Log:Trying to Piece Thing Together
"I'll see what I can scare up. Will check for smokes, too," Dahlia says as she lands lightly on her bare feet. "I'll keep Dahlia, for now at least. Better than 'Not Hortense', too, right?" She gives the melted sunglasses on the floor a very wide berth as she darts around them and toward the arch. Still curious as a cat, too. At least here, it's less likely to get her killed, one would hope.
"I didn't look for cigarettes," The Penitent says softly, nodding as she just starts to pace about the parlor. "Dahlia then. I shall have to think more about what I will be called. I don't know, yet." She wanders over towards the bookcase, to browse the contents and maybe find something to read while Visionary goes off to rustle up some drinks and maybe get distracted exploring the place.
Emerging from one of the rooms within the long strange hallway, The Capitalist is dressed in an attire that many here may recognize. While he hasn't donned a suit jacket, he is wearing a mostly crisp white dress shirt, grey trousers and a black silk tie. At his side is another face that may be familiar, that of the Hunter. They are walking hand in hand, though there is this awkwardness about the whole ordeal, perhaps having a faint realization that they are not the people who they remember themselves to be.
Voices. There were voices coming from the other room, a fact that makes his pace quicken. Madison was there. Or the woman who he once knew as his sister. The other one is also familiar. He believes he can remember her name, but his memory of her isn't as strong or intense as it is for The Penitent and The Hunter. "Madison." He murmurs her name now, then, "Dahlia."
When Dahlia -- or Not Dahlia - returns from the dispensary, she's carrying three glasses and a bottle of very old scotch. It's the scotch she remembers from that last night in the trailer, and she remembers that it was good. It burned in just the right way. She's pure hippie flower child, here, hair down and barefoot, sans snarky tees and geek chic. "This was good. Or I remember it not being awful. Addie picked brought it, and... I liked Addie. She had excellent taste in all the right things."
She's rattling on and on, as she often does, without looking, until she hears the name that isn't really her name, and she stops dead. It's a small miracle she doesn't drop the glasses. That suddenly more are needed has her wavering on her feet like she might faint. "Shit." Glancing between the pair, she winces visibly. "What... happened?"
The Rebel steps out from a door further up in the hallway. He's older than anyone might recall his 'Eugene' incarnation being and considerably more bland looking - he's just got one of those extraordinary unextraordinary simple faces that'd be easy to forget. Looking lost, he stares down the length of the hallway toward the other gathered figures.
The Hunter is wearing dark khaki BDUs and a black t-shirt. Nothing like what Maata ever wore. Her hair is a bit of a mess; not in the clean ponytail it had been last the Penitent saw them. Though she and the Capitalist are holding hands, it's more akin to a tether than much else. Something familiar, something close. But yes, an awkwardness that was never present between Maata and Conrad exists between the pair right now. She nods to the Penitent, looking hesitant to speak the name she knows since the woman is distancing herself from it. When the Visionary appears, the Hunter lifts her head to regard her. "She told us you were here," she says quietly -- almost apologetic -- by way of an awkward greeting.
The most notable thing, perhaps, is that her accent is gone. She sounds... American.
Selecting a book from the shelf, 'Madison' turns back about, padding towards her couch, only to stop when she spies 'Conrad' once again. She offers her pleasant little smile, though still seems kind of distant. "Hello again. Did you two find anything from the island?" She offers him, and the Hunter too, settling back into her spot on the couch, legs crossing beneath her as she turns the book over in her hands. It's one of those weird self help books titled 'Who moved my cheese?' She just holds it for the moment as she stares at the two.
"So you are Dahlia?" The Capitalist asks of the Visionary. His eyes are trained on her, watching her every expression and then hearing the question asked. "I.. Are you talking about the explosion? Because there was one. Or that's all that I can remember." Catching the Penitent's smile, he offers one in return, but his is distant as well. He's still confused and this struggle with his memories and trying to figure out what's real and what's not has been difficult for him since he awoke.
He would say something more if not for the stranger who suddenly enters the room. Of course, he doesn't know all of the festival attendees by name or face, but so far, those who he's come across were those closest to him or ones who worked for him. So now with the Rebel's appearance, he draws a blank. He has no name for this face. "...And you are?"
Wait a minute. Who the heck is that guy? Dahlia sets the glasses on a small table in front of the couch, still keeping hold of the bottle as though she may well need all of it herself. "Jonas, too," she answers Maata, or the woman she knows by that name. She peers around the pair she knows to the one she doesn't with a furrow of her brow. "Hello," she quietly greets. The further confirmation of the explosion has her eyes closing, and she nods once; her chin remains tilted down at the end of it. "So I gather. And, yeah. Keeping it for now. The name, I mean." She swallows a breath, and tries to put a brave -- or at least calm -- face on. "I guess I should get some more glasses." It isn't really a question at this point, and she lets the bottle sit on the table in the semi-circle of three glasses.
