Into a Rising Wind

[handsofwinter]

Winter holds the Nexus in its jaws, and its teeth sink ever deeper.

A month into the storm, the snow has yet to stop falling. The number of mouths to be fed has stopped dwindling, almost. Occasionally people go missing, and those who notice hope they’ve found a way back through their portals. It’s not enough to change the maths on their food supplies - all their supplies. Nobody is getting a full meal at a time, not any more. Isidor and Lyall have begun to enforce the rationing with iron hands. Both ignore the look that crosses Captain Kirk’s face when they upbraid a volunteer cook for being too generous – the look that lingers on Runa’s face if she’s close enough to hear. They’re doing what they must. They need a tight hold on their supplies if they want to get people through this. They need supplies even to send expeditions after more.

And expeditions are a difficult prospect now. Those who ventured into the storm and returned have brought stories that spread faster than Isidor hoped. The Crossroads Cafe has become a semi-official hub for those travelling outside or keeping watch on the bounds, a safe resting place kept warm by the combined power of Pokemon and Persona. In the long dark nights, people sit around the tables and share what they've seen, what they've heard from this scout or that refugee. Whispered tales of the creatures out there hunting in packs, hounding people from rooftops, even tearing open walls to reach them…

No-one goes out alone, now. Those brave enough to take the risk go in groups and arm themselves with the best weapons they can find. Sometimes they’re a risk to themselves. Not everyone knows how to handle that black market plasma pistol they picked up two days past. Not all of their team-mates keep their nerve when a figure looms out of the snows beside them. Sometimes it’s hard to tell who’s run afoul of monsters, and who of their own folly. Safer, but little less brave, are the people recruited to keep watch on that shifting line of torches. Just a precaution. The creatures don’t come past it, everyone says. But quietly, everyone doubts.

There've been bright moments, too. A strange alchemist comforting a lost child. An expedition team fighting their way home, back to back. Families brought safely through the snow by soldiers and wizards, by heroes young and old and sometimes surprising. A volunteer cook stepping up to prepare, if not quite a hundred thousand meals, then something that feels close. A young man saving the life of a stranger who'd threatened him. The past weeks have seen people who may never have known one another before come together to offer a blanket, or guiding words, or a helping hand in a search. Small moments, glowing reminders of how much good the people of the Nexus have on their side. But the Winter goes on, and the winds never get less bitter, and the smiles get more strained with every day.

Slowly the line of torches close on the Plaza, a noose no-one can afford to flee. Sheltered space is at a premium. Most of those who remain are settled as close to the centre as they can be. Whether in the big public bunker or the Cafe, people find themselves crammed all together, and tempers regularly fray among residents not too cold and exhausted for fighting. The more responsible Nexus-goers find themselves trying to duck out of (or break up) fights, or spending hours stuffing drafty accommodation with any insulation they can find. There’s snow to be shoveled from doors, pipes to be defrosted, bandages to be changed. Anything’s better than dealing with the problem of working bathrooms.

At one end of the Plaza headquarters, a makeshift screen has been dragged into place to give a semblance of privacy to Isidor’s desk. It’s painfully early in the morning, though the nights are so long and the days so dim beneath the storm clouds there’s little sense of time any more. There’s no-one around yet to wonder about the meeting going on. The only people present are Isidor, Lyall and a handful of senior volunteers – those who remain. Blaze-37 crouches by a makeshift fireplace, stacking the salvaged wood just right before she punches it lightly, setting it alight with the flames that ripple over her fist. The other robot, Ghost, is hovering over the desk playing flashlight for them, shining a pale beam over the maps and reports laid out there. Light, too, is a precious resource, as batteries die and outlets are lost to encroaching Winter. It’s the only reason those here have gotten sleep. They work until they have no light to work by.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Suou?” the Guardian asks when Isidor says they can begin.

“Officer Suou won’t be coming.”

That’s part of why they’re here, Isidor explains. The torches’ march has taken them past the Grand Library. The Crossroads Café is now on the very edge of the safe zone, along with all the people sheltering there. Katsuya’s magic is the only thing that will protect it. He can’t leave. It’s a turning point that only drives home the larger problem: they’re running out of time. They’re running out of everything. Most refugees are in some kind of shelter by now; what they lack is food to keep them alive and fuel to keep them warm. Isidor’s volunteers have counted heads and counted tins and counted everything backwards and forwards and the numbers never get better. Either they do something now, while they have the strength, or the meals will run dry in two weeks. Less, if anything goes wrong.

She lets that sink in. Nobody looks surprised: she’s confirming their worst suspicions and that gets a few flinches, but they understand. They talk, instead. By the time there’s a hint of daylight outside and someone knocks on the door for the first shot at rations, they have a plan. They need an expedition, bigger than any before. They need enough arms to discourage attack, the skills to get them to any buried supplies and the numbers to haul them back in quantity. Each of them walks away from the table with a mission in mind and an air of grim determination.

They have a job to do, and they’re going to need help.

((As before, so below: the main missions/subquests for the expedition prep are listed below. 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. The OOC Post can be found here! If you have any questions, feel free to message me or one of the mods!))

Threads of Note

Scouting the Expedition | A Fistful of Torches | Scrapyard Sweep | The Home Front | Medical Attention | Isidor's Expedition Call | Main Expedition: The Raid

Comments

❅ Scouting the Expedition

[handsofwinter]

Both Captain Kirk and Josh have been making constant trips back and forth from the base of operations to the Crossroads Café as expeditions have finished up and more have cycled back out. Kirk keeps a carefully regulated stream of people out to search for supplies but they're bringing things in slower than they're using them. Worse, as areas close by become looted and empty they're having to travel further and further out to find anything at all.

With the torch line moving ever inward things are getting dangerous.

Jim's focus the last few days has been skewed heavy on scouting. If they don't find a good haul soon things are going to turn from bad to dire. Anyone he's conscripted or who's volunteered for expeditions can find him either at the base or back at the Crossroads packing up kits for the adventurers heading out. In contrast to Jim's preparations, Joshua's only really around when he's resting up in between treks. The Canadian has been more of a blur than a man darting about the snow on his speeder running through every route he knows trying to hunt them down supplies.

Back at the Crossroads, Jim tries not to let his gaze linger on tables that used to be used for preparing food now devoid of anything other than gear. Hunger's going to be a game changer if things continue this way. The constant dull ache and gnawing at the insides that comes with too little nutrition too infrequently. At least there's water and coffee yet at the café.

"If you've got some free time, I could always use another set of eyes."

Harley Quinn -- A Little Goes a Long Way

[sweetcandygirl]

Harley had reported back to Captain Kirk on the creatures that had interrupted the salvaging of Dia's ships. She sacrificed two weapons during that attack -- her poisonous gas yo-yo and her exploding yo-yo. But she still has two blades -- the ice dagger and flame sword -- and her trusty bat.

Food is being rationed. And Harley always gives her rations to someone smaller than her. Someone who looks like they need it, more than she does. With her metabolism she doesn't need what is given to her. And always makes sure that the food does not go to waste.

Her apartment is not in any state to have anyone staying there anymore. It had been looted and vandalized. Harley couldn't really be mad about that... after all, it is what she would have done. Taken advantage of the situation.

"Whatcha looking for Captain Kirk?" Harley uses his title right now.

Delia Battista - Pirate, Tactical Officer, Captain, and now: Scout

[attackpatternbattista]

Delia can never, ever stay still for very long, being in the Nexus this long--particularly without access to her ship and home, has made her somewhat anxious, which has largely manifested in the Need for something to do.

Asking around about the creatures attacking others has resulted in a lot of different responses. Short. Squat. Blasters, electric and energy weapons. Big, terrifying. Some kind of swords.

Truth was, this didn't net her nearly as much information as she'd like, particularly with scanning equipment's range being limited by the Nexus itself, to say nothing of the storm.

For the moment, she was perched on a roof, looking through a scope attached to the top of her rifle, trying to spot anything in the distance, beyond the safety in the plaza.

❅ A Fistful of Torches

[handsofwinter]

Blaze heads straight for the Crossroads Cafe. All the people she knows who still move out and about gather there. She's carrying a sled by the rope harness knotted to it, which she dumps outside the door before heading in. Her boots and greaves are spattered with mud, the golden cloth emblem at her hip dirtied with- well, it's mostly mud. In contrast, the barrel of the rifle that sits at her back is gleaming.

Beneath her adorable knitted panda hat, the Titan sweeps a glowing gaze over those huddled around the tables. Then she brings her armored hands together in a clap. There's a flash of white Light, a crack that rolls like thunder off the walls.

