for a moment, but no: no recognition for her. She does hike a thumb back over her shoulder. "Alcohol and cigarettes back that way." No, she's not sharing the pack in her pocket.

Then the woman is heading to her room. Likely to find some tools to try to break through the shelves.

While she hasn't actually talked to Esme before that she can recall, only Esme is Esme. Someone looking a little crazier than herself is more welcome than usual, right now, and she waves her clove-bearing hand with a flourish of blue-tinged smoke. And, oh, hey. She knows that guy! The Visionary leans forward, peering down the hall. People not yelling at her, or throwing things? That's a good sign. "We have liquor. I have cloves. Vice dispensers are through the arch, I hear they also do food." She sighs, and raises her coffee booze in greeting. "No drugs, though. Clearly, we have to be willing to sacrifice our livers for some peace of mind." She glances toward the sprawl of the Perfectionist on the couch. "And I'm betting she's really going to want an Advil when she wakes up. C'mon over and have a seat, I think they're going to break more furniture soon."

"Yeah, her. Shame, too. First time I met her? She seemed to have an unusually sensible perspective on things." Her shoulders roll in a graceful shrug, but she's still visibly tense, her eyes flicking toward the hallway often. "Yep. Breaking things time."