INTRO LOG: JULY

[inthenightmods]

INTRO LOG: JULY
IT'S HAPPENING AGAIN

characters: everyone.
location: the harbor, as well as the rest of town.
date/time: july 1-3.
content: beacon's newest batch of residents arrives on the ferry. winters, will, and rastus introduce themselves and explain the situation.
warnings: n/a.

welcome to beacon.

It's dim, and the room won't stop swaying, gently rocking you back and forth. A loud sound startles you fully awake, a deep, moaning call: a foghorn. As your eyes adjust, you note faint red light streaking through the room from a tiny, round window.

You've found yourself in a private room, lying on a bed. The last things you remember are the events that led up to your death. Beside you is a folded tablet and a lantern that glows steadily with a healthy flame.

You're on a ship. And that ship is docking.

Making your way to the deck, and eventually the pier, you find only moonlight to greet you, and a dark forest beyond. There are other people here, each with their own unique lantern, and many of them look just as lost as you are. On the ferry you've just disembarked from, the speaker system begins to play a song.

In the distance, across the waters of the lake, you can see the tall silhouette of a lighthouse, its red light slowly turning.

•••
Winters and Will are waiting for you on the beach. Winters flags you down from where he's standing atop a large rock, surveying the gathering crowd. Will stands next to him, though he's monkeying with his tablet and looks rather bored. He barely looks up as Winters speaks:

"First thing's first: I'm sorry you're here. There's no easy way to break this news, so let's just get it over with, hm? You're dead. Or, ah, you've died. Call this the afterlife if you want, or don't if that ain't your thing, but point is, you're here 'cause you died. Those are the facts.

This world's dead, too. You've noticed by now it's pretty dark, yeah? That's 'cause there's no life here, not anymore. And that lantern you've got? That's your life, so to speak. The flame goes out, you die, and vice versa. Keep it close. Should be easy enough to remember on account of how the sun don't rise. You'll need something to see by.

This place is called Beacon, and that's Lake Red Jacket. Town's 'bout a mile down the road, and we've got a bonfire there, but that's the only other light you'll see in this place. Save for the moon and all, though the sky won't do you much good out in the woods. I'll let Rastus explain the bonfire to y'all.

Ah, right. I'm Ben Winters—Winters'll do—and this here's Will Ingr— What? For christ's sake, Dr. Will Ingram. Likes to think he's the brains of the operation, as you can see. If you've got questions about these tablets, he's your guy. Rastus tends to the fire, and you'll find him in town. He's married to his job in a way. And you may never've seen a person like him back wherever you came from, but don't make a big fuss over it. He's a nice fellow. Mind your manners.

The three of us are leftovers from past resets. We came here on that ferry just like you, but it's just us left now. 'Sides the Lighthouse Keeper, but it'll be a bit before you get to meet her. She's got control over the town, see, and if she ain't satisfied with a group's performance, they get the axe. Town gets reset. If she pulls a reset on you folks, a couple of you might end up like me and Will here, giving this speech to the next crop."

The red beam of the lighthouse pulses over the group, over the trees. Winters glances up to watch it swing out over the bay.

"But don't hold it against her. Ain't her fault we're in this mess, and we've all got a job to do, including you.

For now, concentrate on accepting your lot, yeah? We're here to answer your questions, but we ain't gonna tell you all there is to know just yet. Some things are best learned on your own, and some of it we just don't want to saddle you with yet. There's a limit to how long we can stay here safely, that's true, but thing is, we do got time. Time enough to play this smart. Do better than the folks before us did. Settle in, make peace, explore a bit if you're up for it. Use these first couple weeks to come to grips. You ain't gonna be any good to the town if you don't sort yourself out before worrying about what comes next.

So listen up: You're dead. You died. Whatever your old life was, it's done now. None of us can go back, so all we've got is forward. Welcome to Beacon. Could be worse, yeah?"

ooc.

Hey there, wonderful players, and welcome to In the Night! For this intro log, all three NPCs will be available for chatting with, whether your character wants to make casual conversation or ask questions about all this. The headers on each NPC toplevel are there for easy reference as to what each of them are responsible for, but you're welcome to go to any NPC for whatever reason. You're welcome to assume your character has overheard any NPC conversation to learn more about the game. After the NPC threads have died down, we'll compile the info learned ICly and add it to the game history page. If your character would contribute something specific to the game history records, let us know!

