Hello, my name is WILLIAM. I like INTERACTIVE FICTION and BALLET RECITALS.
1. name and shame
The man looks—not entirely out of place, but as though he ought to be outfitted with a clipboard, performing some kind of inspection. Instead, a pair of Navarch-issued handcuffs weigh down one pocket of his suit jacket (he does not wear a tie). He lingers in and around the loading bay, betraying no impatience but quick to turn at any sound. Eventually he'll tear himself away and head to the observatory, stopping to scope out the solitary confinement cells along the way.
His name tag is stuck to the thinning blond hair at the back of his head. Almost as if someone expected him to be wearing a hat.
a. Try to pull it off. Do it.
b. Once he's wise to the general shape of what's going on—once he's glimpsed a few name tags in passing—William's demeanor shifts from wary consideration something more on edge. He beckons the first person who doesn't look overtly suspicious over. Turns around. “What's the number?” he asks, quiet. Intent.
There is none, of course. He's a warden.
But you don't have to tell him that.
2. share(?) and care(?)
He nearly turns and leaves the mess hall: he despised this kind of thing on the other ship. Cookies and other sweet inducements, extravagant virtual parties. Anything to forget half the population was dead and the other half could fuck off whenever they liked.
But stay he does—now missing a patch of hair at the back of his head.
a. He selects a fruit from the dwindling supply, hefts it absently as he trails a cleaning bot around the mess hall. Sets the fruit directly in front of it to see how it reacts. More experimentation of this sort ensues.
b. Even—especially—if you have the look of a warden, he catches your eye and squints as though trying to dredge up a name. Instead it's a number he ventures: “One? No, six.” Or: “A lot, wasn't it?”
3. wildcard!
[ I'm planning to hit up individual inmates for interrogation threads, but if you're raring to go feel free to throw a starter here! Or whatever else your heart desires. ]
William | Warden
1. name and shame
The man looks—not entirely out of place, but as though he ought to be outfitted with a clipboard, performing some kind of inspection. Instead, a pair of Navarch-issued handcuffs weigh down one pocket of his suit jacket (he does not wear a tie). He lingers in and around the loading bay, betraying no impatience but quick to turn at any sound. Eventually he'll tear himself away and head to the observatory, stopping to scope out the solitary confinement cells along the way.
His name tag is stuck to the thinning blond hair at the back of his head. Almost as if someone expected him to be wearing a hat.
a. Try to pull it off. Do it.
b. Once he's wise to the general shape of what's going on—once he's glimpsed a few name tags in passing—William's demeanor shifts from wary consideration something more on edge. He beckons the first person who doesn't look overtly suspicious over. Turns around. “What's the number?” he asks, quiet. Intent.
There is none, of course. He's a warden.
But you don't have to tell him that.
2. share(?) and care(?)
He nearly turns and leaves the mess hall: he despised this kind of thing on the other ship. Cookies and other sweet inducements, extravagant virtual parties. Anything to forget half the population was dead and the other half could fuck off whenever they liked.
But stay he does—now missing a patch of hair at the back of his head.
a. He selects a fruit from the dwindling supply, hefts it absently as he trails a cleaning bot around the mess hall. Sets the fruit directly in front of it to see how it reacts. More experimentation of this sort ensues.
b. Even—especially—if you have the look of a warden, he catches your eye and squints as though trying to dredge up a name. Instead it's a number he ventures: “One? No, six.” Or: “A lot, wasn't it?”
3. wildcard!
[ I'm planning to hit up individual inmates for interrogation threads, but if you're raring to go feel free to throw a starter here! Or whatever else your heart desires. ]