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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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Speaking of which, she can't help but notice one of the Fallen approaching Loki and Harley from an angle. She drops her sword point-first into the snow to draw a double-ended throwing knife from her boot, throwing it with devastating accuracy.
She picks her sword up again and hefts Matt enough that she can run with him. There's no way the two of them can fight the massive Fallen like this, but she won't relinquish her hold on him, instead focusing on slicing and jabbing at any of the smaller ones that are foolish enough to come within the range of her blade.
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In the melee Palmer’s managed to sneak closer to the big captain. It helps a bit that the Fallen officer is striding for the others, pistols firing to try and scatter the group again. Palmer’s fire from the side comes as a surprise. He hits the captain in the side and arm and pale vapor wisps out from the wounds. The captain snarls his anger and whirls to shoot at Palmer. At the same moment a loyal vandal spots the human and lunges for him- only to be cut off by Loki’s advance and a slash of his knife. It gives Palmer the opening to rejoin the others and garner a little more safety.
There’s scant chance for the humans and Asgardians to look around. But across the rest of the field the Fallen seem to be disappearing, pulling back. A few are perched up the slope by the trees to watch the show below. But this small portion of the army fights on. The captain flexes his wounded arm, howls to the air, and starts toward Loki with grim fury. His underlings clear a path before him. The team is surrounded, and it’s clear now it’ll be a fight to the death on both sides…
Then something changes. There’s a shout from one Fallen, that ripples through those remaining. The captain halts, eyes on Loki and swords in a guard as a vandal calls out to him. Impossible to read his masked face, but everything in his posture, every guttural syllable he growls out in answer screams frustrated anger. Then, reluctantly, he crouches down, blue cape crumpling against the mud. Immediately his subordinates spring away from their opponents and do likewise. In a glimmer of white light, every living Fallen around them dematerializes- followed by every other Fallen in sight. Only the corpses and scattered equipment remain. And then, as engines roar above them and the ships reappear hovering overhead, the dead and the broken too begin to vanish.
The battle, it seems, has been won. But as to who is victorious…
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A moment and a few fireballs later, he scoops up and pockets the dagger. She got it from him in the first place; she's kept it this long; she's not losing the damn thing now.
It's with a sense of grim amusement that he notes the captain focusing on him. Well, he made himself the tallest there; he supposes they might assume he's in charge. Or the greatest threat. Realistically, he doesn't think he's either of those things. He tells himself he could still flee at any moment, but he has Harley and Sif both here, and he realizes with sudden dismay that...no. He won't be leaving. If it's to the death, then so be it. Seidr flows through him as the captain approaches, long tangled hair whipping up around him, eyes luminous. It's more of a threat display than a prelude to a spell, but he'll do what he must--
Except then everything slows, and stops, and they're dropping into crouches around them. Surely this isn't surrender?
Ah. No, it's retreat. A flick of his hand and his blades are sheathed and hidden, and he turns to touch Harley's shoulder and cheek gently. "Kjaereste. dearest. Can you get them home?"
He's going to follow the Fallen.
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And then...
Everything stops. And the Fallen are retreating. Harley looks around confused... did someone else join them in the fight?
She turns towards Loki when he touches her shoulder, and leans into his touch to her cheek. "Stay safe. Don't make me come hunting for you." It is said with the utmost respect for his decision to follow the Fallen. She knows that he is still seeking answers and hopes that he at least finds them.
Harley turns to the three others. Sif. Matt. Palmer. Her injuries are still healing, but she can tell it will take longer for Matt. It is going to take a long time to get back to Sanctuary. And it is almost nightfall.
"We should find shelter for the night." She goes to where her broken baseball bat lays on the ground. Another sacrifice made. "We can use this as kindling for a fire."
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He doesn't have too much time to fight against the inevitable, though, because they're still not in the clear and he's forced to use his good arm to help fend off the Fallen as they target the obvious weak spot: him. He momentarily loses track of the snowmobile in favor of focusing on the immediate threat, lashing out like a cornered alley cat, vicious and hissing in pain, no easy target despite only having one good working arm, especially not with an Asgardian warrior at his side making up the difference.
And then they're just... gone.
That easy?
Matt is suspicious immediately, head cocked to one side as he tries to make out where they've gone, if they're regrouping for an ambush. But relative silence falls in the forest around him, and now he can again hear the noise of the convoy, further and further away, still wrapped in the shroud of battle noise. Too distant for them to catch up and make any difference. The realization makes him bare his teeth in a silent snarl, frustrated and helpless to do anything to aid them.
That's always been the worst part.
He can't tell the difference between night and day lately, the extreme cold making little difference in how he can perceive if the sun is up or down, so Harley's suggestion makes him recoil a bit. "You want to camp out here?"
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Fortunately, Sif is not easily caught off guard.
