Who: Rip Hunter and you?
Action: On the Marvisa
When: Apr 14; midday-ish
[No doubt it's a story that's been heard before: boy meets timeship, boy takes over protecting history after blowing up the people who used to do it, boy gets brainwashed (twice), boy gets rescued, boy is left to try and figure out who he even bloody is anymore. Yet for all the things that have not hold steadfast in Rip's life as of late, certain rules remain seemingly unbreakable. Chief among them (and most relevant, in this instance), is that nothing will ever go according to Rip Hunter's plan. It's rather unfair, really. He hasn't even decided what he intends to do, and now here he is, waking up in the middle of God-knows-where that's neither his jumpship nor the Waverider.
So he does as anyone might when they've apparently been kidnapped: goes for his gun. Of course it's not there, shock and surprise, leaving Rip patting his pockets and trying to figure out what, beyond an empty holster, he's been left with. Some personal items, what he had on him that he can last remember, but nothing resembling the weapons he suspects would be so terribly useful in this situation. Yet despite every indication that he's been stolen away against his will, Rip has also been granted a surprising amount of freedom. He doesn't seem to be locked within any one room, and the accommodations are cozier than most other brigs he's seen.
Not that it gives him any greater desire to stay there, mind. It's just worth noting. And now that he has noted it, Rip gets to work. Finding a communication panel is rather easy—perhaps distressingly so, if he thinks about it, so instead Rip sets about to trying to find a way to hail the Waverider, to figure out where he is, or when he is, or anything else at all that might be useful.
It goes about as well as can be expected—although he can send out a message, it's not going to go anyplace he wants it to. The transmission starts right about the time his shoulders sag with this realization, his eyes not focused on the camera but instead on whatever display is giving him the bad news. In the meantime, enjoy the view of a frustrated British guy wearing a long duster?]
…Bollocks [Oh, right, broadcasting. Rip finally looks towards the screen—towards whomever might be viewing this, trying to decide if it's even worth saying anything. He's got one hand braced against the wall, his finger tapping the surface impatiently before he decides that really, there's not much left to lose at this point anyway. It's not like the persons responsible don't already know he's there.]
Right, yes. And--hello, I suppose. [It's about as unhappy a greeting as one might expect, given the circumstances.] I'd apologize for being a bother, but since I've somehow been brought to this place entirely against my will, whoever's responsible just brought it upon themselves, haven't they?
I'll keep it short then. My name is Rip Hunter, and I would really. really, like to have a word with those in charge of—whatever this is. [No small operation, given the scale of it. Not only is the room itself impressively sized, but the technology is noteworthy. Automated, from a time seemingly closer to Rip's own than most he's been in lately. He rests a hand against the wall, leaning into his arm as he taps his fingers against the hard surface. If he's in a facility seemingly made to house so many—
Then perhaps he's not the only one to have found himself someplace new without explanation.] Or anyone else who might be able to offer answers, assuming there are others out there. Either way, you can probably guess what I want to know.
[What anyone would like to know when they've been taken prisoner, most likely. Rip gives the camera a final look, then ends the transmission.
Well. He did say he was going to keep it short.]