Mingle ∞ Log
No Lifeguard on Duty
Summary
What's going on?
An
unexpected heat wave in mid-June, coupled with the cycling shutdown of all air conditioning units in motels across the Blocks, has made the summer unbearable. Meanwhile, the ever-eager
storm chaser,
Felix Bjurstrom, has uncovered a
fancy resort with a pool in a diffusion zone only 1 hour out from Panorama. Lucky, right? Well...kind of. It's got some quirks.
When is this happening?
June 10 - 30
What should I know?
- This area is one of many diffusion zones that appear throughout the planet.
- A storm chaser is someone dedicated to studying the cosmic phenomenon in the Diadem. Felix is a pioneer in his field.
- A winding highway filled with old empty barrels will take you to the zone.
- Characters can travel with a friend to save on gas! Parking's limited, so it might not be a bad idea.
- At any given time, there's max several dozen visitors. Most work long hours, some are traveling through the diffusion zones, and others prefer not to risk the drive or waste precious gas, so it won't draw a huge crowd (but there's still a crowd!).
- This is a mingle rather than an event. Plot-heavy elements will be minor. The game's first proper event will be posted in July!
What does my character know?
- Having lost his phone, Felix will spread the word using good old-fashioned printed posters that he's put up around Panorama. A young woman is seen helping him. They appear to be close. Some say that's his daughter.
- Though the timing is impossible to predict accurately, Felix believes that due to this zone's unusual proximity to an anchor point, it has a high chance of persisting for 2-3 weeks.
- Directions are printed on the posters, though characters are also free to stumble across the zone by accident.
∞ Links ∞
Introduction
The resort looks like your typical upscale vacation spot: a beautiful pool, lovely cabins, and plenty of pool chairs. The sky is
perpetually nighttime and there are
two moons. One moon is smaller than its sister and glows purple. The other looks like the Earth's moon. The weather is
pleasantly warm. In fact, conditions are almost
too perfect.
Other
fluxdrifts are here, too, and you might come across them, all of whom are taking advantage of the pool. They'll converse superficially with you and will come and go randomly. You'll want to keep a close eye on your belongings. Other than cooling off, this isn't a bad place to start making connections. Life in the Diadem is better when you've got allies if not friends.
Just outside the resort is a
spacious parking lot, designed for visitors. Nobody's following parking rules so put your car anywhere it fits. If you get blocked in, well, that's a problem for when you leave.
At the end of June, the diffusion zone will flicker and morph into an unremarkable overgrown park, long abandoned to the decades.
Prompts
As you wander around, you discover deactivated androids in many of the poolside huts. These androids cannot be mistaken for any organic species: their chassis is metal, and their heads are shiny. Circuits and wires are visible. But each is dressed distinctly human in a way that borders on disturbing. You spot lipstick drawn on some of the metal faces, as though they're playing dress up...or as if they don't realize they aren't human. One android is frozen in place with a diary clutched in its hands. Another has a hairbrush for its nonexistent hair.
Something seems to have destroyed them—perhaps a powerful EMP wave that knocked them all out. All except one.
The Bartender
The poolside bar is at the eastern end of the resort. There are plenty of seats. A few are occupied by deactivated androids. The bartender is also an android and appears to be the only functional one in this place. He speaks with a modulated voice and has a neutral accent. He exhibits the following behaviors if you sit at his bar:
- Icebreaker. Whether you're alone or with a companion, he'll try to get you all to be friends, asking random self-generated icebreaker questions. He'll be visibly disappointed if you don't play along.
- Bartending. While cheerful, he can't make the correct drink: it's always too strong, incredibly weak, added salt instead of sugar, messed up the ice. He's obviously doing his best, but it's just not working. The harder he tries, the worse he performs until it becomes a comedy of errors with stuff falling over, ice dumped in your lap, champagne corks flying, and any number of slapstick mishaps. You can help him out by mixing the drink yourself.
