nexus_crossings | Into a Rising Wind

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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

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"Unless you have a coat to offer me, we are sorta stuck with this one. Besides … If I get the attention of our enemies... then you and the good Doctor can be stealthy." Harley shrugs her shoulders.

"Consider me that bullseye that will get attention... and will get through the worse of any situation just fine."

Zandros grumbles and crosses his arms. He's certainly not going to offer up his only source of warmth in this frozen hell -- not when she's already got protection from the cold, however terribly eye-catching it might be.

"Well," he says with a final sigh, "I suppose we're at an impasse there, as I've nothing to give. Though I resent the idea of using any person in our party -- however small -- as bait. We must, first and foremost, remain together. A party of three is simply too small to be split."

He eyes Harley suspiciously. "I see you're well-armed, but what are your specialities? What role can I expect you to fill in this expedition other than as a living target?"

Tamminy continues to cringe at Zandros' 'leadership,' but keeps her mouth shut for now.

"Did I miss the moment when the party decided on who took lead?" Harley tilts her head again. She glances at Tamminy.

"I am a Valkyrie. A warrior." She is more and more comfortable using the title that Loki had given her. "I am trained in several different fields of combat. I am skilled with a variety of weapons. I have expertise in chemistry, explosives, poisons, survival techniques and fighting against large numbers of enemies. And as I previously told the good doctor here... I was a member of the Suicide Squad. A team of experts who were sent into difficult situations to get the mission done."

"What roles can I expect you to fill, Zandros?"

Harley's accusation mortifies Tamminy, but Zandros merely raises his brows. "Someone must remain in charge, and Doctor Photovolt herself has told me that she has no experience in expedition-leading. I, on the other hand, do, and in winter conditions no less. I am perfectly suited to guide us. That shall be my role, alongside healer and protector, should the need arise. And you..." He eyes Harley up and down. "Claim to be a Jack of all trades. Well, one knows how that particular saying ends. Melee it is."

He gestures between them all and says, "As a shieldbearer, I shall walk first among us. Doctor Photovolt, not being a combatant, shall go behind me. Miss, I would advise you to stay behind us and guard our rear."

Looking at each of the women he'll be venturing forth with he asks, "Are we ready? Shall we enter the scrapyard and commence our looting?"

Tamminy is reluctant to nod, but eventually does. "I'll keep my eyes open for valuable goods as we go. It's pointless to try to sum up everything that might be useful before I see what the scrap heap offers. Just... Be quick to take what I need when I call for it? I-if you can?"

"So you claim." Harley shrugs. She will have to keep an eye on him. There is no trusting those who take 'lead' right now. So being assigned to guard the rear will allow her to do just that. Keep an eye on things.

"I brought a sack. We can toss anything useful into it." She smiles at Tamminy. One of those bright-as-life smiles.

"And being quick is something that I can do."

So the trio set out in single file, be they with teeth clenched or weapons held close or just praying to find one good set of parts. One thing about everyone being confined to the central Nexus: the pathways have been kept pretty clear despite the constant snowfall. That diligent clearance stops a couple feet short of the boundary marked by the torches, as if someone was afraid to get too close. It’s a reminder that they’re about to cross over from the protection of civilization, out into a world where the wind has teeth and the shadows stalk. The unlikely team take their first plunging steps into the snow: one, two, three… and suddenly the gale roars in their ears, tugging at their clothes, snow pattering over hats and hair and shoulders.

They can gain some shelter from the wind by sticking to the side of the street, though that means they have to carefully watch the doorways and alleys they pass for signs of ambush. Sometimes a shadow seems to move on the rooftops above, yet for now they pass unmolested. They’re well out of sight of the torches when the wind shifts and carries a distant, rasping howl unlike any natural creature on Earth. Perhaps even of Azeroth.

But they’re close. Close enough to hurry on until suddenly the scrapyard entrance looms beside them. The arched sign above is clumped thick with ice, but the way is open, a maw of gutted cars stacked like corpses and tangled columns of scrap metal, gaping wide for its visitors. The moment they step within those walls of junk it’s strangely quiet, save for a little wind that whistles through cracks and holes in rusted metal. Did it always feel this ominous? Did the piles of junk tower and totter so high over the shadowed avenues where freezing mists now curl? By no means does this place look welcoming, or safe. But… it’s the only place they’ll find their prizes.