The Rebel takes a couple of steps down the hallway. Something rattles in the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms. He dips a hand inside and after a moment produces a zippo lighter. He turns it over in his hands assessingly - it's only he's addressed that he lifts his eyes toward the Capitalist.
There's a lengthy pause, "I, uh, I'm sorry." he pauses for a moment, "I was hoping you could tell me. I don't remember anything prior to having woken up."
If he's lying, then he's certainly doing a better job of it than his previous incarnation.
"A knife," the Hunter answers 'Madison.' "It's... not sharp. None of my weapons here are real." She seems bothered by that and her fingers tighten in the Capitalist's. They each have their things that bother them deeply and in a sense, it's causing them to remain close at the moment. "But it's the knife I carried. The one I gave-" she looks to the man next to her, swallowing slowly, "him." But now she has back, in her room. "Still no new answers." She finally releases the Capitalist's hand, but with a small tug in invitation as she circles the couches to take a seat near the bottle that Dahlia has brought. She opens it to begin pouring some of the scotch while more is procured. A glass is passed first to the Penitent and then next to the Capitalist. "You remember nothing at all?" she asks the new arrival, looking at him suspiciously. Tension begins to build between her shoulders.
"It seems none of us are really sure who we are." The Penitent offers the newcomer, that same easy, pleasant smile there on her face, though she sort of looks through him rather than at him. "Do you remember the island? Wyred festival?" If he's just woken up -- she remembers the island not coming to her right away, after all. She sets the book aside for now, leaning foward to take the offered glass from the hunter. A brief touch of it to her lips. The realization after a moment that this was the same scotch she was drinking moments before she died -- well. There's a tremor to her hand and she sets the glass down suddenly, the liquid within splashing a little.
A shaky breath drawn in, long and deep as she shakes off the memory of Madison's guilt, a tremor through her body. Another breath, and another, before she's got that calm and peaceful exterior showing once again. "I have Madison's cellphone. It doesn't work, except to show me email after email of her dealings with David Akala." Deliberate emphasis placed on the words to convince herself that Madison is ... someone else.
The Capitalist is easily led over to the couch by the Hunter, though his eyes remain on the Rebel for now. "I was actually hoping that you would be able to answer all of our questions. That you were the person who, I don't know, worked here." There is a hint of stress in his tone, though he keeps his voice as steady as he can. He's been wracking his brains all day trying to figure out just where they were. Sitting down near both Maata and Dahlia, he accepts the offered drink, even flashing that Conrad smile over at the Hunter, just before taking a sip. "I got my watch." He starts, before correcting, "Conrad Wellson's watch." There's some rolled up paper in one of his hands and this he sets on the table. "I've taken some notes. Not very good ones, because there's a lack of information that I've come across." It's a list of possibilities of why they are here and waht this place is, along with a list of names of those who have arrived at this place as opposed to those who have died that have yet to be seen. Akala's name is definitely on one of those sheets.
She's only gone a moment, ducking beneath the arch and back again. Three more glasses in hand, and another bottle. Clearly, they are going to need it. Dahlia catches the very end of the Rebel's answer, and there's that furrow in her brow again. "Sometimes it takes a little while for it to start to come back. From what little we've been able to figure out." She's trying to sound encouraging, but there's a hint of worry there. "Welcome to have a drink, and join us, either way. It may start to come back in a bit?" The conversation about what they have left behind is enough to get her mouth snapping shut. Must be a miracle. She places two of the three glasses down, keeping one for herself, and she fills it far more than one does with scotch of its type before she collapses to a seat. Almost immediately, her legs pull up to hide under her dress, tucking beneath her.
The Rebel gaze's flick from the hunter to the penitent then back again, before he admits to the Captialist, "I wish I could." having satisfied his curiosity, he repockets his zippo lighter, "Best I can do for you is throw ideas at the wall and see what sticks. You guys been up long?" He glances back over a shoulder in the hallway, "If.. whatever this is.. has only recently started then I'll wait before asking what you know. I imagine having to repeat it several times would soon become bothersome."
He moves to join the group by the couches. He settles down, slouches foward and rests his elbows atop his knees, his forehead rested into an upturned palm as he stares down blankly at his feet.
