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| Owner | Pose |
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| Calvin Nash | "Aight, everybody listen up, 'cause we don't got the time for me to repeat myself," says Calvin, having called everyone to the patch of trees where JM's truck, now turned rightside up, veered off the road to lose the oni Ongyo-ki. A map is spread out on the hood of the truck. Calvin's, parked nearby, provides needed illumination through its light bar. In a few hours, the sun will have disappeared below the horizon and not even the waning beams filtering through the leaves overhead will touch the leaf litter underfoot. Stones hold the map steady on the hood of JM's truck. JM himself is a portly bald man with arms like tree trunks. The ghost of brown hair clings as tenaciously to his shorn head as his blood-slicked uniform shirt does to his body, though Calvin's magic has at least seen to the cause of the latter. "By now, Ongyo-ki's in Atlanta. That was a major city. Let's say half a million people. Took direct hits, plural, in the war. Less than a percent of the people in that city would have lived. The ones that did woulda had radiation sickness, starvation, thirst, injury, infection, you name it, to worry 'bout, as the supply chain broke down. Why am I tellin' you all this?" he asks, rhetorically. "Two reasons," he says, one hand on his hip, the other lifted with index and middle fingers raised. "One," he intones gravely. "Gettin' around. If you can't fly or drive, or have some way of gettin' around, you figure it out, *now*, 'cause in places, that rubble's gonna be thirty feet deep. You take one wrong step, you'll get rusty rebar through the gut or take a spill and break three, four, five bones. Don't go into *no* buildings except what you got to." "Two. Barrier between Assiah--Earth--and the Expanse--the demon world, puttin' it simple, is thin. All that death and pain wore it to where a demon can form a wrapper easier than most places. And there's plenty of fuel for 'em, too. Long story short: the country, the roads, that's unsafe for regular people. A demense--a place like Atlanta--that's unsafe for *us.*" Knight-Captain Richards grimaces. Then her expression hardens. Is it blame or resolve that smolders in her brown eyes? "Here's what's gonna happen," says Calvin. "I'm gonna radio Director Moore and make sure she knows what's goin' on. Then I'm gonna lift my truck and me and JM's gonna swap out the tires. You're gonna figure out who's goin' with who and how--and if you wanna ride in the bed, you better be ready for a bumpy ride, 'cause you ain't had one yet. Then we're gonna take US 29 west through Athens until it turns into I-85, and take that into Atlanta. And we're gonna get there at the same time if it kills us, 'cause stragglin' in a demense'll get you kilt anyhow." "When we hit Atlanta," he says gravely, "You'll know it. You'll feel it in your bones before you see the ruins. You're gonna keep up constant contact. Bird calls, smoke signals, I don't give a shit what," he says, driving an index into the opposite palm for emphasis, "But you check in every minute even if you see every one of us in front of you. And you should. Nobody's gonna split up without two other people--and if we can help it that ain't gonna happen at all. Don't take nothin' from nobody. Don't admit to nothin' to nobody. And if you hear sirens, you get into cover and get ready for a fight." "Once we're there we're gonna look for where the oni stay," he says. "Which is probably gonna be whatever bar or club they could put together, or twist somebody's arm to put together for 'em. They like to drink and raise hell, and I guarantee you the run-of-the-mill ain't half as smart as the Four Great Oni. I know one of them places already, so that's where we're startin'." |
| Calvin Nash | You have time to decide on transportation arrangements. Calvin and JM spend some time using a lift kit to raise the suspension on Calvin's pickup, and the two of them, with the help of JM's partner Fionn, attach offroading tires using an impact wrench. They're even bigger than the already sizeable ones on Calvin's truck. Knight-Captain Richards spends the time in prayer, against 'the unclean,' so her overheard murmurs say. |
| Futaba Nuki | As Futaba peers at the map that's laid out on the truck, she has to keep wriggling out of the way of whoever's nearby so as to not block their view of it. She's considerate like that! Unfortunately, her way of being considerate eventually turns into moving further and further back while her head stays roughly where it is, and her neck stretches to make up for that difference. "Well, y'know I'm good to get folks around if you ain't too confident about your footwork getting through the place. O' course, if we can just hitch a ride in here most of that way through, that'd be way easier." She offers while patting the truck lightly, then strokes her chin a moment later. "Finding Ongyo-ki without peekin' into buildings might be tricky unless we can lure him out, though..." Calvin explaining the weakened barrier does put a lot of extra context on why poking around buildings could be worse, though, and Futaba nods slowly as she listens to his plan on how to proceed. "Say the word if you need an extra hand getting that truck up. Think I've seen enough jacks to-" She pauses. "Wait. I could do it easier than a jack. But... I could double jack it up." She says with a completely straight face that is definitely taking all of her willpower to maintain. "... Guess I could fly some of us in, too, if we need eyes in the sky again. Although hearin' how dangerous this place is..." Futaba pauses again, sounding conflicted after a while. "Could be some interesting demons on the way, too... Squarin' up against a horde of badasses ain't something that can... Geh. No, no, we gotta focus on the job! But..." After frustrated shout and smacking her hands on her cheeks, Futaba exhales heavily and holds a hand up. "I'll be good." She's going to be fuming a little over that while she goes to help Calvin and JM with getting that truck up if they need it. Either way, she's ready to turn into (basically) a beefy pterodactyl with enough space to seat three or four people for the flight over. |
| Khosa | Once the situation proved to be stable rather than some kind of ambush, Khosa was willing (and able) to help right JM's truck. By herself, if necessary; the hardest part is making sure that she's gripping in such a way that the truck will actually turn instead of her ripping off part of the frame when she lifts. It's easier with others to spread around the force. Calvin's on his own for the tires, though. Khosa might be able to lift, but she doesn't know how to change a tire, or is entirely sure why you'd want to, though she figures out the 'why' after a few moments of thinking about it. "Don't worry about me getting around," Khosa says, confident in that part of the mission even if she's less so about the rest of it. "More worried about the demons, and the rest of it. I don't know that kind of bomb." She looks over toward Calvin. "But based on what you said before, and what you're saying now, they poison the land as bad as any defiler. 'Fallout'," she quotes, as she's heard the term. "Do we have to worry about that? Are there places where it's deadly just to stand, even if it looks like nothing's happening?" A pause. "Besides the demons, I mean. I know they could be anywhere. Just poison." The demons she's definitely willing to take advice on. Her eyes narrow slightly, in thought rather than suspicion. "If you've got a place to start that's great, because otherwise we'd be pacing that place with no clues at all. And I can keep people in touch," she adds. "I never got as good at reading minds as the best, but if you're *trying* to make me hear, it's real easy. Just mouth the words, or think them firmly. I can hear if I'm listening, and talk back. You won't be able to talk to each other, just to me, but I'll be able to project to any of you if you don't get too far away. So shout if you see something and I'll pass it on to everyone." A pause, then, as she looks at Petra. "Except her. I tried to get her attention once and it was like yelling into a sandstorm, all drowned out. So. Someone else gets to talk to her. Or I'll yell." Khosa's dislike of Petra is hardly secret, but she's not refusing to communicate with her to be difficult - she really couldn't. During the rest of the preparation, Khosa spends a few moments of time doing something in meditation that takes about five minutes and involves clicking through a string of... 'beads' isn't quite the right word, they look like a string of rough blue quartz chunks about the size of her thumb, the irregular sides slightly polished so they glitter but not recut or smoothed. There's a faint psychic energy associated with whatever she's doing, but it doesn't last. "Oh," she adds, afterwards, "and I can ride in the bed. I can make myself stick to it. Rough isn't a problem. Upside-down might be. That or I'll ride Futaba. No preference." |
