It starts with a roll of thunder.
At least, that’s what you think it is—a low growl through the atmosphere that seems to echo deep and low in your chest—as you turn over in bed, or perhaps as you’re finishing your last drink at a local pub with some new acquaintances, or even as you’re walking home on otherwise safe streets, lamps and moonlight guiding your path. All’s well that ends well: the city is your haven, it’s been sold to you as such, and a little stormy weather never did much harm.
You close your eyes. You take a drink. You turn the corner.
But the sound continues, the vibration grows more oppressive, and you may think to yourself: Thunder shouldn’t shake my nightstand.
Thunder doesn’t send a pulse through the tequila in a shot glass.
Thunder wouldn’t compel the asphalt to rumble and churn beneath my boots.
It all happens very quickly after that; things fall apart.
The cheers of late-night partygoers tumble into a minor chord, sliding into screams—a party of five has just lost sight of two of its members as Main Street splits itself in zigzags rippling out from the city’s center. One side surges into the air as the other half plummets several feet down, small ravines forming along the thoroughfare. The damage replicates itself like dominoes, and citizens new and old alike cry for help into the empty night.
Someone is hanging onto the edge of one jagged, yellow-striped mound of asphalt, fingers slipping, grip temporary. Do you know them?
Do you help?
Within minutes, buildings begin to buckle under the stress of the earth shifting. Metal and concrete siding, roof tiles, window panes—what first sounds like cannon fire clearly presents itself as establishments crumbling while panicked citizens race to covered positions or out into the chaos of the openly shaking streets for any semblance of safety.
“Earthquake!” You hear. “Cover your head!”
The tallest buildings suffer the most damage (the bigger they are, the harder they fall). At the city’s heart, the clock tower sinks almost gently down as if feeling faint, seeking solace in the skirts of its foundation. People blink in shock as the dust rolls over them moments later.
Victims covered in soot and debris, looking for all intents and purposes as if they’d been disturbed from their graves, disperse across the city, trying to reach the authorities, to find their loved ones. It’s clear that amidst the rubble, both formed and newly falling, some of these loved ones are trapped. You hear desperate, muffled calls, buried beneath layers of shattered stone and cement. Voices struggling to be heard through the ongoing shriek and groan of the earth… still… shaking. One of these voices may even be your own. Are you near? Can you lead someone to safety?
Can you pull victims from the rubble? Are you, yourself, in trouble?
The city bank’s vault is loose, no doubt. The shops are in trouble, security gates destroyed. Do you take advantage while you can?
Whatever you decide, watch for the emergency vehicles and fire trucks barreling their way toward the center of destruction, rescue crews ready to spot those in need. Perhaps you can help them. Perhaps they can help you, instead. (Perhaps they can apprehend you, too, if you misbehave and don’t cover your tracks.)
The rumble continues, curls its way like a fist further out towards the city limits, losing ferocity as it does, but it takes the temporary housing district for its final victim. The city’s newest arrivals won’t get much sleep tonight. Rifts in concrete walls crawl their way from the ground floors, up, all vine and sinew and spider web. Some are more severe than others. While the first floor rooms may find more damage to their walls, bedroom windows bursting as foundations tilt, the upper floors will see things end up just a hair off in balance—askew. Put a glass of water on the table, and it may not stay in one place for long.
Surely the building isn’t safe enough to sleep in, not now. Can you make it safe? Can you reach out to your neighbors? How do you manage?
Three hours after the initial disturbance, long after earlier news programs had urgently advised all city dwellers to take due cover during the apparent earthquake, a crackling message filters through across television screens, electronic billboards, and on your city-issued devices. Mayor Drake sits in full view in front of the Energem, the symbol of the city, its life force. It is in one piece, from the looks of it, and so is she (if understandably haggard and dark around the eyes). “Citizens of Cadelle, as you know, we’ve suffered quite the seismic anomaly this evening. Tectonic plate shifting is not abnormal in a city so near the coast, but we had yet to experience an earthquake of this magnitude in all our recorded history. Although most of the damage was focused towards the city’s center, that center was hit hard.”
The side of her mouth twitches minutely, as though she is biting back further words, and instead, she plasters on a smile of pure grit. “Our top tier seismology center is already on the case, and the administration will keep you informed of any significant findings. In the meantime, we wish to thank all our rescue workers and volunteer citizens who helped our loved ones find shelter and safety. Please be advised we will begin reconstruction of our Community Housing Facility immediately. Volunteers to assist with this project, and with the restoration of privately owned establishments along Main Street, are welcomed, even encouraged. After a more in-depth assessment, we may be able to create paying job opportunities for the duration of this project. Please stay tuned.”
A constructive spin on this tale couldn’t hurt, could it?
“For now, we wish for you to stay safe. Food and shelter accommodations at the public gymnasium are being made ready for those of you currently left without rooms. We apologize for the communal nature of these accommodations, but it is the best we can provide on emergency notice. We appreciate your patience, and your help.”
And with that closing remark, the feed cuts.
Mayor Drake’s shoulders slide out of their poised position, and she bows her head, hand over her brow.
Behind her, unbeknownst to anyone, the Energem flickers—just once.
On the far side, beneath the cover of the protective wall, a small fissure has formed in the crystal surface.
A kinetic rift.
