nexus_crossings | The Start of the Storm

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The Start of the Storm

The god hosted Yule party left the Nexus in the state of beautiful Winter Wonderland. With the snow falling softly and steadily, and the beautiful festive lights twinkling in the darkness, the Nexus is left with a sense of serene nostalgia hanging in the cold air. This peace and joy clings to the streets for several weeks, buoying everyone’s mood as they look back on the past year and forward to ringing in the new one.

It starts in the Wilds, and the outskirts. The cold air suddenly feels like it freezes everything it touches in an instant. Light doesn’t quite pierce the gloom. Gentle snowfall becomes thick and falls hard. One or two people looking for shelter from their uninhabitable homes isn’t too noticeable. People can still enjoy their pretty Winter, blissfully unaware. Pipes freeze solid, paths become impassable, power cuts out, simple walks become baffling in the poor visibility. Soon it’s not one or two people, it’s many, it’s families. There are people coming in, bloody, bruised and scared, saying they were chased. Eventually the kindness of friends and strangers becomes strained. Spare rooms are packed to the brim and the storm that stays just shy of the bizarre torches somehow seems to have a slow, but unmistakable march closer towards a point where the Plaza, Industrial sector and Downtown meet. On top of that, people are complaining about PINpoints acting up or portals freezing over.

Streets are becoming packed full of people with far more problems than solutions. Huddling together and whispering about ghosts and monsters moving about in the shadows. In a place with no government, no organisation, no collaborative emergency services, chaos and confusion reigns supreme. And with chaos, comes panic. With confusion, comes frustration and anger. The Nexus is a powder keg waiting to blow.

That’s certainly how one Durant sees it. As a manager, Isidor is keen on organisation and order. Both things that are lacking in the Nexus at the moment. Groups pop up to help, but struggle to communicate effectively, or work together. Some people get free food twice, some people are still waiting for some at all. It’s madness, and Isidor can’t stand it. Particularly because she, her brother and sister-in-law are stuck here. So, when nobody else takes the mantle, Isidor Durant takes it upon herself to inject some order into this scrum.

In her fur hat and long coat, leather gloves and thick boots, Isidor can be seen directing people this way and that. There’s something about a confident person taking charge that means people instinctively defer to them. She becomes the point of contact quite easily, with people soon taking her direction regardless of whether or not they know her. Under her instruction, people are directed to a building that has tables set up, queues in front of them, and volunteers behind them taking names and telling people where to go. It might still be chaos, but at least now it’s organised chaos.

The question is: Where will your character go?

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((Below are comments for each desk. Tag any of them, threadhop, or post with your own character. I suggest putting your character’s name in the subject to help keep things clear. Comments marked with a snowflake ( ❅ ) have been coordinated with the mods and I as official event comments. The OOC Post is here! If you have any questions, feel free to message me or one of the mods!))

Threads of Note
Medicine/Illness | Shelter/Heat | Food | Security/Crime | Lost items/people | Misc resources/Donations | Volunteers | Expeditions | Planning Table/The woman in charge | Drulb's Deelz | A Ship in the Outskirts

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That smile reminds him of Jack, big time. The boy was wild, he was good at posturing and making out like he was the plucky folk hero whose name he shared, but there were moments something would cross his face, soften up his eyes and more or less broadcast to the people that knew him best that he wasn't actually sure what he was doing, just faking it to the best of his abilities.

Cricket breaks into a warm grin in response. They're still feeling one another out, here, but that uncertain look makes him feel like they're on equal footing. "Exactly. Ain't ever been easy, ain't gonna be, but lots of people have it worse. I'm a'ight. I'm good, here."

"A pleasure." There is, always, the fractional hesitation before Felix accepts a handshake. It's not paranoia, just unfamiliarity. He's getting better. There's even a spark of recognition in his face when Danny mentions London: he's been there once, and it's a happy memory.

"Then I'm certain we'll have an interesting conversation," he says cheerfully, but there's something about his smile that adds, if. If he chooses to answer those questions. But Danny already understands that.

Horvath makes no attempt to find a room and settle in, but waits politely in the background until Steve is done giving instructions and ready to retire to whatever passes for an infirmary. He’s happy to help him there, although he won’t give any more assistance than seems necessary, and once Steve has sat down he sinks down gratefully and sets his cane aside, sighing with relief. That was a hard enough hike that he’s very glad to get his weight off his feet for a few minutes.