And it’s got to be better than what hunts outside. Right?

Edited 2019-02-22 20:38 (UTC)

Tamminy keeps a death grip on the tail of Zandros' cape and every second step glances back to reassure herself that her rear guard is still there. Snow this deep is laborious for her short legs to plow through, but gnomes are meant for the cold, and at least she isn't freezing. Not yet, anyway. Zandros, meanwhile, scrubs his face against his cape's hood just to keep the feeling in his reddening flesh.

But there's nothing comforting about entering the scrapyard and suddenly being free of that raucous wind. Tamminy groans -- much louder than she meant to in this silence -- and looks back one more time to be sure Harley is close behind.

"I didn't know the snow would be this deep," she whines, a little tremble in her voice. "Finding what we need... Seeing what I want... Th-th-this is a bad idea. This is a bad idea! W-we should go back. We should go back. This is -- It's not too late! We can go back!"

Ahead, Zandros tosses Harley a glance. He's wind-blown and white with the snow that settled on his clothes, but there's far more determination in his green eyes than in Tamminy's. So, Harley? What will it be? Turn back now, or continue forward?

The gale awaiting them outside the safety of the torches is not surprising to Harley. There is something trying to force them back to the safe zone. And it only gives her more determination to find answers. She is not sure those answers will be found on this mission... but there has to be something.

And then they reach the scrapyard. Harley looks around to the gutted cars and tangled columns of scrap metal. And sure she doesn't feel welcomed here... but she can barely remember the last time she did feel welcomed anywhere.

The glances of Tamminy checking on her was something that reminded Harley of her reason of coming on this mission. To find something that the gnome can use to help the others.

Harley kneels down a little so she can place a supportive hand on Tamminy's shoulder. She catches the determination in Zandros eyes. And nods slightly. "We made it this far. We might as well look around to see if there is anything we can bring back with us."

"And if it helps, you can get on my shoulders." She removes the fire sword from its sheath so it is not in the way. "Might give you a better vantage point of looking around for any items you think would be useful."

Edited 2019-02-22 22:07 (UTC)

A hand on her shoulder? When was the last time she was touched by tallfolk like that? By anyone but Lawrence? It calms her slightly and makes it easier to nod at Harley's determination. "All right," she whispers. "We'll get this over with. W-we'll succeed. I'll try to believe it."

Looking up at Harley, Tamming begins clearly eyeing her shoulders. Her large eyes dart as her mind grinds away at thoughts. Eventually she tenses and shakes her head rapidly. "Something could go very wrong if we're stacked like that. I'll do better to keep my feet on the ground, but..." She tries to smile, but really only looks queasy, "Thank you for the offer..."

She nods to Zandros, who nods back, and with no further ado turns and trudges forward into the maze of junk.

In here it’s easier to hear each other speak. The howling winds are quenched to a wavering whistle by the jagged mountain range of junk around them. The quiet noises around them gradually become oppressive. There’s an unsettling loudness to every creak of the towering scrap piles above. Every crunch of plastic shards under their feet. Every word. Every breath. Each rattle and crunch of dislodged trash feels like their trespass is about to be discovered. It discourages too much speech.

For Tamminy, of all of them, there’s a distraction: new materials. As soon as they’re inside she’ll find a small pile of discarded electronics, abandoned just after delivery. It’s not much but it offers the promise of more and better things inside, the chance that everything they’re gambling on is just waiting to be found in this maze. And maze it might be, since the map nailed up nearby shows where different types of scrap are meant to be taken, but nothing about the actual paths leading there. They do, however, have a direction. Something Zandros can draw confidence in as they leave the entrance far behind them. They have to move slowly enough that Tamminy can check that each fresh pile of cars and engines they pass has actually been stripped of viable parts. That gives her protectors more time to check the path ahead, or look carefully over the decrepit skyline that looms over them.

That said, some dangers aren’t so easy to spot. If Zandros sees the glimmer of light from within the scrap, the thin beam of red light at knee height he’s about to stride right through… he clearly doesn’t recognize the lethal danger it signifies.

Harley gives Tamminy a supportive smile when the gnome finds her own determination. She feels that with both her and Zandros will go to extremes to protect Tamminy and keep her safe. And as they move forward into the scrap yard, Harley is extra cautious. So she doesn't mind the slow pace... since it allows time to check the path ahead.