For more in-depth information about this event and how it affects your character, to ask event-specific questions, and to plot with your fellow players, please visit the event's OOC PLOTTING POST. |
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cuddlecity2017-08-12 12:00 pm
will — ota
no subject
it's enough to spur her into action, untrained gut instinct directing her to curve slim fingers around the barrier of asphalt, scrambling effort to break it apart, pull the pieces out of the way. it's slow going, but she's trying, okay? ) Just hang in there, okay? I'm going to get you out of there, okay, just — stay with me, okay? ( so reassuring. she really doesn't sound like she knows what she's doing, and if she's totally honest, she doesn't. without jason's leadership keeping her focused, kim feels a little in over her head, like she's trying to save the world all on her own. not exactly a good feeling in the middle of a crisis.
somehow, her brain remembers a lesson from a cpr class she'd taken one summer, when she was trying to increase her babysitting fees in order to earn gas money for beach trips with amanda clark. a lifetime ago, it seemed like, but hey. at least she remembered it. )
Can you, uh, can you tell me something about yourself? What's your name? ( ugh. lame and lamer. ) You're supposed to try and stay awake...
no subject
( man, he's either fucking nuts, or he drank more cans of cheap, watery beer than he remembers. but this chick — okay, maybe he's following gender biases here with the pink, but he's in the middle of a goddamn crisis — totally looks straight out of his shitty old basic cable television that he'd sit on the floor and watch for hours on end, eyes practically glued to the screen.
she definitely looks like some fancier, tricked out version of his first ever crush, the motherfucking pink ranger from mighty morphin power rangers. he's simultaneously too drunk and not drunk enough for this shit.
— oh? is she talking to him? she's definitely talking to him, not that he's getting any visual clues from behind that helmet of hers. will slouches against the wall a little to prop himself up, tries to answer, ) Simba's the fucking best. Will. I mean, I'm Will. Simba's my kid.
no subject
but will is a name she can work with. as the slab of asphalt blocking the doorway recedes into a pile of rubble and dust, kimberly carefully climbs over, hooking a hand over the doorframe to plant two feet firmly on the biggest patch of solid ground she can find. ) Okay, Will. I'm Ki— ( she almost introduces herself as kimberly, the word catching on her tongue at the last possible second, zordon's reminder ringing loudly in her ear. get it together, you can do this. ) — I'm a Power Ranger, I'm here to help you.
( it's the first time she's introduced herself as such. it feels good, to make this thing she's doing a real thing, to stake a claim to the armor worn so proudly over her skin. she's a fucking power ranger, okay. she can do this. she can totally rescue this dude.
a step closer reveals that he's not stuck, technically, just trapped by the high rising shelf of concrete and asphalt and bar flooring. kimberly extends a hand towards him, palm out, and nods. ) Grab on. I'll pull you out, and then we'll get out of here, okay?
no subject
( that's his only response as will stares at the person in front of him for a few very, very long moments. no fucking way, i'm not grabbing your hand? that would be the natural conclusion to gather, considering when he says it.
but no, will's just having a terrible case of delayed reaction, finally registering her introduction way, waaay after the fact. )
You're a goddamn Power Ranger? You're shitting me. No fucking way, ( he blathers on, shaking his head, despite the fact that he'd thought about it five seconds before this. did cadelle accidentally make his childhood wish come true on accident? is the hot pink ranger actually rescuing him right now?
it's why, despite what sounds a hell of a lot like protestations even when it's not, will's quick to reach out to grab the ranger's hand, the textbook definition of fucking #shook when his fingers curl around hers, housed in metallic pink. )
no subject
( no what? no, you don't want to be rescued? though he can't see it from behind the gray tint of her mask, kimberly's brows furrow in confusion, a hand resting on her hip as she stares at this dude who happens to be stuck in a bar in an earthquake but still somehow wants to refuse any help, mild bewilderment settling in. okay, he doesn't want her help, so... what now? does she just leave? say "nevermind, peace out" and bounce the way she came in?
something seems off about that.
luckily, clarification comes with a spilled out continuance, not that it really helps her any. she just goes from feeling confused about his decline of her offer to confused about his recognition of the name. she hadn't thought there was anyone from angel grove here, and billy had said news shouldn't have gotten very far yet. the local news wasn't even calling them power rangers yet consistently.
and yet, this guy not only seemed to recognize the name, but to be excited about it? like it meant something to him? weird.
the sensation of his hand curling around hers spurs her out of her mental haze with a shock, and so her grip on his is a little tighter than it should be, her tug to pull him up and out of the newly created ravine stronger than it might have been. strong enough to earn a sharp crack, pressure applied in all the wrong places, like the sound of —
oh, fuck. )
Oh my god, are you okay?
no subject
crack. will's whole world goes white for a second.
and then he's back, kneeling at the top of the small ravine, vision blurry and head spinning and wave upon wave of red hot pain coursing through his arm, twisted in a way that feels so fucking unnatural he wants to barf or yell or cry or something. what the fuck? will doesn't know what to do, doesn't know if he should be holding it close to his chest or if bending it will make it worse, doesn't know if he should let it hang at his side, or what.
the pulsating sound of pain, adrenaline ringing in his ears, only allows him to vaguely register that there's still a power ranger in front of him, and she's definitely trying to talk to him, and she definitely just broke his fucking arm.
he inhales sharply, prepares to reassure her and say that yeah, he's fucking okay, but then he inadvertently tries to flex his fingers and it all goes to hell as pain shoots through him. ) Holy fucking shit fuck balls it hurts so fucking bad Jesus motherfucking Christ —