"Listen up, people!" In the silence after, her voice rings out briskly, through the room and up the stairs. "Eyes on me! We're putting an expedition together to head out past the bounds. An expedition that's got to collect enough supplies to see us through this winter. Right now I need some smart, tough people to help me round up equipment that'll keep us alive out there. It means going past the torches, but we'll move fast and you'll have a Guardian with you the whole way. So, who's up for a challenge?"

[red_room]

Blaze's thunderous clap has the desired effect. People everywhere in the cafe are looking at her. Not everyone seems to be pleased about this, however. Some of them are just generally somber; ever since that early morning meeting Captain Kirk has worn the same hardened expression no matter what news comes up, good or bad. But others...well.

"You realize there are people trying to sleep in here, right...?"

Natasha's the first one to sidle on up to Blaze's side, an intensity to her gaze that implies that it includes people they've had to near-bully into taking their allotted time off duty. The Exo has really gone and done it now.

"What kind of equipment, though?" Since she's already beaten in the door damn near to make a fuss about it already. Might as well ask.

❅ Scrapyard Sweep

[handsofwinter]

Twelve people. Twelve people had come with Tamminy and Lawrence when they made it to the safe zone. All of them hungry, all of them bored to tears and wasting away in some Crossroads Cafe. Each of them the only things on the minds of the gnome and her one-armed human companion as they protect the pile of mechanical supplies they've scraped together or been graciously given.

Every now and then when certain able-looking people pass Tamminy reaches out and demands – because she's long since run out of the patience and energy to ask kindly – "Go to the junk yard! Someone, anyone! One of you, two of you, come on! I'm going to get materials to make some machines to help us survive. I need protection! Or at least a lookout..."

Harley Quinn -- Protection and Possibility

[sweetcandygirl]

One of the able-looking people that passes by is a certain Harley Quinn. She carries a large sword on her back. And there is a heavy wooden bat and a ice dagger hanging from her weapon belt.

"The junk yard?" There is a glint in Harley's eyes. She might be able to find replacements for a couple of sacrificed weapons at the junk yard.

"Sounds like an adventure."

❅ The Home Front

[handsofwinter]

It’s no longer feasible for organizers to stay behind desks and force everyone to come to them. There’s too much to do and too little time to do it all in. Everyone is moving back and forth between their respective goals. Food is running out, fuel is getting low, machines are seizing up. They’re in dire need of everything. More problems are cropping up than solutions.

Isidor strides from the main base to groups of people and back and forth and back and to Lyall… It goes on and on and on. Anyone and everyone who looks even a little lost is homed in like a hawk to mouse. People who need help will get it, and people without something to do will get a job, Isidor will make sure of it. “If you don’t have a job, come here!” She sets her hands on her hips and mutters under her breath, “There’s plenty of them…”

Hermione Granger -- Just Being Useful

[mudblood_andproud]

Hermione Jean Granger might not have her wand, nor her enchanted clutch, but she is still doing everything possible to be as helpful as she can.

She has spent enough time helping Madame Pomfrey, that she knows how to help with the minor injuries. And when an injury is serious enough for someone with experience, she is extremely useful in triage situations. Assessing who needs help first, and who can wait a few minutes. She takes the time to just be a friendly face some days too. To sit by a bed and tell stories. Or to just listen to someone's concerns.

Her survival knowledge is useful when it comes to helping those prepare an expedition team. She can help ensure that expedition packs have all the items they need -- and is really good at checking and double-checking her lists. And offers recommendations to any expedition members who request them.

As Hermione meets more and more people, she updates her Arthimancy rune equation. The runes were not with her enchanted clutch when it was taken. So they are the only piece of her magic that she still has with her.

The runes can still guide her to where she is needed. And where she can help.

Hermione is unable to use her magic more than once a day, without her wand. And thus she only uses her magic when absolutely necessary. One day it was a Reparo to mend one of the machines that seized up, and to get it back in working order. Another day, it was a Vulnera Sanentur to heal deep gashes of a wounded man, was not deemed to be at the top of the triage order, but still required something of immediate attention.

Each spell exhausts her. It drains the color from her face.

Hermione finds other ways to be useful. She just needs to be useful.

❅ Medical Attention

[handsofwinter]

The volunteers are still doing their best to take care of any who come to them sick or injured. Their makeshift hospital has moved now to the Crossroads Cafe, where Katsuya can lend them the second floor and there's a warm space for their patients to rest before being moved out to the public bunker.

Aside from that, the only difference is that the supplies grow ever fewer, and the volunteer healers of every stripe grow more and more weary. Even the Angel Nike flutters more slowly between the rooms, her demeanor more subdued and her voice more emotionless as she conserves energy for her spells. As the Winter draws on, the threat of injury has been overtaken by sickness; it takes more and more magic to stop pneumonia and worse contagions from spreading through the crowded shelters.

Nevertheless, the ward is still open to any who need it.

Furiosa - Minor Injury

[eumenis]

She's never been a fan of physicians. Midwives, maybe, but she's never met a man of the medical persuasion who didn't horrify her, and frankly some midwives are too pushy, too. Still, she knows her own body and she knows when it's malfunctioning, and the cold and exertion are doing her left arm no favors.

She comes in quietly and waits patiently until someone is free, with her prosthesis in her lap. She keeps the sleeve rolled down over that arm, needing warmth, but the end of the stump looks reddened and scratched if anyone pauses to get a look.

"I'm not bad off," she says. "Just need some disinfectant and a little compression. I can do it myself if you have extra bandages and a table I can use."

Let's do Get Help

[websnextdoor]

The door to the infirmary squeaks quietly shut. The hinge needs a bit of work--one more fixer upper that didn't get quite finished before Winter descended onto the Nexus. Two Spider-Men stand in the hallway after leaving Steve Rogers' side filled in on what's happened. None of it is good.

Bucky might be out there. As in, Formerly Winter Soldier sometimes has memory issues and turns into a murder machine, James Buchanen "Bucky" Barnes. Probably not, the odds are much more in favor of someone or something out there screwing with Steve's head. And his eyes. Crucially in this moment Steve Rogers is unable to protect anyone least of all the gaggle of people he's just brought into their safe-house. They're not terribly far from the main base but they're not as close as other shelters.

Neither teen says a word as they quietly walk down the hall and into the dormitory. By chance, no one else has holed up there yet. Everyone's still too busy downstairs unpacking their supplies and working on a schedule for how to best divvy up the chores that need to be done to keep this place going.

It's Peter who breaks down first. He squats down and wraps his arms around his knees and just exhales a juddering breath while he fights to hold back tears.

"I was right there, man. I..I couldn't even help him."



[For Miles. Will let people involved know when rescue is a go!]

[telarano]

Miles has dealt with snow before. Brooklyn certainly gets pummeled at times, so when the power went out he knew a few of the things to do. But this was beyond a city snow-storm by far, even before the group had come, and a frighteningly blinded Steve was led back to the infirmary.

Thankfully other people seemed to know more, and Miles left them to it for the moment, more concerned with trailing after Peter. He could tell his friend was upset, at a loss just yet for what to say to help alleviate it when unease was already skittering up and down his own spine.

At least until Peter just about crumples in on himself when they're alone. That's simple enough to respond to, taking a knee beside him, an arm draping over his shoulders to drag him into a firm, one-armed hug.

"Man, it sounds like there was some magic stuff going on there. I'm pretty sure anti-magic is not one of our super-powers, you know?"

A Cook Off Hours

[outpostcook]

Kinner's resting in the Cafe, exhausted. He's been hard at work making food for all the people who need help, and he's taken a little time off for himself. Since he's been hard at work on meals, he hasn't gone outside yet, which suits him just fine. As he moves among the crowds, he makes a distinctive figure between his small body and polar gear. It's nice to feel wanted, even though this whole business reminds him unpleasantly of the situation at Big Magnet, monsters and all, only on a larger scale.

He's snagged something for himself to eat on break, a bowl of frozen shrimp, and he makes them last as he lounges against a wall. As he feeds people, he can't do that if he doesnt keep himself fed. It's a delicate balance. Still, he feels good making himself useful, just as he had back in his home world. His skillset is valuable here, and Kinner likes feeling needed. Still, though, it's exhausting work, and he hopes the winter will let up soon.

With Kinner's personal history, he isn't excited about the possibility of encountering the ice beasts outside. That's partly why he hasn't ventured beyond relatively safe areas yet. He's not in the mood for being someone else's lunch.

[weathering_it]

Kinner's not the only one who's exhausted. With the lack of food, even the people with light work loads are tired. Tired, snappy, frustrated. Primed to pounce.

From a few feet off Anna and Lawrence Weatherhill watch Kinner eating... What is he eating? Something small, curled... Brother and sister share whispered words, each trying hard not to glance his way while at the same time unable not to steal hidden peeks.

