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Arrivals Only

The Only Multiversal Airport

Arrivals Only RPG

Arrivals Only is a pan-fandom, journal-based role playing game, featuring characters from all different canons - movies, television shows, books - all snatched from their respective homes and forced to coexist in an abandoned airport, without any contact with the outside world.

We're a friendly, growing community, and welcome new players and characters alike, so please don't hesitate to join!



October 21st, 2007

(no subject)

Camilla cares a lot less about the television monitors now that her brother is on her side (as she thinks of it). He probably doesn't trust her any more than she trusts him, of course, but ... well, he's in a good mood. Both the twins are. And he knows now that there are people who are really not to be trusted -- whoever's filming them all, whoever's behind the cameras -- and Charles is not stupid. He's never been stupid. He's read his Polybius and his Plutarch and his Caesar just as much as Camilla has, and he's probably a better tactician than she's ever been, she can concede. (The irony of this she cannot begin to appreciate, of course. She isn't as mistrustful of her twin as she thinks she is; she hasn't the faintest idea what he's really been up to, or where those missing mementos of Henry really went.) And in the giddy honeymoon period of real reconciliation, something truer and warmer than the wary and tentative rapprochement of their first months in the airport, Camilla is just plain happy, and a little reckless.

So she's more free to wander, now. Her perambulations aren't restricted by the internal imperative to dodge surveillance.

It's paid off, so far, in that she's met a new acquaintance already. Maybe she'll meet others, she thinks. Or see people she used to know before she became quite so scarce. She wonders who is still in the airport and who's been set free. (The latter condition, she thinks, might result from ranking low with focus groups.)

She's currently trying to set up an impromptu miniature golf course using sturdy plastic glasses she found in the hotel kitchen. There are golf balls and putts and suchlike in the airport gift shop (did this place cater to executives, once upon a time, before it was repurposed into a purgatory?) and that gave her the idea. Really, golf isn't her game, but you can't drive croquet spikes into the concourse flooring, can you? What she's trying to figure out is how to keep the glasses from rolling away under the impact of the ball. She's got to be something of an odd sight: a blonde woman in summer sandals, nice slacks, and an incongruous grey t-shirt that's clearly too big for her (it's her brother's), kneeling in front of a bright orange cup which she's laid on its side and corralled about on three sides with Jenga blocks.

(( back from vacation, will reply with relative promptness! ))

October 7th, 2007

(no subject)

Jo had never met an airport that wouldn't let you out and so, that being said, she'd spent the past four months in a hazy sort of disbelief and not talking to much of anyone. It was limbo, purgatory, insert your religious idea here and she wasn't having it anymore. If she had to be crazy, after all, she was doing it with other people and fully embracing the damn situation.

She didn't know if any of the other people she'd met when she first arrived were still around (she hadn't been paying attention after all) but she'd try to meet back up with them and maybe make some new friends. The one guy had been a reporter, she remembered, and then there was James. She didn't really know what he did at all, but she'd pretend to be interested in finding out.

Besides, the snack machine food was getting crazy old and somebody had to know something more about the airport than she'd found out in the past few months. Great minds think alik...wait, no, brainstorming was more than one person. That was it, she wanted to brainstorm.

[Open to all]

October 2nd, 2007

(no subject)

There was something to be said for hands. And feet. And...tangibility. Other people had books. Other people had sex. Other people had the excersize machines and the swimming pool. Hermes had his own thoughts. And right now, his thoughts were profusely cussing him out for ever wanting to kill himself in the first place. He was bored. He was mind-numbingly, maddeningly, perpetually bored.

He wanted to take it out on somebody, but obviously that was not going to happen. In no small part because he couldn't find anyone to take it out on, but also because what he really wanted to do...

...really, really wanted to do...

He sighed. Like that was going to happen.

At any rate, the only signs of life he'd seen lately (drifting through the ventilation as ever) was that Camilla chick, the robot guy, and someone he'd never seen before. Even Wesker seemed to have vanished (after promising there would be death, the bastard). Maybe they'd all found a way out.

Oh, they'd better not have found a way out. Hermes would be even more pissed if they got out and left him there alone.

He sighed again and stared into the duty-free shop. Well, it was as good a place as any for a bodiless not-ghost to drift. And maybe he'd find someone to harass. He picked a direction seemingly at random (toward the liquor, which might have said more about his mental state than he cared to let on, even if he didn't plan on "drinking" ever again) and floated off in search of something relatively interesting.

September 13th, 2007

Camilla had mentioned a bookstore in their last conversation*. It seemed a misnomer to call it as such as the definition of a store, as Joe understood it to be, was a place where things were bought but in the airport whatever the "store" offered was free.