DELIVERIES

The following packages can be found in the cargo hold:

• The monthly store restock

QUICKNAV
comms	|	network • logs • memes • ooc
pages	|	rules • faq • taken • mod contact • player contact • calendar • setting • exploration • item requests • full nav

Comments

[rehabbed]

[ That knife stays outstretched. His feet keep shifting just ever so slightly — Jesse is dangerous, but he doesn't want to have to be. He's never wanted to have to be dangerous in order to survive, but that's the only life he's known in those final two years before his mortal coil dragged him down here. He knows what this guy is, too: If the gun and holster, and that stupid hat, hadn't been there to already give it away, that carefully reasoned spiel sure would have all on its own. Fucking cops. Jesse watches the guy crouch and ease down his gun, a watchful piercing look fixed on him. ]

Stop talking. [ That's a warning, cold and forceful. Jesse's eyes are unnervingly dark. ] I'm well aware of the gun-to-knife probability ratio, asshole.

[ Is Jesse going to lunge into an attack? Seems he might. But then, after a long stare, his shoulders sag a little and his grip on the knife slackens, before he gestures at the guy with it. ] Stand up. Keep your hands where I can see 'em. [ And without missing a beat, he demands: ] Name.

[ultimatums]

[ as he's straightening up again: ] Raylan Givens. Forty-one. Born Harlan, Kentucky. I believe I'm a Gemini, although I don't put much stock in that.

[ to raylan, this might as well just be another day at the rodeo (ha ha), although he is starting to feel slightly vindicated that this place isn't full of a bunch of heroes dying in the line of duty now that he's got what's transparently an incredibly paranoid junkie waving a knife at him like a conductor's baton. ] You feelin' up to tradin'? I'd sure like to know who I'm speakin' to.

[rehabbed]

[ Jesse squints, equal parts incredulous and still deeply suspicious. That's way more information than Jesse needs, or asked for. A long pause, knife still at the ready. What's this cop seriously gonna do, though? Lock him up? Ride his ass all Schrader style? He's not a cop here, is he? Just another dead asshole. With a reluctant sag of his shoulder, his hand holding the knife drops down at his side. The mistrustful look trained on the guy remains unwaveringly piercing. ]

Jesse.

[ Short, to the point, unfriendly. ]

[ultimatums]

Jesse. [ well, that's something, at least. more something: seeing him lowering the knife. he doesn't react outwardly, but there's a shred of relief that he won't end up getting stuck with the goddamn thing. that'd only be embarrassing. ] Like Jesse James.

[rehabbed]

[ Like... Jesse James. A sudden memory of Mike erupts in his head. It's just a flash, like a moment caught in time — but the memory of Mike standing opposite Mr. White, the pile of money on the table between them. The stale, sweaty smell of that hot room. The smell of all that money. The way Mike had been looking at Mr. White, with that world weary stare of utter contempt. Telling Mr. White in that tiredly impatient tone of his that just because you shot Jesse James, don't make you Jesse James. Jesse's eyes lower for a second under the weight of the unexpected flashback. Mike. God, Mike. Tightening his jaw, he makes himself fix his focus back on the guy. ]

Yeah. Like Jesse James. [ That comes out dry, like how Mike would respond. Jesse throws his hands out like he's about to give more attitude... and then drops his arms to his sides, shoulders slackening. He lets out a relenting scoff, tongue working along in the inside of his mouth, and follows that up with a tired shrug. ] Look. I don't wanna stab you, okay? I'm not gonna stab you, unless you give me no choice. You just startled the shit outta me, barging in like that, is all. Name's Jesse, okay? Jesse Pinkman. And to answer your question when you first barged in here — I know there's an inn. But this is a better place to hide.

[ultimatums]

[ there's a lot right there that raylan could pull apart, if he were so inclined, but jesse seems flighty enough as it is and raylan doesn't want to worsen it by picking at the holes in his proverbial sweater and unravelling it piecemeal. in any case, he'd like to move on from the whole knife threat sooner rather than later. ]

I'm sorry I barged in, as you so eloquently put it, but in my defence, I didn't know it was someone's bedroom, seein' as how it's a church and all. Typically the only thing sleepin' in a church is kids through the Sunday mornin' sermon.

[rehabbed]

Yeah. [ Flat sarcasm leveled back at the guy—] 'Cause everythin' about this place screams "typical".

[ But — look. It's not like Jesse can't see that reasoning, despite his utter mistrust of this guy. He likely would have reacted the same way, if he'd come across some startled asshole wielding a knife at him when he'd been cautiously scoping out the church with Melisandre. Jesse's body language slackens with reluctant concession even more at coming upon that thought. His hands do a gesturing shrug at the room, knife curled in his fingers — the makeshift bed of pillows, the dusty mismatched scatter of broken furniture that he'd shoved into a corner, the glow from his lantern washing all the crooked shadows lurking about in the room in a cold, ethereally sterile blue. ]

Well, welcome to my eternal damnation church crib, bitch.

[ultimatums]

[ that may be so, but raylan still figures he has a point, which is the only thing lingering in his mind until that last sentence, which makes him recoil a little in gentle but genuine offence. ]

I put my gun down for you and you got the gall to call me a bitch about it?