nexus_crossings | Into a Rising Wind

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event

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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Furiosa pays attention to the tactical discussion briefly, but her main attention is on the landscape around them. The cliff's edge is what worries her. A sudden attack from the forest could hem them in, force them to back into it, until they're between enemy fire and a sheer drop.

She's seen worse, but it's not a great prospect.

Supply runs are sometimes like this. When she was the Imperator for Joe's Citadel, the cargo was the most important thing to bring home. The vehicles, second. The people were not even in the equation. She always resented that. And she found ways around it. Cranes on the back of the Rig to let War Boys save their comrades from flaming escort cars. Extra rigorous training within the crew--if someone's going out on purpose, you let them, but if they need a hand, you give them a hand, not a Witness.

But really, in those days, the cargo they carried meant nothing more than a little extra wealth in the hands of the Triumvirate. A little more strength to lord over the rest of the people around them. And Furiosa would have traded it for the people she commanded every single time, if she could have.

Today she doesn't have that option. This is it. And once she's assured she's not about to drive into a minefield, she takes a breath, grits her teeth, and goes.

She pulls up and cuts the engine, not to waste fuel, and she's just in time to hear Natasha's question and get a look at what she's talking about.

"Mothers," she says softly, and it's both an answer and an exclamation. "That's Lady Autumn's work. Has to be. I saw some of it being done. It all of this Hers?"

When Blaze gives the command for the others to join her, Harley closes her eyes for a moment. She almost forgot that this is not a 'team'. This is a bunch of people following the command of a few select people. Their opinions and concerns... are not worth being spoken. Obviously, they are not worth being listened to either.

"Come on guys. Follow the leader..." Harley gestures to the others who had stayed behind like she had.

She heads towards the pile of food, ready to use her strength and agility to gather anything that she is told to gather.

"Lady Autumn's?" She catches Furiosa's comment. "She was working pretty hard to gather food and supplies."

"Lady Autumn? Y'mean Hazel?" Satisfied by Blaze's reassurance, Kinner moves forward to take the food. He trusts that Blaze knows what she's talking about, and they need to move fast before the Fallen show up. "If it's her...it sure is nice of her to help us out, I gotta say. I was worried the Fallen wouldn't let us have the food, but we still shouldn't let down our guard. We've still gotta make it back to base with it."

He starts to assist Harley, still ready to grab his gun and fight if the need arises. Hazel's help encourages him. At least one of the seasonal spirits (seasonal spirits mere most certainly not a thing in Kinner's homeworld, but he's learned to roll with the punches here) is on their side. Once the food is loaded, he'll stay close by, revolver trained in case the Fallen make some effort to stop them.

"I'll keep an eye on the food. We don't know if they'll come back." Kinner isn't easily spooked, but he's well aware of how dangerous the winter can be. He hasn't seen a Fallen yet, but he's sensible enough to be relieved by that rather than disappointed. "I still think walking out with this food and returning to camp won't be this easy, but but I'm paranoid."

In a rare twist of irony, the trainer of impatience is absolutely shocked at the sight before her. Everyone is willing going into an area of danger, let alone Blaze is treating this like a game. Has that one dance absolutely angered her? Maybe her mental mindset is starting to come into question as she sighs, nodding nervously to Harley, mumbling an apology. Even she has forgotten that this isn't like working with other Pokemon trainers, coming up with a team strategy. The whole group feels oddly foreign to her now...

She isn't about to risk Volcarona's safety due to overconfidence. The Pokemon is recalled into the Pokeball before Natalie begins following the group into the unknown. Here's to hoping an ambush doesn't occur, especially since retreat seems nigh impossible now.

On the other hand, Azwel snickers under his breath at Blaze's little dance. Nothing wrong with keeping one's spirits up especially now. Sure, they're expecting an ambush, certainly this is serious, but the moment you get dour is the moment the enemy can wrong-foot you or destroy your morale.

And Azwel's morale is hanging on by a thread, anyway.

To distract himself, he begins loading the food onto the snowmobile's trailer. "Trap or not, there's a chance we can get it back to camp if we take it. If we don't take it, there's no chance at all."