“I’m afraid you’re cursed.” As soon as the words are out, he realizes with chagrin that this probably should have been cushioned in more delicate terms. Perhaps with his vision absent, Steve will appreciate that Horvath has an extremely expressive voice. His embarrassment and apology comes through clearly in his tone, after. “I’m sorry. I should have... Mmm. Bedside manner is not my strong suit. What I meant is that there was clearly something or someone beyond an ordinary person out there, and they seem to have placed a curse on you. The bad news is that such things can be difficult to remove. The good news is that they nearly always can be removed, sooner or later.” He’s not at all good at sugar-coating things, but he is very good at laying out the important details, at least?

Honestly, it's a pretty good infirmary, considering it's in the refurbished back-office of what used to be some kind of diner. There's a cot on either wall, of the simple, uncomfortable kind that you find in a school nurse's office, and there are shelves with stacks of medical supplies, extra blankets, and several boxes of cast-off sweaters, sweatpants, and socks. Steve has been pretty conscientious, gathering things.

"If there's anything here you think would be more useful for the Nexus-wide triage unit, you can take it," Steve says. "Just leave some of the antiseptic and bandages for us here."

He sits on the cot and works on undoing the handkerchief as if he hopes his sight will be miraculously restored already underneath it. Well, given how fast he usually heals, it's not that crazy a hope.

He pauses, eyes half-open and unseeing still, and blinks at nothing when Horvath makes his proclamation. "Cursed. Are you serious?"

He's not alarmed by it, not half as alarmed as he should be, but he's a little skeptical. As he listens to the further explanation, though, it starts to make more sense. Yeah, there are plenty of somethings beyond the ordinary out there.

"Why me?" He wonders aloud. "What did I do?"

Probably Horvath doesn't have an answer to that question.

"The monster I met was a people-eater, all right. I should know. I was one of the folks it had for supper. These ones aren't gonna get a taste of me, though, I'll make sure of that." Kinner manages a determined grunt. He wonders, on a whim, if the Thing liked the way he tasted or would recommend him to other monsters. If it did, he'd be genuinely flattered, if also disturbed. He has no intention of being eaten.

Kinner wonders if Danny's met anyone else who arrived in the Nexus through death. There's no shortage of dead folks in the Nexus, of which Kinner's just one. He's probably the only one who was eaten by an alien monster disguised as a cow, though. For what that's worth. It's definitely a good conversation-starter.

"It's good to meet you, too, Mr. Gladstone. I'm guessin' you're a new face 'round here. Welcome to the Nexus."

Kinner finally gets a can open, scooping the contents into his mouth and continuing the conversation between swallows.

"So, what brought you here, if you don't mind me askin'?"

Edited 2019-01-27 08:47 (UTC)

Palmer respects Harley's courage, especially since he's a self-admitted coward who simply can't imagine taking a risk for the group like this. He hadn't even faced that Norwegian who'd showed up at Outpost 31, and the Norwegian was nothing compared to the Thing. Hell, the man had been trying to warn them.

He watches Furiosa go to get 2V, waiting for orders from Furiosa or Harley. They'll have to enter the open, and he's afraid the creatures won't let them go without a fight. What's going on, anyway? Why are the creatures so hellbent on giving them trouble?

"What do you want?" he asks them, both challenging and genuinely curious. They don't seem interested in conversation, but he wants to pry for information. They're clearly intelligent and social, if only among themselves. Maybe, if they can speak or could be bothered to answer, at least he'll get some insight into why they're attacking people. "The ship?"

Their blades probably aren't magical as such, but they do spark and crackle with electric potential. A complication Harley may want to watch out for. Nor do they seem entirely hindered by the gas, despite their wariness of it. When Harley's knife bites home on one it jumps backward with a snarl, a wisp of something chemical and acrid filtering from between the cloth on its chest. The other creature immediately presses the attack, and it's not alone. From the shadows springs a taller creature, masked by a flattened helm into which a couple of tubes feed. Twin swords spark in its hands and a short cape curls around its body. It slashes at the troublesome human, letting its smaller comrade try to flank her. Their eyes are bright now- eyes or the slits in their masks, who knows, glowing a an unearthly blue.

Meanwhile, gangly forms clamber around the sides of the hatchway, dropping onto the ramp past Harley. More of the creatures- one or two bigger ones, mostly a handful of small ones with things that sure look like pistols drawn. They grab at the robot too late to stop him being pulled away down the ramp. If Furiosa means to shoot, she'll have to pick her targets, but it might slow down the horde starting to boil out of the ship after them. Harley's running out of time to get out of there.

