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nexus_crossings2019-02-02 12:56 pm
handsofwinter) wrote in nexus_crossings2019-02-02 12:56 pm
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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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Something cracks above his head, splinters flying out from the nearest trunk. He's come back almost to the battlefield. To the left a pack of those four-armed snipers have seen him. He glimpses one taking aim while the others scurry up the bank, horrifyingly fast on those many limbs of theirs.
no subject
All of it.
It's so much worse when the monsters aren't just in his head. He's only been this afraid before once, and even then, he was blissfully numb from delusions for a chunk of it. This time? This time he's aware. It's not an improvement from where he's sitting. Has he been this way before? He couldn't have gotten lost he was just ducking out of sight. The tree line and the road should be right her--
"Fuck!" The branch that explodes into a shower of fibers and singed wood nearly makes him crash the speeder. It certainly hasn't taken them long to pick him out again once he's close to open ground. He can't take a look over his shoulder but the movement in his peripherals is more than enough Bad. He feathers the throttle while he darts around a large rock but still flinches when he hears the shot clip the stone as he darts by.
He's almost out in the open now and much faster than the convoy. He can catch them.
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And then the haze gives way and he'll see the ground ahead crumbles into nothing. The cliff edge rushes to meet his speeding bike...
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So why have they stopped shooting all of a sudd--
The gorge races toward Joshua, filling his vision.
His right hand slips on the speeder's handle before he gets a solid grip and throws his weight into the turn, nearly rolling the vehicle over entirely. The back end turns over nothingness and very nearly tips before the thrusters push him back onto solid ground. The speeder fishtails but the Canadian doesn't even care as he fights to get his ride back under control.
"Shit...oh shit." His breathless laugh is pained, but full of relief. There they are, just down the way.
no subject
It’s hard to process what just happened.
A shadow moving, looming in front and above. A guttural sudden snarl above and beyond the snarl of his engine. A bone-rattling shock to his chest, slamming the wind from his lungs as the ground drops away and he rises-
The pain registers afterward. Comes with the desperate gasping and the realization that he’s staring into four glowing blue eyes. A mighty three-fingered hand is wrapped around his throat, his feet kicking uselessly feet above the ground. The Fallen commander’s face is impossible to guess at behind its impassive helm. But it speaks to him, deep strange words not meant for human vocal chords, and he feels something like high contempt in them, or perhaps that’s just the way its eyes narrow to brilliant slits. Somewhere behind him is the struggling whine of his speeder’s engine, left upturned helplessly in the drifts. In the corner of his eye he glimpses other masks, other sets of eyes. All watching.
And then, as Josh kicks and gasps and struggles for his life, the Fallen lord turns. Away from the road. Toward the cliff he narrowly escaped. It roars something in his face, too loud to comprehend.
And he feels it as that powerful arm starts to fling him, and then that terrible grip lets go.
Beneath him there is only wind, and the freezing void.
It’s going to be a very long way down.
The rocks are waiting for him.