Once more glasses have arrived, the Hunter makes sure they are poured as well. She takes her own and settles back into her seat. The smile from Conrad -- it is his smile, at least in that moment -- puts her at least a touch at ease. She settles in with her shoulder to him as she takes a sip of the alcohol. It may be reminiscent of the trailer, but it's alcohol all the same. It settles something in her nerves and she closes her eyes, taking a slow, long breath before letting it out. "Does anyone here have a computer? Phone? Atlas? Encyclopedia? Newspaper? Any... details of when and where we are at all?"
"The phone I have, I can't get anything but those emails. It has no other options." Penitent offers back to Hunter, calming herself from her earlier moment and then glancing to the Rebel. "The real question is, is how is everyone getting here. I was alone for a while, exploring this place. I checked many of the rooms down the hallway. They were empty. Now people keep coming out of them." She gives a slight shake of her head, peering at the notes that The Capitalist has taken.
"I found myself here earlier today." The Capitalist tells the Rebel. "With Maata and Madison." He'll use those names for now. "Though, Madison was here before us, I believe and I'm still trying to piece together all of the events that played out leading up to this point. The explosion at the security trailer after finding out that our good friend, Akala, has a man on the island. Most of us were in that trailer and as that's the only thing that I remember, then..." He doesn't want to come out and say that they all died in that trailer, so he leaves it at that. "I mean, we were altogether when it happened and we're here now. That is..." And now he's looking to Maata, "That is until Maata said that she was being taken by helicopter," And here he hads aggravated emphasis, "A helicopter that we /knew/ was rigged to explode." That radio conversation with Akala is becoming incredibly clear in his mind now.
The notes themselves say: 1. What is this place? Hell, Limbo, AKALA'S PRISON, Coma. The other note just has their names on it and a list of people who he knew died, like Vanessa and Maata's brother.
"Wait, there's no computers here?" He then has to ask.
"We are kinda the shittiest support group more or less ever," Dahlia admits before she sets the second bottle down, and raises her glass as if to offer a toast. "To-" the Hunter's question has her stopping short. Then the glass wavers in the air slightly, and she recovers with, "...figuring all of that out, sooner rather than later," as she points a glass-holding finger in her direction. "Short answer: not that anybody's managed to find, yet. Not that's able to access anything outside."
"Five of us apparently exploded." It's a simple, hollow explanation. She glances toward the Rebel. "Were you... do you remember exploding?" Not a question one normally just asks.
The Rebel lifts a shoulder in a shrug in reponse to Penitent, "Hidden doors." He gestures around vaguely, "I've not had the chance to look around yet but the way you guys are talking makes me think there's no way out." he drums his fingers off the couch and figures, "We're not dead, so they need us alive for some unknown reason. If you guys want answers badly enough.." he spreads his hands, "..Then you'll provoke them badly enough that they have to confront us. If you started a fire they'd come crawling out the woodworks to put it out."
The Rebel gives Dahlia a bewildered look, "Um." A pause, "I don't think so. I mean, I'm sure I'd remember something like that, right?"
"I was in pain, I couldn't remember. I think I was starting to remember that the helicopter was rigged when it went up." the Hunter doesn't like thinking about this: that much is clear. She lifts her glass and takes a drink. "I'm still not convinced this isn't my brain dying. Maybe instead of seeing your life flash before your eyes, it's like some sort of crazed, fever dream." She hesitates, pointing at the Rebel. "But that doesn't explain you." Tapping a finger against her glass, she lets out a long breath. "No computer that I've found. No television. No windows. No doors except to more rooms, some empty, some not. All of my weapons are... inert, for lack of a better word."
She looks towards the dining room. "I tore apart one of the dispensers." Yup, blame that on her. "I couldn't find where it goes or make sense of how it works. I thought it'd bring out whoever controls this place. Summon a staff, custodian, or at least earn someone to yell at me for it. Something. Nothing happened. I destroyed the whole damn thing. Couldn't get through the wall behind or around it. Nothing." And tomorrow? When they all wake up after they all fall asleep at the same time? They'll find it back in place as if she'd never touched it at all.
"I haven't found any hidden doors." The Penitent says, "And no way in or out. I don't know if I'm especially good at finding hidden doors. Apparently not, if they are here to be found. But if such is the case, then somehow they have managed to sneak all of you in unconscious, put you in your bed, while more and more of us have been here." She doesn't reach back out for the drink, inclining her head. "I don't know that I really need answers. I guess I will help you all figure it out, if you need to, but there is plenty to do," she gestures towards the bookshelf. "And nothing immediately making me fear for my life. It is ... safe, here."