They don't seem to be paying any attention to Palmer's attempt at communication- one, perhaps, that turns its head with the four eye slits of its helm aglow and makes a rasping sound that might be laughter. The low snarls, scratchy barks and inhuman squeals of its kindred are only getting louder. More and more of those in the ship are joining in, pressing forward in their eagerness to go after the prey.

"Ah, thank ya very much!" the alien smiled warmly in gratitude, "I am more than happy to help out with distributin' the supplies. It's the least I can do to show my gratitude,"

Mr. Slick looked curious.

"I gotta admit I'm not familiar with Nexus," he stated as he rubbed his moustache, "Is it normal for it to have these type of storms?"

Mr. Slick doesn't seem to realize the name choice he had picked for the shop he's setting up for Nexus might have an unfortunate meaning.

He smiled as he shook hands with Danny, noticing the nail polish and the skull-shaped ring on the left. Mr. Slick found it to be quite intriguing and thought it's mainly a fashion choice.

"It's a pleasure to meet ya, Danny!" the alien grinned warmly, "Ah, I gotta admit it is. As for where I'm from, I am from a galaxy called the Nebula galaxy,"

The heavy crunch of Prometheus' footsteps overshadows the more planned steps their masked companion makes and both in turn muffle the soft crunches of Natasha's own boots in the snow. Hunting in freezing weather isn't ideal, even for the woman trained and raised for such an environment. Her breathing is slow and steady, calm in a way an ordinary person's would not be in such a situation.

For as generous as they're being, Natasha knows they also cannot appear to be weak or passive. A message will be sent. Anyone not interested in peace and order...well. They'd best not pick a fight with their organization.

They're alongside a darkened storefront, it's windows long since broken in. The crunch of glass mixes with the crunch of the snow underfoot and large drifts have already settled inside. All the stores on this stretch of road look the same, long since ransacked and looted of anything worth taking. The tracks are more chaotic now, crisscrossing over each other and darting this way and that through the snow. Matt will notice it first with his hearing the closer they get.

Movement upstairs in the building they're next to. Faint crunches of snow across the street. Shoes or maybe claws? Clanking against fire escapes. There's not just one of these targets. There's a gang of them. Shifting on their feet. Waiting.

"Time to earn our keep." Natasha mutters darkly as she peers into the smashed in storefront. She sees footprints inside and can guess there might be backrooms and upstairs still viable even if the store itself is empty. "We need to find those supplies, I don't care who you beat it out of. I'm going to take a look in here."

It's all the warning they'll get before she's climbing into the smashed window by her lonesome and making her way upstairs. Sorry boys, you're on your own for the moment.

That alleyway's been there the whole time, right? The Nexus messes you about sometimes but it feels like Danny's walked past it before. It's hardly inviting, though, even for an alley- a damp and gloomy crack between battered walls, littered with bits of rubbish no-one could be bothered to haul out to the boundary torches. You wouldn't look at it twice. You wouldn't want to.

Unless. Unless you happened to be looking for somewhere a little different. Somewhere beneath the notice and under the noses of the average Nexus resident. Unless you happen to have sharp eyes in your head and a bit of luck in your pocket, as Danny does. That shabby little alley drags on the corner of his vision, luring him close enough to notice the lightly trampled snow beneath those bits of rubbish, how very close the shadows draw when he steps inside.

There's a door back there, when he looks. Easy to miss, with the way the walls angle. Push it open - it's not locked - and there's just enough light from the occasional wall-mounted torch to see the narrow stone stairs leading him down. He'll hear the voices long before reaching the enormous medieval cellar at the bottom. On the vaulted ceiling, the shadows play among the light of lamps burning oil and electricity and magic; among the pillars all manner of shady characters are swaggering, slinking, doing business. They exchange goods, whispers- most of all, hard cash. Many of them choose to keep a polite distance from each other, but the visiting sorcerer would be well-advised to watch his step.

Not least because there's a small trench around the edge of the room, and if he steps into it crossing the threshold he'll learn it's flowing with cold water.

"I'm not..."

Josh stops then, teeth sinking into his bottom lip and worrying it as he drops his gaze to the speeder. It's not information he usually shares with others but Cricket's situation being what it is, Josh feels like there could be some camaraderie there if he just let it. His gaze is distant as the silence stretches on for maybe a second or two too long before he looks up again.

"You're not the only one, you know. Just. What's wrong with me isn't physical." He taps his head with one finger and smiles like it's no big deal. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Everything wrong with me is all in here."