It's a few minutes the tall, thin woman with the large front teeth approaches Kinner and asks, "What's that you've got there?..."

Cricket - Adjusting to a Change in Fortunes

[alittlehinky]

Cricket hasn't tried to go back to Harley's place. It's bound to have been looted by now, and even if not he's not sure it's a great idea to go back alone. He's got the Pokemon with him, in their balls, tucked close against his body, so all he can do is hope the greenhouse didn't get busted so that the plants will be okay.

Actually, some of the plants bite back, so there's a chance they'll defend themselves as long as they have shelter. It's not that he wants to go back after the thaw and find out they've ripped someone's arm off, but he's feeling a little hostile right now and it'd serve 'em right.

He's not sure how to feel about the men he's shot, but he's decided in the meantime he'd prefer not to court any situation where he'll have to do such a thing again. So he settles in the Cafe where Steve leaves him, and strips off his leg braces, relying on his cane alone for now, until the blisters the straps rubbed into the skin calm and heal up a little.

The good news is that means he can wear warmer shoes, though, and while he appreciates the thought that he needs company, he's also way more used to solitude, and if there's a lull in the wind he slips outside to test the battered boots he's been loaned, planting his cane in the snow with each step as he walks.

[shardofwinter]

"You're limping." The statement of the obvious comes from an old man with white hair and a brow so wrinkled and furrowed that it's hard to see the dark eyes underneath the white, wild eyebrows. It's hard to tell whether he was there before and Cricket didn't notice him with his thin, worn cloak wrapped around him, or if he's able to walk quietly. Perhaps Cricket was simply too deep in his thoughts. Either way, he's here now, and wasn't before.

With a nod of his bearded chin, he eyes Cricket's legs. "You hurt them?"

[weathering_it]

The food the Weatherhills are getting can't stretch any further than it is. The family's stores lasted them a few weeks, but since then they've been relying on what the organizers can spare: Soup that's watered down, bread that isn't filling, and meat? Not a chance. When they're lucky it's been a bit of fruit preserves, even if there's nothing to eat it with.

They're growing paler, more tired. Worst of all, they've got two children in their group to care for. A ten year old can be told that there's no more food, that what they get in any given moment is all they'll have that day. But a toddler? There's no consoling a child who's never known hunger like this when words hardly have meaning on the best of days.

Jacob and Heather's little boy doesn't have it in him to wail anymore, but one dark evening after rations have been served he sobs quietly to himself. What he was given wasn't enough. He's a growing child, and he's starving, and he doesn't understand.

Of course his mother and father do what they have to: They give him what they have. One day without food for Jacob. He can survive that. He's been through worse in Westfall. All of this will pass for him and for his wife. But for their child?

Just for this evening he can eat a little extra bread, a little more thin soup.

[staticandstock]

It's the next day that Jacob is interrupted by the tall, grim looking man now well known as the head of security. Lyall didn't ask for this job, but he's grown accustomed to it, and he's good at it. Especially tracking down individuals among the masses. He hasn't had much cause to deal with the Weatherhills until today. If only it were for better reasons.

"Jacob?" He waits until he's got the man's attention. "I'm Lyall. Miss Durant would like to speak with you and your wife."

[subjectifying]

Ellen has a mop and a bucket, and travels the crowded hallways, cleaning up mush and meltwater from the floors before anyone slips and falls. It's a Sisyphean task; she travels the same hallways and rooms endlessly. The more she mops, the deeper the miasma of gloom surrounding her.

It feels like a punishment, but it isn't. It's just a job suited to her skills, she thinks glumly. And what a job! She'd once told Geoffrey that if she wasn't an actress, she'd starve. This isn't what she had in mind, but whenever her stomach grumbles, that's what she thinks.

Every now and then, someone passing by her recognizes her and shoots her a dirty look. Mutters of "food waster" follow her around. She should never have gotten involved in that cookie baking ring. She hadn't realized that food was quite at this point of scarcity; but as she and the others had been told, that was no excuse.

The women involved had been split up among other shelters, but even at a new shelter it's no secret that Ellen was the delivery person for the cookie ring. Many people know what she's done.

Whenever someone recognizes her, Ellen ducks her head and keeps mopping. Sometimes she feels resentful, of the unfair notoriety when she'd only been trying to do something nice, of the boredom of the endless mopping, of the whole situation. She wishes she'd managed to get drafted into something a little less public, but it's not like she'd be any use fixing pipes or boarding up broken basement windows where the weight of the snow has broken through. So mostly she just mops. Slowly, quickly, unhappily, alertly, sometimes falling in a fugue state. It doesn't matter, and there's always more.

She's almost lost track of the days. The only thing that keeps her oriented is the PINpoint from the woman who disappeared. There's a screen with lots of numbers that also shows the date.

Every morning, before anyone else is awake or when she can sneak a moment when no one will ask her what she's doing, Ellen examines the screen with numbers. Each day, the numbers are different.

Ellen doesn't know what any of them mean, and she doesn't want to show it to anyone. She doesn't know whether it's against the rules, but she doesn't want to risk it with something that's become important to her -- a little morning ritual, for luck, or just to know what the PINpoint predicts, and one thing that she actually owns, since the woman who gave it to her is gone.

At the top number is the number of the day. Today is a 12point day. Yesterday was a 143point day.

She knows it's bullshit. It's just a number signifying the ascension of Mercury or the number of minutes until high tide on a distant world or the level of lava bubbling and steaming in a volcano far from this winter. But every morning she looks, and when the number is higher, she feels like at least something is looking up. And when the number is lower, she feels irrationally vindicated.

And then she mops.


((A thread for moping, mopping, sulking, superstition, and similar. Please keep this thread linear by replying to the last comment in the thread. Time will advance within this thread; it is not a single scene unified in time and place. Direct replies are unlikely, and indirect replies are not guaranteed.))

[subjectifying]

Ellen chews her way through her meagre food ration as slowly as possible, trying to draw out the process of eating to its fullest extent. The food she's been served helps her. She doesn't know exactly what she's eating, but it's tough and fibrous and she would call it unpleasant except at least it fills up her mouth and her stomach.

She closes her eyes and tastes the flavors -- unfamiliar, but at least there's something to taste. She should value that, and she does.

"What do you think it is?" she asks the woman sitting next to her. "Tree bark?" It's a joke, or at least Ellen thinks it is.

"Heaven knows, awful stuff," the woman says. She's an older woman, her face carefully made up but not quite obscuring a network of fine wrinkles, her white hair neat and tidy, only her clothes the hodge-podge of warm and bulky that most people wear. "I'm going home. Come with me."

Ellen settles back to chewing, thinking the words were directed at someone else, but after the woman pushes away her plate, she puts her hand on Ellen's arm. "I'm going home. Come with me," she repeats.

Ellen hesitates for a moment. There's something wrong here, but she's not sure she can stop it. "Finish eating, first," she says. And when the woman looks stubborn, she adds-- "It's impolite to the cooks not to."

The woman nods as if this is an argument that's needed in the midst of stringent food rationing.

After they've finished eating, the woman puts her hand on Ellen's arm again, and directs her through the hallways and out into the cold. Snow falls, the air bites Ellen's throat, but Ellen doesn't think of going back in. "It's not very far," the woman says. Ellen thinks of home and fingers the PINpoint in her pocket, and holds the woman's body up as they struggle through the snow and across slippery expanses of wind-swept ice. Ellen is watching where she steps, keeping her head down to keep snow out of her eyes. When she sees where they're going, they're almost on top of it, but it's nothing but splintered wood beams and piles of rubble.

"Oh, Suzonne, where is it?" the woman asks in despair, looking at Ellen.

Now Ellen knows what's wrong. "Shh," she says, and leads the woman back toward the shelter. Half way back, they're met by a younger woman, with a rosy round face that clearly isn't meant to look so thin. "Oh, I was so worried," she says.

"Suzonne?" Ellen asks, relinquishing her charge.

"No, no, just assigned to care for Donis," the younger woman says distractedly, pulling her hat down over her ears and wrapping her arm around the confused older woman. "We don't know where Suzonne is. All we know is that Donis lived in that apartment building for fifty years, and she's incapable of remembering that it's not there any longer."

Ellen looks at the ruins, and thinks of home. She closes her eyes against that vision. Horrifying. "Was she there ... when it fell?"

"No..."

But Ellen doesn't hear the rest of the story, because Donis tries to turn and go back, and it takes both of them to persuade her back into the shelter.



The next time Ellen sees Donis, she's in the middle of a crowd. Ellen has just finished a shift of mopping; she joins the edge of the crowd, leaning on her mop.