| Meresankh | Meresankh mills about near the truck with her scepter at the ready, although she doesn't seem to be needed for the work. Henutep, on the other hand, seems intent on *interfering* with the tire transfer, given how many questions he's asking of Calvin and JM. "Fionn said the oni knew where to expect Thoth. Should we prepare for them to notice our approach through similar means? Or are they such boors that their celebrations will blind them to interlopers? Do they have any specific weaknesses that my Queen might leverage for our benefit in battle?" When it comes time to arrange travel, Meresankh speaks up again. "If we can all keep pace with or ride on the truck, I will alter the local timestream to accelerate the first leg of our journey. The efficacy of my methods may diminish as the rubble intensifies near the city, but until then I could help us move at considerable speed. Failing that, I could apply the same technique to a group on foot for them to keep up with the truck at its usual pace." |
| Petra Soroka | Despite the ostensible very good news of finding someone alive who can give them information, Petra is stressed-- admittedly mixed with the bad news of someone else being dead, but, like, Petra had pretty much assumed that would be the case already, so it *feels* like it's just good news. If too many death flags are raised too early, then the death just feels obligatory rather than impactful, she thinks, about a human person while carefully angling herself to not be looking at their corpse. The reason for her stress, then, is the suddenly cold tone Dimo took with her while flying, when Petra was feeling proudly enriched by being complimented on the Beauty of Ash. She isn't sure why! When a woman praises her, and then suddenly becomes distant to her, it does bad things to her brain! So, awkwardly, while Calvin is fussing with pulling out a map, Petra divulges critical operational secrets to a member of the Paladins as a scattershot attempt to divine and repair whatever she did wrong. "I mean... the City's bad, but I don't stand by any of it just because I lived there. The stupid anti-robot stuff is, uh, top-down enforcement from the Head and not just because the people there suck, but no one actually knows why it's so strictly a rule. That whole deal is one of my specific targets to investigate over there, so, you know, I'm doing stuff about it." "By now, Ongyo-ki's in Atlanta. That was a major city." The nuclear apocalypse happening to the world, generally, also didn't bother Petra much. Putting it in the scale of a specific city though, and imagining it in terms of rubble rather than people, is a visual that sticks in her mind to make her actually take the situation more seriously. It's enough for her to whip out a blob of Silver for a morphic power tool to lend a hand with the truck, rather than just letting the guys do it. "I could... theoretically carry someone with the Beauty of Ash, but it wouldn't be super comfortable, I think. If there's no other space to fit someone traveling through the city ruins though, it'll work. It's less sharp-- well, it won't hurt." Petra is both well-practiced and blessedly equipped for car maintenance, with the morphmetal simultaneously assisting as a jack and self-propelled tool, a task that she handles easily enough to chat tactics while working to not waste time. "So that Oni-- Oni-ki, Ongyo-ki, what's their deal? Both, uh, politically and powers-wise. Does knowing who did it give you a better idea of *why*, or are we still just acting on 'they wanted to stir shit and hoped we were pissy and gullible enough to get at each other's throats about it'?" Petra is actually a little pissy at Richards, but only a little bit. "But... I could double jack it up." "You don't need to help jack it, Futaba. There's enough hands on it already." Petra will attack Futaba's ability to maintain a straight face while flatly keeping one of her own. "Except her. I tried to get her attention once and it was like yelling into a sandstorm, all drowned out." "Ehhh..." Petra makes a conflicted noise at that, and twists her lips into a little concentrated pout. "I can do my best to suppress it, but in a fight... it's probably best to just yell at me, yeah." |
| Lilian Rook | 'Don't go into *no* buildings except what you got to.' "More and more, I understand why the Immunes teach something as tedious as flight magic, each day that I appreciate it." says Lilian. Leaning over the map, she's already changed into her armour, cutting the figure of the recruitable black knight even on the country roadside. A second later into Calvin's summary, she looks up at him all of a sudden, at the mention of one word. One that Natsuki had once told him to ask about. "Wrapper?" The travel split is more or less sensible. The mention of incredibly regular, rapid check-ups processing in her head turns into a musing noise in her throat, mysteriously intrigued by something familiar-seeming. "I'll travel with the weaker group. No offense." Lilian says, without specifying. "I'll handle the regular report, too. Timing down to the minute is easy enough." That, and she was informed last year that nobody else counts seconds in their head all the time. 'Don't take nothin' from nobody. Don't admit to nothin' to nobody. And if you hear sirens, you get into cover and get ready for a fight.' Lilian looks up from the map again. This time with a sharper gaze. "Beg pardon?" she says, waiting a moment. "My impression is that the demons prefer to leap out of a manhole and stab you. What's this about offers? Sirens? Who on Earth is operating them?" She's assuming JM is the weaker combatant, tentatively, since Calvin at least made the cut as a Paladins Chevalier. If a bunch of really strong Elites stack up on his truck, though, she'll silently switch. Probably with a small blow to someone's ego. 'I can do my best to suppress it, but in a fight... it's probably best to just yell at me, yeah.' "You will for me." says Lilian. It isn't a suggestion. "As amusing as it'd be to have you sit in my lap piloting the Beauty of Ash, it's best if we split up to balance the groups' combat power. Excluding Dimo for the fact that I don't have a grasp of her abilities yet, you're the second largest force multiplier here." |
| Dimokratia | In the air, while having a particular reaction to the way that Petra//the Beauty of Ash interacts with her, Dimo councils Futaba to swoop down on the unknowns that Calvin and the gang approach via vehicle. There's a question of if the unbalded eagle Futaba should dive down aggressively - Dimo councils a more considered approach, hoping that they dive down upon friends. Trimming her sail-wing trials into ribbons once more, Dimo joins Futaba in plummeting down, braking with a hot gust of thrust before landing near Fionn. Approaching open-armed, her carbon-dark lips give a faint smile, taking the lack of attacking as a good sign. ... Later, with the map spread out across the truck, Dimo looms over Calvin's back and shoulder, using her height to her advantage in positioning around the table. "Oni?" Repeats the champion, tone clearly not professing specific knowledge. "If they have taken Thoth alive then they do so for a purpose. However," Dimo rights, to look at Richards, sternness in their warmth and the natural stare-down ceramic-fair cheeks verges on intentional as her stance shifts. "Warrior, think clearly on your enemy's motions. They expected Thoth, and knew his motions, but were surprised at the resistance put upon them by the Marshals. If the traitor was within the Marshals, there would be no such surprise - and no such survivors. Leave inquests for the inquirers, and warm yourself with the good news there is." She 'councils', and nods to Calvin. "I can fly again, as can Queen Meresankh, and..." A smiling turn to Futaba. "Yes, Khosa. Futaba is ideal to be ridden, I think. They are well-burdened by it, and see - their eagerness." Dimo points out with endeared amusement. Futaba was being such a good and helpful sort! The shapeshifting, particularly, delighted Dimo as Futaba got up to it. |
