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]

Cricket smiles when he sees Kinner, warmed by the friendly greeting, and scoots over to give him space to join him on the floor by the back wall. It's warm back here, but the seating is less comfortable, so it tends to be the province of the younger and more limber. Which Cricket both is and is not, but he likes the heat.

"Hey, Kinner. I ain't happy about what I had to do, but I'm glad to be alive." He nods.

"We never did get to go fishing," he tells Kinner when he mentions food. "I think we best plan on that in the spring. And I'll see if Forrest'll bring us some pie. He makes a hell of a good pie."

They probably shouldn't talk about food. It'll only make them both hungry, and Cricket seems to have lost a little weight already.

[outpostcook]

Kinner nods grimly. "I'm guessin' more than a few folks have done things they ain't proud of in this weather. But I'm glad you're alive, too. The Nexus wouldn't be the same without you, Cricket. You're one of my very best friends here."

He nods at the mention of pie, and of fishing when spring comes. Spring seems farther away than ever. "Y'know what? I don't think I've ever met Forrest. You've told me about him. He sounds like quite the guy the more I hear. I wonder if we'd get along."

There's one thing for sure, though, Kinner thinks, a wry smile playing on his scarred face.

"Y'know what, Cricket? I never want to see so much as a snowflake for a good long time once spring comes. I'm sick of this winter. Reckon everybody else here is, too."

[alittlehinky]

Well, hell, if Kinner's going to be sweet like that, Cricket will just lean over and hug him. They're all in a bad place, but perversely Cricket seems to be drawing strength from it now that he's seen his horror and come out the other side (at least for the moment). He's not much for fighting and he can't walk far, but he can give affection, and that might be a reason for a few people to keep going.

"You too, Kinner," he says. "Don't worry, I ain't dyin' again. And neither are you. We'll get through it."

"If you like people who don't talk much, you'll love Forrest," he laughs, and nods.

Then he sobers a little, looking up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "I dunno, Kinner. I like snow. I really do. This is a little much, but it ain't the snow that worries me so much as the not having enough shelter or food in it. If we had a lot of firewood and a nice hot stove and hot cider to go around, it'd be a little slice of Heaven."

"It ain't weather, it's circumstances." He's quiet a moment then adds, "You know, my mama died around this time of year."

[outpostcook]

Kinner's usually not the most wordy man around, but he shows his warmer side around Cricket.

"Forrest sounds like a good guy, and if he makes good pies that's just a bonus."

Kinner smiles, enjoying the hug. As far as he's concerned, they need to stick together after seeing the horrors he did. He can fight, but he doesn't really like it, especially since he knows people are getting mean. He wants things to clear up so they can get back to normal, with less hunger and paranoia. But Cricket's display of friendship makes Kinner's day a little warmer, even with the weather.

"I guess everything that's going on reminds me of what happened in Antarctica, minus the man-eating alien. The stress, everyone getting snappy with each other, the paranoia..." At least, Kinner thinks, there isn't any risk of him being eaten. That's a little better, if not by much. "It's not a good feeling."

The cook sobers when Cricket mentions his mother. "I'm sorry to hear about your ma. Losin' people is the worst."

[alittlehinky]

"He is a good guy," Cricket nods. "Smart, too. Maybe he'd come fishin' with us in the Spring. I think he'd like you a'ight."

Sometimes it's hard to tell when Forrest likes someone: Cricket knows this from experience. But Kinner is the kind of gruff quiet he'd appreciate.

He makes a concerned face at the mention of the Thing, nodding slowly. "Shoot. I reckon it does. I mean, there ain't no Thing here, but...yeah, everything else must feel similar, even down to you doin' the cooking."

Unfortunately, there's not much Cricket can do to help with that. "I got your back, though. Promise you that."

"Mama...died when I was about six?" he adds, worrying his lip. "Of the Spanish flu. It was real bad that year. I'm just hopin' we don't get a lot of sickness here, 'cause I don't know what we'd do."