Donis is spreading tarot cards out in front of her, slowly, dramatically, with perfect audience awareness and perfect timing -- and Ellen would know. Whatever is wrong with her memory hasn't taken this from her; she moves with the efficient grace of endless experience.

Donis looks up and sees Ellen. Recognition dawns in her eyes. "Suzonne!" Donis barks. "Come sit by me."

Ellen's first instinct is to back away, but the crowd parts for her and looking around she sees only friendly faces, though some are impatient with this interruption.

"Suzonne is still learning," Donis says. "But she's talented for a beginner."

Given her part, Ellen plays it, coming to kneel, a supplicant at the altar of experience. What else is an actress to do?



The next time she mops, Ellen finds herself recognized as Suzonne as often as she's recognized as the food waster. She had gotten a lock on the part she was expected to pay; there never was so penitent a person as Ellen Fanshaw when she wanted to be.

But that will never do for Suzonne. Not penitent, no... Quiet, and respectful, and underneath that, an occasional flash of passion, a core of steely, unshakable compassion. Suzonne doesn't only see, Suzonne cares.

The people who recognize Suzonne are looking for every hint that Ellen drops. She tells them that the future is out of their hands; she tells them that today is nevertheless full of opportunity. She tells them that winter will never end; she tells them there is still hope. She tells them whatever she feels, and Ellen Fanshaw is a person of contradictions, and she has been quiet too long. Suzonne might seem quiet, but she's perfectly capable of drawing out the questions she longs to answer.

And the next time Donis calls for Suzonne, Ellen doesn't hesitate.

Loki: The Parting Glass

[coldsong]

For anyone other than his twin, Loki would likely have been an impossible companion for the last couple days. They have continued on in the snow outside the boundaries of torches, scavenging and gathering side by side, which is fitting given who and what they are. But there is a difference between the one and the other.

The older (looking) Loki has been collecting corpses. It’s good that they’ve been few and far between, but he will return with more than the one he was tasked with fetching. To carry them, he’s transformed each into a single bone, with the intention of restoring them when they return to shelter. When they are dropped off, restored, they will be frozen as they fell, except the eyes will be closed, faces settled into something approaching tranquility, rather than the throes of terror some were discovered in. It’s a small thing to do, a kindness he does not expect to ever be noted.

Nor does he expect either of them to be lauded for what his twin is bringing back to the fold. Loki has been setting up his own safe houses since he arrived in the Nexus, and he has three, plus an extra cache or two. The two that are furthest away from the center of the Plaza have already been broken into and rifled (he’s not shocked), but there were some supplies left in the others. He keeps a little for himself, since he has every intention of remaining in the storm until it dies, but the rest is entrusted to the other Loki, to be added to whatever group food stores remain. It’s not much, ultimately. Enough to feed a single person comfortably for a few weeks--longer, with starvation-rations. It won’t stretch far amongst the refugees, but it’s not nothing.

Anything else they find is a bonus, if potentially an inadequate one.

In the meantime, he’s been a strange and slightly-unstable companion, murmuring to himself when the wind quiets, staring into the sky as if he expects to be able to see through the clouds at any moment, sketching out knots and labyrinthine shapes in the snow on rest breaks. He’s as warm and affectionate with the other Loki as ever, but he seems thoroughly preoccupied, and sometimes he asks strange questions.

He goes beyond the torches only to drop off and restore the bodies, and he goes silently, wishing to avoid anyone he knows. He wishes he dared stay, at least long enough to find Harley, reassure himself she’s well and does not need him. (She got along without him well enough before, she’ll be fine now, he tells himself, but still he worries.) But he is in no place to be amongst mortals right now. He is questing, unbalanced, and he cannot give himself to another person when he doesn’t even know what it is he’s giving.

And so, he puts a hand on his twin’s shoulder, leans in, and kisses his forehead. “We part here, for now. You’re my kin. If you need me, call and I will come, but otherwise…”

“...I don’t know. I’m not sure where I am going.”


((Initially intended for the Lokis to have a brief conversation, but if anyone wants to speak with Loki he can be caught before he leaves for the Wilds again OR found once he ventures past the torches into the storm once more.))

Harley Quinn: Gangs in the Industrial Sector

[sweetcandygirl]

After leaving the safety of the tents, Harley headed off in the direction of the Industrial Sector. She didn't realize that as she left that Loki had showed up briefly to check on her. That once again they were passing ships in the night. Each worrying about each other... without any actual confirmation that they were doing what they do best -- survive.

Harley left behind the tense conversation she had with Captain Kirk to focus on the mission he had assigned her. Head into the Industrial District and check into the gangs who were posing a raiding threat.

But even with that assignment in mind -- Harley still much on her mind... questions left to answer, and mysteries to solve. And perhaps she could stumble upon something. Anything.

She kept her senses alert for any sign of trouble. It might not be the wisest decision to be embarking out alone... but right now, it seemed best to find a little space from everyone else.

[coldsong]

There are peculiar tracks in the snow as she approaches her target. They don't look human, nor like anything bipedal. They're light and twisting, and if she's ever seen a picture of the sweeping shapes a sidewinder makes when crossing soft sand, they're highly reminiscent.

Although it'd be a pretty weird snake to be out in weather like this, right?

Weird enough to leave a strange crystalline skin, the color of arctic ice, hanging from a fire escape on one of the buildings. From the look of the skin, the snake--if indeed it was a snake--that left it must have been close to twenty feet long.

Even at that rate, it's probably less of a threat than the gangs. Probably.

Furiosa - Anger and a Prayer

[eumenis]

When she's awake, with no other work, Furiosa finds herself breaking up scuffles, and it puts her in a bad temper. There is a hierarchy trying to find itself here, people testing and trying to see who is stronger of will and body. A pack trying to find Alphas and line up Omegas. It'd be nice to believe it's merely stress bringing out the worst in people, but Furiosa knows better. People from worlds of immense abundance are learning what deprivation is like, and latent instincts are wakening. Survival may yet come down to tooth and nail here, or worse.

This is nothing she hasn't lived before, for most of her life, even. It isn't pleasant, it isn't easy, but it's familiar to her, and she's finding a dearth of compassion in herself. Who are these people to complain about a few weeks of suffering? May their gods help them if they ever find themselves in the Wasteland, where Thirst and Hunger are unremarkable traveling companions. They'd break like rusted bolts.

Pathetic. The longer she stays in place, the most she resents them, these sweet soft creatures that surround her. You have water to drink, to BATHE in!

There are two boys--early teens, probably; maybe their parents are here and maybe not--and she catches them bullying a third. Smaller, darker of skin; it's hard to tell the age, but he seems to be guarding his own rations, eating as fast as he can while dodging them. And something in her shifts and gives, like rocks shifting and rolling downhill.

She is not a fist of righteous indignation, she is not a mother scolding unruly children; she is not a peacekeeper. She is angry on behalf of the hundreds of pups she's seen die in her own world, and the bullies are on their asses on the ground before they know what's hit them. She's standing on the wrist of one and he gasps with pain.

"Did you think you were going to hit him?" Her face is iron, her voice is steel. "Did you think you'd fight?"

The darker child pauses in his tracks, coughs, and resumes eating while watching this play out.

"We were just--"

"Shut up." She doesn't care what they have to say. "You're wasting energy. If you have the strength to chase him, you're being fed too much or worked too little, and I will find a remedy."

There's a moment of quiet as she reins in her temper, and they say nothing, wide-eyed, sensing they've run afoul of something dangerous.

"My father," one begins tentatively, but she interrupts again.

"Do you want to get through this? Do what I say." And she moves away, letting them up. "You eat what you're given, you do what you're told, and you rest when you're not working. Go."

When they scramble away, the other boy looks at her and murmurs an uncertain thanks. "Don't," she tells him. "Next time someone comes for you, you look him in the eye and you tell him you'll kill him and eat him--like you mean it."

He looks horrified, but he nods, and he watches her go with thoughtful, dark eyes.

She leaves the shelter, stepping into the whiteness like it means no more and no less than the dust back home. They've been rebuilding for years now, back at the Citadel. Their position is strong, stronger than any settlement she's seen. But she's seen places fall. She's seen the death of that which is Green before, and when the wind creeps chilly fingers under the collar of her coat and claws at her spine, she wonders what the chances are of the thaw coming here too late, what are the chances of her portal opening once more, and her returning home to find desolation, her people decimated once more, starving Sisters and children demanding to know why she wasn't there to die with them.

She marches slowly to the edge of the torches, knee-deep in drifted snow, and stares into the whiteout. It doesn't show her the future. It barely permits her to see the present.

"Mother," she whispers, "Mothers. Whoever can hear me. Isis, Cybele, Cailleach, Oya, Inanna. Take your fill of death, but leave us just a little bit of life for ourselves."