When the Rebel continues to mention that he remembers nothing at all, it is the Capitalist's turn to become suspicious. Though when he lifts his glass to his lips for a drink, he murmurs, "It will come in time. Slowly at first, until there's a rush of everything that happened on the island." He pauses here, his lips resting on the rim of his glass, before he says before taking that next sip, "And very little from your time before the island."
When Madison brings up feeling safe here, The Capitalist's brow furrows. "I don't feel safe here. I don't know where /here/ is. I awoke to this urgency that we needed to let everyone know that Akala had a man on the island. I still feel the need to do that now. I don't know why. Like I mentioned to Ma... Maata, it's just this sense of having unfinished business."
It's subtle, the shudder. Dahlia's eyes shift down to the scotch in her glass as there's talk of fire. After that, the only burn is from the stiff pull she takes of the scotch itself. "I don't remember burning, but I gather that I did. I don't know if I'm in a real hurry to test how much somebody I don't know wants to keep me alive that way just yet." Her hand tucks in toward her chest, curling around the glass. "Glad somebody didn't blow up. I mean. That's good to hear?" But at the same time, it eliminates one major common thread from the equation otherwise, and that fact doesn't elude her.
The Rebel 's brows raise further and further up his head, "You all look remarkably good for exploded people." He rests his chin into an upturned palm, "You know what I think?" He doesn't wait for an answer, "These fragmented memories are created by an unwell mind trying to rationalize away the current unexplainable situation. Try not to overthink things, yeah?"
The Hunter falls into silence. This has already been witnessed by the Capitalist. It's another marked difference between her and Maata. Where the islander woman would think aloud, this woman does not. She's pensive and introspective. She leans forward, planting elbows just above knee caps and holding the scotch in the empty space between. Her brows furrow as she thinks, staring at the table. She starts to say something, but stops. Finally, when she does speak, it's with a shift of the glass to one hand and the one closer to 'Conrad' extending to rest upon his leg with a light touch. "Regardless, obsessing over what happened then may do us no good. We should focus on the here and now. There are issues with our situation. We have no windows or doors to the outside. We have no way of knowing what our supplies are like. Will they run out? How much water and food do we have? What about medical needs? We are trapped here, but if we are not in a metaphysical situation but a live one, we might be in just as dangerous a predicament as we were before."
"Do you feel in danger, here? I do not." The Penitent asks of Conrad, her head tilting slightly to study the man she remembers as a sibling. "I wouldn't mind being able to warn everyone on the island about Akala. That would be nice. I wouldn't say it was an urgent need to do so." She admits to him, then her gaze drifting over to The Hunter as well. "The dispensers seem to continue working. Though we haven't made huge demands of them. What can we do if food runs out?" These are problems that the Penitent doesn't want to think about. Or doesn't see any point worrying about. "How can we find out? You said you took one apart and found nothing."
There's this look of irritation shot in the Rebel's direction, but the Capitalist says nothing more to him for now. The rest of the chatter has him quiet, though his hand move to rest upon Maata's when she rests hers upon his thigh, a natural reaction to that feeling of comfort that comes with the contact. That evening just prior to his awakening, Conrad Wellson had been stressed. A nuke was heading to the island and he knew that he had to react. The stress traveled with him to that fateful moment in the trailer and though he'd awoken somewhere so far away, a part of that anxiety still remains.
When asked if he felt danger, he has to think on this before he responds. "Why wouldn't I feel danger here? What /is/ this place? What if this is some prison and then what?" Taking another sip from his glass, he adds, "On the flip side, I don't feel safe here."
"You're not wrong," the girl in the rainbow tent dress murmurs. "Overthinking it isn't going to help." Hopefully, the rest of her scotch will, as she downs it in a single swallow, wincing fiercely before she sets the glass down on the edge of the table. "And thank you, I guess." She hadn't seen a mirror, true, but everyone else does look remarkably whole and hearty, if rattled. "I would almost think some kind of psychological experiment in mass hysteria, if it weren't for the fucking rabbit. Or Jonas' sunglasses. Or Madison's phone. Or the things. Because they shouldn't exist if none of it actually happened." Her eyes close again, but her head swings in the Hunter's direction. "I can't think about that right now. Not yet." Her words have the ring of a confession about them, as though she's sorry for having to say it at all. "I don't feel like I'm in danger, but I can't say I feel safe, either." She nods in the Capitalist's direction at that.
