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Opening titles
[ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g2eHh4GcJMQ"]“Own Little World” by Celldweller[/ame]
(Celldweller, 2003)
Storyguide
Scotty Rave
The Players
Kain, Tigerhawk21, Icefish, Furyou Miko,
Arieoelle, The_Bladesman, B Samurai
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The first thing people unconsciously noted about the hospital wing was that it was permeated by a reek of antiseptic. It came with the blast of cool air emitted from the fans whenever one of the entranceways opened. This fact in itself was hardly out of the ordinary, no more than the constant whines and squeaks of machines, the rattling of metal bedframes, or the ringing drone of telephones in the nurse’s stations. The odd thing about it, however, was that this smell did not cause light-headedness or the dizzying feeling of inertia typically associated with places like this. It made all those who entered the complex sharply aware of what was going on around them. There was only a small amount of staff, but they were certainly never without something to do. They were always seen to be doing something or going somewhere. Such was the case of Doctor Derleth Hope, a man whose age and reliance on an ornate, eagle-topped walking stick belied his speed. His ability to maintain such an alarming stride led people on the wing to joke that he was so swift he was even fast asleep. That sort of thing was always said behind the good doctor’s back because he was not a man known for his sense of humour. His two charges, within moments of meeting him, discovered they had to at least jog just to keep pace with him, for he was already rounding the corner before they even reached their full stride. Doctor Hope reached their destination first, coming to a halt only because of the electronically-locked double doors that blocked the way further. He turned his head, with its high, domed brow and long, aquiline nose, to check his companions were still with him, before he reached out with the end of the cane and pressed it to a button on the wall beside the rightmost door. There was a pop of static from a hidden speaker.
“Doctor Hope, and visitors,” he said. A buzz, and a metallic clunk as a lock-bolt slid open. Hope lowered his cane back to the floor and pushed open the door for the two others first. A Nazzadi with a large pair of spectacles on her pretty face, and a slightly older, human woman of Asian ancestry, whose hair was dyed an almost unrealistic range of colours. They entered the waiting room one after the other, and Doctor Hope followed after. The two women had only met in passing before, and knew each other only by aliases.
The Nazzadi was called Inaba. The Asian was known as Rotor.
There was a low, wooden table surrounded by chairs that did not look altogether comfortable to sit on at length, and a pile of magazines layered in the middle of it. Directly next to that was a wheeled cart piled up with packaged foods, tins of soft drinks and a few cartons of fruit juice. A water cooler and a coffee machine stood side-to-side nearby. The lighting within the room was subdued. Shadows of rippling water danced across the wall, although where they originated from was not immediately apparent.
“You can make yourselves comfortable here for the time being,” said Hope, “the rest of your new colleagues are in there.” Using his cane, he gestured towards a second set of doors in the opposite wall. These ones had small, gridded windows in them, but a curtain had been drawn over on the other side. “They should be waking up about now, if not very soon, however I think it would be best to allow them a few minutes to gather their bearings and come out of their own accord, rather than burst in unannounced.”
Beyond the unlocked but closed doors of the ward proper were six beds. In them were six people, at various stages of wakefulness. The curtains around the beds had been pulled shut, as the only things sparing their respective modesties were the sheets. Their clothes were cleaned and neatly assembled atop short bed-side cabinets. A gentle, ambient music played over the tannoy, barely audible enough to be called a sound, but quite detectable if one stopped and listened. Up on one wall, a clock ticked rhythmically. It read 10:45 a.m.
As the new-born Tagers were stirred from their imperfect slumber, their senses adjusting from an impairing fog to clarity, they slowly began to remember what had happened to them. For three days, none of them had enjoyed anything by way of food or drink. They had faced muscle cramp and crippling boredom, then indescribable turmoil as the Rite of Sacred Union opened their souls to the higher dimension and fused them with entities from beyond time and space. The vague sensation of transformation tingled on the surface of their skin, from before the sheer, exhaustive strain of the traumatic ritual had driven them into unconscious relief. There was no way of telling without questioning somebody who had been there exactly how many days and nights had passed since these people had achieved their divinity, but a few things were clear: they were alive, hungry, thirsty, and not alone. Not only did each of them have to meet a new group of people, they could each sense the smallest voice in the back of their minds. A partner for life, however long that life might be.
For Torch, Feast, Lancer, Daredevil, Stealth and Ghost, the urge came again to forget thoughts about alien mind-melding and magickal rituals and focus on more immediate concerns -- sweet, sweet sustenance.
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