| Petra Soroka | "You will for me." "Oh. Yes I will." Petra nods and reverses her stance immediately and unquestioningly the moment Lilian instructs her to, psychic capabilities and uncertainties be damned. Technically, she could make several arguments involving the idea of externalized purpose and vocalization increasing psychic clarity, or about how specifically Lilian does have an easier time getting into her head, or anything like that, but most importantly she will simply try harder now. Yay! |
| Futaba Nuki | "There's enough hands on it already." "Futaba is ideal to be ridden, I think." If it was just Petra attacking Futaba's poker face, the ninja could handle it. She's played this kind of game before and, although she's never actually won any of them, she'd be able to ramp things up at least two or three times. If it was just Dimo attacking Futaba's poker face, the ninja could handle it. It's not hard to see that she's eager to show off to the Silver, after all, and it'd be easy enough to maintain her composure under the assumption that Dimo's just innocently praising her. Both at once, though? Futaba's only recourse is to turn her mouth into a flat space to hold it in, although the tears forming at the corners of her eyes from wanting to laugh are kind of hard to miss. Her body still shakes a few times, though, as she can't quite cough without a mouth, and she hunches over with her hands on her knees for a moment just to have a moment to recover. Eventually, though, she holds a thumb up towards Dimo, Petra, and Khosa. Seems like she's ready to be ridden once it's time to go! |
| Dimokratia | 'so, you know, I'm doing stuff about it.' Dimo doesn't look at Petra, directly - neither the topic, nor Petra herself, excite her currently. "I'm sure you are," Rolls coolly from the champion, fully honest but practically dispassionate. "Because it is to your interest as well. The open war that would be required to undertake for me has slowed my own response. Perhaps that will change." Dimo declares, considering the matter of Angela for a brief beat. "It is often a matter of top-down control, in those circumstances." 'You will for me.' Dimo has to process the exchange between Lilian and Petra for a long moment, attention finally panning back towards Petra and Lilian from her half-dismissed stance towards Petra in response before. She will. . . . . . what? But Dimo isn't stupid: she just doesn't have context for a short while. The reality - that Petra could lower the resistant field, would lower it in need, or for others, and did not do so for her despite making a kind of psychic contact with her produces a visible look of disgust. Unpalatable, detestable actions in order become clear to the champion and she glares down at Petra before slowly panning back away from looking at the anti-empath and addressing her attention to . . . pretty much anything else but Petra. |
| Calvin Nash | I'll be good. "I don't want you to be 'good,'" says Calvin, pointing at Futaba as if to ward off some evil eye upon her (or cast by her), with the impact wrench hanging at his side. "I want you to be a Paladins Chevalier. This ain't no damn field trip, Futaba." Are there places where it's deadly just to stand, even if it looks like nothing's happening? "Not no more," Calvin and Richards say almost in unison. Occupied with his work on the truck, he back-nods at Richards to continue. "It woulda been the most dangerous in the weeks after," the Templar continues. "I wouldn't drink any water, or put my nose too close to the ground, but that's heavy metals. The fallout ain't even a percent of a percent of what it was." Should we prepare for them to notice our approach through similar means? "Until we know how they did it, I would," says Calvin, before the whirr of the impact wrench. As Henutep is now the second person to ask about the weaknesses of oni, Calvin flips open his COMP and taps in a few quick commands. A primitive text-to-speech voice rattles off the following entry: Oni Brute Monstrous creatures of Japanese mythology. Their entire bodies are built as tough as iron, they have horns on their heads and sharp fangs protrude from their mouths. Their thick, sharp claws can easily tear through tempered steel. The number of horns and the color of their skin varies from Oni to Oni. Known for its hideous visage and brute strength. They plunder and loot villages, massacring the townspeople with their iron clubs. Resist: Physical Weak: Expel, Lightning "'Expel' is your catch-all anti-unclean magic. Call it exorcism or light magic or whatever you like," Calvin says, which seems to rankle Richards. |
| Calvin Nash | After, Calvin nods. "That spatial bending'd be good, Meresankh." Surprisingly given the fact that it'd be kryptonite in any other situation, he also offers Petra a gruff thank-you for her help in fitting the tires. So that Oni-- Oni-ki, Ongyo-ki, what's their deal? Both, uh, politically and powers-wise. "He and the other three Great Oni, they was part of Lucifer's people," says Calvin. "That'd be the country we ain't talked much 'bout, Libertalia, out west. Had some kinda fallin' out with one of his other generals, came across the country to make his little clubhouse in Atlanta. Did his own thing for a while, muscle for hire, carved out a little piece of Atlanta. Lately, word is he wants to cozy back up to Lucifer through Shiva. If I was a bettin' man I'd say Thoth is his way to do that." "For powers, he's an oni that's done enough shit to have a name, so he ain't gonna be a pushover in a fight even by oni standards. He can hide his aura and the people around him, too, which is how he got the jump on the escort," Calvin says, giving a wheel a testing spin. "Got more tricks than that--that's just the one we know for sure. Some people say he's the original ninja. JM, he stick around long enough for you to get a scan on 'im?" "Mhm. Expel's your best bet," says JM. "But he won't make it easy." "Yep," says Calvin, in a harrowed tone. What's this about offers? Sirens? Who on Earth is operating them? "Wrappers, Ms. Lilian," he says. "A demon's a bundle of emotional energy that has to be wrapped up in something to live on Assiah. So they take on the role of somethin', dedicate themselves and that role is their wrapper. In every way that matters," he says, motioning backwards with a nod of his head, "That there is Fionn mac Cumhaill, until he returns to the Expanse or unless he lets fuse him into somethin' different. If every story we tell each other was like his, we wouldn't have to worry. But we also got stories 'bout people bein' spirited away by fairies, don't we?" "The Sirens, though... Red Dogs," says Calvin, spitting the word like a swear. His COMP's TTS reads out another entry for Lilian's benefit. Red Dog Brute A police unit formed in 1987. They struck fear into the hearts of criminals and innocents alike with their black uniforms and indiscriminate violence. Some say name is an acronym for 'Run Every Drug Dealer Out of Georgia,' while others say they were named for the football tactic of blitzing with every weapon at one's disposal. They beat, intimidated and arrested whoever they felt like, justifying their actions after the fact and overwhelmingly targeting the poor and minorities. The lingering fear and memory of that unit has allowed them to manifest as demons, more vicious and petty than they were even in life. Resist:Gun Weak:Fire "On their own they ain't much. But they ain't never on their own," he says. "Their 'story,' that wrapper of theirs, it comes with cars and vans and helicopters and guns. So they got those things and they ain't afraid to use 'em. You run into 'em sometimes in the country, but Atlanta is their home turf." |
| Lilian Rook | ''Expel' is your catch-all anti-unclean magic. Call it exorcism or light magic or whatever you like,' "Stellar. We're all just such beacons of purity and light." Lilian says, drily. "In any case, if they're the big smashy angry brute type, there are dozens of ways to handle them." ''bout, Libertalia, out west.' "Liber-what?" Lilian raises an eyebrow. Her lips contort in a displeased way when she hears 'ninja'. She looks around like she absolutely expects most of the team to fall for every trick in the book. 'Wrappers, Ms. Lilian," he says. "A demon's a bundle of emotional energy that has to be wrapped up in something to live on Assiah. So they take on the role of somethin', dedicate themselves and that role is their wrapper. In every way that matters,' "Why not just call them bodies?" she says. "Don't make a physical manifestation sound so overcomplicated." While the Red Dog lore plays, Lilian looks between Petra and Dimo, and doesn't exactly miss the disgusted glare in the latter's bearing. "Do you want to salvage this, or should I?" she asks Petra, nonchalantly. "If we have no need to engage with the 'Dogs', then we won't." she says to Calvin. "The longer we wait, the worse our position will be, no?" |
