nexus_crossings | Into a Rising Wind

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event

Into a Rising Wind

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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

"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?"

Cricket is more or less lost in thought when the man speaks to him, and maybe it's gratifying, the way he starts and turns (and then grimaces at the twinge that gives him). Cricket is probably one of the more naive souls in the Nexus at this time, but even at that rate he finds the sudden appearance of a white-haired elder somewhat suspicious. He glances around as if to see where he might have come from, but the tracks near the door of the Cafe are pretty muddled. He'd have to look pretty hard to see whether there were any new ones.

"Yessir," he says mildly. "Do a lot of limping."

Even if there is something weird going on, Cricket's always going to treat an old man with respect. That's how he was raised. "It's nothin' big. Bones are crooked on account of rickets when I was a kid. They're just more sore now 'cause I did a lot of running on 'em earlier."

Granted, Cricket's definition of running does not meet most other peoples'.

If Cricket's suspicions raise any suspicions of their own the man doesn't show them. Instead his brow furrows deeper at the explanation Cricket gives. At first his lips pucker and he nods solemnly at the tale of an affliction during childhood, then they pull thin in unpleasant thought.

"You got attacked then?" One of those wiry eyebrows rises to an almost caricatured expression of scrutiny. "By one of those monsters out there?"

It's not that Cricket hasn't heard anything about Reynard. Academically, he knows there are seasonal spirits around and it pays to be respectful and keep out of their way. Lately, of course, he's heard a lot of resentment directed toward the Winter Spirit, so there's that impression on top of the general knowledge. But until he meets one and knows he's meeting one, he's reserving judgment.

He doesn't like this weather, but it's also relatively normal, based on his experience back in his own world. Just more of it than he's seen before.

He turns fully to face the man, stepping a little closer so he can talk politely, and gives a twitchy little shrug. "Nawp. Wasn't a monster; ain't seen none of them. Just a coupl'a humans. Broke into the place I was staying at."

He's quiet for a second, then admits, "I shot at 'em. Feelin' kinda weird about it, still."

For now Cricket is simply meeting an old man with wild white hair and wrinkles that only emphasise his expressive face. The other eyebrow rises to join the first and then falls, furrowing in thought.

"Feeling weird? Feeling weird about what? There's nothing to feel 'weird' about, boy. Defending yourself is the most human thing in the world. You never defended yourself before in all your life?"

"Not like that," he says. He doesn't seem nettled by the stranger's tone at all, just a little withdrawn, like he's thinking things over even as he speaks.

"Got in fist fights plenty," he says. "Lotta folk back home used to think the crippled boy'd be an easy target. Wasn't. Lost a few, won a few, I mean, nothin' special. But that's not the same as having a gun in your hand. Feels like..."

He pauses to think scuffing the toe of his boot against a chunk of ice. "Feels like stepping into water you think reaches your knees and findin' out the hard way it goes over your head."

"I ain't ashamed, is the thing. The people that helped me, and my friends, they're worried, like they think I'm going to break down? I'm mad about it, and a little sad, but I ain't feeling much else. I reckon if he'd died I'd feel worse. 'Cause taking someone's life is serious, even if it's justified. But as far as I know they're both alive, and if they die now 'cause of the storm, that ain't my fault."

"But then I stop and think and wonder if maybe I should feel ashamed or guilty. I don't wanna kill nobody, but...apparently I could, and I didn't know that about myself 'till now."

He's talking too much. Something about the white snow and how quietly it falls must put him in a confessional mood. "Sorry, I'm runnin' my mouth."

Cricket - Adjusting to a Change in Fortunes

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