If you're nice to him, he'll introduce himself as Thomas Lustras. He's happy to
tell you about his son. Strange, you think, but who says androids can't have paternal instincts? Yet, when the android takes out his wallet to show you a photo of his son—named Edward Lustras—the picture is that of a
human child, roughly 5 years old, in the arms of his
human father.
The driver's license in the same wallet confirms that Thomas is (was?) a real person. The picture on the license matches the human male in the photo. A half-scorched business card states that Thomas was a consultant at Outer Rim Resettlements. Thomas believes he's on a company retreat and wistfully declares he's eager to return home to his son.
Maybe don't look too closely. After all, this place will soon disappear. And so will he.
The Grill
It's not a vacation without a grill! Not a grillable item is in sight, though, so you'll have to rely on what you can bring out of Panorama. Some of the visiting drifters will pitch in to share, unloading hotdogs (some synthetic, others authentic, and some far past expiry), burger patties (same) and buns, and "kebabs" made of blocky frozen vegetable squares. The squares vaguely resemble corn, mushrooms, and pineapple. The texture is passable, like a flavor-infused block of tofu.
Fire up the grill and take turns grilling. You'll also have to manage the propane. The grill's also prone to sputtering out, requiring regular minor repairs to get it back up and going. Any loose bolts or screws can be taken out of the dead androids to replace the rusty ones in the grill. You're unsure if you should feel uncomfortable doing that or what, but it is a solution.
Parking Woes
Like any crowded event, the parking lot can get chaotic, and the lawlessness of the diffusion zones doesn't help. While some are happy to help barbecue, others are more interested in picking fights over who got to the parking space first. It won't take much for a fistfight to break out, and a knife fight isn't out of the question, either, though nobody'll be killed (this time).
You can let the troublemakers beat each other, or you can try to intervene if somebody who doesn't deserve it is getting harassed. Just avoid causing too much of a scene. Breaking noses is acceptable; gutting someone head to toe is not. There are Enforcers visiting the zone, and if you interfere with their nice pool time, they won't hesitate to haul away everybody involved and make you sit in jail for a few days.
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thediadem) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
diademlogs2025-06-08 10:11 am
no subject
And then Frank answers, and—
Silence.
Lowering the bottle again, her eyebrows jerk up expectantly and she spends a few moments waiting for him to prove he wasn't raised in a barn. When that accomplishes nothing, she adopts a crude pastiche of gravelly voice and nondescript accent. Does it get her point across? Probably not. ]
"Thanks so much for asking, Nash! How are you?"
[ And then, in her own voice, ]
Oh, so sweet of you to ask, Frank. I'm great. Stitches healed nicely.
[ Frank's voice again, although she's audibly struggling to keep pitch and not laugh. ]
"Glad to hear it. Ten four. Over and out."
[ As a curtain call on her little show, she takes a sip of beer. It's largely to hide her growing smile. ]
no subject
When at last she's finally done her impression routine, he offers up a pleasant compliment for her troubles. )
Your comedy's almost as good as your grilling.
( Don't quit your day job, etc. etc. etc.
Anyway, the point is: he's not here for small talk. He's not trying to make conversation, because: see earlier point about not getting attached. )
no subject
Companionable silence drifts between them, but it doesn't last long. Nashua crushes it like an unrepentant kid crushing an anthill.]
Hey, did you talk to Kara?
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And then comes the question, and Frank feels something deep within his gut that can only be described as hopeless, utterly defeated resignation.
One long, beleaguered sigh later, he finally relents to ask: )
Kara who?
(
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[ Her gestures are big and indignant, but god only knows what they're supposed to actually indicate. They certainly don't form a picture of Kara. ]
Red hair, she bought you a drink?
[ When it becomes clear that he either doesn't remember or doesn't care, Nashua rolls her eyes over another sip of her beer. Maybe if this place wasn't so nice and spirit-free, she would be spending less time sticking her nose into the quote-unquote love life of someone who doesn't even seem to like her very much. Which is offensive, because Nashua is incredibly likeable, thank you very much — or so she chooses to believe. ]
Look, she's nice. [ A slight shrug. ] So normal, she's boring. She wants to open a fucking library in the city. She doesn't have any weird piercings.