However, once that's done, he finds himself on edge again. He makes his way toward the perimeter, as though just looking for something to fight. He's jumpy--this has gone far too quietly.

Harley shakes her head slightly at Kinner's obvservation. "But she didn't tell anyone about it. She worked so hard to collect it."

It doesn't sit well with her that they are just going to take the food, without taking a moment to respect the Autumn Spirit who did all the work. Harley remembers how Hazel cursed Thor during Autumn time. How he couldn't touch anything without it rotting. How he could only eat food that wouldn't rot... like candy worms.

And if that curse is still active.... Harley frowns. Any one of them could unintentionally rot this food before it is any good to anybody.

It is true that this food would save a lot of lives back at camp. But obviously by the situation they are in now, and the wrath of the Winter Spirits... these seasonal spirits have good memories. Harley would hate for any of the starving people to suffer just because they didn't mind their Ps and Qs.

So she takes a moment to undo her ponytails and remove the two colorful extensions in her hair. Harley makes a small red-and-blue wreath out of the two strands, and places it down by the pile of food. "A sacrifice of mine... before I take what is yours..."

With her respect given,Harley places her stark white hair back into ponytails. And gets to work to get food loaded onto one of their transport vehicles.

Natasha doesn't quite pause listening to the talk about Hazel. The spy does as much as she can to steer clear of all seasonal spirits and their ilk. The stories people tell about them sound downright unsettling more often than not. Stories of curses and blessings that come at a cost...while Natasha isn't the pious type, not by a long shot, she catches herself shutting her eyes and tipping her head forward as if following along with a prayer being lead by someone else when Harley offers her sacrifice.

If there's even a chance it will help their cause...More importantly, if there's a chance it will hurt their cause if Natasha doesn't, a couple of seconds of respect are worth slowing down for.

"Smart." Natasha wouldn't have thought of it. No noise at the edge of the clearing to indicate whether or not Daredevil or the others have found any trouble. Good, that's good. Just a little longer.

Blaze is staring up at the blue banner mounted before the great pile. Natasha's question and the discussion that follows makes her glance over.

"You mean it's Hazel's work? Hmm. The Fallen have had free run of the Nexus since the storm began. I've found a couple of our scouts dead next to empty caches lately. Guess now we know what was missing." She looks up at the banner again, gestures to it and gives a soft snort. "The House of Winter. Isn't that just damned perfect?"

It's a bit of work, but she takes a few seconds to unhook the banner from its pole, rolling up the heavy cloth and placing it in the snowmobile's cab. It means she misses the respectful moment the others are taking, so when she steps away she finds herself standing a little awkwardly watching them. She glances at Ghost, but follows his lead and keeps quiet. This business of spirits and nature - this isn't something she understands. Her conversation with Furiosa a few days past reminds her of that. She has plenty against Reynard personally, but she won't begrudge this other spirit her due.

No. Winter and Autumn she doesn't understand. What she knows is Light and Dark, and what's waiting to attack is very much of the Dark. The others have the loading well in hand, so she turns her armored bulk back to watching the perimeter. Escort missions may be a lesser nightmare to her, but there is something reassuring about seeing Azwel, Josh and the other warriors watching their backs.

"There's a saying back home, Kinner," she says over her shoulder. "'You're not paranoid if there really is a monolithic embodiment of pure evil out to get you.' We'll have company soon enough. Just keep your head down and whatever happens, get this payload home."

"She must have known this was going to be a harsh winter," Furiosa says. "She was asking people what would be important to them, to survive. A hint, maybe."

One Furiosa, herself, didn't pick up on. But then she has a better excuse than some. She immediately applied the question to her experiences back home, in the desert. And she certainly never expected to get stuck in the Nexus.

Well, anyone who survives will get the opportunity to apply the lessons in the coming year.

She looks over at Harley as she makes her tribute, and finds herself touched. Whether Hazel will be aware or not, it's a respectful thought. And Furiosa herself has nothing to give (she's pretty sure ammo casings are of no interest to Autumn), but she does a Vuvalini salute, clasping her hand to her chest and closing her eyes for a moment. A brief moment, because as much as it's important to respect Spirits, she doesn't want to be so respectful their enemies sneak up on them.