"I can carry a whole lot more than that, trust me. I'm not..." Steve struggles for a moment on how to phrase it, what to say, that will make this make sense. There's no time for this though, so instead he sucks in a breath (the scent of blood is strong and Steve wishes so badly he was unused to it) and sets his gaze.

"They'll need you to file a report, in case there are more. Let's go." No arguments, no time to waste. It's not even technically a lie even if it's not the reason Steve wants to get Cricket out of here and back to the base where at least there are other people and some shelter from the cold.

He'll take Cricket and the injured would-be thief back to the base, straight for the Medical station.

Hermione's two hunting companions aren't being too loud, but they aren't being particularly quiet, either. It's hard to tell where from, but there is another door nearby. One which has a narrow set of stairs running down to the lower levels. On entirely the opposite side to her friends.

Chills run up Azwel and Danny's spines like the soft touch of a slender finger, until shivers run down them just as suddenly. The lower floor doesn't make things any easier, either. It's almost impossibly dark with so many of those small windows covered up by snow, purposefully and not.

The lower section is a maze of machines that look strange in the low light. Long metal arms, slab tables and wheels. Contraptions that just look ominous in this setting. Perhaps made all the worse by the shadows they cast, the emptiness, the stillness. The silence.

Something cracks underfoot.

Liquid that has frozen into a thin sheet of ice.

Luckily for the patient, the Medical station is currently being manned. Unluckily, it's being manned by Azwel, whose procedures would not exactly garner the approval of any kind of medical board. Still, he directs them behind the desks to where beds and supplies await.

"How long ago did this happen?" He pulls open the man's clothing to expose the wound, taking in the treatment already applied.

Cricket's not sure what's left off the end of that I'm not, but even with everything else going on he's acute enough to see it's something that's hard for Steve to articulate, maybe hard for him to think about, and...and he's been kind, protective, exactly the kind of help Cricket needed in this debacle, so the least he can do is accept.

"Yessir," he says, almost gently, and puts forth no more arguments, hanging his cane off his own belt and clinging obediently to Steve's back on the way back to base.

There'll probably be questions later, but now is not the time.

Cricket and Azwel haven't talked a lot, but he recognizes him, and it's kind of a relief to see a familiar face. He gives him an uncertain smile, arms folded across his chest as if to protect himself, and answers, "'Bout an hour and a half, I reckon? Maybe a little less. Two bullet wounds. Chest and belly."

Cricket's smile fades a little when Josh responds, only because he looks so uncertain. He's not sure if that's a hanging statement, or if Josh is actually saying he's not good, here, and then he goes quiet. Cricket understands quiet. He understands long pauses that say more than words, and he understands needing time to collect your thoughts and make sure you say just exactly what you mean, and not more than you mean to let slip. So he waits, calm and patient far beyond his years.

His brow creases a little at the revelation, but he gives a slow nod, more thoughtful than scared.

"I reckon that's even harder to live with sometimes," he says quietly. "'Cause people expect you to be able to fix it yourself, from the inside out."

He wanders around the speeder to stand next to Josh, and offers an armclasp. "Sometimes there ain't no fixing these things, though. You just work around 'em as much as you can, and hope it don't get so bad you can't keep on through it."

Steve's standing aside once he has the man laid out on one of the cots, only moving when he needs to help move clothing or lift the man gently for Azwel to do what he needs to. He's a looming figure and never strays far from Cricket's side. His worry about the kid is very real. It's too much, too soon, and it's taken away the sense of safety Cricket has had up until now.

Steve can't just let the boy alone now. He needs someone. Steve might not be the best for this, but until someone better comes along he's decided he'll be there.

"We didn't have time or the tools to disinfect the wound, but both shots passed cleanly through the body at least." The risk for infection if they had to go digging bullets out of a guy would be astronomical. Especially given their meager setups. "We've staunched the bleeding as best we could but he lost and awful lot before we got there."

It's bad enough that he can't just be normal, no matter how hard he tries. What's worse is that Joshua doesn't know what exactly is wrong with him. Never did get a positive diagnosis before he ended up starving and freezing to death in a a mountain cave before finally finding salvation in the Nexus. But Cricket seems to understand as well as anyone can.

It's not a relief, but it feels lighter somehow to have shared it. Josh nods.

"I just. You don't get the option of hiding it, is all. Figured it was only fair I showed you mine, bro."

Azwel's used to that sort of presence--it doesn't faze him at all as he smoothly peels open one of the injured man's eyes, listens to his pulse and breathing, and, interestingly enough, presses the man's fingernails. He frowns.