Shoulders sinking with a sigh, the Visionary opens her eyes again to glance around the small cluster assembled. "I think I need to... " Not get worked up, even if she can't quite find those particular words. "I think I'm going to try to sleep. If you see Jonas? Tell him-" Words fail her again, and she doesn't hide the frustration as she pushes herself up to her feet. "-I don't even know what the fuck to tell him. I'll be in... " Her eyes stray down the hall, and dread paints its way across her feature. "I'll be in my room." Like she's off to confront the devil, sullen and solemn.
"Yeah, same." The Rebel echoes after the Visionary, having been reminded of how tired he was, as he rises from the couch, "With any luck I'll have more to tell you guys in the morning." He offers a lazy, half-assed wave, before he wearily trudges through the hallway. He pushes the rebel's door open - steps inside - then pulls the door shut behind him.
Reaching out to reclaim her glass of scotch, The Penitent rises to her feet with it in hand. "What if it is a prison?" She asks the Capitalist with a shrug. Collecting her book as well, she nods to Dahlia. "I think I am going to return to my room as well. It is soothing there. And I will think about what we can do to find some answers, perhaps." Not that she seems really that pressed to answer this situation, for her own part. "Maybe we are still in danger. But we are not in danger of having a beach camp overrun by the living dead ancestors of an island tribe, so I will take it." Another soft, pleasant smile as she turns about, to follow the others down the hall with her book and her glass of scotch. To the room with an image of a woman who's face is buried in her hands as a village burns behind her. She stares at it blankly for a few moments before eventually pushing the door open with her hip and stepping inside.
"We have to think about it," the Hunter says. She does, at least, sound apologetic as she does. "For one reason, at least." There's a look around those still present, since the unfamiliar man already walked out. "If we are not who we were on the island," as 'Madison' seems convinced, "then we do not know who or what we were. We have no memories of ourselves at any point in time. And as a result, we don't know if we had any life-threatening medical conditions that are in need of future or continual treatment. What if you need to be taking medication? Or seeing a specialist regularly? If for no other reason, we need to consider that." She feels healthy, but one never knows if there's a heart condition under the surface and it's not even been a full day since she woke.
As the others depart or prepare to do so, she looks to the man next to her with a sudden hint of concern and a return of that prior... awkwardness. It's a touch of 'what now?'
At the description of the Penitent's room, Dahlia does offer up a smile, and even if it's weak, her voice is sincere. "I'm glad." A wave is offered behind her, but she's already started that dead girl walking routine down the hallway. "Good night, whenever... it's night."
Watching as the Penitent walk off, The Capitalist murmurs to himself, not taking his eyes off of his 'sister', "That is definitely not Madison." The woman who he knew as Madison would never have responded in that way. Not to him. He's not sure that he appreciates the tone, but he's also not certain if that's how he really feels or if that's how Conrad really feels. His gaze only shifts once the Penitent disappears from into the long hallway.
Now there was just the two of them again in this large lounge. The realization that maybe they really weren't who they believed they were comes through to him again. But he wanted to be Conrad Wellson, right? When he looks to Maata, he is convinced that he does. It is only then when that he says, "I'm going to try and look around myself. I'm sure my efforts will be moot, but I need to see the whole of this place with my own eyes."
No, it certainly isn't Madison. There's the lack of hesitation, anxiety. Nor is there, between her and 'Conrad,' the instant and easy comfort they had so quickly found with each other. There is, instead, the push and pull of the tide. The want and desire that is still extant, but also this new self they both find themselves in. It's not an easy place to navigate. The Hunter watches him for a long moment, studying the man next to her intently... as if trying to find some trace of this 'other' person there. Like searching a twin for birthmarks that identify them as separate. Instead she still just sees... Conrad.
After a moment, the Hunter leans forward and grabs the bottle of scotch as she leans to her feet. Glass in one hand, bottle in the other, she just looks at him for a moment. "I'll... be in my room if you need... or want me."
The current duality of his very being sometimes leaves him feeling lost. The fact that things that he knows from his time on the island, some of that has carried over here, to this place, while other things have flipped itself over entirely. Madison. Despite the danger that they were in, the risk to their lives, the terror in the night, The Capitalist oddly yearns for that time on the island, where everything made much more sense.
Though she sits so close to him, he doesn't notice when the Hunter rises to stand until after she's reaches for the glass and bottle, as he's still sorting out how he feels about all of these changes. With the woman's departure, her invitation extended to him, all he can do is follow her with his gaze. He wanted to follow her, but he knew that if he wanted answers, he would need to search them out himself. So for now, he, too rises, finishing off the last of his scotch before he decides where he would like to look first. The Penitent, The Visionary, The Idealist, The Capitalist, The Hunter, The Rebel