She hops out of the cab of the transport to help with loading, but she's careful not to stray more than a running step and a quick hop from the driver's seat. She'll help, to make it all as fast as possible, but she's not willing to risk losing the transport, or getting caught out too far away from it to start it running and go.

"Kinner. If you want to take shotgun on the way back, I won't complain," she says quietly in passing. "Tricky to drive and shoot at the same time."

A Goddess of Autumn? That's the new bit of information for Natalie to digest, but she doesn't know the first thing about pleasing human deities. Maybe she can ask about a proper offering later, when lives aren't at stake. Although she can't help but wonder why this Hazel didn't make things easier, let alone allowed alien creatures to kill without question. Unlike her companions, anger is clouding her judgment, as Incineroar and Emboar are called out to help load up the trailer.

"I'm not praising any spirit who thinks this is humane. Humans aren't made to fight against otherworldly creatures, unless they want to..." The cat Pokemon grumbles in disdain at his trainer's negative energy, which causes Natalie to sigh and retract her words. "Come on, you two. Let's get this food loaded up." She's more than eager to step away from the group and focus on collecting the supplies with her Pokemon in tow. Thankfully, they seem strong enough to lift any of the heavier containers without difficulty.

Kinner nods, taking what he's gathered and losding it. He'll take on the role of guarding the food - it limes up with his skillset and it's what he's been trained to do. He sprints over to Furiosa's car and gets into position, ready to shoot if he needs to shoot. And, he notes grimly, he probably will. The Fallen aren't about to just let them leave. They're being watched.

He doesn't talk, instead focusing on the escape. Finding the food is one job, but safely returning to the shelter with it is another. They have to get back to the torches. Kinner draws his revolver, hunched, waiting for his enemies among the Fallen to strike. They're out there. He knows it, and he's got to be careful. The Fallen, if nothing else, have shown themselves to be good at ambushes.

He flashes a thumbs-up as a signal to Furiosa. He's ready to go.

It isn't until the convoy starts moving that Azwel joins them again. They have the supplies, yes, but he doesn't like anything else about this. Every moment that passes without the trap being sprung grates on his nerves. His fingers twitch, sending little flickers of blue and red light into the air.

These Fallen creatures are mocking them, and that gnaws at Azwel's pride, but it's a small thing compared to the mounting restlessness. He shakes his head--sounds are getting too acute, a sure sign that he's letting this almost-paranoia get to him. He tries to tune out the engine sounds and, above all, that constant howling of the wind. Focus. Focus.

He presses on, staying in the path made by the vehicles, eyes searching.

The loading itself is straightforward enough: everything getting shunted onto vehicles (or stuffed into packs) and tied down securely. Even the wind is gentler than when they left: it blows strong, but it doesn’t howl as wildly as it did closer to the Plaza. There’s far, far more bounty here than they can take, but the wrench of leaving a pile behind is mollified by the knowledge that they’re coming away with all they could have asked to gain. When they get this back home everyone is going to eat well for the first time in weeks.

If they get it home…

The wind picks up as they strap everything down and turn around to go. The scouts on their bikes are still watching the area for them, but those guarding the perimeter are waved or called back in, and soon the convoy is heading for their exit.

They’re nearly back on the road through the trees when a boom of engines shakes the air. In the sky ahead, a dark shape swims into view, decloaking as it drops toward the ground. It’s the size of a yacht, long and lean and finned like a shark, with a bulbous head and tapering tail. Then there’s another- and another, and another, and…. They’re dropping into a line, lowering as if to block the road ahead, but then their bellies seem to unfold and many-limbed shapes appear, clinging to the grips and ready to drop…

The moment she hears those engines break into normal space Blaze is running, pounding up from the back of the group, slapping the snowmobile’s cab with a resounding thump in passing. “Move! Now!” She’s bellowing over the wind, on the radios to any who’ll listen. “I’ll break their line! Stay together and run!”