She does know what that thin beam of red light is and how dangerous it can be. And quickly she tackles Zandros to get him out of the way, before he is exploded into a million different pieces. "Heads down!"

Edited 2019-02-23 19:51 (UTC)

Zandros doesn't expect to be tackled from behind, of all places, and goes tumbling forward, flattening the snow beneath them with his shield. He shouts as he goes down, and his first instinct is to slam his elbows backwards and fight against whatever just threw him to the ground.

There’s an ear-bursting BANG, a blast of hot air and metal shards over their backs as the camouflaged tripmine detonates. It punches a jagged hole through the side of the car opposite. Only Harley’s speed and sharp reflexes save them both gruesome injury- but they are out of the way, and the charge was clearly shaped to go off in one direction. Outside its immediate radius, they may look undignified, and the back of Harley’s coat may be a bit singed, but they’re-

Bang. Bang bang BOOM.

-safe?

Zandros needs to get his head together, fast. One charge after another goes off in the walls of scrap around them, rapid-fire, too many and too fast to figure out where the dull shudders are emanating from. Suddenly the sway of junk above becomes a totter, a lean, rusting cars collapsing into tangled scrap and then it all begins to slide, a wave of crumpled metal and jagged tetanus-laden shards rolling down on the team. No time to think. There’s only running, finding somewhere that’s safe as the wave slams into the junk behind them and another slide begins to their left…

Eventually the thunder ebbs, and there’s only the slumped mounds of slowly settling junk behind them. By wits or strength or miracle everyone’s alive, and nobody is seriously hurt… but Harley and Zandros find themselves alone on one path, with no sign of their gnomish scientist.

And Tamminy? Who knows where she is, but it’s not the path back to the entrance. There’s just a vicious, impassable mountain of junk behind her.

Edited 2019-02-24 19:59 (UTC)

First, Harley received a hard slam to her gut, as Zandros elbows her. And then metal shards fly through the air. Third... more explosions occur, and they have to start running before the junk buries them alive.

When they finally reach safety... Harley is quick to realize that Tamminy is not with them. She turns to pound on the ground by the junk that has separated them from the scientist.

"Fuck!" Not her most dignified response. She studies the area around them. Taking a moment to catch her breath and think about their situation.

She studies the junk piles, looking to see if there is perhaps away to climb to the top. And keeps her eye out for any useful material.

"We have to find her. And find a way back." She turns to face Zandros. Tilts her head slightly. "Were you injured? I didn't tackle you too hard, did I?"

There isn't even time to comprehend what's happening. Zandros' human mind takes the back seat to something much more basic, and before he knows it he's scrambling through the snow on all fours until he can get back on his feet and run. He doesn't look back, doesn't stop, doesn't turn, but flees as fast as his legs will carry him. His shield slows him down, but it doesn't even occur to him to drop it. Everything he's holding he's holding tightly, out of fear and instinct far more than strategy.

Only when Harley stops and cuts the air with her cursing does he skid to a halt and backtrack those few feet to be by her side. And that's when he realizes what she already knows.

"Oh, Doctor," he says, his breaths still shaky from his fear.

He sets to shaking his head fast, and it's a good distraction from the adrenaline coursing through his body, numbing his hands and feet and weakening his knees. "N-no, no, I... I think I hit you? I'm..." He licks his lips. Sweat begins to bead on his red face. "I'm so sorry. For you, for..." No. Now isn't the time to compromise his dignity with words.

He takes the first collected breath he's had in minutes and nods seriously at Harley. "We have to find her. Quickly, I should think. Here's hoping she's sensible enough to stay hidden in one place until we can backtrack to her."

That's when he looks around to survey their new location. Where the hell are they? Does anything stand out in this garbage heap?

There's no direct way back to Tamminy, that much is clear. The chain reaction of the collapse has turned the criss-cross of paths behind them into indistinguishable and treacherous dunes of rusted sheet metal, corroded bolts and beams, engines decayed beyond salvaging. Jutting out atop the heap sits an ancient steam engine, cracked open like a lobster and left exposed to the sky for the first time in years. In the aftermath, the deafening noise has dwindled to low creaks and groans that rise erratically above the wind. The shroud of quiet is beginning to settle once more. But there’s no time to rest on their heels. Someone set that trap. Someone wanted to keep intruders out.

