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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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"So why strip down only a certain few?" Harley knows she isn't asking the right person. But she doubts the right person has any notice of her.
She leans into the snake nuzzle with a soft sigh. "I know you weren't. You see me in a way few others do."
"I want to support you... in the change you seek, Loki."
"And I hope it will be the former too." She presses a soft kiss to the top of his snake head. "I will continue to believe in you too. And... still believe in a possibility of 'us'."
no subject
Loki's head bobs and weaves, watery-pale winter light glinting off the scales, and then he twines around her shoulders in a kind of hug. At this size, he'd be too heavy for a normal human to lift, and so he only rests a few feet of himself against her, but as strong as she is, maybe she could carry him nonetheless.
But there's no need to right now. "Who, dare I ask, do you think has made a deal?"
He leans into the kiss a bit, eyes closing, and for a moment he has a wild urge to tell her he loves her. That they may not be compatible to be in love, after all this, but emotions and situations simply do not always line up, and that does not make the feelings less valid. But this is a terrible time to be fraught with emotion, and so he murmurs, instead, "I do, too, and I am grateful. My dearest."
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"Did he ask you to grant him a favor?" She asks softly.
She leans into the snake wrapped around her. And sighs grateful at the way he is holding her. Supporting her.
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"Did Reynard ask me a favor? No, not at all. He spoke of being Other, in a world that seems made for a certain type of person. I think he meant mortals, mostly. Humans, specifically. But what he said rang true for me."
"I was never wholly Aesir. I am of Asgard, at least in part. But that is not, and cannot be, the whole and sum of me. I think that you tread the line between light and dark, in much the same way I do."
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"I may. But I am still mortal." That is something that can not change. She might walk a thin balance between light and dark. But death will someday claim her. Perhaps even during this very winter... the way she is putting herself in danger to help others.
"If this world is made for a certain type of person, I do not think that I qualify. So I can see why he feels the way he does."
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"I cannot be certain of his sincerity, I suppose," Loki reflects. "Perhaps he told me a truth he knew I would listen to, in order to distract me from some other part of his designs for the season. I won't know until it's over, if then."
"You know, in the end I think all things are mortal. Entropy will claim the multiverse itself, eventually. Even Time will cease to be. It's all about longevity and endurance, and what capacity for that each being possesses. In that sense, you are mortal indeed, but less so than most humans. Does that make you a different being? I don't know. That's your decision to make."
"But yes. I clearly do not qualify, either. My people have always been on the outskirts, the fringes of their society. Outcasts, or people with dark secrets, caught between one type of existence and another. I can promise you I will be here for you as long as you are one of those people, and love you, dearly, passionately, for the razor's edge you walk upon."
no subject
"So me having dark secrets is to my advantage?" She smirks slightly.
She hums contently at the words of how he would love her. "I am a good balancer. That razor's edge is easy to walk some days."