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nexus_crossings2019-02-02 12:56 pm
handsofwinter) wrote in nexus_crossings2019-02-02 12:56 pm
Entry tags:
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
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His wife does not.
"They're children." She exhales sharply and shakes her head. "They're children, and they're starving. You're telling me to let my children starve?"
Jacob tries to stop her, but Heather shakes her hand free from his grip and crosses her arms over her chest. She stares into Isidor's face and demands, "If that's what you mean, then let me hear you say it. Tell me to my face: Let your children starve."
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She speaks slowly and calmly, letting neither her voice nor her gaze waver. "Let your children go hungry, so that you'll still be around to protect them. You don't want them to be alone. Without you. Trying to survive this storm alone? You don't want that. I know you don't. So. Do as I say. Obey the rules."
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Behind her Jacob quietly pleads, "Just tell her what she wants to hear..."
But Heather shakes her head. "And if it comes to us or them? If we have to make that choice? It's ours to make, not yours. Even if we're gone, our children won't be alone. They'll always have family to care for them. And I'm sure you'd be glad to know that logistically it would just be two less mouths to feed."
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Or perhaps she just doesn't want to.
Folding her arms, she tilts her head at Heather. "And if you were to die, and your family was left to tell your children... If they had to be told that their parents died because they didn't want them to cry, which I'm sure wouldn't scar them at all, while everyone else around them survived... Would I have to have this conversation with the rest of your family? One by one until I was left alone to take care of your children?"
Isidor lowers her voice suddenly, her stare intensifying, fixed on Heather. "If I ever find out you have been giving your food to anyone else, I will put you in custody. You need to eat. We all need to eat. I'm not going to let some misguided instincts ruin that."
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"Heather!" Jacob begs. He reaches out for her, but Heather steps closer to Isidor with a defiant glare.
"And what happens in custody?" she demands. "How could that be worse than any of what we're going through?"
With a sweep of her arm she asks, "And who gave you the right to decide who goes into custody anyway? You? You know, not all of us Westfall rubes want to be used to inflate your ego the way you use my brother. Which we all think is sick, just so you know."
She huffs with a trace of amusement. "That's it, isn't it? That's just how you are. You find sad, lost people and you use them to feed into your sense of self-importance. You're hollow on the inside, Isidor Durant."
And then she goes and does it. She can't stop herself! Shaking her head as she glowers, Heather Weatherhill jabs one finger right into Isidor's chest.
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In the face of Heather's maternal fury Isidor watches, eyebrows raised ever so slightly, eyelids lax, pointedly unfazed by it all. With all the men and women from all the countries that have taken issue with her, she can handle this with ease.
That's when Heather pokes her chest.
She touches her.
Isidor's eyes flash, fixing her furious wide eyes firmly on Heather. Her muscles tense, and it takes everything in her not to give Heather a reason to never lay a hand on a Durant again. Even Lyall, who had been keeping his distance, tenses, wincing at the sight of it. Just as he starts to approach, Isidor's clenched jaw opens.
"Get. Your finger. Off of me." Whether or not she does, Isidor will give her a reason to. The tip of Heather's finger warms, rapidly, until suddenly it burns like the metal of a stove. "Take a step back. And apologise."
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It's the sound of a shout that brings Zandros crawling out from his hiding place in the crowd. He weaves and winds his way toward his darling fiancee and the family of their friend, red-faced and huffing.
"What has happened!" he worriedly asks.
Heather tosses her head toward Isidor and shouts, "She burned me! She burned me!"
Zandros, anxious as ever, holds his hands out and hurries toward Heather. He takes her fingers in his palm and rushes to placate her with soft assurances. "There must be some misunderstanding! Did you touch her? My dear, she's been warded every which way. It must have been the magic, my dear. The passive magic. I assure you most certainly, Isidor would never aggress against the innocent."
As he cups Heather's fingers in his palm he turns his face toward Isidor and, out of sight of the Weatherhills, casts a pointed look her way. Correct? It hardly lasts a half-second before he's got his lovely green eyes on Heather's red fingertip.
"Heather, my dear, it is all superficial, yet no wound is below the embrace of the Light."
The magic that he works is so small as to be invisible, but Heather feels something by the look of relief and small surprise on her features. His work done in an instant, Zandros turns his gaze to Heather's face.
"And what has caused such conflict between friends?"