| Futaba Nuki | "This ain't no damn field trip, Futaba." "I know, I know.... Nnnh." The ninja grumbles lightly while rubbing her forehead, still visibly itching for a fight even though she knows that restraint is the order of the day here. If nothing else, she can at least keep all the intel on the oni and Ongyo-ki in mind for later. "he ain't gonna be a pushover in a fight even by oni standards" "Some people say he's the original ninja." Futaba's lip twitches just a bit at that, too, and she takes another deep breath to keep her cool. "Okay.... So. Let's hope we... Don't run into him if he's that tough. Priority is getting... Mm. Finding Thoth and getting him out of here." It sounds like she's telling herself that more than anyone else, as if it wasn't already obvious that she really wants to fight him. After another deep breath, though, she's able to actually laugh a little about that. "Too bad it's already May. Would've had some beans on me to chuck at 'em all." Hearing about the Red Dogs, meanwhile, has the ninja drawing her katana out of her little ninja pouch, sheathe and all. "I've still got this for the Dogs, at least. Should make quicker work of 'em, although I doubt it'd be quiet at all the moment they start shoutin' their crap again." Another rub of her face, and she nods at Lilian. "Yeah, the sooner we get in and the later we have to actually go loud, the better." Noticing that look Dimo gives Petra, Futaba purses her lips slightly as she tries to suss out what's going there by sight alone, doubles back a bit mentally to try and get some context from the exchange between Lilian and Petra, then... Oh. Now it's kind of making sense. Not all of it, but enough that she circles back around a bit (physically) to give Dimo a light touch on the arm. She looks up for a moment to give her that 'you good?' sort of look without actually saying it, staying close by for proximity-based moral support. |
| Petra Soroka | "The fallout ain't even a percent of a percent of what it was." "That's so good to know. Fallout isn't good for me." Petra states this extremely inane fact with a neutral nod, as if it's both relevant and warranted. In reality, exposure to mild radiation probably would do next to nothing to her in the long term, but, it would make her feel weird and queasy, so she thinks it's great news that the nuclear radiation has been dispersed, without a single thought about cancer. "Call it exorcism or light magic or whatever you like," Petra frowns as she listens to all *three* of the COMP readouts. "I don't have anything like that. I have physical. *And* gun. Well-- I guess I have fire, but we're not even after those guys. Why are the cops weak to fire? Molotovs?" "Some people say he's the original ninja. JM, he stick around long enough for you to get a scan on 'im?" Petra sighs and stands up from besides the truck, brushing at the dust and grease on her arms. "What do ninjas even do in reality?" She glances at Futaba, and then realizes how stupid it is to use Futaba as a basis for reality. "I'll keep an eye out, at least. Being able to fuck with precognition and stuff makes him way scarier for assassinations, though...." . . . she glares down at Petra before slowly panning back away from looking at the anti-empath . . . Petra withers a bit under being glared at, but after being afflicted with disdain three times in a row without explanation, she fills up the meter that allows her to interpret this as Unjust and Cruel rather than like she did anything wrong herself. By the time Petra manages to adjust her expression to a glare from being hurt and confused, Dimo's already turned away from her, but she pointedly holds it for a second longer just to feel like she made a retort. She starts to open her mouth to brat back at her, but catches herself and remembers what situation she's in and what people are around her. It would be a phenomenally bad look for Petra to take swings at Dimo in front of Lilian, on a Paladin's mission, with a local diplomat standing right nearby and currently extremely stressed at the site of the bloody kidnapping of their religious and political leader. Even a short clash initiated by Petra would be enough to potentially set off the tension between Richards and Calvin, and most importantly, prove that it was a *bad* idea to consider Petra 'especially reliable'. So she squeezes her lips tightly shut until the urge to start throwing a tantrum passes, and then takes a careful breath in and out and relaxes her shoulders. "Do you want to salvage this, or should I?" Which results in the next sound coming out of her mouth to be a breathy whine, halfway merged into a sigh. "I don't even know what's the problemmmmm...." |
| Khosa | Khosa goes suspiciously stone-faced when both Petra and Dimo try to make Futaba lose her composure. It doesn't last. "Well, 'try' isn't exactly a guarantee that it'll work, so I might just yell anyway," Khosa says, "but if you can at least do *something* to get my attention, that's useful enough." She glances toward Dimo, understanding something upset her with what Petra said but lacking the context to figure out what. She doesn't press. Today. Instead: "Given I might have to dig telling me about the heavy stuff is probably a good idea." Khosa is difficult to poison - she can repair a lot of what it does to her body as fast as it happens, or change herself just enough to make it less effective in the first place - but knowing about it ahead of time alerts her to pay closer attention. "Ninja?" she asks, before looking over toward Futaba, who is literally the only ninja she knows. "Huh." She may be coming to some incorrect conclusions about Ongyo-ki - though not about his plan, which seems entirely correct to her, from the limited amount of information they have. The Red Dogs she's already heard the story for, and isn't really getting anything new out of the second time. |
| Dimokratia | 'Their 'story,' that wrapper of theirs, it comes with cars and vans and helicopters and guns.' Dimo, who is in the market for something or someone else to pay attention to, contemplates wrappers. She spends a good few seconds on it, the idea of emotional energy forming armaments, and the particular way an emotional being became solid as thus. There would be a very good topic to pursue here on local examples, considering the Beauty of Ash might just be this exact phenomenon from another side or angle, but, the particular level of offense the champion took to Petra's doings renders her use as an object even lower than her use as a subject. "On approach, there were some of those flying energy beings littering the sky with their negativity. They were not threatening with a proper application of force. However, it is... unnerving to know that negative energy can generate its own war weapons through simple assumption. In this 'Atlanta', will dispelling these emotional shades be possible? Or does the place prevent their demise?" Dimo asks, having to consider the threat difference in 'removing a hostage from a hostile city' and 'removing a hostage from a hostile city, where only you could be inconvenienced by circumstance and damage'. Not entirely unknown to fighting spiritual beings, the Egyptian-dressed (but second place in skeletalization) sophont continues the task of making quick decisions right before battle when. . . . . . a pterodactyl touches her on the arm, Futaba having scooched over to console her. "Another time, Futaba." Dimo answers, but it's not the question the touch or the implication asks. "I do not need you to bear me, and it will be easier on both of us if we do not have to separate mid-engagement." Still warm (temperature) and throwing off an aura of heat, the cut to business and away from her own state of displeasure cools many of her normal responses. Petra toes the precipice of bratting harder, waves her foot off the ledge of taking a swing without quite taking that plunge. Dimo remains in complete disregard towards Petra. 'Do you want to salvage this, or should I?' "It is because of her own choices that she has become disfavored. I doubt highly you can apologize in her stead for the insult." Dimo answers Lilian. "You are welcomed to try. She is welcomed to contemplate." |