She stoops slightly to retrieve her knife, careful not to jostle Matt too much. It's obvious to her that he's angry she refused to let him go; to fight the beasts alone and as wounded as he is would be folly, but such a thing can be hard to accept in the midst of battle. A small voice in the back of her mind wonders if he won't forgive her for withholding him, but she can't worry about that now, since it won't matter in the slightest if they don't make it back alive.
The knife is wiped clean on the snow and tucked back into her boot. Scanning the group, she nods in agreement. "It might be wise to find shelter and rest while we can. It will only grow colder, and we ought not to be exposed."
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Loki tugs at the fur-lined cape around his shoulders. It's peculiar to watch, the way it shrinks to an appropriate human size once it's not on him any longer. He tosses it to Sif. "Here; your friend is injured. Keep him warm."
Turning, he catches sight of Palmer at a slight distance and nods a farewell, then runs in the direction the convoy vanished, which is also a visual trip. His legs seem to cut through the snow like a blade through water, leaving it to ripple and close in his wake. He's not gone far, though, when he leaps into the air, dissolving into a flurry of ice crystals, riding the wind up toward the retreating Fallen ships.
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They can use their radios to try and contact the others, to let them know where they stand. The convoy crew might answer, if one of them can spare the breath and the attention. So too might Delia and Natasha where they speed over the snows. But from Josh, or from Blaze or even Ghost...
There's only silence.
High above, meanwhile, Loki's path will only lead him farther into the Wilds...
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He's unhurt, but he stares at the pistol in his hand. He'd carried one to defend himself before, when he'd confronted one of the Seven Sisters, but he'd never actually fired it, even less killed someone he knew for a fact was sapient, before this winter.
But it was either he kill the Fallen or they kill him and the rest of his team. Still, he feels a little disgusted with himself.
"There wasn't another way," he says, his voice rasping. "I vote shelter. We gotta go back sometime, though, before those things come back."
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To Palmer she gives an approving nod. "Agreed. We stand a better chance if we take a moment to rest. We've all fought honorably today, and there is no shame in doing what is necessary to survive," she says, directing a glance at Palmer, "or in trusting our allies to finish the fight where we cannot. Come, let us find what shelter we can."
Those remaining in their little group trudge deeper into the woods, keeping the road in sight so they won't lose their bearings. A particularly dense little copse of evergreens seems to be their best shot at cover, and Sif releases Matt to start shoveling snow with the flat of her swords. If they can shore up even a short wall it will help keep the wind at bay.
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God, he hates being helpless to act.
He's not so badly hurt that he can't walk on his own, but Sif's steadying presence is keeping him grounded amid the distractions that pull at his senses - the smell of blood and frost and pine, sounds of breathing and heartbeats and distant gunfire, the biting cold nipping at him wherever the cloak falls away from his skin - so he doesn't pull away from her either. When she lets him go he falters for a brief moment before gathering the fur cloak around him more tightly with his good arm, before the heat can escape.
And all the while, he listens, expecting that at any moment they're going to be ambushed. The longer he waits and it doesn't come, the more he's wary of hoping that it doesn't. "I think we're in the clear," he says, head still tilted to one side to listen, putting what's left of his energy toward keeping a lookout. So to speak.
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"Palmer, think you can get a fire started? Don't use any needles, we don't want to be smoked out."
She helps Sif by hauling over some fallen branches, so they can create a stronger snow wall to protect them. "We will need to take shifts. Make sure we keep an eye out for any danger."
"The four of us can survive together. So if anyone else has ideas, that would be great." Harley knows that she is not in charge.
She takes out her radio. "Harley Quinn reporting in to whoever can hear me. Four of us got separated from the convoy. They were heading back to Sanctuary... but we were attacked. And there might be enemy following them."
"I don't know our location. But some of us are injured. And we are taking shelter for the night. Over."
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"Reckon so." Palmer usually has a lighter on him - usually for smoking weed, but it's found other uses this winter. Setting fires is one of them. He's a city boy with next to no wilderness skills, but now's as good a time to learn as any.
He assists by bringing over some branches himself, making sure they aren't needles before tossing them on the pile.
"I agree with Harley. We oughta take shifts. I volunteer to go first."
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They probably hear the sound before they see anything. The sound muffled by the trees and snow. An engine is approaching!
Then there's a light as the engine sound gets clearer, one of the bikes from the convoy escort, if anyone might recognize it. The chaos of the battle having separated everyone from everyone else--something that's not entirely a surprise, really.
But there it is.
The bike arrives in short order after the sound, with one Captain Delia Battista driving, and Natasha Romanoff sitting behind her with a device in her hands and acting as navigator.
As Delia arrives near the life sign signals, she stops the bike, leaving the light on, "Hello? Anyone alive over here? We got--what I'm assuming is at least most of your radio signal!"