[ A beat. ]
You know, probably.
[ Anyway!!!!! ]
I think "nice" and "boring" might be good for you.
no subject
In the interests of transparency, though, he truly believed with everything in him this was the set-up to a stupid joke and not an actual, legitimate question about a woman he fully, completely forgot existed. As it turns out, the painful joke option would have been preferable to this.
His grimace is blatantly visible, lips pulling back into cheeks, a frustrated little knit in his brow as he devotes So Much Concentration to notdogs roasting on an open fire. )
I don't date. ( He says simply, firmly — and then shoots a vaguely incredulous look her direction because he cannot help himself. ) And what would you even know about what's good for me, huh? Aren't you a little young to be a shrink? What are you, twenty-two, twenty-three?
no subject
[ It's stated easily, matter-of-factly. There's no defensiveness in it. ]
I'm definitely not a shrink. I just—
[ Pressing her lips together, she glances away and considers her next words. Over her shoulder, there's shrieks of laughter as a group of people take a running jump into the pool. Some splashed up water hits her in the back; she subtly shifts an inch to keep it from hitting the grill as well.
There's too much going on in her head. The quiet has given her thoughts too much room. She covers it up with a joke. ]
I think, when all the meat gives you a heart attack at fifty-five, it might be nice if someone is there to call an ambulance.
[ She doesn't say the quiet part out loud — that "normal" and "boring" might be an antidote for vigilante murder. ]
no subject
There's a space between what she thinks and what she says. A nice, sizable silence that speaks volumes, no matter how much effort she puts into keeping things light and casual.
Maybe she thinks he kills because he's lonely, and he needs some good woman to soften his heart up. Maybe she thinks having a girlfriend, a wife, a partner, would level him out and tether him to a more morally wholesome path. One way or another he's betting it ties back to that elephant in the room they don't really talk about, and it has him slowly shaking his head. )
I wouldn't worry about it. I get enough cardio.
( You know, what with all that murdering he does. )
Pretty sure however I wind up goin' out, an ambulance isn't gonna make a damn bit of difference. Appreciate the concern. Good lookin' out.
( He does not appreciate the concern. It is not good lookin' out. Go away, kid. Go do twenty-something pool-stuff. )
no subject
See, that— It's shit like that.
[ Adopts "his voice" again. ]
"Oh, I'm Frank, and I'm going to die taking out a million asshole criminals as a building burns down around me."
[ Back to her voice, neither high nor low and tinged with a Boston accent. ]
You know what my dad likes to do? He climbs. He's in a whole climbing club. Every week, they scale a fifty foot wall. It's great for cardio and middle-aged aggression.
no subject
( It's intoned pleasantly, with the deliberate, staged ignorance of a man who refuses to acknowledge the fact that he's seeing through the statement to the suggestion just behind it.
He flips a burger-shaped-thing with one hand. Brings his beer to his lips with the other. It's the daddest thing to ever happen at this cosmically displaced robot pool. )
I hope Mr. Nashville Senior and Marky Mark have a wonderful time together in climbing club.
( With a little juggling of beer bottles and plates and buns, she's soon presented with a perfectly grilled notdog pleasantly bunned on a paper plate, held out expectantly. )
Here. Stop giving me life advice and go eat.
1/2
What else does she need? ]
Thanks, Frank. I'll see you around.
2/2
But the heady mix of free (if poorly mixed) alcohol and the party atmosphere have left many fluxdrifts simultaneously drunk off their ass and thinking they're invincible. She's rifling through her bag for her keys when one such group approaches her.
"Hey," one of them says, his words greatly slurred. "Let us take your car."
Her expression only tightens for a second. When she turns around, she looks calm and mildly concerned. ]
I don't think you should be driving, man. But I can give you guys a ride. Hop in the back.