"Would you take me in trade for my people, if I offered? Would it matter?" She doesn't have to ask if her people are at risk, really. They always are. If not from this winter, from something else. Gastown, the Fury Storms, the dying world around them. "If I die here, will they prosper?"

She's not expecting an answer, but for a moment the wild wind sounds like the voices of the Vuvalini singing death-chants, and she smiles to herself.


((A sound file for atmosphere, for however long the link works.))

[outpostcook]

Kinner has taken to spending some time outside - the atmosphere and the growing sense of paranoia is unpleasantly familiar, and he needs to get away for his own good. He's already dealt with two accusations of being a monster and he wants to avoid future ones. He's not in a very good place, judging from the nervous look in his eyes and the way he looks behind his shoulder occasionally, as if afraid of being followed.

'Pologies," he says, realizing he's stumbled across something important to Furiosa. "I...I was just passing through. Just had a bit of a tense experience back at the Cafe. A couple folks accused me of being an alien and they took some of my food. I can't be too angry - they said they hadn't had meet in a long time, and I was eating shrimp in front of 'em. This storm's turning people mean."

He's a bit resentful over the shrimp Anna and Lawrence took from him. With all the work he's done for others, he feels he's owed a little something for himself. At the same time, he doesn't want to give in to the fear that's spreading and turning Nexus dwellers against one another, however tempting it may be. He's seen this before and he's well aware stress and paranoia lead nowhere good.

"Hope this storm clears up soon, though I reckon things'll get worse before they get better. That's what I'm afraid of."

Azwel - Road to Redemption?

[lovesuwithknives]

It was a hazy memory, at first.

Like a lot of similarly hazy memories, it had been rolling about in the back of Azwel's mind as he kept himself busy, kept himself useful, kept himself distracted. Work during the day, go back to the shelter at night to make sure they were treating Henry right, wash rinse repeat. Day in and day out as the place grew colder and tighter and people started to get sick.

That's what triggered the memory, in the end. People falling ill from the close quarters, the sparse food, the harsh cold. More than frostburn and injury, anaemia, scurvy, beriberi, rickets, bleeds and fractures and fainting spells bring more and more people to the medics, people who'd never had a nutrient deficiency in their lives, suddenly panicking because their hair is falling out, their muscles are spasming, they're bleeding slowly but unstoppably. It doesn't take long on stavation rations for the body to start consuming itself, after all.

When you're from the 1500s, these are everyday complaints, and all Azwel can do is patch them up, suggest something for pain or nausea or syncope, sneak a few of them some fruit, and assure them that this won't kill them. Or, at least, it won't kill them right now. He'd weathered this stream of patients relatively well, remembering that people would live with scurvy or rickets for years.

No, it's when the bacteria and viruses proliferate that it really hit him, the constant sound of racking coughs kicking up memories of his own youth and the plague villages his family had visited. The nights spent listening to his younger brother groaning and coughing; spent trying as best a thirteen-year-old can to cool the fever, comfort the pain, assure him that he wouldn't die; spent hearing his mother and father and older siblings work and work and work in search of a cure that they never found.

His little brother and even littler sister lived. His older brother and sister and mother did not. His father was never the same.

"I suppose we're fortunate," Azwel remarks at one point to a random Nexus dweller, "that not every cough of this kind is an inevitable tumble into the pneumonic plague, eh? Oh, no, now there are so many other things it could herald, instead. Still, with all this technology, those won't kill a person so easily. We'd best consider ourselves lucky." And with that he packs up his things and moves on to the next patient. And the next. And the next.

And eventually he has to find a quiet spot. He can get away from the noise of people, but the howling of the storm is inescapable. The corner he finally sits on the floor in is chilly and he can still hear the wind wuthering outside.

He reaches into his robes and retrieves a metal flask, unscrewing it and taking several gulps before stopping and coughing only slightly on it. He leans his head against the wall for a moment. Maybe he falls asleep for a moment.

Not long before he'd arrived at the Nexus, when he was still chasing down astral fissures and experimenting first on hapless soldiers and then on random villagers, someone had stormed into his encampment demanding to see him. Curious, he'd told the guards to let them pass. The stranger had swept in, torn back their hood, and glared hotly at him with eyes he'd recognised far too easily, as he'd seen them in the mirror all his life. "So this is where I finally find you, Lord Azwel?!" she'd demanded.

He'd stared, baffled, then delighted. "Elena, I thought you were dead!" A beat, and he'd continued with a crooked grin. "And I never asked to be called 'Lord,' you know, Valty is just that dramatic."

"Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"Is it true that you've been torturing people?"

"Well, I..."

"Experimenting on them, like rabbits in a cage?"

"..."

"Deliberately infecting them with this Malfestation just to see what happens?!"

He'd spread his arms. "How else am I to save them from themselves?"

She'd turned white with fury. "'Save' them?" she'd echoed. "'Save' them?! Listen to yourself! You sound like a fanatic, not a healer! I've never heard such hubris!" She'd taken a step forward and such was the force of her fury that he took a step back. "I was proud of my family until now! I had thought, surely my big brother is carrying on our work, and that when I find him I can join him and we can do what Mother and Father raised us to do!"

He'd scoffed. "I am carrying on their work! If you can't understand it--"

"This isn't what Mother died for!"

"You're too young to even remember Mother!"

"I was seven! Seven is plenty old enough to remember! Especially given the way she died! It still haunts me!"

He'd paused, speechless.

Taking that silence as an opening, Elena had stalked to the nearest table, had picked up a random object, and had hurled it at him. He'd ducked--her throwing arm was as good as ever, he'd recalled absurdly. The next one had hit him, splattering oil everywhere. "Aval Organisation?!" she'd shrieked. "Nothing but a bunch of terrorists! 'Ultimate Seed?!' This isn't what our family worked and lived for! THIS ISN'T WHAT FATHER DIED FOR!" This last, screamed hoarsely, had come as she'd lunged forward at him, sobbing, flailing, clawing at his eyes in a blind rage.

He could have killed her right there. Or let the men who came crashing in at the noise do it. Instead he'd barked an order to them to stand down, grabbing her wrists as she flailed. Somehow, as they'd struggled, he'd gotten behind her, crossing her arms in front of her and grasping her wrists until his knuckles had turned white. She'd kicked and thrashed, bringing them both to the floor. And there he'd sat, still holding her, as her struggles had died down into broken sobbing.

"Get out," he'd told the men. "Now." They'd vanished.

Several beats had passed as Elena had sobbed. He'd carefully released her wrists and she'd turned, beating her fists weakly against his shoulders until she'd given up, weeping against his chest as he'd held her to make sure she wouldn't attack again.

Presently, she'd looked up at him with wide eyes in a tearstained face. "Please, Azwel," she'd said. "Please stop what you're doing and come back with me. We're all we have. Just... come back with me and be a healer again... like Father wanted."

"I can't--listen!" he added as she took another breath, hands finding either side of her face, tangling in her hair. "Listen... listen, if I stop now, the energies will overbalance and the Malfestation will spread further and faster! I have to see it through to contain it! This is the last fissure--there won't be any more--it's my last chance to finalise the cure and stop this curse once and for all!"

"Your 'Ultimate Seed?'"

"Yes! It will change everything--but I swear, Elena, I swear it will eradicate this curse, I promise.... You just need to believe me. Trust me. Just one more day, just trust me for one more day, Elena, please," he'd whispered as he'd curled his arms around her. "Then I'll go back home with you and--and take up the family business again, I swear...."

"How do I know I can trust you?" she'd mumbled into his robes.

This had elicited a wobbly laugh. "Still suspicious?"

"Still a liar?"

"That was one time."

"And yet Father forgave you."

"Only because you asked. You were always his favourite."

"Was not. You got all famous."

"You were cleverer." A beat. "And kinder. And that's what mattered to Father, really."

They'd fallen quiet after that. Eventually he'd spoken again, smiling ruefully. "I suppose the only way you'll really be able to trust me is to stay here and help me."

She'd looked up at him. "I can't," she'd said, and had stood, neatening her clothing and hair. "But I'll come back tomorrow night. When it's done."

He'd stood, also. "That's... that's fair, really," he'd admitted.

"Goodnight, Azwel," she'd said, turning to look back only once before leaving.

He'd vanished from the earth that next day.

"Well, Elena," he murmurs to no-one. "I'm a million miles and years from anywhere, but I'm still trying to get back on the road you wanted me on..." another drink. "For all the good it's doing me."

[coldsong]

Azwel murmurs to no one, but someone hears. Or something? There's a quiet rasp of scales on the floor a few feet away from him, in shadow, and given all the attacks and strange events going on around them, he would certainly be excused for finding that alarming.

