station72 | MISSION: WAYPOINT SHRIL, PT. I

Entry tags:

MISSION: WAYPOINT SHRIL, PT. I

CHARACTERS: All
WHERE: WAYPOINT SHRIL
WHEN: Day :025 - :029
SUMMARY: Welcome to Waypoint Shril, the soon-to-be home to the galaxy's most incredible competition!
WARNINGS: N/A, will update as necessary.

SOMETHING IS WRONG. Strange, how a moment ago everything seemed perfectly fine - as normal as things get on Station 72 - and then the next the entire void shifts by a degree. There's a crackling, anticipatory feel in the air. Dwelled on too long and it might become nauseating, triggering some hindbrain impulse the nervous system under the skin or--

Something is coming.

Something is coming undone.

In the heart of the Station in a small, featureless circular room, The Prince and Cathaway dredge the Station from its mooring. There's a rush of shared adrenaline, then an massive sensation like an inhale. A gulp of breath. Relief floods through the body like something palpable as the massive beehive structure of the Station snaps into real space above the deep space space station known as Waypoint Shril.

( ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬...Please meet us in the hangar. We have your next assignment....▬▬▬. )

Once they've arrived at the hangar, the Hosts will be briefed by Cathaway and Prince on their new objective. They'll be given their mission kits, along with a written brief on their databanks. The usual warnings apply. Try not to kill anyone. Do not get killed yourself. And accomplish your mission. From there, pack yourself onto the transport shuttle and make your way to the Waypoint. --One of you knows how to drive, right?

Once ejected from the Station, you'll find yourself on one of literally thousands of ships. The black space above Waypoint Shril is full to bursting with air traffic from the smallest pod-shaped one being ship to the most gargantuan floating planet cruisers. Some of them rival even the Station which now lurks, a mottled white and grey latticework structure that's no more bizarre to look at than any of its neighbors.

VROOM. A ship shaped like a sword with a naked multi-limbed alien painted in lascivious, technicolor detail along the blade slices directly across the path of the shuttle transport. It blares a proximity alarm and a holographic message full of swearing and threats pops up even as the ship blasts down toward the traffic choked landing platform in the distance. A school of insectoid fighters go swarming after it. In the distance, the flash of ships dropping out of hyperspace through the gate rings gleams like a strobe light and on around the landing platform itself buzz two dozen security vessels desperately trying to keep order.

Welcome to Waypoint Shril. Don't crash into anyone on the way in.

     I. PLATFORM ALFA
When the ship finally docks on Waypoint Shril - after a lot, lot longer than you may have liked -, the scene that greets you is more hectic than even the busiest rush-hour on Concordia. There are simply too many people in too small and too hastily prepared of a space. The platform itself was clearly designed for utility, not for comfort and not for style. The walls- towering sheets of welded metal from a countless number of sources, flecked with old paint and the occasional slash of grafitti - offer nothing in the realm of sound dampening, and the electro-cloth banners that hang from the ceiling, advertising the Aurora Blue Arena! in dozens of different languages do little to help. As a result, the entire platform echoes with thousands of voices trying to talk over each other and the newly enhanced intercom system struggling to be heard over the din as it works to provide simple directions and instructions for the teeming mass of tourists.

In the press of flesh and the constant motion, it’s easy to get swept away from your party. It’s easy to find that the items you just had on you are suddenly missing, expertly palmed away by slippery fingers as you try to push your way towards the series of pneumatic tubes leading to the Waypoint proper. Ship's hydraulics hiss, lights flash, and the smell of greasy stall food spreads out from the edges of the platform. There are a few bright-eyed, clever locals - or what count for locals on Waypoint Shril - who don’t hesitate to reach out and grab your arm, offering to be your guide. Asking if you’re here as a spectator or a participant. Asking if you need information. Company. Everything has a price.

Get your bearings - if you can. It’s going to be a long couple of weeks.