[ She's only just finished jerking a thumb toward the back seat when the ringleader, unsteady on his feet and his breath practically damp with the smell of beer, reaches for her bag. When he tries to pull it off her shoulder, she steps back, all patience vanishing from her face. ]
Dude. Come on, let go.
[ There likely is a better way to handle this, but it's late and she's tired. He has her almost pressed up against the side of the car when—
The sight of a very familiar set of boots rounding the corner causes her heart to leap into her throat. Turning her face away so it's hidden, she leans close to the guy and keeps her voice low. ]
Seriously, fucking go. I'm trying to help you.
[ The only response is a beer-soaked laugh in her face, one hand hard at her shoulder as the other rifles around in her bag. When his thigh presses against her leg, she feels her whole body shrivel. ]
no subject
Those familiar boots round the car parked beside hers, one measured step after another, until he slows to a halt some three or four feet away with his arms deliberately crossing over his chest. He can imagine what she probably thinks is gonna happen. That he's gonna pull out a gun or something, plug these drunk assholes right here in this parking lot without an hint at remorse. Leave her to walk away from the corpses sprayed in a fine mist of blood.
That's not what he intends to happen right now. There's a world of difference between taking a knife to an innocent civilian in an attempted robbery, and making a jackass of yourself by being an obnoxious drunk. Granted, yeah, there's absolutely a world where these idiots cross the line and make themselves valid targets, but they're not there yet, and he's not an impulsive bloodthirsty psycho. Usually.
There are a few steps to go through before bullets start flying. )
Everything okay here, Nashville?
( He speaks up loudly, voice deep and hoarse and scraping like gravel over concrete — the kind of deep that penetrates the drunken haze of the guy trying to insert himself between her thighs and into her bag for the keys. Dude freezes, then peels back a few uncertain inches.
"That your dad or something?" he asks stupidly, visibly hesitating. Frank doesn't bother hiding the way his eyes roll — he's maybe, what, thirteen, fourteen years older than her? It's not inconceivable, but it's a hell of a leap to make, unless Frank's looking a lot rougher these days than he realized. )
no subject
[ Drunk #1 frowns, his hips shifting back from hers as he attempts to puzzle that out.
"Wouldn't your brother's uncle also be your uncle?"
She takes the window given to slip away, even if this means awkwardly stumbling over Drunk #1's feet. She's no longer tucked between him and her car, which is a positive, but her arm is promptly grabbed and held in a way she can't easily escape from. They're so wasted that they're practically sweating beer, but that doesn't make her suddenly a font of upper body strength or sick ninja moves. ]
Look, everything's good. We're all cool.
[ She isn't talking to one person so much as every dude currently surrounding her. Yes, her arm is still captive. No, she's not particularly happy about it. ]
You need a ride back, Frank? These idiots didn't yell shotgun, so. All yours.
[ Idiots, while apt, evidently wasn't the right word. She's shoved back against the side of the car; the impact reverberates loudly across the stale air of the parkade as her spine collides against metal and glass. ]
no subject
To start with, it manifests in the form of taking two cool, collected steps forward and snatching up the hand that had the audacity to shove her back against her car. In one efficient, economical move, Frank's got the guy's fingers bent back, his wrist sticking out at an angle that looks uncomfortable and feels a lot more than that. It takes almost no pressure to steer the guy two or three paces back with this hold; even a drunk man can register the suggestion that they might wind up with their fingers snapped if he applies an ounce or two more.
From the guy's mouth comes a waterfall of thoroughly unimpressive sounds, to the tune of "Ah- ah- ah- ah- hold on- hold on- ahhh-" )
Nah, I'm good.
( He kindly answers Nashua, wholesale ignoring the pleading sounds of pain from the guy in his grip. )
You should get in the car- ( He starts, only to cut himself off when Drunk #2 makes to step forward, finally earning Drunk #1 a little acknowledgement: ) Tell him to back off, or I'll break it.
