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

[lovesuwithknives]

Maybe he does hear her, subconsciously, maybe he realises he can just... let go. He's moved into the crowd of them and it's only a few beats before the flickering, coruscating energy suddenly snuffs itself.

Time stops around them.

Embers hang in the air. A Fallen's hand stills inches from its weapon. In the distance, though, the battle rages on, the treads of the snowmobile screaming, voices shouting, the sound muffled and far away. A few heartbeats. A breath.

Harley has a split second to duck before there's a mind-blasting explosion of light, too many impossible colours, too blindingly bright, boilingly hot, deathly cold. And a terrible detonation of sound, every sound that is, was, and could possibly be, roaring into the mind and thundering across the crowd.

The explosion, a rapidly swelling dome of obliterating horror, reaches its breaking point and then bursts in a concussive ring.

When all is done there's a crater with a small unscathed space in the centre, just big enough for two people. Azwel lies still and silent, the light gone from his skin and eyes. Terribly ashen.

But still breathing.

[shardofwinter]

It's like the explosion pushes away all sound, all sense. Azwel is left alone with silence.

You won't be alone. The words ring through his mind. You aren't alone.

You will never be alone. Terror begins to creep back up. Through the pit of his stomach, crawling up to his heart. You can't get away.

They're all around you. They're in your ear. They're right beside you. Behind you. All around you. They're trying to stab you in the back. Betray you. In your head. In your ear.

Azwel. Azwel. AZWEL!

Run away! Hurt them! Hide! Run!

The world around him is a series of blurs and fractals. Figures real and not dance around him. The ground shifts and twists, the air singing with delight at the chaos. Everything is so colourful, and dull, and bright, and dark, all at once.

[lovesuwithknives]

They won't let him rest. The voice won't let him rest. He can't. There are enemies everywhere. Shadows, forms, reaching through the ice and the wind and the cold, raking talons through his mind....

His eyes snap open again, pupils constricted in terror. Choking, unable to even scream, he scrabbles, flailing, rolling down the small incline into the crater. And even then he doesn't stop, hands and feet clawing, kicking up snow and earth as he churns his way up and out of the crater, breath sobbing, eyes wide and staring.

They're in his head. They're in his head. They're in his HEAD.... Face wet with sweat and tears and spittle, he screams, clawing his way upright--

And then the explosions hit. He's sent rolling and flopping across the ground and even then he cannot go still. The world twists and spins around him in a whirling tempest, distorted, fractured.

Azwel bolts.

Anyone who sees him will notice he's running in a completely different direction, across the convoy's trail and away. He runs blindly, heedlessly, and who knew he could run that fast? Like a terrified deer he bounds into the forest and... vanishes.