     II. THE MOST FABULOUS PLACE IN THE UNIVERSE (Please Excuse Our Dust!)
Waypoint Shril's main thoroughfares and twisting platforms may have made sense to someone, but now absolutely no one knows how to navigate them as the ABA! has swept through Waypoint, bulldozing and building up anything and everything in its path. Oh, did you like that tentacle sandwich shop you stopped in five minutes ago? Too bad! We decided two minutes ago we're tearing it down to make way for a spa-slash-beer-garden! Stand back please, there are explosives detonating in this area in 3, 2, 1…--!

Everywhere you look, Waypoint Shril is undergoing a dramatic transformation. Maybe there are places on the outskirts, far from the Arena Zone that aren't literally being paved over or built on top of, but they seem to be the exception to the rule. Don't get lost as the neighborhood quite literally changes shape around you!

     III. MEET THE COMPETITION
Between the fabulous prizes and the fabulous fame - every single still-living winner of the previous competitions became household names before they stepped out of the Arena, then went on to live lavish lives of excess where they're paid exorbitant fees just to be seen and heard, known for canoodling and cavorting with the best, the brightest, the most privileged the Galaxy has to offer- it’s no surprise that the ABA! draws competitors like a magnet. And while not everyone advertises their status, plenty do - hoping to exchange the slimmest possibility of their victory for favors or drinks or just plain old attention. They’re loud, they’re visible, and plenty of them are very, very drunk, or whatever counts for drunk for their species.

If you want to size up the competition, now’s the time - in the middle of Blunt Force, with scores of other competitors lined up. The club itself is home to a deep, thrumming beat that vibrates through your chest, the industrial concrete walls covered in splashes of electro-paint that pulses in time with the beat. The floor is dark and smooth, the bar is long and there isn’t a single seat to be found at it, just an endless slab of some ancient black stone that drinks slide back and forth across. Every bartender wears a half of a mask in clear plastic run through with simple circuitry in complex patterns and they’ll keep you hydrated for a modest price. Above the floor on a catwalk composed of corrugated metal and transparasteel there are low couches and cushions in rich fabrics of a hundred different patterns of velvet and neon, two dozen tables, and another small bar that will hand out drinks and powders and oils and smoke. The patrons are as varied as anything else in this place, as hodge-podge. Slender, slick looking people with hunched backs and long necks. Short, broad aliens with four legs and four arms. Something heavily shrouded, the only part of them visible a proboscis. Some are here to dance, some to drink, some to talk and more than a few to fight - maybe for keeps. Hell, you might be one of them.

     IV. WILDCARD
There's plenty to see, do and explore. You've got a few days before the competition kicks off - might as well make the most of it.

((OOC NOTES: Welcome to Waypoint Shril! This log covers the arrival on the Waypoint and can be used for anything prior to the start of the Aurora Blue Arena! on Day :029. However, feel free to make your own logs if you choose! You can find a complete mission overview and a place to ask any mission-specific questions over at the OOC post.

Thanks everyone!))

NAVIGATION • SETTING • FAQ • MOD CONTACT • GLOSSARY

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

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[A sensation crawls between the muscle and skin; it feels like something living, something pulsing and ready to burrow its way free. It's dread and wonder and the sweet taste of some base anticipation and it calls from a place deep in the Station's gut. Should it be followed, eventually the labyrinthine corridors become a straight line: a hall leading faintly and purposefully down, down, down to a small inconsequential doorway and a bare circular room unremarkable save for the mirror shine of its floor and the animal feeling of something living there.

At the rooms center stand Cathaway and Prince. She's gripping his forearms, white knuckle tight and he's trapped in the obligation of keeping her upright as all her weight sags in his arms. Her knees have buckled and every ounce of them flows from the crown of his dark head through the length of his arm and the unnatural slope of her shoulders, through the crooked angles of her ankles to the very floor of the room itself where it radiates and grows and is steadily consumed by the need to breath.

Breathe.

The air lurches. A distance collapses. Reality finds this place again and both Cathaway and The Prince crumple to the floor of the Station's bridge.]

[Shepard finds that it's all about timing. For example, arriving just before, or just after. The final seconds of a countdown; gut feeling, like the climax of an action vid.

Timing, that's what this is.

