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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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"It'd be nice to have a clinic here," he says thoughtfully, nodding. "Especially one that can help people who ain't human. Just 'cause there's a lot more humans, but I wouldn't want anyone to be left out if they need help."
"Forrest'll be fine," he nods firmly. "People back home say he's immortal. Which he ain't, but he's real tough."
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"Ah, that's true," he nodded as he smiled, "The doctors and other folks here will try their best to help, but I guess they can only do so much since they aren't trained to help non-human folks?"
"I'm happy to hear yer friend is tough," he grinned, "Is he a fighter, or somethin'?"
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He beams, happy to talk about Forrest. "He's a moonshiner, actually. But he sure can fight. He says he don't lay down for nobody."
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Mr. Slick tilted his head curiously.
"He sounds like quite a good friend. Um, what is a moonshiner? Does he shine moons or somethin'?"
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He smiles. "And I'll make her pine needle tea, too."
He blinks then bites back a laugh at the question. It's not the first time he's gotten a similarly literal interpretation of 'moonshine' from a stranger in the Nexus, but the mental image of Forrest sitting on the porch patiently polishing up the moon is amazing. He'll mention it to him later.
"Moonshine is what we call a kind of liquor in my world. Do you have liquor? I mean, it's a drink that's fermented out of fruit and grain and it makes people intoxicated when they drink it. Too much is bad, but a little bit here and there makes you feel real good. Plus you can use it to flavor food and disinfect things, so it's useful stuff."
"Specifically, moonshine is the kind of liquor you make without the government approvin' of it," he says with a little smirk. "And it ain't aged like some other kinds, so it tends to be real strong and pretty clear."
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"She'll appreciate it," He returned the smile.
"Ah," the nebulanian's expression showed he finally understand, "That makes more sense than 'im literally shinin' the moon,"
Mr. Slick grinned.
"We also have liquor and other strong stuff too," he nodded, "They're made from special fruit that is fermented with grains and sugar. Some are bitter, some sweet and some sour,"
He looked thoughtful.
"Yers sound much more useful. I wouldn't mind tastin' a bit of it," he admitted.
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Still, he returns the smile when he grins. "That's right. I make mine with a sweet-feed mix, or with corn, or with apples or berries. The blackberry is the best. Kinda wanna try peach and pear."
"Well, I gave all the white lightning I had to the medical team for disinfectant and whatnot," he says. "I still have some apple back at the place I was stayin', unless it's been stolen, but you may have to wait till the thaw. Don't you worry, though. I'll be making more no matter what. It's been a real good way to earn money around here, and folks seem to enjoy it."
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"Ah, same here," Mr. Slick nodded, "I had the flu before and it's not nice at all. This storm would make anyone who is sick to be much worse. Let's hope no one caught anythin' yet,"
"Ah, are those kinda sweet?" the alien asked curiously, "I gotta admit I have a sweet tooth, so sweet drinks are more my thing,"
Mr. Slick grinned.
"Ah, I would like to buy some from ya too," he smiled warmly, "Tryin' out other types of drinks and foods will be a mighty big adventure,"
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But maybe they should talk about something else now. Cricket smiles, weakly at first but then it blossoms wider. "The apple ain't but so sweet unless you add mulling spices, but the berry sure is. Come spring, after I rebuild my stills, I'll make sure you get a chance to try whatever I make. I'd been selling to some of the restaurants and stores around, but of course the weather cut that off."
But if they just make it until Spring, everything will go back to normal. Maybe. He hopes, anyway.
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"I'm mighty sorry to hear that," he whispered in a soft tone.
The alien felt relieved they had changed the subject.
"Ah, I wouldn't mind tryin' the apple," he admitted, "I would like to buy 'em from ya. If my dear Al arrives here, I'm sure she'll also pick the different flavours too,"
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And he's happy to lean into the happier talk. "I'd like to try an' make some aged whisky, but it takes at least six years to do it proper. Unless there's some kind of technology other worlds have that mine don't. I guess I'll have to research. But, yeah, once everything's back up and running, I'll be happy to sell you a few jars, and I'm always interested in suggestions."
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The alien smiled as they changed the subject.
"I guess it takes that long everywhere, no matter where anyone comes from," he mused out loud, "Maybe we could do some research at the library and it might give some tips?"
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"Bet someone's got magic that could make it go faster," he says with a grin. "But I hate to cheat. When the weather breaks, though, I'd be happy for a trip to the library. There's computers there, too. Sometimes I listen to music while I read there."
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"I understand the feelin'," he admitted before he looked curious, "Listen to music on the computer? Are they on the computers themselves?"
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He knows how to use a search engine, though, at least. "I'm not sure if they connect to other worlds or not. They might. It all seems like magic to me."
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He looked thoughtful.
"Maybe we can ask one of the folks if it does when we're at the library?" the salesman suggested, "If it does, I think it'll be mighty hand for us. I can show ya some pictures of where I came from, if ya like,"