A moment later, though, what comes out of the corner is none too frightening. It's only a snake, a small one, maybe a foot and a half long. It's green, though, a vivid, almost aggressive shade of green. Or maybe it just seems that way because everything outside is so white.

In any case, it's looking at him with beady little red eyes, in a way that is not precisely reptilian. It looks thoughtful, or possibly expectant.

Where Do Spiders Go In Winter?

[shieldborne]

It took the group a little over an hour to get from the Plaza to the safehouse. Even with the disturbance, with being cursed, shocked by the sight of Bucky, left blinded and in pain, Steve is pretty sure of his time count there. Theoretically, the boys should have been able to get back to the shelters even faster. And if they were planning on returning right away--Steve is pretty sure they were--they should be back within two and a half hours or so, before dark.

He can't see when the sun begins to set, but losing his sight hasn't caused him to lose sense of time yet. An hour passes, and he spends most of it in the kitchen, moving around the pantry by memory and portioning out uncooked rations by feel. He's hesitant to cook, since he'll be unable to eye the progress, but he can hand things over and even chop vegetables.

A second hour passes and he quietly lays out place settings for the refugees as Rory brings out bowls of soup and rice. They're using the counter as a dining table for everyone, and it's a little bit silly, maybe, to have things set up nicely in a crisis, but it seems like that bit of home relaxes the people around him. He can't see their faces, but he smiles and talks with them and laments that he can't play the jukebox for them until the power comes back.

And then the third hour comes, and his ability to smile becomes first strained, then nonexistent. Before that third hour is out, though, he gathers the parents of the McBride family, as well as Rory, explains the Spiders are absent and that he and Horvath are going to see if they can be found in the Plaza. He leaves orders and a time he'll return, because they can't leave the place unguarded for long, but children potentially lost in the snow is an emergency.

Steve's done triage before.

Horvath can teleport, and as much as it's best for him to conserve his power, this is urgent. The feeling is exceedingly strange, even more so since Steve can't see, and when they arrive in the Plaza, his head is pounding. Horvath has to lead him to the security desk, as little as Steve likes that, but he acquiesces. He can't afford pride right now.

"We have a situation," he reports without waiting to hear who's actually there to hear him. "Missing persons, unless they're here. The two Spider-men left my place for here about three and a half hours ago, and they're not back yet."

He is already dead set on 'we need a search party', and nothing short of Miles and Peter running up to him to tell him they're okay will change his mind, but he's prepared to argue the point if need be.

[bitterguardian]

Under ordinary circumstances, Horvath would be one of the first volunteering to join the search party; he's not fast, but he can walk and his eyes are better than Steve's right now. Unfortunately the snow has turned the surrounding landscape into something far beyond the ordinary, and traveling in that is not kind to a man with a prosthetic leg. He's been teleporting roughly twice a day, spending twelve hours or so doing triage in the Plaza, then resting and recovering and eating a meal at the shelter Steve has set up.

He's had a few hours of sleep and some food, between healing people and returning to escort Steve, but it's earlier than he usually returns. He's not at his best.

"Do we have any kind of system in place for loudspeakers? A way to put out a call for anyone who's seen them?" He leans on the table, and runs a hand over his face, distressed partly on Steve's behalf.

When Something's Gotta Give: Emergency thread for Horvath and nearby volunteers

[handsofwinter]

Part of the Nexus charm has always been the eccentric mix of architecture that flows from a multiversal crossroads. Be they squat or stately, rugged or sleek, all of them serve the same basics purpose: offering shelter to those who call the Nexus home… and never has that shelter been more sorely needed. With so many places to hole up, not everyone has chosen to take shelter in the main bunker, nor use the café as their home base. A few knots of refugees have hunkered down in other buildings around the Plaza, padding the walls with insulation and refusing to budge. They’re content enough where they are, thank you, away from the crowding and the arguing and the risk of sickness in the public shelter.

By itself, it’s not a bad plan. But most of that strange mix of buildings were never designed for this kind of winter. Nor do many of those hidden away possess the experience to consider what happens when the layer of snow atop their roof keeps building, day by day, deeper and heavier…

It’s grown dark when the last straw finally comes tumbling gently out of the sky. From outside in the plaza, there’s little warning. A faint creak of timber when the wind drops, perhaps. Then, suddenly, a crunch and crash from a small apartment building as the roof caves in. The lights peeking around the blinds go out. Glass shatters. Chunks of ice and dislodged snow come sliding down to bury lower doors and windows. From within come shouts, screams of panic.

And already the snow is falling again, to bury them all.

nearby volunteers welcome!

[bitterguardian]

Day and night are nearly indistinguishable in this kind of weather, anyway, so Horvath’s schedule may not be in synch with the clock anymore. Living underground in his own world, his internal clock is unreliable under the best of conditions, which these are not. The important part is that while it may be night, he is there in the Plaza, available for healing, when the rumbling collapse of a nearby building happens.

For just a moment, it sounds a little bit like an avalanche, and he freezes in alarm. The sound is brief though, and by the time things are settling it’s clear from both the later noises and the shouts of people that a building has collapsed, rather than some nonexistent mountainside. He hobbles out of the tent where he was sipping hot tea between patients, and joins the handful of onlookers.

There are noises, from inside the huge mound of snow and shattered timbers. There are people still in there, and still alive. And the snow is still falling. Even collapsed, a building is still roughly the size of a building, and the snow adds mass. It’s an imposing hill, and no amount of shovels and weary hands are going to be enough. Horvath swears under his breath, and limps closer. “There are people alive inside. We need some strong arms and fast legs to get them out.” He can do the rest, but he’ll only be able to hold it for so long.

There’s a moment of drawing breath, and he sticks his cane in the snow and plants his feet. Then both hands rise, and with a few gestures that vaguely look like he’s miming washing a window in slow motion, masses of timber and snow begin to shift and rise, slowly, moving like invisible giant hands are holding them up. It’s going to take some careful work to clear safe paths, and he’s praying he doesn’t hurt anyone inside by accident, but this is the best chance they’re going to get.

Mr. Slick - Walls closing in

[slicksalesman]

Mr. Slick tried to make sure to help out wherever he can as he stayed at the Crossroads Cafe, happy to have a place to stay after the power at his shop went out.

He originally helped Katsuya to distribute supplies back when the supplies were more plentiful. When the supplies dwindled, he decided to help out by helping anyone that needs help carrying things or assist with any small tasks that needed more helping hands.

Anything to try and keep his mind off things. Like the winter, being stuck here and his claustrophobia getting worse and worse...

Feeling exhausted, tired and hungry, he decided to take his break. As he did so, he looked around the cafe. Panic was in his eyes as it felt as if the walls were closing in on him...boxing him into a tiny spot.

"No," he whispered as he shook his head and clutched them with his hands, breathing heavily as he started to have a panic attack, "No,"

[alittlehinky]

Cricket's come back from an excursion around the plaza to pick pine needles, and the scent of them boiling fills the back of the Cafe, a parody of Christmas. He's helping distribute the tea in small, half-full cups to everyone, but he's tired already and so when he sees the little guy clutching his head he decides it's a good time to take his own break. He sets the two cups he was carrying on a shelf so they won't spill, and moves to stand within the stranger's field of vision, reaching to touch his wrists carefully, without grabbing on.

"Hey," he says gently. "Where are you, Mister? You can come back here; it's safe enough. I got a hot drink you can have."

Blaze-37 - Guardian on Patrol

[rekindledtitan]

Times like this, there are perks to being an Exo. To being a machine of engineered resilience and tireless purpose. Times like this are what Blaze was made for. Twice over, in fact.

She’s been patrolling the Nexus for years now- most of the years she remembers, at this point. If nothing else, she’s a familiar sight for many of the refugees, whether they’ve met her in the heat of a previous disaster or just know her as the robot who’s always around. Her armored figure remains a constant now, always on the move, always seeking a task. The Light she carries burns stronger against the cold, restless without her usual outlets for it and warming the air around her. She’s only too eager to answer questions or offer a helping hand to those who ask. Or look like they might ask. Or might have been about to forget to ask.

Unlike other explorers, Blaze has found no battle beyond the torches. Nothing has shown its face to attack her, even while others are found frozen and sometimes headless. It’s the one troubling aspect that breaks her fierce confidence in their chances. A Titan is born to face her enemies head-on. A Guardian is born to die so others need not. To be denied both makes her weapon hand itch and the fire seethe within her.

Just once does she find a quiet spot to hunker down on the floor in a back room, back to the wall and rifle propped beside her, and let herself sleep. Ghost watches over her, ready to flutter a warning to anyone who stumbles in and rouse her if she’s needed.