| Calvin Nash | The preparations are finished--Calvin's truck has an outsized pair of offroading tires, and he's also summoned two of his demons: Chernobog, who some of you may have met, and Loa, who has yet to be introduced. Chernobog is a towering figure in a dark robe with a simple, yet deathly elegant silver two-handed sword. A skeletal rictus grin peers from beneath the 'brim' of a 'hat' which in fact is a mushroom. The front of his billowy black robe bears a baleful red sun. Loa, by comparison, is an ominously floating human skull, which is about as large as the average torso here. A large green snake takes up residence inside it, spooled from one eye socket into and out of the other. JM doesn't mind being considered 'weaker;' though Fionn bristles, neither he nor his partner can deny that JM is Calvin's senior in years. He is experienced, enough so to have Calvin's respect and the trust of Director Moore, and that's probably why he doesn't raise a fuss at having capable backup. "JM DuPont," he says, giving her a meaty handshake. "Sure wish we was meetin' under better circumstances." The drive there, thanks to Meresankh, is not nearly so long as it could be, and likewise, not nearly so disjointed as it could be, either. Calvin and JM don't even seem that unused to the jaunts. Along the way, Calvin answers some of the other questions asked. In this 'Atlanta', will dispelling these emotional shades be possible? "Yep," says Calvin. "Not for as long as outside it, but you can. They'll come back faster than they would, and it don't take much to be a Dog, so they might even be back soon--but if we're quick, especially if we're quiet, we can hack it." Why are the cops weak to fire? Molotovs? "Maybe," says Calvin, seriously considering it. "Has to do with how they're thought of. So, could be. Could be that 'fire' is the first thing people learn to be afraid of; the Dogs are scared of it 'cause people figured you gotta be scared, deep down, on a... fundamental kinda level, to be somethin' like a Dog." |
| Calvin Nash | Why not just call them bodies? "Occult reasons," Calvin admits. "'Bodies' is fine for casual talk." Athens passes by in barely a blink. A mildly foul smell briefly passes by. Anyone who asks is told by Calvin or JM that it's the stadium--in the south, the climate is often right to turn old, sufficiently large stadiums into microswamps, since many had their own populations of bats even before the war. "How 'bout them Dawgs?" JM asks of Calvin over the radio, in the way that people do to lighten the mood ahead of grim and unenviable work. "Go Dawgs," Calvin answers with the same tone. The offerings in this town, such as they are after fifty years of neglect, are quite different from those of Elberton or the surrounding communities near Keller or Ossabaw. Farm supply stores, granite suppliers, car dealerships, furniture stores and the like aren't *absent* here, but they are (were) greatly diluted by the presence of things that hold the interest of college town kids. An old record store reads 'W XT Y;' time and the elements have scoured 'U' and 'R' to faint skeletal remains. Downtown is bumpy; the town was sinking in its heyday and the lack of gas and water technicians after the war hasn't been kind to its streets. Calvin's truck handles them better than JM's, but both of them navigate as only veteran Marshals can, expedited significantly by Meresankh. Just like that, you're out of the place, and neighboring smaller communities pass by in even less time. The group's flight to Atlanta is, in fact, expeditious enough to meet the Marshals sweeping north, who have set up a perimeter just outside of Atlanta. Eight trucks, twenty Marshals and as many demon partners, all rolling towards the same place. 443: Marshal Nash? You got here in a hurry. Calvin: Had some help, Jen. We find 'im, you make sure Chevalier Meresankh and her retainer Henutep get some thank-yous too. 443: Heard. You said you was punchin' through? Calvin: Yep. I got a lead. 443:Got it. We're on a sweep. We'll catch anything that slips past. You get too into it, you can fall back to 17th through Market all the way up to Slate. Be careful--Dogs're out in force tonight. Calvin: Heard. Good huntin'. You catch all that, Richards? Richards: ...yeah, I did. I didn't realize y'all were takin' it this serious. I wanna apologize-- Calvin: Save it for after we get outta here. |
| Calvin Nash | The cored-out corpses of apartment complexes and corporate offices alike hunch over like giants frozen in some grand and unknowable humiliation. Their skin and bones litter the ground, such that Calvin, serving as the lookout for JM from behind, must still at times half-stand in his seat to make sure the lower truck can safely take the route it does. Navigating here is a tense and anxiety-inducing exchange between JM and Calvin, with the latter guiding the former down to even the minutia of which degree to turn the steering column and how hard to press the gas, with microadjustments for the shifting of rubble. 'You got it, you got it' is not only Calvin's signal for JM to advance, but a warding spell against that same anxiety. Wild plants spring from the piles of rubble and from the precious few spots of bare, cracked asphalt. In the bodies of those old giants, those plants are just as often trees as they are creeping vines. The other forms of life, with the cortisol production necessary to fear the other denizens of this place, have left, or else steer clear entirely. Clearing a practical mountain of rubble, JM is told 'now brake soon as when you come over. Brake. Brake. Yep. You got it.' In this sense, 'got it' means that Calvin successfully guided JM away from an uncontrolled descent down a massive crater which has since become a lake. In the dying light of the sun, the lake wants not for illumination; wisps dance on its surface. The longer the eyes follow their dance, the more enticing it seems--yet the eyes which watch from the water, set in either side of long, equine faces, beneath mops of seaweed mane, seem anything but. "Drop her into 4 wheel. Right two-o-clock. Pedal down halfway. Go on, go on, go on, stop there, brake all the way, then gun it." Calvin guides JM (bumpily, for those in the bed of JM's pickup) around the rim of the crater and back up onto the crumbling street. The buzz of an overhead helicopter elicits a hiss from Calvin. "Dogs. COMPs closed, engines off, kill the lights." A moment later, "Mouths shut." A tense few seconds passes as what appears to be a police helicopter passes overhead, followed by two more. The searchlights sweep, but blessedly, not over either of the trucks. My son, please, have you seen my son Didn't deserve this... I'm cold Do you have anything to eat? Down the street, a procession of nebulous lights follows the group. JM keeps his eyes forward as he drives--not that the ghosts don't affect him. Lilian can see tears welling up in the corners. Richards reaches out for one, only for Loa to stop her hand with the outstretch of its serpent portion. "Don't," it says, the snake's jaw and the skull's moving in unison. But it's too late. Something like the desperation of the drowning stirs up in the ghosts, and in their pleas to be heard, swirling around, they fuse into a many-faced, babbling abomination. Some faces scream in agony, others moan in despair, others shout in furious anger, and each slavering mouth spits forth balls of roiling, dark energy, haphazardly flying across the road and drawing a lot of attention at the worst possible time. "Chernobog, Loa," Calvin utters, his eyes glued to the windshield for good reason. The next street is occluded not only by rubble from buildings, but a collapsed section of freeway. This one is so steep that Calvin has to go ahead of JM, using his clearance to ensure nothing awaits on the other side, all while Chernobog and Loa attempt to lock down the legion of fused-together ghosts. |