He was picking through the books that sat on the shelf like little soldiers waiting to be picked for duty. When Joe removed one and inspected it the others would stand quietly in wait unless the shelf was particularly weak of books and the pitiful army would fall in on itself until Joe slid their keystone back in place. None of the books seemed to interest him right away. Then again, he wasn't used to scoping books to read.

Books did exist where he was from but he hadn't had much contact with them. All of what education he knew was given through databases of definitions and loose 'if this then that' situations programmed into the mainframe of his brain. Also stored were songs, common phrases, and the potential to learn from past conversational mistakes that would give him away as being an AI instead of a genuine human being. All of this rested  in a small cube in the center of his forehead and all could be destroyed by simply opening his face, pulling that cube out, and wiping it clean or physically beating it to a demolished state.

He ran a finger along the spines of all the colorful and intriguing titles and stopped at a particularly interesting design. He bent down to the checkerboard pattern that reminded him of casino cames. As he pulled the book out the checkerboard pattern cut off into a deep maroon. He continued to pull the book out and a colorful still life on the front of the book caught his eye. After the solid, hefty book was complete from its niche between its fellow troupe Joe studied the book more carefully.

"Cookbook," Joe said, aloud. The word was fancifully scribed on the cover overlapping the still photograph of pastries and meals served on a grand dinner table with wines and champagnes. At the end of the letter 'k' in 'Cookbook' the letter's last leg turned into a wooden spoon.

Despite Joe's inability to taste or ingest food of any kind, the descriptions of the meals and how to prepare them fascinated him. It amazed him that such simple ingredients could mix together in such a way to look and taste how they hadn't before. And the exquisite almost sexual details of the deserts and wines were something akin to his way of thinking. It was almost as if they'd taken his former line of work and rescripted and recast it with various edible items.

He continued to flip through the large book with growing interest.

((*Incomplete and backdated.))

August 29th, 2007


Bored to tears, Camilla had gone rummaging in the gift shop to find a game to play. She'd played so much solitaire she was beginning to develop an irrational dislike of some of the face cards. It was there that Mr. Wednesday found her again.

Whatever magic he might or might not possess, no one could ever take the gift of gab away from Wednesday. He also seemed to have a knack for finding things. Too bad the lady wasn't in the mood for cards. Chess was a possibility, Wednesday remembering long-gone games of hnefatafl, and he tucked a cheap chess set under his arm before they left. What they wound up playing together today, however, was a game far simpler.

It was silly, almost. It made Camilla laugh, half at herself and half at the game, and that was all to the good; that was what Wednesday wanted to hear.

They sat across from one another at a square table in the cafe and stacked wooden blocks in a tower, then pulled out the blocks one by one and stacked those atop the others still. The clatter of blocks when the tower fell made Camilla start a little in her chair, eyes gone wide, and then she laughed at herself again. Wednesday grinned and started the tower anew.

(( Yes, they are playing Jenga. Anyone at all is welcome to tag in; Camilla and Wednesday will answer in a single comment, as I play them both. ))

August 21st, 2007

(no subject)

Inspired by the knowledge that a madman who wanted to turn them all into zombies was loose in the terminal, Edison had been very busy trying to find a way out. Of course, the process mostly consisted of trying all the things he'd already tried shortly after his arrival, only with a newfound fervor.

Edison had, up until recently, considered the whole thing a sort of forced vacation. Or maybe a prank on Bryce's Murray's Max's someone's part. So while he had made his own efforts to escape, it was with the half-assed attitude of someone who knew his network would be coming to find him eventually and...

There were a dozen other people all saying the same thing: no one could get out. If they could get out, why weren't they gone already? Right?

Not anymore! He still firmly believed Theora would track him down eventually, but eventually seemed too long to wait. And so, having once again exhausted all the avenues he could think of to get out, he was back to trying to wedge a door open with a crowbar. It wasn't working; it wasn't going to work. He knew this.

He kept trying anyway.

August 18th, 2007

To say Joe was back in business would be a gross misnomer. Camilla had been anything but business as usual. Camilla had been anything but business, period.

In the technical aspect of it all, Joe's primary function was still in tact but his imperative and restriction program had been compromised by a highly unlikely conscious suppression of programmed responses. In other words, Joe had free will. It sounded simple but, in fact, Joe essentially broke himself with the help of Camilla Macaulay, a name that still hung in his mind even while he walked the airport, following the pattern the tile made below his heavy feet.

With each step there was a resounding click of his shoes.