The rest of the time she’s easy to find, making a point to be out and about when her organic compatriots need to sleep. When she’s not on a mission, she can be found bunched into a corner table at the café, repairing some delicate piece of electronics under Ghost’s supervision, or more often outdoors hauling supplies or shoveling snow, especially after dark. If she’s not at a café table, or on the streets… then very often, especially at night, the Titan will have set her helm on her head and marched out past the torches, rifle at her back and embroidered mark fluttering at her hip. She’s looking for a fight. If anyone else should come across her, however, be it in shelter or on the street or out in the storm, she’ll be quick to lift her hand and voice in greeting to them.

((General non-mission thread if any characters want to talk to Blaze or have an encounter with a restless robot. Unless otherwise specified, I’ll assume all threads take place before the missions are announced.))

What needs to be done is best done in the dark

[juststeverogers]

What people don't often understand is just what it takes to keep a camp like this running. They understand the need to hunt, to gather and dry firewood, to tend to their sick. They understand defending their new makeshift homes. Understand repairing gear and doing whatever they can to forget what it was like to be full.

It's the things people don't think about that are equally as important. Taking care of waste that would infect and spread sickness. Dealing with the bodies of those who simply don't wake up. There aren't many yet, but there aren't none. People get sick. People die. And maybe it's a waste to have someone like Steve Rogers on this kind of unpleasant duty when he could be out fighting or running expeditions but he comes from a time that's dealt more personally and viscerally with sickness, death, and filth than his more modern cousins.

He's been in a camp during the dead of a winter before and kept it running.

Steve knows what has to be done. He spends most of his time resting, because with his metabolism the rations he gets just aren't enough to keep him going as good as he could otherwise be. His bulk needs more calories than others to keep going and there just isn't enough food to go around. When he is awake, he does whatever Isidor Durant needs doing. Whether it's carrying bodies, waste management, shoveling snow...he's there with his head down trying not to make a fuss no matter how bleak things get.

No matter how much his insides ache and the cold makes his skin crawl with unwanted memories. He settles into a numb sort of autopilot after a while. It's late the night he spies a familiar duo patrolling in the dark. He's spent and filthy from shoveling snow, near stumbling back toward the warm beacon that is the cafe.

"Find anything...?" Steve's voice is quiet, barely heard over the wind. One step, then another crunches through the snow as he approaches the bots.

Felix Caelus - The Diplomatic Approach

[conjuredskies]

His PINpoint stopped working last week.

Felix curses himself for holding his nerve so long. Every day he’d tested it. Every day he’d told himself, another few hours and perhaps he’ll talk Jim round. But every day winter tightened its hold, so did Jim’s obsessive need to help the people around them. One look in his eyes and Felix knew trying to get his beloved to leave would only hurt them both. And now it’s too late.

Too late to do things the smart way, at least.

So now the conjurer’s doing things his way. When Jim’s on duty in the café he tries to stay close, at least in the daylight. He only ducks out conveniently when Isidor’s around, though her orbit can’t be avoided entirely and sometimes he gets roped into changing bandages or shoveling snow or (this happens more and more) casting lights for people. It’s amazing how quickly his share of the paths get cleared, and how, come to think of it, he never works up a sweat in the least…

Often enough, however, he’s to be spotted slipping out into the snows, to walk along the torchline or let himself into an abandoned shop right on the edge of the boundaries… or heading out in the pre-dawn darkness when Jim thinks him still abed, satchel over his shoulder, to the small shrine he’s been working on. Twice he’s had to move it back inside the torches and soon he’ll have to do it again. He hasn’t been attacked so far, and he doesn’t know if that’s because he didn’t go too far or because of the minutes he took to politely invoke Winter and ask humbly for safe passage before darting out. Perhaps neither. He was born under lucky stars, after all.

When he’s not sneaking about, the Tamrielic mage isn’t hard to find. He has a preferred spot in the café, and keeps it largely by being enjoyable company for the people sheltering there. He jokes, he compliments, he smiles and tells stories despite the gnawing hunger and the fatigue that’s slowly beginning to wear on him like everyone else. In many ways this is just the kind of winter he was used to, as a child; he’d be content to sleep and eat and do as little as possible except that this town wasn’t prepared, the way Bruma always was. They aren’t safe here. Always his eyes go back to Jim, working frantically across the room.

And so, dawn after dawn and night after night, Felix goes back to his shrine and his ritual circle. By one route or another, he’ll find them both a way out of this.

[smartass_captain]

Felix may have been born under lucky stars but the gods have never had to contend with James T. Kirk and his inexorable magnetic attraction to trouble. Over the years Felix has seen firsthand how Jim turned otherwise mundane outings into life and death struggles, often through no fault of his own. Simply existing seemed to summon potential misfortune. It matters little how much more careful the captain gets the longer Felix knows him. Or, in fact, how carefully Felix Caelus-Kirk covers his tracks.

Jim's not looking for Felix when he comes back into their assigned sleeping area in the Crossroads a little over an hour after he'd stumbled up to start working to distract from the ever sharper hunger biting into him. When Jim returned, his only thought was to the journal he'd forgotten to bring downstairs earlier. Seeing Felix--and more importantly Felix's satchel-- gone roots the captain on the spot. Even when he gets noticed by Isidor to clear snow or cast small spells his important things stay carefully stored away up here, warded from prying eyes or fingers along with Jim's own things. If all of it is missing and Felix with it...

Felix, who is a talented conjurer, and has a history with hiding his craft from everyone including him. Felix, who has remained suspiciously complaint free despite hard labor and reduced access to food. Jim can nearly see Stratos' exasperated twist to his mouth as realization drives a spike of frustration deep into his gut.

It's not Rielle that Jim thinks back to, not this time. Felix has recovered from that, learned his lesson from the fallout of that hellish chapter of both of their lives. But no amount of ceremony or change in names will stop the man from still being Felix Caelus, the man who set off all the fire systems in Jim's Iowa farmhouse because he refused to let Jim in on his schemes enough to even be warned what would happen if he tried to summon fire into that house. Somewhere out in this frozen hell, Felix is up to something. Once again he hasn't thought it pertinent enough to tell Jim Kirk about.

"Son of a bitch." You're not a mage, you wouldn't understand. The reminder sits in the back of the captain's mind. In its innocent intentions lingers a poison that seeps into Jim's thoughts as it has for over a year now. He's clenching his jaw while he pulls on his cold weather gear with hurried motions. Scowling at the world when he slips downstairs and outside with enough Purpose that no one thinks to question him.

Somewhere out here, Felix is up to something. Jim best get to looking. At least he has some small idea of what to look for. The seclusion and space the conjurer needs for his rituals.

❅ Isidor calling for volunteers for the Main Expedition

[heirtothedragonsfire]

There’s been no shortage of things to get done. Even when it seems like everything is finding some level of calm, something happens to spur them all into action again. At least this time it’s for a good reason. When people sit around they become listless, unhappy and impatient. Now, finally, they have a chance to do something productive with the potential for a real reward.

The last of the missions are barely home. Helpers and organisers spread the word for the able bodied to come to the Plaza for an announcement. The crowd is impressive, considering all they’ve had to do to survive. Isidor surveys them all from a small makeshift platform. Like so many others, her cheeks have shallowed and gives her stern, piercing stare an extra sharpness. She keeps her chin up, but pulls her furs closer around her shoulders. It’s a cold place, above the crowd, but they all need to hear what she has to say, as much as she needs to say it.

Eventually those trickling in come to a stop. Thankfully the wind isn’t howling badly today, so her voice can carry across the sea of people. “Everyone! Listen up! Our scouts have come back with the location of a cache of food.”

She waits for the murmur to run through the crowd before she continues, “Everyone has done their part and worked hard so we can all get through this. We have all worked as a team, together, to survive this so far. I know you’re all hungry, and tired. We all are. So I know you all understand how much we need this.” She pauses to scan the faces around her. “We are so close to getting through this! And we have done so well!”

“I won’t pretend there aren’t risks.” With a deep breath she straightens and lifts her chin. “The weather is dangerous enough, but there are people beyond the boundaries who will attack those they meet. We need that cache, but only you can decide whether you’re willing to take the risk. Those who are willing and able, I’d ask that you come to me to volunteer. The team that goes will have to be able to get to the cache and bring it home. It won’t be easy, but our survival depends on it.” Isidor waits a second before finally saying, “Thank you, everyone.”

With that she steps down into the small perimeter of security around her as Lyall tries to organise the crowd. Volunteers are organised into a vague line, while those who desperately want to avoid the duty are allowed to leave. It’s a mess, but Isidor waits patiently at a desk with an impenetrable air of calm. The tall, brooding Exo standing by her shoulder almost certainly helps with that. As the next person approaches the desk she raises an eyebrow and asks, “Do you have any questions?”