The Fallen are dropping from their ships, spreading into the trees, forming a thick line in front of them. Four-armed vandals with blades and rifles, little floating shanks, the two-armed dregs with their pistols and grenades. One, then two and three of the big captains. She can hear more engines in the sky behind them. More are coming. So many more. The scouts will have to move not to get penned in. Here is the trap, here they are at last. The thrill of it is singing in her circuits.

Blaze does what any Titan would do. She charges. She’s trying not to get too far ahead of the convoy, letting them take whatever opening she can buy- letting her fellow warriors exploit what she’s about to do. She’s closing on the front rank when the air around her clangs. Searing flame erupts over her, the raw fury of the sun blazing to life amid Winter’s shadow. The hammer in her hand burns with molten light, the snow steaming up behind her. Everything in the swathe around her is about to explode or burn- and the rest of the Fallen?

They have half the damned Nexus to face.

Finally.

The sense of relief that washes over Azwel is... bizarre, to say the least. It's not every day one sees a person who's glad they're being attacked, but the other shoe has finally dropped and the tension is gone and he can simply concentrate on what he came out there to do.

The fire from Blaze's hammer only heightens that exultation and as soon as the flames tear their path through the enemy he charges, nerves singing. Spears and swords made of red and blue hard light arrow into their ranks as he runs forward and lest anyone think they are illusory the spray of gases and blood quickly prove otherwise. He pivots, throwing more momentum into a hail of spinning swords. A huge red greataxe leaves a pulpy mess where a Fallen once stood. He charges into their midst, mind spinning the manifestation numbers faster than he's probably ever done, and all the while he pivots and lunges and whirls, a sure-footed dance, clearing a path.

The magick that flashes from his gauntlets and forms these weapons is powerful, the essences of Order and Chaos themselves filtering through his mind and body and reshaping reality. A ringing sound fills the air between the screams and shouts and the motors and the wind, physics itself vibrating under the assault of this magick, flawlessly wielded by a mind accelerated beyond realistic human capacity. It can be felt by everyone there on a primal, instinctive level, vibrating in the spine, leaving light-bruises on the retinas.

Magick thrums through Azwel's body, rushing through his mind, swirling Order and Chaos and astral energies into that beautiful, mind-opening spiral they always create, and he runs and dances along that path, the numbers of reality nothing more than strings to pluck and pull and rearrange as he sees fit. Time slows for him as he cuts down more and more of the enemy and yet....

It isn't enough. He has to push further if they're to survive this. Break that last barrier that he's only broken once or twice before. He pulls energy around him, a swirling storm of primal force and when it explodes, mowing down more Fallen in an almost desultory fashion, physics once again holds its breath.

The important thing isn't that half of Azwel's clothing is missing, displaying bright glowing white lines on the skin of his torso and face, or that his eyes glow a brilliant yellow. It isn't even that he appears to move almost too fast to see.

It's that, as soon as he finds what he assumes is their leader, the biggest and most heavily-armed of their captains, Azwel literally rises into the air, his arms engulfed in red and blue flame. At a gesture the ringing increases, rumbling in the earth and keening in the air, physics screaming in protest as his hands plunge into spacetime and pull out two giant glowing swords, one that crackles with unholy red flame, the other that freezes with terrible blue ice. They soar from his hands, strike the captain, and then spin, bending the spinning of atoms to their will, a horrible twisting of reality, rotating their target in the air until Azwel gestures again and reality closes in on the captain in a terrible blinding release of energy.

There's nothing left of the Fallen captain after that.

And Azwel drops to the snowy ground to re-join the fight.

The expeditions have drawn Reynard's attention each time one set out, and this one was particularly intriguing with its large group and high stakes. Irresistible for a spirit so concerned with how this Winter plays out. Up until now he has been content to watch. To nudge opinions and encourage particular paths.

That was before this... monstrosity.

Time and space in the Nexus has always been odd. Changeable. But in its own way it has always been a natural abnormality. A rare mutation of the universe.

