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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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"Sometimes I think you're the smartest of all of us. Sure as hell smarter than me." Her amusement dies as the standout example comes to mind. Something she hasn't actually had a chance to talk to her friends about. Not properly.
"Uh. Speaking of which..." She shifts her weight uncomfortably. "You remember Ghost sent that warning about Loki being around?" Blaze just assumes Natasha heard when Steve did. She's hazy on pretty much anything relating to the spy's line of work, so by default she verges on expecting Natasha to be omniscient.
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The only way she stays ahead is by out-thinking her opponents, no matter how powerful they may be. Doesn't always work but it's gotten her pretty damn far all things considered. Helped keep her allies alive more often than she can count too.
It's unnerving to watch Blaze sputter over a topic. The Exo is almost invariably more blunt about things than anyone should have any right to be most of the time. Seeing her hesitate makes Natasha's gaze focus all the more closely.
"I do." She feels her stomach plummet somewhere into her feet at the mention of Loki at a time like this. They don't have the time or the manpower to deal with him if he decides to start something now. Rather than show her fear though the spy's gaze just hardens into something cold and closed off. "Heard there was more than one, even."
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"More than one?"Ghost sounds worried by that, too. Blaze shakes her head. So they're going to have to worry about multiple shapeshifters with dubious intent. Isn't that just typical, these days?"We didn't know that. Didn't know what he usually looks like, either. So... I didn't know who he was when I asked him for a favor. Not something trivial," she hastens to add, the details spilling out now she's committed herself. "It was important. I needed a disguise for a critical mission and I figured it'd take a damn good Warlock to hide... you know. But he gave me the help and, uh. Then I found out who I owed."
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The more Blaze talks, the more short of breath Natasha feels.
"...What did he ask for, in return?" The words are barely louder than the breeze around them, breathed out slowly from Natasha.
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If he'd named his price or declared their trade paid in full, Blaze would have no reason to be telling Natasha about this out here in the cold away from everyone else who might overhear. Away from those who don't know what the Prince of Lies is capable of and would say not to worry. Not to be wary of a bargain struck with a god.
"Shit." A shaky breath leaves her lungs. Natasha shakes her head before reaching up to tuck her hair back out of her face.
"You can't get out of something like that so easily. You...might have to play his game for a while longer. Don't agree to anything he asks for rashly and make sure you explicitly know what he's asking for." A beat while she tries to hold back everything she wants to say.
Words that won't do Blaze any good now that the favor is already owed.
"I want to know what he asks you for when the time comes."
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"I know," she says, trying to reassure her friend. "I will. And you'll be the first to hear about it." She pauses. "For what it's worth... it wasn't any plan of his. I had the idea to ask him in the first place. Far as he's concerned I'm just some bot he met at a party one time."
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Natasha knows because she's similar, if only mortal and human. Her entire upbringing was one nurtured programming for murder. She's still the most apt to resort to lethal force out of anyone in her team. It's hard to change what you are.
"You didn't know. Don't beat yourself up for something that's already been done. We just have to see that the fallout of this is as benign as possible."
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"Yeah." No sense crying over spent rounds. She looks out at the darkness beyond the torches. Doesn't seem like there's anything more to be said, so she nods stiffly, reaches out to give the spy's shoulder a tentative pat. "Go get some rest. I'll... keep you posted if anything develops."
She takes a couple of steps away before Ghost whispers to her,
"Don't forget the shovel."Blaze looks around, strides over to grab it. She gives the shovel a sheepish little wave at Natasha before she strides hurriedly into the dark, seeming glad to have the awkward conversation done with.
Then it's just Natasha, and the wind, and the shadows beyond the torches...
...In which something is moving.
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And it is still ludicrous. Because Natasha can't think of a simple thing she could do.
But standing around feeling sorry for herself won't help anyone. There has to be something. She simply hasn't thought of it yet.
"But I will." There's no other choice but to rely on her wits. Roll with the punches. The movement beyond the torches catches her eye and Natasha pushes herself away from the wall. Her heart whispers 'Loki' and her feet move before she's even aware of it. It won't take her long at all to reach the edge of the torch line. She doesn't bother to go for her weapon. It wouldn't do any good against a god. But he's always had an ego. These holier than thou types always seem to.
It's a risk. It's reckless.
Natasha passes the torch line and calmly strides out into the darkness that lies beyond. Her senses strain to follow the trail being left for her.
no subject
Not this time.
She steps past the orange torch-glow on the snow and the wind drops. She finds herself in the midst of a strange silence, snowflakes tumbling gently down around her. Around her the deserted streets loom dark and empty beneath their icy blanket. Ahead, the suggestion of a figure slips between shadows. A lithe figure: something about the way it moves suggests female, the flutter of an outline hints cloaked. She makes no sound as she steps through the snow, leading the spy further into the new dark. The last light from the fires recedes behind her, and the only thing to guide their path is...