[outpostcook]

Kinner's never met Forrest, but Cricket's mentioned him. "I'd be happy to bring him along. It's been a long time since I went fishing with anyone, and I think it'd remind me of home, by the river. Where the water wasn't frozen."

Kinner can't wait until the spring comes. The weather's exhausting him, and it's bringing out the ugliness in people. He can't blame everyone. It's a tense situation and resources are growing scarcer and scarcer. Hopefully it'll clean up soon, he think.

"Thanks, Cricket. I've got your back, too - you can count on that. If you ever need help, don't be afraid to call on me."

When the cook hears Cricket's explanation, he bows his head slightly. Kinner's all too familiar with Spanish flu, although not for the same reasons. He knows the horror stories associated with the illness.

"Spanish flu. Yeah... that was after the war. I didn't get it, I got lucky, but some folks in my old unit did. Died of it, too. Was it connected to the epidemic around the same time as the Great War?"

[alittlehinky]

Cricket can carry on a long way on sheer optimism, planning for better days and better weather. Story of his life, really. It used to be that Jack was the impetus for that kind of daydreaming and Cricket would follow along, but even without Jack around to set him of, he's capable of constructing his own springtime castles in the air.

"We'll plan on it," he says, quiet and tired but smiling contentedly. "Fishing trip and picnic. You and Forrest can swap recipes, maybe. Shoot, get the two of you cooking together? That'd be aces."

Okay, so he's pretty hungry, himself. But he'll cope. Complaining helps no one.

He nods. "Yessir. It was 1918. Everyone was fallin' sick all over the country and the hospitals was looking for nurses. Paying more money a week than we usually saw in a month, so of course mama took the chance. She went up to Rocky Mount to work for eighteen a week, and she came down with it, herself. Died in December. I didn't know what to do with myself. I was only little, though."

[outpostcook]

"Y'know, I'll really enjoy it once the weather clears up. And we gotta remember that it will clear up, as bad as things look now."

Kinner can't help but smile at the idea of meeting Forrest. Cricket's said a lot of good things about the man, and Kinner's eager to swap recipes if and when the time comes. It's a brighter thing for him to focus his energy on. Once things clear up, he thinks, things'll be a lot better, and he'll enjoy the springtime.

"Wouldn't mind cooking with him, Cricket. I'm always open to learning new recipes, and he sounds like the kind of gentleman I could learn a few things from. Has he got any particular, uh, specialties? Is he good with seafood?" Kinner's eager - all he really knows about Forrest is what he was told by Cricket, and that interested him enough. Kinner's a curious man, expecially where cooking is involved.

While he himself isn't really one to visit other dimensions, he has suppliers who so. The closing of PINpoints is why he's temporarily shut his store down until the weather clears up. It's also for the safety of his suppliers themselves.

[alittlehinky]

"Ain't a lot of seafood in the mountains, Kinner," Cricket smiles. "But I know he can fry up a freshwater fish pretty good. He's good with big breakfasts. Ham and eggs and biscuits. Or cornbread with molasses."

Oof. Now he's hungry. He opts to change the subject a little. "You'll know when you meet him. He's got a scar across his throat. Happened not that long ago, he got attacked by a couple'a out of towners. They cut his throat but he survived, made it to the hospital."

And killed them, later, but Cricket's not inclined to talk about that part.

[outpostcook]

"Ham and eggs and biscuits are good. Guess I'll have some compitition on the biscuit-makin' front." Kinner chuckles. "Been a long time since I've had some molasses. Won't mind having some again. It'll be good eating."

Kinner wonders if a friendly competition at some point would be a good idea. It would let both of them show off their skills and possibly learn new recipes from one another. While Kinner isn't the competitive sort, he's willing to give it a try for some fun.

"Scars, huh? Well, I guess Forrest is another member of that club." Kinner lightly brushes his facial scar. "I'm impressed he survived that."