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

[alittlehinky]

"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."

[shardofwinter]

Isn't that the magic of a snowy landscape? All sound is muted, absorbed by the bright blanket. Even a conversation in an open space feels private.

With a shrug of his shoulders, the old man shuffles his cloak to better cover his neck. "Plenty of people break down. Get too soft with an easy life and break down when reality hits them. No reason to be worried that you don't. Means you're not soft. Means you're strong."

"You did what you had to do. To survive. That isn't anything to be ashamed of, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Not even yourself." He casts an eye around them and nods with his chin at their surroundings. "In times like this, you've got to look out for yourself. Making sure you survive isn't nothing to feel guilty about. Whether you hurt someone, or kill them. It was what you had to do, not what you wanted to do. At the end of it all, it's better to be living than dead. Life is short enough, full enough of shame and guilt. Don't need to make things worse for yourself. Life'll do that plenty itself."

[alittlehinky]

"Well...ain't always wrong to break down, either," he protests mildly. "'Specially not if you can come back from it."

But he's not eager to demonstrate his assertion personally. He quiets, listening to what the man says, and it sounds a lot like something that would come out of Forrest's mouth. It is not the violence that sets a man apart. It's the distance; how far he is prepared to go. The Bondurants never seemed to enjoy violence, but Forrest and Howard never flinched from it, either. Because they intended to survive and protect what they had.

Cricket's less soft than he seems. He knows what he stands for, and he'd still rather err on the side of compassion and gentleness, but the advice he's being given makes perfect sense. And whether it's meant kindly or not, it comes across that way. He gives the man a tentative smile and nods. "Yessir. Thank you, sir. I reckon you're right. Ain't no call to pick everything apart, anyway, while there's work to be done. Best if I focus on what I can do now."

[shardofwinter]

"We don't always have such luxuries," the man growls in return.

In times like these people can be faced with decisions that can pass in the blink of an eye, but truly show what someone is made of. That's one of the beautiful things about storms and disasters, in Reynard's opinion. Whether others share his view or not, it does prove to be a useful tool for him.

"Good man." Although his large hand falls heavily on Cricket's shoulder, it sits lightly, even with its firm grip. The young man won't feel much. Perhaps a weight lifting from his shoulders, or off of his feet. Perhaps nothing at all. Blessings aren't always obvious, but he's earned this one. "Maybe you'll lead by example. Show your friends they don't have to be ashamed of what they're guilty about."

[alittlehinky]

That's a fair point, too. Sometimes you have to break to be fixed up again, which was the point Cricket was going to make, but Winter is not time for building or rebuilding.

He gives a small grunt when that hand hits his shoulder, but doesn't flinch or sway, just blinks and looks at the man like he's not quite sure what to make of him. Sensation tells him little enough, but what the old man says trips something in his mind, that's not quite a memory or a thought, maybe just a random instinct.

"Yessir," he says again, seriously, thinking of stars and snow. "My name's Cricket, sir. Ain't askin' for yours unless you want me to know it."

It might be better not to have confirmation of what is basically a wild guess based on nothing more than a word of advice.

[shardofwinter]

"'M not a fan of exchanging names. Getting to know people. Not now." The hand slips from Cricket's shoulder and disappears under the cloak again. He shifts his weight and adjusts the thick fabric around him as he looks around. "No knowing who's going to survive all of this. Don't need any more sadness. More to mourn."

"'S too cold to stay out here for long. I wouldn't, if I were you." Somewhat more cynical advice to part ways with, but it's sensible and therefore means well. With that, however, he waves roughly in Cricket's direction as he shuffles into the building Cricket just came out of.

Naturally he'll not see him again. Even if he follows him straight inside.

[alittlehinky]

"Nawp. Name 'em and you might get attached." It just slips out. Cricket's not exactly known for being a smartass, but he's got a streak of it. He gives a sheepish little duck of his head after the fact, and sobers at the warning.

"Sure thing, sir. Y'watch yourself, too."

He watches him go for a moment. Surely if he were who Cricket thinks he might be, he wouldn't just walk right into the Cafe--no, wait, why wouldn't he? Even where there's no storm, there is still Winter.

How bad is that, he wonders, and decides it's better not to look for trouble.

When he turns, with the intention to head back inside, himself, he means to use the tracks he's left already, but lifting his legs feels strangely easier than it was a few minutes ago. The pain is still there, the weakness, but there's a lightness, as well, and when he steps onto unmarked snow it just...doesn't sink beneath him. It feels soft, like walking on a thick carpet, which is a remarkably soothing sensation. Another couple cautious steps and he finds he's still not sinking.

Oh, it's a bit slippery, and no matter what he's still going to need the cane for balance, but it's a huge difference. He paces in little circles, leaving no footprints, but only the marks where his can presses into the snow. It's one of the strangest things he's ever experienced, and after a few minutes he finds himself cupping his hand over his mouth to stifle laughter.

This seems like a prank, or some very pointed magical commentary, but if it is meant to be funny, Cricket is in on the joke, for once. He hops a couple times, cautiously, realizes falling would be embarrassing and stupid, and stands still again, rocking onto his toes and marveling at it.

A moment later, he realizes he can't tell a soul about this.

People are already angry, getting toward the edge of what's civilized behavior. If he tells people he thinks some random old man gave him the ability to walk on top of the snow, the best case scenario is people will think he's lost his mind. The worst case scenario, which is all too likely, is that the dots will be connected, and no one in the shelters is a fan of Reynard North just now.

He doesn't think he'd be attacked, like a witch in Salem, but there would be awkward questions, and dark looks. Bullying, maybe, or worse if the noose around the shelters tightens. No, he can't even tell his friends. Not worth the risk of getting them in trouble.

He folds the fluffy collar of Loki's coat up closer to his face and looks back at the Cafe. The windows and doors are pretty insulated to keep heat in. He doubts anyone has seen him hopping in the snow as of yet, and anyway, he's always been good at being overlooked.

He retraces his steps back to the tracks he left earlier and walks close alongside them to get back to the door. He's still no good for scouting or expeditions, but he'll figure out something he can do with this. Best to just take his time, for now, think it over and see how things develop around him.

Still, politeness never hurt anyone. "Hey...thanks," he whispers in the direction of the sky, and then steps back into his own old footprints and goes back indoors.