She's meant to pilot a shuttle, but the supposed passengers are still filtering in. There's time yet, time and any number of options. She's learned to follow her hunches, after all, and this is the mother of all hunches. Shepard doesn't exactly expect to walk in on what appears to be a medical emergency, but then... she is in armor. It's not often Shepard gets to walk in on things that aren't technically classifiable as medical emergencies.]

Shit! [First rule of emergency response: ensure that the scene is safe. Shepard is on the scene, meaning that by default it isn't, so she goes down on one knee beside Cathaway and the so-called Prince. Maybe they're not dead, after all.] Hey. Can you hear me?

There are ways to find what you need to know. [There's a hint of chastisement in Lexa's voice as she arrives, less concerned about getting to their next planet and more concerned about what it means that it feels as if they were dragged there. Her previous notions of the Station left her believing that Cathaway, Prince, and perhaps some unseen entity (the core of the Nest itself?) had the means of preventing this.

Simply put: she doesn't feel safe. And not feeling safe means finding Cathaway and Prince, and—

Point being, she's here, ready to be condescending, with her mind reaching out to both the Prince and Cathaway, trying to nudge them for answers.]

[Shortly, in minutes, perhaps, they would be again on their feet, and Cathway's mind would reach out the the others. The rest- all of the young hosts who would not know what it was that had happened. Who had not experienced it before. Who could not simply look outside and see that where they were now was not where they had been. They would tell them where to go, and they would meet them. They would explain their mission, and they would give them their duties, and they send them on their way, out into the space that currently- unusually- surrounded the station.

Shortly.

Now they were still, Cathway's hands still held against Prince's arms, his neck a smooth curve, hair hanging across the line of his brow. Collapsed, but not entirely- he is braced on his elbows in an arch to avoid falling onto her. In this small, circular room with it's tall walls it looks as if nothing has changed. It disguises the cost- on their minds and their bodies and the web of power strung between them. Distant, very distant, still removed from himself as he is- looped into a shared exhaustion, feeling the hum of the station in his bones- he can hear the sounds of other hosts. Their voices are too complex, clashing and jarring, and they are so weak. He is so weak. The fact of it is a focus, and he bites his tongue for it, feeling the sharp edges of his teeth, the press and scrape, it brings with it an awareness of Lexa's mind- nosy, uncalled for, and the ache that Cathaway's fingers have left in their wake.

His eyes open, and the room is too bright. Too bright for him, too bright for her. The least that he can do is shoulder the burden of their voices when so much of this is due to him.]

We are fine.

[Says a voice. It is most likely his.]

Edited 2017-03-22 01:22 (UTC)

The hell there is.

[Shepard doesn't care to take poke around in someone's brain as an option to evaluate their health, not without a nice, clear, verbal permission. At least, not yet she doesn't. Shepard suspects, with the same foreboding that she first knew on Torfan, that all things come to fruition, in the fullness of time. She turns back from Lexa when the Prince speaks, then squints distractedly upwards, as if searching for a source for the interior lights.

It's too damned bright in here.]

The hell you are. [Shepard has faith in people more than gods, and if Prince isn't people, then he's nothing at all. She gently starts to pry Cathaways fingers off, motions Lexa over. The floor isn't the place for this, but she can't move them both, not on her own.] Look whatever's going on here, you can explain it, or tell me what you need to recover, but I'm fine isn't gonna cut it.

[It's common place for her to see vague, half or more removed in mind and maybe almost that in body, but in the moment Cathaway is inarguably present as a thin, staggered old woman with her gnarled fingers twitching at the Prince's forearms and her skin pulled tight and thin as paper.

She's very small like this, quiet as something dead even as a pulse of awareness rabbits along the edges of her mind.

Then the boneless qualities of her leak into the floor of the Bridge. She tenses under some personal pain - personal except for the parts that feed at the link between herself and the Prince anyway - and claws her way to consciousness.

It's a miserable place to be - agonizing and delightful in turns as the Station drinks in reality.]

It takes-- [She makes as to lever herself up onto her bony side in the shadow of the Prince's frame.] --effort to unmoor the Station. This will pass.