There is nothing natural about what Azwel does. It is Azwel who directs atoms and natural forces. It is Azwel who twists them to his will. Not Nature. Azwel's will cuts through Winter like a putrid blade.

Mortals can feel it in every fibre of their being, but so can Reynard. It shakes through the spirit, his fingers carving deep lines into the rock under his hand. Around Fallen and scavengers alike, the air trembles and shudders and cracks. Deep vibrations roll through the earth like heaving gasps. The world around them might as well have cried out at Azwel's attack.

The Wrongness of it shook Reynard, but the moment he pulls himself together he doesn't hesitate. Before this he watched and waited, invisible to the human eye and to modern senors. Now he marches straight towards Azwel. The residual magick of Chaos and Order are carried by the furious winds, revealing him in glimpses, like floodlights passing over him.

He's not as any of them have seen him before, though. Not this time. This time there's no bearded fellow in quaint historical clothing. This time a creature of moving ice and clawed hands marches towards Azwel. If someone tries to hit him, or lunge at him, they pass through thin air. If Azwel turns around, there aren't even footprints for him to see. But the moment that creature reaches Azwel, the eager warrior will turn and see a rough mimicry of human features in his face. Black eyes with shifting snowflakes as irises stare into Azwel's eyes and hold him there, captivated just long enough for an icy shard of a finger to rise to Azwel's third eye... and push. Deep into his skull where the cold spreads from within, filling his eyes and his nose and his mouth. Filling his mind with pure blinding white and unfathomable darkness.

And when the pain subsides, and the cold settles, there is Winter. There is no fear of what might happen, no fear of the Season. Not even a Winter spirit anywhere to be seen. There is only Winter and its madness left in Azwel.

It was only a moment's distraction, a tiny pause in the dance, but it was enough--those eyes hold him trapped, helpless, that face sears itself into his memory, that touch...

The spiral twists, the paths shooting off into terrible oblivion, then tightens around him, pulling his mind apart with the force of its own shearing, ripping contortions. And then it vanishes, torn from under him, sending him spinning wildly into a white infinitude, frozen beyond endurance, icing over his skin and his hair, his nose, his lips, his eyes. His mind. His sanity cracks and breaks into fractals. All of reality is cold, empty, dead, vast, unknowable, ice and darkness and pain/cold/death/pain/cold/cold/cold--

The wind howls in his mind, a million voices screaming for his blood.

The others will see, then, that something has gone horribly, terribly wrong. Azwel screams in agony, hands scrabbling at his own head. He convulses. Drops to the frozen ground.

And yet, in an instant, he's back up again, magickal energy pouring off of him. But it's not the same. It's unbalanced. It's somehow wrong. When the weaponry manifests the sounds are fractured. The ringing judders, then twists into a horrible, discordant scream. Even the colours are different, white and sickly boiling purple. He screams hoarsely, cutting through yet more of the enemy, but they now find openings. They can retaliate.

But he doesn't stop. He doesn't even hesitate. His sightless eyes see only pain and terror and all he can do is strike at it, fight it with every last shred of his rapidly deteriorating consciousness. He whirls.

Ends up pointed toward the convoy.

Furiosa's eyes are covered by goggles, her tattered black Imperator scarf drawn across her face, same as she would prep for a dust storm. The snow and wind aren't bad when they set out, but the faster the snowmobile moves, the more the ice will drive into her face. Her metal fingers curl around the steering wheel. It doesn't feel the same as the Rig, or one of her bikes back home, but it's solid, and its what they've got, and they trusted her with it. It's going to get back to the compound if her undead corpse has to haul it in its teeth.

When the ships appear, hovering overhead, that whole undead thing starts to look like a distinct possibility.

So that's why they were so determined to get Dia's ship, she surmises silently. They didn't want competition.

She watches the troops drop from the bellies of the ships, watches the ships remain, and while she's never faced tech like this in her own world, she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that that means there are more where they came from. If not more ships (there are probably more ships) there are definitely more troops.

If it were her fleet, and she were these Fallen, she'd have more ships waiting, either hovering over the edge of the cliff behind them, invisibly, or set at the base. If this wave didn't decimate their ranks, she'd make sure the next one, coming up behind them, did.