"The cold managed to slow the blood loss somewhat. But he's lost rather a lot." He looks at the supplies. Realises they have no blood and scarcely anything to hydrate with. There's a pause.

He clearly makes a decision, as he snatches up the strange golden gauntlets from the nearby table and slips his hands into them. Ralts squeaks in alarm.

"Noffin ell forrit," he says, tightening the straps with his teeth.

Cricket is so very, very used to dealing with things on is own, is the thing. Had Steve just taken the wounded man and headed back to the Plaza, leaving him alone, Cricket would have quietly boarded everything back up, swept and cleaned, and probably hidden under Harley's bed for the duration of the storm. Or at least until she or one of the Lokis came back for him.

He feels cold right now, a little too calm, like the part of his brain that tells him to move and speak is functional, but the rest is locked up and silent, emotions more or less flatlined.

He's pretty lucky to have someone looking out for him, and the way he's shadowing Steve is instinctive, rather than deliberate, but he seems to feel some relief from his presence.

"That happened to Forrest," he says a little vaguely. "When he got his throat cut. It was cold. Doctors said he mighta bled out otherwise."

The gauntlets make him wary all over again, and he sidles closer to Steve, until they're practically in contact. "What'chu gonna do?"

Cricket doesn't know a damn thing about mental illness. In the time and place he comes from, they were still inordinately hard on World War 1 veterans coming home with "shell-shock", let alone people who came from ordinary situations and just seemingly developed problems out of nowhere. But he knew a veteran who self-medicated by drinking and was all the more terrifying for it. He's seen plenty of people with their own demons or crosses to bear or whatever pseudo-religious terminology you want to use. And he's got his crooked bones and the braces he straps to 'em, and if that can't make a man a little more compassionate to people who are different, probably nothing can.

"Don't know if it's better or worse to be able to hide it," he muses, and puts a fraternal hand on Josh's shoulder. "I ain't gotta worry about how to bring it up to people. The second somethin' creaks or goes clink, it's brought up."

"If you wanna talk about it, I'll listen. But if you don't, we can talk about this thing instead," he smiles and pats the speeder with his free hand. "Guess there's no point in polishing 'er up 'till the storm's done, but maybe I can help you shine her in the Spring."

"You got eaten by a monster?" Danny stares at him, but he doesn't look disbelieving so much as incredibly curious. "Sorry to hear it. Only if you've gotta die somehow, at least that's a pretty spectacular way to go, don't you think? I always sort of thought if I were gonna die some weird way I'd want to spontaneously combust."

Which is surprisingly plausible when you're a sorcerer. But anyway.

Once his cans are open, Danny settles in to eating like the pro he is, sitting cross-legged on the ground. "Well," he says. "Was tryin' to teach myself some magic. I'm a sorcerer, see? An apprentice. Morganian, but don't worry, I'm not gonna hurt anyone who's nice to me."

"But my master had some business elsewhere and he had to rush off and leave me in New York. He's been gone a while and things were starting to get kind of boring, so I thought I'd experiment. Not sure if I punched a hole through spacetime or just got dragged into one that was already there, but here I am."

Not a double-entendre so much as vaguely suggestive. Or maybe Danny's mind is just in the gutter because he's a teenager.

Doesn't matter, anyway. Danny isn't exactly sweetness and light but he's sure going to be good to anyone who's pleasant to him, because that's how you get favors and attention from people. "Likewise, mate," he returns the smile, then blinks and looks mildly excited. "You're an alien, then? That's brilliant. I never met an alien."

"...actually, I guess to you I'm the alien. I've never been anyone else's alien either, though, so that's just as cool."

Self-medication through alcoholism is a tried and true practice well into the 2010s if Joshua's anything to go by. The only way he can shut everything else the hell up and be happy for a few seconds at a time. The only way to drown the voices in his head. To convince himself he can still feel things that aren't a numb disassociation from his body or the crushing weight of despair wearing the faces of people he loves more than his own life.

He's sober now, nothing for it. There's not exactly a bar around here open to get drunk at and even if there was Josh can't do the work he's doing if he's falling off his speeder and putting his happy ass into a snowbank or worse. He's been alright so far, but sooner or later it's going to rear its head.

It always does.

"I'd be happy to have the help once this is all over." That crooked smiles comes back. The honest one. The one that's Josh's true smile. There all because of a hand at his shoulder. "For now though, I oughta get back out there. Expeditions won't do much if there's no leads on supplies to bring back."

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Page 33 of 40

The Start of the Storm

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Danny Gladstone - The Underhanded Underground

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