((This is a completely optional thread FAQ/CR thread in preparation for the Main Expedition. So no rush to reply!))

[readvondaniken]

"Count me in."

A lanky mechanic comes forward, pistol holstered to his belt. Palmer, a normally laid-back stoner, is uncharacteristically cold and fierce-looking.

"Those creatures out there - they tried to kill me. I tried to talk with them, they showed they understood, and kept tryin' to kill us anyway. Looks like all they understand is force. They're gonna get it." He lowers his head, a hand on his gun. "I'm here for two reasons. First, I wanna get back at those critters for attacking us unprovoked. Second, if I can I wanna learn why. Do we have any idea what they've got against us or what they want?"

Palmer - Setbacks and Delays

[readvondaniken]

Palmer's been wandering around outside, shaken by his recent scuffle wirh the ice monsters. There's still a lot he doesn't know about them - what they are. for one thing, and why they're so hellbent on attacking the Nexus's people. They're clearly malevolent. Palmer's heard the stories of mangled bodies and injured survivors. The beings are ruthless and relentless, and don't seem bothered by the cold at all.

They'd thrown Palmer's offer - not even a truce, just an explanation of what they are and why they're attacking people - back in his face. So he's been focusing on becoming a more ruthless fighter. Palmer still dislikes violence, even more so killing, but it doesn't look like the ice creatures are willing to give them any other option.

However, he's even more concerned about his team back in Antarctica, who were alone with the Thing. Palmer had intended to go back to his world with a rescue party to rescue the survivors of Outpost 31. Unfortunately, with his PINpoint not working and portals unpredictable at best, that's not going to happen any time soon.

"I hope they're all right," he says, mostly to himself. "At least this gives me time to think about the best way to fight the Thing. It's a different kind of enemy than those monsters out there. Picks up after itself, for one thing."

[liverfree]

Although Prometheus spends the majority of his time patrolling the line of torches and assisting stragglers to safety, he is making more of an effort to check on his friends. The thought of losing anyone to this storm weighs heavily on his mind, so he weaves his way among the shelters, looking for familiar faces.

Palmer he spots without trouble, catching up to the man easily. "Palmer, hello. How are you holding up during the storm?" He pauses, then sighs heavily. "You're still intent on this mission, eh? At least this weather is giving us some practice."

❅ Main Expedition - The Raid

[rekindledtitan]

Days of planning. Weeks of struggling to survive against the elements. Well over a month of searching for a sign, a key, that one shining sliver of hope that would solve their looming crisis. The source of food and supplies – perhaps even fuel – that will see them all to the end of this winter. That will keep them all alive, warriors and wizards and children and shopkeepers alike. And now they’ve found it.

They’ve located the food dump that will make the difference. They’ve scrapped and scrounged and put together a tiny cohort of vehicles: a handful of bikes for outriding scouts, and one rough-but-ready snowmobile, the pride of their engineers, now sitting hooked up to the biggest sled they dared attach. They’ve learned the name and the nature of their enemy. And they’ve chosen the volunteers. Those willing to fight and, equally important, willing to risk their lives for the good of the group have stepped forward and been selected among. The expedition members have spent the last two days preparing intensively: getting checked by the medics, eating plus-sized rations, sitting through briefing sessions with Blaze as well as the other scouts and survival experts, going over how to survive out there, what to do when they come under fire, what their contingency plans are, how to use the tools and weapons they’re bringing. It’s not much and it's too much to learn so quickly. It’s not enough. But it may be what keeps them alive.

While they’ve done that, everyone else has worked to help get them ready. Some have been putting together ration packs, or carefully laying out kits before they get packed neatly into rucksacks. Some have been checking and rechecking the vehicles, vigilant against any tampering from the cold – natural or otherwise. Some have taken up the snow-clearing duties of those leaving, or joined in on the training sessions so they’ll be ready to keep watch after the expedition leaves. Some have woven snowshoes, or dried kindling, or stitched insulation into thermal gear. They have too few people for anyone to sit idle if they have the strength to move, and there is something for everyone and anyone to do.

It’s an hour before dawn now. The vehicles are assembled with a couple of exhausted mechanics fussing over them still. Their headlights are brilliant in the darkness, illuminating the snow that swirls through the air. The expedition members are gathered outside the Café, hefting their packs, checking their weapons, tying their bootlaces more tightly. Blaze paces, looking them over with a mix of pride and anticipation and sorrow and concern… but above all relief. At last. At last they can do something.

She wishes they were going to kill the beast behind this. She wishes they could fight Reynard himself. She wishes it was just her and no-one else had to die. This is too reminiscent of other times, preparing for other missions in another life. She sees the shades of it everywhere, these past two months. She doesn’t think many of her comrades returned from those missions. In the end, she didn’t either.

At her shoulder, Ghost whispers. Everyone is here. Everyone is ready. Just to make sure, Blaze calls out to each unit to sound off. Scouts. Vanguard. Transport. Rearguard… One by one, they report. It’s time. They’ll use the remaining darkness to head for the edge of town and give themselves maximum daylight to get home in. Blaze marches to the front, helm tucked under one arm, golden mark a-flutter at her right hip, and nods to them all. Ghost floats beside her, a mote of light in the darkness, his blue-lit gaze sweeping over each of their teams in turn.

“All right, people. This is it. You know the stakes. You know what we’re up against. And you know the plan. We’re going to show Reynard and those bastard dregs we won’t let them throttle us at their leisure. We’re not going to be herded and hunted this time. We’re not going to ask for mercy. We’re going out there and taking our survival into our own damned hands. We’re going to move fast. We’re going to stay in formation. We’re going to show them what happens when the people of the Nexus fight together." Her voice lifts with every sentence, the mingled fire of faith and fury held in no more. "But most of all, no matter what- we are going to bring. Back. That. FOOD! Are you ready?”

[he_put_the_devil_in_me]

Part of Matt feels guilty for eating so well, even in the short-term, while so many others have so little. It helps, though, to know that if they succeed in this risky gamble, there'll be more than enough to go around. When he submits himself to the medics for final clearance, they aren't very happy with the idea of sending a blind man on a raiding party, but he makes it abundantly clear that his lack of sight does very little to hold him back, and in the end he's given the all-clear to join the expedition.

He's switched out his mismatched winter gear for something he's been assured is less glaringly obvious against the snow, as well as being better insulated, though he's had to put on multiple pairs of socks to make the boots fit snugly on his feet. It's as comfortable as he's going to get, with the cold gnawing at any inch left exposed, seeping in even where he's fully covered if he stands still long enough.

All the more reason to get moving as soon as possible.

The darkness doesn't bother him one bit, standing in the midst of the rest of the expedition, as ready as he'll ever be. He feels slightly out of place among those who're armed with guns, but he's not the only one who's brought a melee weapon to a gunfight, hearing Sif nearby holding the same sword she arrived with. He gives her a tight smile and a nod when he feels her facing his way, but then Blaze is speaking, demanding all eyes and ears as applicable.

He's always thought that rousing speeches before a battle are corny as anything, something he could never take seriously in movies no matter how dramatic Foggy tried to describe them to him. But standing here, ready to take on the monsters beyond the torches and bring back enough supplies for the survival of those left stranded here by the hand of winter, and feeling the hunger that even two days of better rations hasn't entirely banished, all he feels is ready to go, and raises his voice with the others in affirmation.

Night Watches

[rekindledtitan]

It takes well into the evening after the expedition announcement before the excitement dies down. People have returned from their missions with prizes, with intel; wounds have been bound, reports have been given. Volunteers have had their first briefing and been sent to rest for the night... if they can sleep, after the mission they've agreed to.

When the darkness falls, the only people up and about are those still standing watch. People who haven't been tapped for the expedition, mostly. Those who don't need to feed and rest up intensively. Or those who don't need food and sleep at all...

So when a certain spy hears someone tramping her way through the snow and the dark, it's not hard to make a guess about their identity. Especially not when she spots the orange glow of the Exo's optics through her faceplate.

"Still up?"

[red_room]

Natasha pushes the last bit of snow away from the walkway she'd been working on with a shovel that looks like it was made for someone larger than herself in mind. Awkward though it is, it makes a good enough plow and the snow hasn't collected enough yet to make it too heavy to push about. She leans the shovel against the brick of the cafe's outer wall before stuffing her hands into her pockets to go and meet Blaze outside in the dark and cold.

"Steve couldn't get up tonight." It's no secret to either of them that he's in a bad way. Bad enough that Natasha's taking some of his chores on so he doesn't have to worry about them getting done. Even though she should be prepping for the expedition. Caring for her friend is important.

Now more than ever.

"I'm just finishing up his duties."