Heather's brow knits again and, quietly, she says, "She wants my children to starve."
"My!" Zandros exhales with greatest remorse. He keeps one hand on hers and puts the other squarely on her upper arm to jostle her slightly. "There must be some misunderstanding. Isidor would never. Family is the most important thing in the world to her! From where did this notion arise?"
Heather looks away. After a prolonged silence Jacob offers, "We were sharing our rations with our son. We won't do it again, Lord Alter, I swear."
Zandros quickly withdraws his hand from Heather's arm and instead claps Jacob on the shoulder. "You need not apologize, my friend. I appreciate your honesty, and see now where all of this began."
Looking between the two he firmly announces, "We all know in our hearts that what you have done is no crime. Indeed, it was an act of great love, of highest selflessness. Within your chests are martyr's souls, and you are driven by purest Compassion, Respect, and Tenacity to give of yourselves for the betterment of your young children."
Both Weatherhills watch him as he smiles softly for the both of them. They find it in themselves to smile, too, if only just.
"But it is not nourishment they seek, Dear Weatherhills. They are not empty of food, but of hope. In this place they have been deprived of normalcy, as have we all. They seek the reassurance and love of their parents, and you, naturally, seek to give it to them. But Weatherhills... These are not normal times. These are times of necessity in which the only things that bind us are our shared struggle... And our mutual agreement to live as if there were still norms to follow. It is only for this reason that we live by seemingly selfish rules. For when all abide by one law, all are as one. It is the most delicate of peace predicated only on equality. And if that balance tips... So goes our society. It is for this reason alone, I assure you, that each of us must continue to subsist merely on what we are given, and seek neither to give nor receive any less nor any more."
He turns a most remorseful gaze toward Isidor, and the couple looks to her as well, each silently thoughtful.
"Isidor," he pleads, "It is not reprimanding our friends need now, but hope. A light in these darkest of times. Permit me, if you would, to arrange a rallying of the spirit for each of us survivors. To boost the morale of those of us who toil and sacrifice -- indeed, even those among us too young to understand their own bravery. Help assuage their children's pain and comfort these soul-wounded parents, Lady Durant..."
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And then she has to stand there while he cradles Heather's finger. While he coos sweet assurances at them and casts a look of reproach at Isidor. Really, who are the parents here? This is not the time for coddling. She shouldn't need to hold everyone's hand and pet them and tell them how precious they are, as Zandros is doing. Like mother like children, she thinks bitterly to herself, whining when they don't get what they want. All while daring to insult her!
No wonder the Archon is so sour. It's hard to like people when you know they'll only turn into spiteful, unappreciative children the moment they get upset.
As much as she hates Zandros interrupting her, contradicting her and speaking for her, his pretty words appeal to the Weatherhills. They don't deserve to be painted as glorious martyrs, but it is incredibly effective.
By the time Zandros turns his attention back to her, Isidor has fully regained her stoicism. She stares at him with all the judgment of a disapproving and irritated wife, letting the silence hang in the air as she looks to the Weatherhills and then back to Zandros.
"Fine," she says eventually. "I will permit it. As long as it does not consume extra rations."
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"Wonderful!" he exclaims, then looks between the Weatherhills. Each of them begins to smile, Jacob a touch quicker than Heather. "Oh, Isidor," Zandros says, "We all knew you were a just leader. This is only more evidence of the truth."
Now Heather slightly squints her eyes, and dubiousness shadows her face. She starts to open her mouth, but Zandros, seeing this, continues his act.
"Perhaps the hunger is getting to all of us. Weatherhills, you know me well as a man of the Light and a friend of your brothers. Magnanimous, benevolent... But would you believe that just this morning I failed to bite my tongue and began to call a man a cur for trampling my feet? Oh, I regret it terribly. But, you see, it was the hunger, I'm certain of it. We all say things more brusquely than we normally would when we want as we do, is that not true? Have we not all felt that creep of the Shadow, that crease of the brow and heat in the blood when we are without?"
Jacob laughs quietly and begins to nod, and Heather's suspicion turns slowly to thought. Could that really have been it? Could her physical state have affected her mood so badly that she might have acted out of turn? Perhaps... Perhaps Zandros was right? The hunger got to her mind. It made her lash out. Made her speak out of turn.
And what had she said? Oh, Light. She'd almost forgotten already. Horrible, terribly rude things...