[If someone did the same to her, it would be uncalled for, but that doesn't matter. What Lexa will ask of others, will try to pry free from them through interrogation and intense questioning, she will demand that they don't do to her. It's hypocrisy at its finest. But then, she would excuse it away by saying that everyone is a hypocrite.

Shepard's mannerisms remind her of Clarke for a moment—albeit a bit more brusque, and older, of course. But still willing to hold true to what is justifiably the morally correct way to do things. With a push. With a shove.]

You're not fine. Especially if this was an action you didn't take yourself. Did you? [Despite her personally prickly nature, she does extend a hand out to steady Cathaway's thin shoulder, almost all too aware that she's seeing a glimpse of the remains of the woman who gave herself away to the Nest.]

[Uncouth. Such language- she must not have had an aunt to pinch her arm when she spoke out of turn. A stern, narrow mouth and dark eyes that seemed to always be judging- and never satisfied. And inane thought to rise to the forefront of his mind now. Swiftly interrupted as Shepard reaches out to pull Cathaway's hands away from him. But he is too slow and still too distant to stop her hands from finding the bare skin of his arms.

Prince pulls away sharply- as if she is made of flame, but it's too late. She touches him, and his barriers are still stripped down. Skin to skin, no amount of flinching away prevents the feedback she receives- yes, it is bright, very bright, brighter than it seemed to her before, the stark harshness of it stabbing into her brain- a sharp pain that radiates down to the base of her neck. The exhaustion, pulled deep into every muscle, the hollow feeling in her chest, the tremor in her hands. And Cathaway's mind, just there, her thoughts still twinned into hers, not quite comforting, but so familiar that it aches, the promise of more, the ease of stepping off of a ledge- and then he jerks out from under Shepards hands, pulling his mind from hers.]

Don't- [For a second he is sharp, tension through his fingers, but then his attention is back on Cathaway and away from the unintentional violation, the crease between his brows very deep as he sets his palm to her shoulder, whatever thin support he can provide.]

It was intentional. [he has to force the words from his thick tongue, the roof of his mouth dry] One of our duties. The only thing we will require is rest.

[Drawn to panic and pain, Seviilia's untimely arrival is almost prophetic as she saunters into the chamber, clad in full armor to the point that its heavy chainmail train nearly catches on the doorway as she enters. She has the decorum to reach up and lower her hood around pointed ears to blink passively at both Cathaway and Prince and then over to Lexa, and finally: Shepard.]

Starting early, are we?

[Her voice echoes off the walls, with a hint of amusement. Apparently, she does not have the concern for their leaders that the other two share -- or perhaps the various emotions and synapse responses are enough to distract her from feeling.

The sensation was not unlike a teleportation spell, and those the liches would preform were just as volatile, transporting a necropolis in the blink of an eye. She might not prefer it, but its familiar enough that she doesn't need to ask what happened.]

Will you rest here?

Edited 2017-03-25 06:45 (UTC)

[She laughs, a tired crackling noise, and sets her hand just there at the crook of The Prince's elbow. It looks like an afterthought, an idle touch, but it feels like an anchor: all her residual heat meant to steady him as she looks to the corpse in the doorway.]

Here on the floor? [A lick of sarcasm there. She sits up slowly, tangled in The Prince's space without any any apparent hesitation. A touch to his neck, this as brief and fleeting as it appears. She makes no effort to rise further, though. That seems like...a considerable effort. This body is weak.]

No, we have work to do. You do as well. Can you feel where we are - where we've left?

Fuck.

[At the Prince's touch, she flinches, too much, too much all at once, like an unexpected flashbang. The after-images lingered, if they could be called images. Ghost sensations of heat and skin, bright force and a scouring migraine. She says nothing to Seviilia when she arrives, only lets the conversation flow past her, until she is addressed directly.

Shepard cocks her head, trying to think, to sense the change. The gravity shifted, that much wasn't in question, and there had been something. She didn't know how to classify it; before Cathaway had spoken, before the Prince had explained, Shepard hadn't even been certain anything had happened.

Who could tell, with all this tech? It was like a sci-fi vid.]

No. [She sits back on her heels, still rubbing irritably at her eyes, then glances at Seviilia.] You?