| Meresankh | Once Meresankh's time-warp is no longer needed, the queen contents herself with silently nodding in admiration at the precision of Calvin's driving instructions. Such fine control over a machine requires even *her* full attention; Calvin's managing it without her lightning-quick internal processors belies a great degree of skill and memory at play. Passing into the remains of the Atlanta city proper, however, Meresankh finds her attention divided between the Demon Marshals' communications and the sights all around of civilization suddenly interrupted. Is this place, this overgrown mass grave, really so different from the splendorous tombs of Oryx? The thought is enough to make her recall the feeling of a chill down the spine. As the trucks crest the rim of the crater, she contemplates the scale of destruction here. The Necrons once wielded weapons that made the deadliest offerings of reality seem as candles before the sun - physics-defying constructions that could tear gods asunder. These inventions, as with so many others, are lost to the Necrons of the now. Meresankh can't help but wonder, here and now, if that's for the better, even if they were once essential to her people's liberation from the soul-devouring C'tan. The ghosts and their cries then reach the convoy, and Meresankh's mental wanderings abruptly end. They are cold, hungry, deprived - and are they so different from her? She numbers herself among the dead, after all. What separates her from this mass of tormented spirits? Just her metallic shell and nothing more. So it is with a grim necessity that she acts against them. "I am sorry," she stage-whispers to the spirits. "It is not safe for you here. You have to go." And that's true - the Red Dogs may not discriminate between living and dead, when on the hunt. Tuning her scepter to generate a piercing cold, she raises it and sweeps the freeze-ray across the mass of spirits in hopes of scaring them off with the one thing she already knows they don't like. |
| Lilian Rook | 'It is because of her own choices that she has become disfavored. I doubt highly you can apologize in her stead for the insult.' "Oh god no. I'd never apologize for Petra in a million years." says Lilian, taken aback. "I'd simply assumed that Petra would be too stupid to infer that she should actually tell you that she hasn't, in fact, been able to 'do that all along'. Because of the obvious picture it paints." 'Why are the cops weak to fire? Molotovs?' "What?" Lilian makes an expression like this is an unbearably stupid question. "All human beings are weak to fire. Why would police not be?" 'JM DuPont,' "Lilian Rook." No need to skip the small formalities. In a high-intensity area like what lies ahead, she'd rather have everyone's trust. Thanks to superhumanity pips, she's even able to return his handshake at a respectable level. "The circumstances make for a strong impression, at least. Let's get this done quickly and cleanly; then how we've met will just be a story to tell." . . . . . . . . Lilian's flight magic doesn't use up a lot of juice, but if JM is going to drive and she has to stay with the group anyways, it's better to save it than not. Despite the inevitably bumpy ride, during which she clutches her sword against her chest and between her legs, Lilian somewhat understands just how difficult a drive like this actually is, and looking to further cement that coordination, she says "I see you don't have that Marshal title for nothing. How many years have you been handling hostile conditions like these?" Given that hitting an IED isn't likely a concern, she isn't too anxious about the car; a crash at this careful speed wouldn't incapacitate her. The sight of the terrible drop does a little to test her confidence, though. 'My son, please, have you seen my son' Lilian frowns as she watches the ghost-lights pass by the window. Her familiarity with ghosts, growing up with them more than her biological relatives, has always tinted her view of them a certain way, even in other worlds. Stifling a little discomfort, she places her hand on JM's upper arm, and says, "Nothing to do now. Those people aren't here." A moment later, she murmurs just loud enough to hear, "Thou shalt never heed the words of that which begs thy reply." 'Don't,' "Fuck my life." Lilian hisses. "I thought she was supposed to be a professional." Pulling the handle and kicking the side door open, Lilian slams her hand to the roof of the truck and swings her lower body up with it, crouching on top of the cabin. Reaching into one of her tactical cases, she withdraws a handful of immaculately inked talismans, and, pulsing a little magical energy into them, she fan-throws them towards the ghost-mass, uttering something in Japanese. The talismans sharply divert to home in on the source of roiling darkness, and then, burning with the white-hot light of the sun, burst into purifying flame. "I may as well have worn that miko outfit to this." Lilian says, darkly. |
| Futaba Nuki | "What do ninjas even do in reality?" "Huh." "Dependin' on where you're hearing it from, everything and anything. Stealth, combat, espionage, farmin', surgery, piloting... What don't ninjas do, is the real question?" Futaba puffs up some more, apparently basing her own image of ninjas on conflicting reports and media of all sorts. This probably isn't going to help Petra or Khosa much at all, considering this ninja is also a wide pterodactyl. "Another time, Futaba." Although that's not quite the answer Futaba was looking for, she still understands Dimo's meaning regardless (also because she outright explains herself). "'nother time, then." She feels like she could say more, but should she? Would that actually help Dimo feel any better? Probably not. She'll just have to come up with something that could actually help between now whenever 'then' is. An outstanding result during this rescue mission might be a good way to start, at least, and so Futaba keeps her eyes peeled as the group moves through Athens. She reports in on where she's going and what she's seeing regularly while gliding along, still proving to be quite the stable ride for Khosa and anyone else that wants an easy path through the sky. It'll be good practice for Atlanta, and getting into that habit even before entering the city turns out to be quite fortuitous when Futaba sees and hears exactly what Calvin warned everyone about. She calls in the police helicopters when she sees them, hastily ascending so as to try and escape their notice. "Close one... Better not to head too high while we're here. Don't want to risk anyone losin' sight of anybody even at this size." Futaba tries to play it off like a joke, but her tone is far tenser than usual and carries little of its usual mirth. The voices, the faces, all of it reminds her of the worst kinds of things she's encountered in her work at home, but there's nowhere to actually find relief from any of it yet. The best she can do is make sure that the group sees her, that she can see the group, and hope that those helicopters don't do another fly-by even while she's gliding that low to the ground. |
| Petra Soroka | "You are welcomed to try. She is welcomed to contemplate." Petra can't contain her huffing and puffing entirely at that. Thankfully, it takes the form of grumping under her breath, rather than starting a fight. "Well, if I've gotta fucking *contemplate*, then I guess I'll just save it for *after*, when we're *not* tracking down a kidnapped diplomat guy who might get murdered before we get to him." Petra, actually, now that she isn't using her bird's eye view for anything tactically necessary, decides to hitch the ride to Atlanta in the bed of the truck rather than flying in the Beauty of Ash. This is for several reasons, among which are the minor psychic and attention strain of being your own high speed pilot and trying to follow after a truck that moves slower than you but has space occasionally folding around it to speed it up, but it's also because Petra feels more like sulking in the back of a pickup truck than she does flying around with Dimo. There's a certain appeal, too, to feeling the rattling of the truck as it rumbles over the debris in Athens, and seeing it pass by close-up instead of far below. She tugs her knees up to her chest and bounces around in the bed like a gumball, crinkling her nose up at the smell. "Could be that 'fire' is the first thing people learn to be afraid of; the Dogs are scared of it 'cause people figured you gotta be scared, deep down, on a... fundamental kinda level, to be somethin' like a Dog." "Damn. You're feeling poetic today, huh?" Petra leans over the side of the bed to light a cigarette, sparing everyone else from the smell as the smoke gets torn away by the wind. "Tell me when there's a spiders-type spell. Or ghosts-- well, there probably is ghosts." "All human beings are weak to fire. Why would police not be?" "Huh??" Petra stares back in disbelief. "But humans are weak to a lot of things! Lightning! Gun! Physical! Humans are weak to poison too! *I'm* weaker to gun than I am to fire!" Once the truck is in Atlanta, though, the pacing becomes too slow and methodically frustrating for Petra to continue tolerating it. She hauls herself out of the truck bed and immediately the rubble beneath her feet when she lands is dislodged, but she spares herself from rolling her ankle by keeping her balance among the shifting debris. Once she's stable, she resummons the Beauty of Ash with a stream of sparkling glass, and the crystalline mech begins to pick its way over the uneven terrain on all fours. Normally, the Beauty of Ash's quadrupedal movement evokes a deer or wolf with the shape of its head and its loping steps, but the way that it manages to uncannily keep precise balance among the rocks on the daggerpoint tips of its legs, scuttling up and over untroubled, feels insectoid instead. |