( For the record, the fact that he hasn't already is an indicator that he's keeping things calm. Just. You know. His definition of calm is a little different than most. )
no subject
It might become clear that she isn't a stranger to witnessing petty crime, whatever that means. ]
Look, dumbasses, last chance. Get in. Backseat only, but I won't kick you out if you blow chunks. Meter's running.
[ Drunk #3, still eyeing Frank like he thinks he might be able to take this guy, the unearned confidence seeping through very pore along with beer-tinged sweat, treats her to a charming epithet of fiercely muttered— bitch.
Sighing, her body language seems to slump into the open car door. She wants to leave... but the idea of leaving these guys alone with Frank twists her stomach into knots. ]
no subject
The hell- when'd they stop teaching stranger danger in schools, huh? You're really gonna stand there and let these assholes hop in your backseat-
( Drunk #3 sees his window of opportunity and makes a sudden move, lurching forward. There's a sickening snap followed by a heavy thud as he breaks the first guy's wrist in time to catch the third guy's arm and judo-flip him deftly onto the pavement hard enough to knock the breath out of his stupid, intoxicated lungs.
Drunk number one's shrieking out a shrill, feminine squall of pain. Drunk number three's got a boot on his throat.
Frank picks up where he left off: )
-like you don't think they'll pull some bullshit back there? Are you kidding me? Did you hit your head, or do you just get off on being a danger magnet? Get in the god damn car.
no subject
Fucking— [ It's sighed out, more at the whole situation than him. ] Stranger danger? They're so wasted they don't know their ass from a bowl of candy.
[ To her, leaving them to potentially try to drive themselves home or leaving them to squirrel around under Frank's gigantic boot are significantly worse possibilities than whatever limited mischief they can get up to in her backseat.
But Nashua still doesn't know who's coming at their new lives with appropriate expectations. Frank's worldview is repellent to her; not merely disquieting, it's incomprehensibly alien, it's something she can't make sense of. She spent her whole life believing two plus two is four and Frank Castle is trying to convince her it's actually nine-and-a-half.
Despite that, the car door closes behind her. She leans over from the driver's side toward the passenger seat window, her expression settled into thick lines and mouth mulishly flat. ]
C'mon, man. Leave them there. I'll drop you at your car. You can tell me some more about how dumb I am.
no subject
Unfortunately, reality's a more complicated equation than two plus two. There are variables.
Drunk number two, to his credit, sees his yowling buddy and the guy scrambling around under Frank's boot and decides he wants no further part of this shit. He ducks out like a coward, abandoning his friends to their fates. Frankly, he's the smartest of the three of them. )
You can stop worrying, kid, I'm not gonna kill 'em.
( He knows that's what this is about — or suspects, anyway. That she wants to get him in the car, because if he's with her instead of them she can be sure he's not putting a bullet in either of them. He gets it. She doesn't know him, she's got no reason to have any kind of beat on where his line is. Maybe she won't even believe the reassurance, but he offers it up anyway. )
I'm just gonna make sure they sleep it off. Go home, Nash.
no subject
And she does want to go home. Let the chittering and the creaking of the not-alive filter back in and lull her to sleep. She wants to be back in her shitty single room unit with its poor sound proofing and its insistence that a microwave is an acceptable substitution for an oven. This resort is so quiet — she's half-convinced someone scooped out her brain and replaced it with a coconut when she wasn't looking. ]
Okay.
[ It's softly said. Her gaze drops for a beat, checking on the guy under his boot. She doesn't enjoy the sight at all. There's no thrill of vindication, just a creeping sense of weariness with this weird world. ]
I'm trusting you, Franklin.
[ The windows roll up, the car pulls out smoothly.
A few days pass. Nash carries around loose, rushed, frenetic sketches of the three drunks in her sketchpad. Freckles, birthmarks, popped collars, bad haircuts, any little details she can remember. When a week passes and they don't appear, ghoulish and severe and furious, in her bathtub or the backseat of her car or the furthest corner of her closet, she relaxes. The next time she sees Frank, she greets him brightly. ]