[Since she is not the one addressed, she remains silent, eyes on both Cathaway and the Prince. While she had been rude before, the abrupt nature of this still leaves her suspicious. Unlike the others who have arrived, she doesn't respond with sympathy or care. She can care. She can do those things. But it would be disingenuous to some degree—as she knows she came for answers.

That doesn't mean that she sees these two Hosts as if they are meant to hand those over. Some part of her is aware that her previous resentment has lessened considerably. Still, purpose drives all of Lexa's actions.

In her silence, there is the sense of her trying to figure out exactly what's happening, if this is a duty that they should be aware of, and whether Cathaway and her Prince will be able to survive further examples of "this duty." And if not, then who will take their places? If it's only just rest that's required ... then maybe it's a thought that's misplaced.

Lexa's too used to death as the final result of recurring weakness to stave off her doubts entirely.]

[And he is not likely to shift Cathaway from his shadow. Not yet, at least. They had time yet. And if they were to answer the questions of these hosts, here and now, then better from the floor.

At least they were listening. Even Lexa, who, with a mind clearing, he is surprised to find has nothing to add. Either she believed his answer, his assurance or she did not. Either seemed possible, and neither seemed important just now.

Time was better spent telling them what they would soon tell the rest. That, at least, was simple, even if he speaks with his voice at a softer tone than usual, slightly more carefully.]

It is as Cathaway has said. The station has been unmoored. We are no longer in the space between the universes.

[He drags his eyes away from the fall of hair over Cathaway's thin shoulder and to the young hosts. It had been a foolish question on her part. There was no way they could have known what the feeling had meant. They had not experienced it before. He doubts very much they had thought of what it might feel like if they had dredged the thing from the emptiness between.]

It is designed to do this, but it is not without difficulty.

The floor is not so bad, depending.

[She is happy to return Cathaway's sarcasm, in good nature. As Prince answers the question for them, Seviilia nods dimly to Shepard and offers her own commentary anyway.]

It felt not unlike a teleportation spell -- with a few marked differences. More... [She twirls her finger in a gesture, as she tries to think of the word -- it never comes, and she punctuates the unfinished thought with another vague gesture of her hand.] It was hardly my preferred method of travel.

[She looks between their fearless leaders, resting her weight on one hip as she focuses on Cathaway.]

What sort of work? Are we leaving?

[She inhales, a small flicker of laughter in the shape of the rattling breath. Slowly she draws the sheet of her hair across her shoulder then touches her hand to the Prince's shoulder. Sit back, give her space. Just a little. Just the room to untangle herself so she can shift off the sharp point of her side.]

That's right. You're leaving. From the hangar bay in... [How long will it take to collect herself?] --An hour. We need something from this universe and you'll have to get it for us.

I assume that this something will give us the upper hand. But how did you find out about it? [Lexa may not have had anything to work off before, to interrogate about, but her typical line of questioning takes hold. There's a sense of a demand in her questions, but there's something more to it: curiosity. The stubborn anger that had led her earlier interrogations is all but gone, replaced with an understanding that she's still impatient to know answers, but that if she knows how to ask them correctly, she'll get them.]

Not that it will keep any of us from finding it. I'd simply like to know. [That's why she tacks on these words. It's all in an attempt to be ... slightly more diplomatic.]

[Lexa's question is likely important to her, but Seviilia is a touch more focused on something else. So she waits a beat before folding her arms.]

What is it, exactly?

[She suspects the 'how' will be told to them when they move -- that is, if they really want to find whatever 'it' is.]

[The lightest touch is all it takes for him to straighten enough to no longer be looming over her. His shoulders straightened and he turns back to the others, the pain setting into a less immediate ache. Bearable.]

A rumor heard by another Agent, during their time in this universe. As for what it is-

[He hesitates, unsure of how to continue. Explaining would be difficult, for him, and would do little to clarify the situation.]

It is difficult to explain. But you will need it soon. Until then, this place should be relatively safe and provide a-
[There is a short pause as he settles on a diplomatic phrase] useful learning opportunity.

[Cathaway laughs, a brittle noise, then reaches out to Lexa or Shepard or Seviilia - a clear indication that one of them ought to help her to her feet.]