| Petra Soroka | "Dogs. COMPs closed, engines off, kill the lights." The Beauty of Ash, in contrast to a muddied up offroading truck, will catch and reflect every photon of searchlight aimed in its direction. When the call goes out, the mech's back arches in alarm, and then it presses flat against the ground and shudders, rustling up long-settled concrete dust and small fragments of rock to cover it up enough to dull its reflection. After the searchlights pass, Petra's hushed telepathic contact comes out from within the cloud of kicked-up decades-old radioactive dust laced with heavy metals. <Oh. Uh. Hold your breath, probably. Sorry.> In the tense silence following the Dogs' surveillance, the haunting voices of the ghosts sends a chill down Petra's spine. As many times as she's interacted with spirits, they've typically been either benign or conversational, and the thrill of fear she feels calls back to feelings of ghost stories and horror movies, rather than feelings of being an Elite. It's Lilian's recitation of the thirteenth code that puts her back in the right mindset after a moment. Petra's options for dealing with ghosts, though, are pretty limited. The Beauty of Ash's head swings towards Lilian at the mention of her having a miko outfit-- or maybe at the effectiveness of her using Tamamo's talismans, but the flare of light from them gives her an idea. The Beauty of Ash leaps overhead to get beside the merged clump of ghosts, and then an intangible sensation like a low pressure front radiates out from the mech in a shockwave. A radiant white glow dimly flares to life within the shoulder prongs of the mech, and a psychic 'bubble' around the ghosts pops to leave a sucking vacuum of ego in its place. From Calvin's description of the 'wrapper' that demons come in, Petra figures that even the less violent application of her psychic power could puncture a hole in the body they've made to let the emotions rush out and disperse, unfortunately exposing herself to their core in the process. |
| Dimokratia | It is, perhaps, merciful towards Petra that Lilian takes up the topic at all. Dimo was quite content (furiously insulted) to let Petra rot in her own ignorance at the lack of consideration she had particularly conjured, and was certainly heavily disinclined to bend or shift on her approach in the midst of the same circumstance as the injury. 'I'd simply assumed that Petra would be too stupid to infer that she should actually tell you that she hasn't, in fact, been able to 'do that all along'. Because of the obvious picture it paints.' "Do you enjoy being spoken to and ignored in the same breath, Dame Commander? I have indeed learned that Petra is capable of greater than she showed before. The particulars of her breakthrough, I'm sure, are quite recent." "And quite irrelevant." Dimo dismisses with a wave of a hand, a shake of the head and an 'I know it's not you' softened-optic glance towards Lilian as she follows the hand, having spent the whole preparatory period in cold anger rather than useful activity. "The obvious picture has already been painted, of her grievous lack of interest. And now we are engaged with this - so I will see to this. To do less is to fail, and I shall not." Taking off, this time without the faint note of doing at least as well as Futaba or Petra's takeoffs, Dimo hovers weightless on a penumbra of heat and the dangle of her trails as the grass beneath her is bowed by the flow of thrust. "I will be within contact, should you need me." She claims, and then her trails draw up and snap out, flapping once in reconfiguration as she banks and ascends over the treeline near the Atlanta approach. --- Calvin had made his view of the terrain clear: a miserable, devasated death-trap that was choked with miasma and danger and the negative energy of the slain. Dimo, alerted to the danger, had an alternate plan to work. Racing ahead once the buildings begin appearing in earnest, the flying synthetic shimmers and becomes mirage-like, passing through the scraping tips of treebranches and torpedoing into the ground with only faint disturbances in the ground like a diving heron might tuck and dive through the water's surface. Rising in a breach of silver and tan and concrete greys, she then phases up from ground into buildingside, a small pot of liquid morphmetal sinking back into the ground from her departure and spreading out through the terrain in her wake. Dimo's motion through the building is as a barely-subsonic specter, planting rods of transformative metamaterial as claiming banners in the crumbling and infested ruins. She doesn't stay long enough in any one place to get into a fight, and what she leaves begins to convert local materials into more useful components as the junk and rubble network begins to spread. Local electrical systems are infiltrated, plumbing and fire suppression systems being converted as channels for new constructions and spreading stability. Building the net of slowly progressing locations by punching through the otherwise untenable middles and subfloors of Atlanta, the Silver's 'diplomatic' champion ignores the pleading, bleeding, crying, dying heartbeat as the specters beg and wail and make their unfinal home among the ashes, having no succor to offer spectres at speed. Enemy aircraft, however... Dimo's overwatch of the truck convoy of the Marshals becomes more active when Futaba begins to engage the Red Dogs. <"Futaba. Lead the Red Dogs off of the path of the Marshals. I will move a lure to take their attention, then, you and Khosa strike them as ambush predators. You will understand."> Dimo transmits, making her way around while she starts to summon the resources she had started to seed. |
| Dimokratia | If the Red Dogs pick up Ptero-Futaba, and then, the swift-moving unknown of Dimo with their searchlights, especially if the Tanuki and Champion try to get their attention, Dimo leads Futaba back through Atlanta, where her preplanted terrain-encroachment spears and scattered Silver becomes a filiment-thin spiderweb jungle among the shattered skyline fit to provide plenty of perch for two shapeshifters to work and plenty of ensnarement for the Dogs' helicopters to have them sky-mired far away from the Marshal mystery machines on the ground. Dimo had wanted to see if demonic helicopters could be Silver-converted, and the Marshals didn't need to be bothered with her tests - only her results. |
| Calvin Nash | How many years have you been handling hostile conditions like these? "22 years this June," says JM, slightly terse due to the stress but quite evidently thankful for the conversation. "Joined up right 'fore Chinnumbee got our first trucks workin', so I stayed busy." Before the Marshals had the capability to be even as mobile as they are, the conditions were likely plenty hostile. Nothing to do now. Those people aren't here. JM sucks in a breath. "Yes ma'am," he agrees with a nod. It still affects him--perhaps, precisely because they aren't here. When the shit hits the fan, at least, it's clear why JM was chosen as part of the escort. "Quietus." A silver thread gently touches upon Lilian, winding from her to Loa, Chernobog, the trucks; everyone is connected in a gossamer, silvery web. Hearing each other is done without trouble, But the bones of the old empire surrounding this wasteland no longer echo the loudest parts of the struggle. The ghosts' cacophony, the flames and fluttering of Lilian's talismans, or the icy hiss of Meresankh's beam, all of it is muffled past a certain range, absorbed by those silvery strands and diffused before it travels so far as to make trouble. Having magic like that on deck, plus the means the other two used to hold off the scores of oni, would have allowed a surreptitious escape in the midst of all that chaos, with Fionn as a contingency--had they not been attacked by someone who evidently knew their plans in advance. With the primary threat it posed to the group--noise--thwarted, the ghostly mass' flailing projectiles only pose risk in their unpredictability. Loa, Chernobog and Meresankh see to that second part, the two demons adding in the chill of the grave. Loa's jawbone opens and a deathly breeze with tight-clung frost drifts from its mouth, while Chernobog lifts his sword almost in provocation of the heavens before twirling it overhead and bringing it down in a crashing diagonal cut. As Meresankh's beam drives it further away, it expends precious energy escaping the cold, which buffets into a blizzard gale following Chernobog's cut. Lilian's talismans stick to the now-frozen mass, the purifying fire seeping insde. For a moment, the icy mass looks like someone managed to trap sunlight itself in a melting glacier, before cracks spiderweb across the surface and its component spirits separate. |