Outwardly, Joe was no different. His walk was still a purposeful strut. His face was still defaulted to an expression void of emotion. But inside his entire innards were reworking the changes that had taken place that fateful occurrence with Camilla. What went through his mind was nothing like human thought, though. There wasn't exactly an internal dialog running about, balancing the pros, cons, and doubts of this new--way of being, for lack of a better phrase. It was, rather, a specific collection of affirmative and declarative statements.

I am broken.

I am no longer what I was.

This is because I am broken.

I was not broken before.

I was not the way I am now, before.

What am I now that I wasn't before?


To impair or weaken the power.


To repair; renew.

I am renewed.

I am fixed.

But I am still broken.

Amid all of this internal contradiction Joe caught sight of clothes in a nearby shop. He made quick work of the distance across the aisle as he strode to the well-lit gift shop. Camilla had told Joe of a store with clothes that he didn't have to pay for and that would be more practical if he ever had to wash his current clothing again.

Now, this was most likely not the shop Camilla was speaking of, but Joe didn't know this. All he knew were the facts: there was a store with clothes in it, this was a store with clothes in it. If Joe had been driven to wander any further, though, he might be more likely to find what store Camilla was actually talking about. As it was now, he was perusing the collection of various 100% cotton t-shirts screen-printed with various vacation spots of varying eras.

The shirts spoke of things Joe had never heard of before: white water rafting, the largest ball of string, a Hard Rock Café (something that Joe quirked a smirk for), seeing some sort of city made of rocks, and visiting a plethora cities with their names in bold puffy print on questionable colors like lime green and electric orange.

Finally, Joe settled on Hard Rock Café, disrobing with little thought of anyone passing by until he remembered the discomfort Camilla presented with doing this. Looking out the class display walls of the store, he ducked behind an aisle to try on the shirt.

It wasn't necessarily a flattering shirt, Joe mused as he looked in a hat mirror. At this, he glanced up at an especially titillating array of head-wear, some the likes of which he'd never seen before. He dodged the neon visors and snatched up a hat that would have been more comfortable on an Australian adventurer than Joe. The brown, leather hat's brim was pinned up on either side and a long string sprouted from each side, tied in a bow in the middle.

Joe looked down at his pants, suddenly seeming out of place in the oddball ensemble. Quickly, Joe nabbed a pair of cheap Bermuda shorts with an Hawaiian print and shelled off his shoes for the just as satisfying sound of plastic flip-flops. This was a far cry from a comparatively sophisticated jaunty look to a less satisfactory style. Joe was completely aware of this as he studied his appearance. He doubted that this had been what Camilla had envisioned with his discovery of the new clothing. He felt somewhat disappointed in his journey as he continued to discern his image in the reflection of the shop's windows.

August 1st, 2007

It was, in many ways, a relief to be able to leave her room for the first time in a week, but Elliot just wished she didn't have to do it with a baby in her arms.

Okay, so it was her baby, but she was kind of pissed at him. She was still really sore and felt like she'd been gutted with an ice cream scoop. She supposed it was better to be carrying him around than to have him squirming and kicking and generally being a buttface inside her, though.

"Buttface," she muttered to the tiny bundle in her arms as she walked through the corridors of the hotel in a kind of limping shuffle. "Maybe that's what I'll call you. Buttface Reid."

He didn't cry. He never cried. It was strange, really - Elliot had never seen a newborn baby that didn't cry all the time. But her son - God, it was weird to even think it; her son - never did. Except when he was hungry, and even then, he just made little sounds that, somehow, never failed to wake her up in the middle of the night to feed him.

She wasn't sure how she felt about being a mom yet. It hadn't really sunk in, she guessed. She still felt awkward with the baby in her arms, like it was a doll or something.

And she couldn't think of a name for him. Buttface Reid just didn't seem right, and she couldn't find the list she had written some months ago.

She was sad he wasn't a girl. Then she could have called him Bridget.

Elliot winced a little as she sank down into an armchair in the lounge, shifting a little to accommodate the baby in her arms. She thought he was asleep, but sometimes it was hard to tell if he was faking or not.

Faking? How can a baby fake being asleep? It's a baby, for frick's sake! It's not an alien!

Sometimes, though...he really creeped her out.

[OOC: Yep, Elliot had the baby! (Thread's not quite finished yet, though.) I meant to post her ages ago, so this will be backdated to the 1st of August. Come say hi to the airport's newest "arrival"! xD I may be a bit slow with tags, but I'll do my best. ♥]

August 13th, 2007

(no subject)


The sleep thing kept catching me off guard, the first few times. Not the dreams, mind you, but the whizbang firecracker process itself – losing hours of New Time in the blink of an eye. And let me tell you, it staggers when you’re not quite expecting it, the waking up part. Which is why, before I opened my eyes, I didn’t notice much was off the third or fourth morning of my little cruise on the ol’ corporeal yacht. (Not that Gunn’s body had much in common with said vessel, the poor boy. “Dinghy” might’ve been a cozier metaphor; deflated lifeboat, now that I think of it.) That there’s too much to take in the precise moment of waking would be a shameful understatement.