But she's punched a single Rig through three War Parties before.

She tugs her scarf down, gunning the engine. "Kinner! I'm gonna need you to stay on like your fucking life depends on it. Do not fall off, because I can't stop for you if you do. This thing's about to become a battering ram."

Her right hand gropes the dashboard and pulls out the Glock and undoes the safety, but then her spine jolts up straight as she watches Blaze set the front ranks of the enemy--

well, ablaze. Yeah, good name choice, there. Furiosa only presses the gas harder, moving ahead and a little to the left of the epicenter of the destruction Blaze has wrought, prepared to dodge and punch through the chaos.

Azwel's barrage of red and blue light dazzle her eyes, even coming hard on the heels of Blaze's sunfire. Red, gold, blue, like a Wasteland sunset on nitrous. She laughs quietly, because it's so familiar and so completely insane at the same time.

What in V8's name is she doing here? One little human amidst these gods and demons? She's only meat and bone, with a patched-up hole in one lung and an inability to quit when there's a task in front of her.

But she's not alone.

"If they start to cling to the vehicle, you've got to get them off," she tells Kinner, and hopes he can fill the role she's used to having Max or Ace for.

And with that, she aims the snowmobile at a space where the ranks look thinner. Where a wider spread of the bigger Fallen take the place of shoulder-to-shoulder ranks of the smaller ones, and, pistol up and firing, prepares to plow straight into them.

The Fallen have arrived. And in one second... everything is chaotic. It brings a smile to Harley's face.

She cracks her neck. And bounces forward... cartwheeling forward. She flips and lands in the midst of a group of shanks, and swings her bat to hit as many of them as she can. Harley continues her 'charge' towards the enemy in the same fashion. A twirl here... hitting shanks with her bat. A cartwheel there... hitting a group of two-handed dregs. A flip up and over one of the four-armed vandals, bringing out her fire sword to bring down two at the same time.

Harley is alert to the others on her team. She can see Furiosa aiming her snowmobile though a thin space in the ranks. And she bolts forward to spring off the top of the snowmobile, slashing down a few of the closer enemies, as she gives both Kinner and Furiosa a quick little salute.

And then her attention is brought to Azwel, and that ice creature that moves towards the man. Harley watches the staring contest between the two... and sees something snap inside of Azwel.

She has spent A LOT of time around the criminally insane. She knows that look in his eyes. And she follows Azwel for a moment, as he cuts through more of the enemy. It is Harley who is facing him down, when he turns towards the convoy to fight more 'enemies'.

"I won't hesitate to attack you, Azwel. Snap out of it!" She yells at him. Ready to defend the convoy from their newest foe -- one of their own.

Edited 2019-03-20 01:22 (UTC)

He doesn't recognise her. Doesn't even hear her voice. She's little more than a form in front of him, something that has to be attacked, something in the way of survival, of finally finding some kind of peace in this maelstrom.

As she speaks, he's already charging forward, sightless. A huge greataxe swings down. Twin swords slash in from either side. He comes in low with a halberd.

Fuck.

Harley dodges as the greataxe swings down, and rolls behind Azwel as those twin swords slash from either side. The slashes get pretty close to her, cutting into her pink coat.

"That was a fuckin' gift!" She flips up and onto Azwel's shoulders. He might have more weapons than her right now, but in her new position it will be harder for him to attack her directly.

Harley aims a quick jab at Azwel's pressure points at his neck. Hopefully she can take him down using some good ol' biology.

It is very true that he can't use his magick on someone who's on his shoulders. He stumbles, and the strikes to his neck elicit a strangled yelp of pain. He staggers, nearly falls, and reaches up, grabbing hold of her. That energy in the gauntlets wicks into her like touching a wire--just enough to be painful but not enough to shock. He twists, aiming to throw her.

He's losing coherency fast, though, as, even if he succeeds, it's a few heartbeats before he follows up with another strike, a trio of spears.

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FITE: Harley vs Azwel

Re: FITE: Harley vs Azwel

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