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

[rekindledtitan]

Steve’s stride is steady, his every movement conservative in this hungry season. The Exo has it easy by comparison, and it shows in how quickly she veers her course to meet him. Behind her faceplate he knows her optics are checking him over, as surely as Ghost does when they get close and the little bot materializes into the sheltered space between them. Ghost’s unicorn hat is tied securely over his shell, a cheerful note in the darkness; from beneath it he peers up at Steve with concern the soldier has learned to read very well.

“Just a body.” One of theirs. Always is, or she’d be less grim about it. Blaze falls into step with Steve automatically. “Brought him in for ID but it’s one of the scouts.” They’ve lost very few, lately. The result of growing caution. Most of those who fell early on were brought in all at once by a mystery scout; Blaze hasn’t found out who pulled that off but she’s got to respect the deed. “Looked like he tracked down a cache of some kind – found a few tins and wrappers frozen into the snow. Only he wasn’t the first there.”

Her disgust is rumbling, molten discontent beneath the surface. It’s an easy scene to picture and she despises it. Maybe he stumbled on the creatures breaking into the supplies. Or maybe they stalked him, waited for the man to lead them to his prize.

“How are you holding up, Steve?” Ghost has to speak up over the wind. “There hasn’t been any trouble here, has there?”

[juststeverogers]

The shadows under Steve's eyes aren't as deep as they are in some of the others. Feels like sometimes all he does is sleep, even if every time he starts to drift he thinks of ice freezing over his eyelids and stealing the breath from his lungs. His quiet moments of weakness are well hidden away from the world but they aren't nonexistent. Fact of the matter is, Steve Rogers comes from a time where you just didn't complain when times got hard.

Instead, he's put his head down and silently kept on walking even if it's at a slower pace than he used to take.

"Another body. Right. I'll handle it." One of their own giving their lives for The Cause. Always for the cause. And once more, Steve wasn't there to jump on the metaphorical grenade. Wasn't there to protect anyone. Maybe he was burying someone else when this scout was attacked. Shoveling snow. Managing pipes, de-icing walkways, any number of things. It doesn't matter because he wasn't there. None of them were.

Tired eyes flit up and study the hat tied firmly to the little Ghost. A gift given when both he and Blaze were different people. It makes the corners of his mouth twitch upwards ever so slightly.

"Fight broke out in the shelter last night. I got it handled. Everyone's running on fumes. We gotta take a win soon here." His own vitals say more than his words do on just how worn down Steve is himself but a single data point can't do overmuch to give Ghost an accurate idea of a trend. All he can do is compare it to the others he's studied. In that regard Steve is still pretty well off by comparison. His body fights pretty hard to keep itself going better than most.