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nexus_crossings2019-02-02 12:56 pm
handsofwinter) wrote in nexus_crossings2019-02-02 12:56 pm
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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
Azwel - Road to Redemption?
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."
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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.
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He blinks at the snake as it emerges from the shadows. Poor thing, it must be miserable in this cold. But the more he watches the little reptile, the more he suspects it isn't a typical snake. When it stops and regards him with that odd intelligence in its eyes, he tilts his head.
"Hullo," he says, slowly extending a hand toward it. Might as well.
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Azwel is a trusting soul to reach out to a random snake. What if it were inclined to bite? Loki is exactly as venomous as he wants to be. But a friendly effort ought to be met by a friendly response, and anyway, Azwel has been kind to him. Loki doesn't always repay these things as he possibly ought to, but he does not forget them. He might even have dropped by specifically to see this man, in memory of that kindness.
Approaching him fearlessly, the tiny snake flicks a tongue at his fingertips and coils around his wrist. The skin feels chilly, like cold chain mail.
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"Are you lost, too, little snake?" he murmurs.
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"The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
but I have promises to keep.
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep."
Despite the slightly ominous commentary, the little snake seems content on Azwel's wrist, only lifting its head a little to flick its tongue out in the general vicinity of his nose.
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"How very apt," he muses, smiling again at its little snakey tongue. Had he known who the snake was, he'd wonder if those words were for him, for Loki, or just a general commentary on the present situation. As it is, he can only roll the verse about with all his other thoughts, dulled by lack of food and sleep and this crushing weariness.
He lays his arm on his knees so he can rest without disturbing the little snake. "I wonder what promises snakes would make," he says, leaning his head against the wall. "A snake conversation would be interesting to listen to, I should think. Or maybe you aren't really a snake? Who can tell, here?" Another smile. "Stay as long as you wish, though, little friend. I'm not going anywhere."
Indeed, he goes still, watching the snake idly. It's a nice little oasis of quiet in the midst of all this suffering.
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"Every skin we shed is a promise to become something new," the snake tells him. "But the old has to die first, and be left behind. That makes it hard."
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The snake twines a lazy figure-8 around his thumb and wrist. "For that moment you lose that which is old, you mourn, and until the new skin hardens, you feel naked and frightened. Is that what you're feeling? Vulnerable? Or just tired?"
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A beat. "And I'm very... very tired. I've been weary, but this is... nearly painful," he confesses.
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"You should rest," it adds, and he might feel a little bit warmer for the moment. "If anyone comes to bother you, I'll bite them. I am kind to those who are kind to me."
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Still, she sets down the pile of folded blankets, and takes one from the top to open it out. It's as she goes to drape it over Azwel that he speaks and moves again. Caught, she freezes in place. At least her cheeks are rosy from the cold, not just embarrassment.
"Oh... I... Here." Runa steps forward and kneels to offer the blanket. "You must stay warm. You're doing too much good here not to take care of yourself too." She smiles warmly. "And if you don't, I'll know. Because I have to take care of you too."
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When Runa speaks he looks up from the floor. "Hm?" he says, blinking owlishly. It takes him far too long to put together the concept that she's offering a blanket for warmth and that he needs to put it around himself. Which means moving. Instead, his mind has caught on her words.
"Am I?" he says. "I cannot cure any of these maladies, no matter what I do. They cannot heal if they have nothing to eat. And yet..." He sighs, screwing the top back onto the flask. "This is what my family have done for generations. What I've done... though I was so much younger, then."
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Runa folds her skirt underneath her and sits down in front of him. Azwel is not the first to feel the weight of this gloom and won't be the last. Still, she has to play her part. However small.
"When my mother died..." Her gaze falls to her hands, feeling the rough fabric under her fingers. "I wanted her back. More than anything." When she looks back to Azwel her smile is soft with sympathy. "But my father told me: Death cannot be cured, because death is not an illness."
"It's not fair, or kind, but life isn't. The world isn't. There are some things you can't do." Shuffling closer, she grasps his hand and squeezes it encouragingly. "And that's ok. You're trying your best, Azwel. That's more than any of us could ask of you. And it's more than most of us can offer. Please don't scold yourself because you can't do the impossible."
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Besides--his past is why he's doing this. He'd made a promise, after all.
"You're right," he murmurs. "There are. But I have to try. I swore to my sister... I would be a healer again."
Melancholy only begins to describe his thoughts. A terrible, painful weariness washes over him and suddenly he wants nothing more than to lie down and sleep forever. Or, at least, for however long it takes for this pain to recede. "But I'm so tired," he whispers, his eyes falling shut. "So very tired...."
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Still holding his hand tightly, she stands and pulls him with her. Although there's no way she's getting him to his feet by herself. If she does manage to, however, she'll throw the blanket over his shoulders with a hop. Runa is short enough to make simple things difficult, but that's not going to stop her.
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When she pulls him upward he manages to stagger to his feet, as he's a lot lighter than he looks. He's mostly robes and hair at this point. As she puts the blanket on him she can probably feel bone and sinew and ropy muscle under the clothing. He's grown dangerously thin in these conditions, it seems.
He'll stumble blearily, but will follow her.
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Once she finds him a spare bed in a quiet area, she helps him get into it, pulling off outer robes and taking off his shoes. With him laying down, she tucks him in, setting the blanket, and his extra robes, on top of him to ensure he gets to keep as much warmth as possible.
Only when she's set a glass of water on the nearby locker and makes sure he's safe and warm before even considering leaving him alone.
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"Thank you," he murmurs. "You're... very kind." He nearly adds, kinder than I deserve, but he realises that kind of self-flagellation is the exhaustion talking.
The bed is not a luxurious thing, and yet he settles into it with the almost sensual kind of sigh of relief that only the truly exhausted can produce.
He's asleep almost immediately. So deeply asleep that the lines of pain and weariness the last several days had etched into his face ease somewhat. He almost looks... peaceful.
He'll need that sleep. Worse things lie ahead.