...The moon?
None of them have seen open sky since the new year, yet there is is above. A break in the clouds, a perfect half-moon shining down on them. They've come to a crossroads, the statue at the center long buried under snow. Across the street from her, the woman waits. She seems to be wearing sensible outdoor gear, albeit a bit light for the conditions out here. Hard to see but it looks pretty modern, aside from the cloak. Her face is quite lost in shadow but there's a hint of pale features when she angles her head in the moonlight.
"You needn't worry, Agent." Her voice is low and smooth, offering the kind of gracious assurance given by the powerful to their supplicants. "I am here only to grant you a gift."
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She is the prey. A dangerous prey, but just the same...
Driven by her hatred over a god she thinks she understands far better than she actually does Natasha strides with purpose despite all the feeble survival warnings her monkey brain wants to flood her with. It isn't until she gets a better look that her confidence begins to waver. Nothing about this setting or this game is familiar. But who? A chill that has nothing to do with Winter's bite jolts down Natasha's spine when the woman speaks.
An unknown opponent is too much of a risk. She's miscalculated--there's not enough to go off of here. But there's no running away, is there? Natasha swallows roughly before she forces herself to speak in reply.
"How gracious of you. I wasn't aware I'd done anything that was deserving of..." This cloaked stranger talks like an Asgardian, or even loftier. It's best to hold her sarcasm for now. These are dangerous unknown waters she is treading. "Such an honor. Would it be impudent of me to ask you to clarify?"
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"Of course. Fear not. I'm going to give you the most precious gift for any agent. Information. Forewarning." She lifts a gloved hand as a dark bird flaps out of the shadows and alights on her wrist. It cocks its head at Natasha but doesn't speak. "Do listen well, Knight of Brawn.
"This Winter has tasted blood, but it's not satisfied. Like a starving wolf, it won't loose its jaws until it feels bone crack." The slightest tilt of her chin, a stern emphasis in her words. "The mortals here are falling over themselves to claim their bounty. Their vengeance. But this game is played by Winter's rules. Every prize carries a price, and the ultimate prize is survival. There will be death in exchange."
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All this time, all of the meaningless requests and whining. All of the tapping at her window and demanding her help. All this time the crows have called Natasha their knight. Knight of Brawn, a title she shrugged off as being the least interesting twist to a Disney Princess tale she'd ever heard. An angry woman who trusts no one is cursed to animal companions that won't shut their fat beaks. End of story.
But the crows served someone greater. And in obliging their whims Natasha is now face to face with their brood mother. Blaze spoke of making ill advised deals with gods without knowing their true nature, how is Natasha any different?
She's leaning forward. Every breath is drug out from her lungs as she tries to hold herself as quiet and still as possible. Natasha doesn't want to miss any of this. She can't afford to. What has she done to earn such warnings? It could be as simple as putting up with the crows for so long. The fickle whims of the gods are unsettling in their arbitration.
"By...you mean the spirit. Reynard? Does he...will he hold winter here until someone dies? People have already died. From sickness, from malnutrition. Beheaded by enemies not of this plane. How much more red does he want on his drifts?"
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She leans a little closer, for a moment seeming to hunch like the bird on her wrist. "This time, o Knight, the chance - and the choice - will be yours. When the time comes."
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Isidor Durant strides past her standing tall despite her fatigue. Prometheus looms over her, staring her down with a parent's disappointment.
I don't do that anymore.
The words sit at the tip of her tongue. A tiny oasis of relief from her own hellish imaginings. Natasha's hard gaze tries and fails to pierce the shadows and reach the face underneath. But rather than ask or argue or speak the spy listens. Her hands fold tight across her chest, gripping her own forearms for a small scrap of comfort as she holds onto herself.
The warning has been given. The prices set. There has to be a way around this. Someone is going to die? How cryptic and utterly unhelpful. Someone is going to die by her hands. Not a premonition.
It's a cryptic warning but not one given lightly. And given to her specifically.
"...Understood." Natasha doesn't and she's not sure she can tip the scales by herself. How pulling the trigger just once would slate Winter's hunger enough to leave their people alone. Does he even have any enemies here? It's almost impossible to have enemies in the Nexus. But she'd best think fast.
A move must be made before Winter becomes impatient.
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She turns, then, knowledge imparted and disinterested in entertaining questions. Almost as soon as she steps into the gloom beneath the buildings she's lost within it. The swish of her cloak becomes just one more shadow among shadows.
The moment she leaves, the breeze begins to rise, slowly, snowflakes swirling faster around Natasha. The silent night is receding, and with it the clouds begin to creep over the moon again. She'll have to find her way back to the torches on her own, through the snow and the gathering dark.