While I fully anticipated finding myself nose deep in the tobacco-scented plush of my Ritz London suite’s top-notch carpet as I jerked up, slipping off the bed with sunlight flooding my half open eyelids, it was a decidedly less pleasant surface that greeted my (probably) cocaine flecked schnoz upon hitting the ground.

I mean. Fucking ow.

Groaning, I turned over onto my back, blinking skyward. And once my retinas had stopped burning long enough to return focus to the rest of my eyeballs, they gave me more than one reason to believe I wasn’t any bloody where near the Ritz, or the Clerkenwell flat, or whatever other place in the material world that ought to see the possessed Declan Gunn waking in it, hungover on coke and booze or not.

I had then the tiniest itch to stretch my wings, so to speak; to drop the body then and there to regain my bearings, or something of the sort. But slipping into that state of being would bring with it all the buggering force of my angelic pain, and I went numb to the idea immediately. (Did it bother me that this bothered me? You betchyer bootstraps it did. But at the time, I tried not to think about it.)

Better to find out where in the name of Jimmeny Farking Christmas’s Bleeding Heart I’d ended up with the perception afforded by flesh alone.

So I rolled over again, scrambling to my feet, cursing under my breath, and experiencing for the first time the coppery bite of blood on my tongue (I didn’t realise what this delightfully piquant flavour was until later, when a wetness on my upper lip prompted me to swipe the back of my hand under my nose) as I righted myself.

‘Gabriel!’ I shouted.

No answer.

‘Gabbers, get down here you cheating cunt! What the-’ Just about then, I spun around and nearly walked smack into the glass front window of a shop proclaiming itself “Duty Free.” But it wasn’t any shock of just avoiding a collision that caused me to stop dead in my tracks. No, it was catching sight of the ghostly reflection facing me from the other side was responsible.

Why, you ask? Because, my dears, it was not the plain and balding visage of Declan Gunn that peered back at me.

The eyes were a cool and sharply etched blue, the hair short and blonde, the build stocky. Strange, yet familiar, and by that I don’t mean I’d an inkling of who the carcass belonged to. (Which was, in itself, a bit odd...but more on that later.) It was so...hm. Well. If I didn’t know any better, I’d call it a pretty approximation of an incorporeal essence made tangible, as though some ethereal casting director had decided a disembodied voice wasn’t going to cut it for yours truly.

‘Strike that,’ I muttered heavenward, having made some headway in feeling myself up by the time the previous train of thought had completed its circuit. Inevitably, the belt buckle was undone and the flies to the jeans opened as I snuck a little peek down between my newly begotten thighs.

Not bad. But as any pubescent lad will tell you, you really don’t know about these things ‘til they’ve been taken for a spin. And I was resolved to have a wank right there and then, I tell you, when while fumbling around with my jeans my hands came in contact with the comforting bulge of a pack of Silk Cuts in the front pocket.

Well, getting one of these beauties between my lips took precedence over putting the new equipment through its paces. So I did just that, wandering into the shop (which was still as a grave, by the way) to plunder a Zippo display, which yielded this little number. 

Needless to say, the old snake was well and truly pleased with himself as he fired up a cigarette and returned to the outside to lean (flies and belt open, face bloodied) his shoulders back against the window with a sigh.

August 10th, 2007

The atrium had a certain charm, untended as it was. (Was there an automatic sprinkler system that kept the plants watered? There was a fountain in the atrium that worked somehow. And there'd been a sprinkler system that drenched the old restaurant after the fire ... One night, Camilla thought, she would stay awake all night in the atrium, to see whether sprinklers came on.) With its greenery, this was the closest thing to outdoors that the airport afforded. Camilla often lounged here in the seating area with a book, her legs tucked under her or stretched across the seat beside hers, and let the sun pour down on her through the glass roof. Which, she imagined, was unbreakable, like all the windows ... But at least the televisions were not unbreakable, not if you knew the right people. Camilla was still quite satisfied with that little accomplishment.

Today she was leafing idly through something she'd found in the airport bookshop, not the kind of thing she'd normally read, but what else was there to do? The book was about global warming and things like that. It could really be very alarming, she reflected, not alarmed at all, half-drowsing.

(( Come bother Camilla! She'll welcome the diversion.))
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