Someone must have heard that tumult.

Beyond the immediate wreckage around them, three paths open that run more-or-less parallel ahead through the junk. It's hard to be sure with the sky darkly overcast, no reference points to be seen amid the ragged landscape, but it seems like the paths go roughly in the direction they were originally aiming for. From down the one to the far left, carried on the wind, comes a quiet, harsh sound, like murmured orders…

"Just take a breath. It's okay. You have a heck of reaction there, Zandros, but I am okay. Honest." Harley gives him a reassuring smile. Somehow she finds a way to still be optimistic, even in these times.

"Oh she is a smart cookie. I know she will take care of herself, until we can reconnect with her." Harley studies the three open paths.

"But someone set up a trap to catch intruders... and now we are caught in it." The wind carries the quiet, harsh sound to them. And Harley glances at Zandros. "Okay, that path might lead us right to the enemy."

"As much as I enjoy a good fight... I would rather that we have the advantage. So..." There is no difference between the paths, as far as she can tell. Harley does a quick 'Eeny, meeny, miny, moe' between the other two paths. And lands on the center path.

"Might as well go down this one. Whatcha think?" Zandros is still the leader of the group, so if he has a different opinion, Harley is asking for it.

There's a lot that Zandros doesn't know (though, good luck getting him to admit it.) One thing he has a pretty strong idea about? Not going down the direction he thinks he's hearing voices. Though...

"Do you hear that?" he whispers to Harley. "Down the left. It sounds like someone's speaking. If we go that way, we're likely to meet up with them. But... Chances are, they're the ones that set the trap in the first place. They could have organized this in the hopes that we'd follow down the center and right pathways. There are bound to be traps there. If we go straight, as you've suggested, keep a keen eye."

Finally he nods in the direction she pointed and hefts his shield. "We'll go your way. I'll lead again. The shield might protect us from the next trap. Let's move carefully."

And with that, he's setting off down the center pathway.

In this place of tangled wrecks and meandering paths it's hard to know which is the right way- if there is one. But there's no sudden scratch of voices as they follow the twisting path. No creatures come bounding impossibly down the tilted junk piles with knives at the ready.... though they do come across more lasers, several this time, making a loosely criss-crossed web the duo can move through... very... carefully. Beyond that it looks like there might be an opening into a clearing a hundred meters ahead, though they'll have to be cautious...

And then they turn a corner to find a small cadre of shapes bobbing at about chest height. Not monsters. Robots! Small robots about a foot across, with flattened, rounded off shells colored a dull purple. They have no limbs, just a couple of long fins jutting back from their underside, a pair of jets mounted at their back to keep them suspended in the air. The three of them appear to be studying the rubbish... until one of them turns toward the humans' movement. A trio of unevenly placed lights glow at its front, and beneath that is... oh dear. That definitely looks like a gun.

It gives a thin electronic trill before its energy weapon opens fire.

Harley arches an eyebrow as Zandros makes his own determinations about which path they should take. "You too. Stay alert to more red lights."

She has no issues with moving through the criss-crossed web of lasers. It might be a little obvious that she has done this before.

When they turn the corner to find the robots... and she spots the gun. "Zandros! Get cover!"

She dodges and weaves away from Zandros. And with a growl at her lips, brings out her bat. There is something dangerous in her eyes, as she starts to run towards the robots. Harley uses her gymnastic abilities to continue to dodge the firing of the energy weapon. But right now her goal is to get closer to the robot with the gun... and slam her bat on the attacking robot.

Honestly, Harley is just tired of running. And needs to take a stand right now.

Somewhere behind them is Tamminy, picking herself up after scrambling to her own spot of refuge. She'll have to pick her way back onto the clear path with care: underfoot the ground is littered with circuit boards and spiky metal shards and bits of old seats built for people of wildly varying size, springs stabbing out through the moldering cloth. She’s lost and she’s alone out here, but she must have one advantage. The way the junk is piled up here, a gnome can surely find some nooks to hide in and even- yes! wriggle through the gaps to get out of sight. And surely some of these bits of wire and metal and appliances aren’t totally useless…

Better think fast, however. There are shadows moving through the snow farther down this aisle. A guttural sound echoes from the rusted walls, like a voice, like words deep and stilted and unnatural.

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Into a Rising Wind

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