| Calvin Nash | They scarcely have the time to draw more attention to themselves before Petra lances their corporeal shells--such as they are. Their cores are unfortunate, sad things; Calvin has sad before that the 'lucky' people caught in the blast died right away. Even 'right away' is a heartbreakingly sad thing; to see a blast wave brighter than the sun is to know, immediately, that everything in one's life which is undone will remain undone forever. Broken fences will stay broken, aspirations will wither on the vine. Some of them weren't lucky. Some survived the blast wave only to realize that their bodies slowly betrayed them, disintegrating in an agonizingly slow crawl. They realized that 'this is it;' that even modern medicine would only dull the pain, and that if they could muster the strength to make it to a window, they could see how far from modernity this once teeming nerve center truly was. Others hold onto the crushing despair of even the flimsy institutional safety net crumbling utterly--the knowledge that the scant groceries they bought two weeks ago needed to last them the entire rest of their lives. No supply trucks would come. When the water is turned off, no one will come to turn it back on. 'No one will come,' in the most terrifyingly isolating way it can be rendered. In an instant, those feelings are gone, returned to the sea of infinite possibility, brushing past her like rain sliding from a dock into the ocean. <Not much farther,> Calvin thinks through Khosa's network, as JM's spell dissipates. To make sure Petra gets the same message, he scans the rear view mirror for the Beauty of Ash, then holds his hand out the rolled down window and gestures for her to follow. |
| Calvin Nash | <I'm sorry. I ain't used to places like this. Moroni don't allow them to stay standing,> Richards broadcasts. <Demesnes?> Calvin asks. <Yeah. I thought I could...> <What?> <I don't know. Help them. Send them on. Or back to sleep.> <If they wanted that, they'd'a stayed in the Expanse.> <Why don't they? Ain't that preferable to... this?> <How the hell should I know, Richards?> Calvin chews on the question, then sighs in the cab of his truck. <...No. Sorry. I think maybe I do. These people lost everything. That don't go away, or go to sleep.> <Not even in the Assembly?> <Knight-Captain,> JM adds, <The whole reason that patch we wear is a lil' ol' baby tree is 'cause we know how fragile second chances are. And for as many of us that're in the Assembly, there's plenty of places that don't want no part of it.> <I think>, Calvin replies, <Some people just can't let go of what they had when they lose it all like that. Even in the Assembly, the older folks get this look in their eyes sometimes. Like they're lookin' through stuff. Lookin' backwards at somethin', or somebody, that's gone.> <Them ghosts, they'll ask you for anything they think you can give 'em, but deep down, they know you can't give 'em what they really want. That's what bein' a ghost *is.* To... fix that, that takes years of hard work, with the living. Even then, sometimes you see 'em, lookin' backwards. Who the hell knows how long it'd take with the dead?> Red Dogs are nothing if not distraction-prone. They're as vindictive and as prone to swarming as wasps, and so with Dimo's lure, it's easy to draw pockets of them towards a desired location. Calvin takes note, and makes a request. <I see what you're gettin' at, Dimo. Take 'em further west if you can, then circle back to us. The more of 'em crawlin' 'round the other end of town, the better. We're almost there. If we gotta fight to get Thoth or a lead on 'im, we want those shitheads far away.> Spreading stability in a place like this is like letting light into a room that's been dark for decades. Dimo's passage through buildings is met with the scuttle of startled predators and vermin alike, instinctively drawing back from something as fast and nimble as she, even as she avoids fights. Red Dog loudspeakers broadcast threats and imperatives further and further into the city; the farther they go, the more of them there are, until the number is almost as oppressive as an army. They swarm the streets in black uniforms in cruisers, packed into vans, brandishing guns and batons, practically shoulder-to-shoulder in search of what they simultaneously imagine as easy prey and yet give the lie to that belief with their overarmed, overequipped, overwhelming presence. |
| Calvin Nash | Fighting those numbers would be a grueling battle of attrition--but with them so concentrated deeper west into the city, there is a good deal more freedom in Calvin's pathfinding routes. Around a partially collapsed overpass that won't hold the weight of the trucks, over a completely collapsed tunnel, through the open ribs of a fallen-down skyscraper, Calvin cuts his light bar and tells JM to do the same. Just as the trucks roll down an incline in the night, into a leveled business park, lights are seen dancing in the distance. Smoke rises up to twirl like a rope before a scant backdrop of scars. It isn't the thick curtain of an uncontrolled inferno, but the narrow plume of a tended flame. The beat of drums is faintly heard on the wind before it howles through the concrete ribs behind you. So, too, is churlish laughter and cavorting. Hammered, rusted corrugated metal does its impression of swept roofs, over squat buildings made from repurposed (likely ground, reconstituted and re-fired) brick and mortar; all of it walled off and distinctly out of place for an American city circa mid-90s. It looks more like Heian period Japan meets grungy post-apoc. <This is the place,> Calvin broadcasts. For Petra, a gesture--an index, driven into his opposite palm, as if to say 'right here.' "Let's go," he says, hushed. |
| Futaba Nuki | "Lead the Red Dogs off of the path of the Marshals." "You will understand." Broadly speaking, Futaba's not someone thatdoes fight-planning particularly well. She's far more used to improvising on the fly, utilizing the terrain and tricky movements to get where she needs to. Over the past few years, she's even started getting used to working with others with a knack for that sort of thing, finding much better results by learning from and incorporating their strategies into her own approach. Seeing Dimo move ahead while also hearing her instructions, then, tells the ptero-nuki plenty. <<"Like a...? Aye aye, Miss Dimo! We'll get 'em in one big sweep, then.">> She chimes in return over the radio-then-thread, grateful for JM's contribution so she can communicate her own movements to both Dimo and Khosa. Otherwise, she might have grown an extra finger or something gross like that. Either way, being wordy is just her little bit of passenger safety before she starts hurtling towards the web of Silver, trying to draw the helicopters right into the obstacles she's already hurtling towards. There's a lot of twists and spins, tucking her wings in to slide through the gaps left by Dimo that might be too big for a helicopter and a full size pterodactyl, but still large enough that shrinking her own frame down and sideways should be just enough to get through. The flaming katana also helps, as does having hands instead of dinosaur claws to wield it. She even keeps it out at times to make herself more visible than she already is to the Red Dogs, letting herself be the decoy at times so Dimo and Khosa have plenty of opportunities to breathe and get their own ambushes in. <<"We're makin' good progress, I think. Still a lot of 'em, though. Even further west, eh? We can handle that. Might take us a bit to loop back, but we'll stay in contact the whole time.">> |