Her cheeks flush and her eyes flit away from Isidor when she reflects on the scene that passed between them. She embarrassed herself in so many ways, and publicly no less.
"You must be right," she says, her voice hardly above a whisper. "It was the hunger that made me say what I said. Isidor, I..."
Her lips purse. She tries to look up, but she can't find it in herself. Blinking, her gaze still toward the ground, she mutters, "Isidor, I'm so sorry. Forget the things I said. I didn't mean any of them."
Jacob seizes on the opportunity to put his arms around his wife and say a little louder what she failed to: "We won't break any more rules, Isidor, we promise. Thank you for your understanding."
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Where silence and carefully sharpened words are the weapons of choice in her family, Zandros talks. And talks and talks. Pretty superfluous words that he tosses into the air like petals. The colours that fill the air distract the Weatherhills nicely. It's not her way, but it works. Isidor's lip twitches.
And where Zandros would certainly take Heather's hands in his own and murmur soft assurances, she stands with her arms folded. Unmoving. Unmoved. She is not Zandros. She stares down Heather even though the woman can't bring herself to meet her gaze.
"So long as you keep your word I'll have no need to remember what happened here today." It's the best concession she can give. She's not so proud as to purposefully undo all of Zandro's work, but this is not the firm hand she believes will ensure their survival. "Go along now. We had both best get on with our day."
Only once she watches them leave does her gaze flick to Zandros. Her arms remain folded. Her expression remains cold. She has Opinions, Zandros. And she is ready to share them. If you want a chance to throw some more pretty words into the air, now is the time.
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"Oh, now, don't give me that sort of look, Isidor. You're chastising me. And for what? They left thinking highly of you, and they vowed not to disobey your will. I supported you, as I have said I shall do in all things. I dealt with them the way one must deal with the underclass: Tell them what they desire to hear whilst giving them nothing."
Eyeing her, his smile turns a touch more knowing, a bit more smug. "You're a shrewd businesswoman, but you've been blessed to deal only with the upper class and dutiful servants in your time, haven't you? You must understand, Isidor: Peasants lacking all hope and dignity turn like rabid dogs to bite the hands that feed. But give them a bit of perhaps undue self-worth and distract them with good entertainment and you'll have them for life."
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Thankfully it suits her to remain more silent than talkative.
"You contradicted what I said," she finally tells him. "I won't have you undermining me, you know. I'm not afraid to be hated. If you think I need 'rescuing', you're wrong. I need my people to support my decisions. Besides," She tilts her chin up as she looks down the path they left, "They shouldn't need coddling like children. All of this is for their sake. For all our sakes."
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Zandros spends a half-second looking confused, then fills the other half of that second in offense. Almost immediately after he's smiling placatingly and pressing his palm to his chest.
"Isidor, I had not seen it that way. I was merely arriving to provide a new perspective and different manner of support. Ultimately your word was law, was it not? I did not rescue you. I merely... Polished your image such that the public would see your innate benevolence, which, perhaps, at times, may not be as... Self-evident, or-or-or... Accessible... To the average eye?"
And then he strains a smile that doesn't reach his wide eyes as he waits for the inevitable. He's said too much. There will be punishment.
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"I know what you actually mean when you say that, Zandros. I debated with politicians as a teenager." On mundane matters, sure, or just to play devil's advocate, but it still taught her a lot. "Don't try to sugarcoat whatever you say to me. It wastes my time and your breath."
Isidor narrows her eyes at him until she's sure she's pressed the point thoroughly enough. Then, with a sigh, she looks back to where the Weatherhills had been standing. "They're gone now, anyway. And you have an event to plan." He gets her attention again. "What are you thinking?"
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"My only hope is that others might see in you what I have come to see: A powerful and confident woman worthy of being followed."
Another brief pause and he asks, "Thinking? For the event? Ah, yes, of course. As you said, nothing which consumes rations. Not a feast, nothing like that. Perhaps a show of talent? Musical demonstrations, theatrics, dance. Activities to entertain and reaffirm a sense of community."
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She nods to prompt him to discuss the event, but starts walking. There are things she wants to check up on, so they're going to walk and talk.
"Try to keep it light on the energy. We don't want accidents. Storytelling, music, singing, I'll allow." She stops in her tracks, pauses, and then turns to him again. "Only happy songs and stories. Nothing sad or nostalgic or homesick."