You'll make them think you're being coy, my Prince. We don't know exactly the state of this something, merely that it will be useful to us in the future. We saw it and know it will be necessary. Call it a gut feeling if you like, only that we are confident and our gut feelings are rarely wrong.

[Shepard, who's natural dislike of authority did indeed turn the vagueness of the goal, and of the request, into something more suspicious, took Cathaway's arm automatically, and pulled her to her feet as if she weighed nothing at all.

It didn't do anything to assuage the low-slung certainty riding secret and hidden, like the humming vibration of a cracked casing: we're screwed. We're so screwed. But it felt like the right thing to do, for the moment. People said she didn't know how to pick her battles, but-- was that the truth?]

Alright, fine. It's a recon and retreival mission. We'll get the package and bring it back here. [She doesn't phrase it as a question, because there's no uncertainty about the outcome. This is what will be happening.] You're going to need to give us more information about what exactly we're looking for. You've got one hour.

[Cathaway's own estimation, of course, but Shepard turns it from supposition into law. She issues orders not as if she expects them to be followed, but as if not-following them would be stupid even without her opinion to say so. One doesn't respect the speed of light just because somebody's posted a speed-limit sign.]

He means for it to be a training exercise, especially for the newer and more unruly among us. It'll be a better source of training than Concordia had been, since the goal is far narrower. That is part what you were withholding, yes? [That seems to side-step the vagueness, in part because she's been here long enough to know where the Prince's focus is when it comes to them. They may have been largely successful in Concordia, but Lexa (as an equally critical person) can readily see the flaws in play among their numbers.

They can work as a unit. They've accomplished it to some degree. But they can do better, and new Hosts awaken every day.]

My question is whether we will be able to obtain whatever this is quickly. Or is it meant to take time? [To give them more minutes to practice as a unit. Her eyes flicker toward Shepard with her demands. Lexa has tried the demanding route with Cathaway and Prince and has come up lacking, but that's partly because Cathaway doesn't seem to care and the Prince is just as stubborn as her. Maybe it will be bypassed by Cathaway again, or they may walk away knowing nothing because the Prince chooses to keep his mouth shut.]

I am never coy.

[It is a minor admonishment, softened by the tired sound of her voice, and far more, by the use of 'my'. Not for reasons of affection, but for the fact that she was very present. Something which may have been celebrated, if it weren't so clearly a sign of her weakened state.

He allows Shepard to pull her to her feet without argument, although he is watchful even as he himself moves to stand, fingers set at the cool decking but without obvious difficulty. Enough time had passed that the display of weakness was not to be continued.]

It will be contained in a collection. What we know beyond that we will tell you and the rest of the Hosts when we brief you.

[He straightens, very carefully, shoulders rolling back and expression once again set into something almost unreadable, shadows under his eyes darker, more drawn than typical. A long day that had not yet ended. To say he does not have the energy for Lexa is an understatement. Diplomacy failed at times.]

No, it was not. I said it was a learning opportunity. Many of the new Hosts have not been away from their own worlds. This place provides the chance for them to learn how to navigate their new circumstances without the threat of the Enemy at their back.

[The failure of Avera, of course, proved that no place was entirely safe. That even a simple chance to get their footing could result in disaster. But there was, in the end, little he and Cathaway could do to prevent it.]

This will not be a long venture by any measure.[They had other places to be.]

[Once upright, Cathaway takes a moment to straight her wrap and untangle mussed links of the small chains wrapped from her elbows to her wrists and to the base of her fingers. It's a small series of fixes, but it's directly physical and crispy aware of her body and what's covering it. She can't say she remembers the last time she was so particular. Strange. Her skin feels thin.]

We will do what we can to provide you with intel, Shepard. We'll put a dossier together for you to take with. [Not a considerably dense one - she's certain of that. There are shapes and figures moving at the edge of her awareness, but parsing them isn't as easy as she'd like. Especially not when she's like this: too small, too present.]

Lexa-- [She touches her forehead, blinks. As mild as milk, no bite to the words:] Don't be an asshole. We've exhausted him and he isn't in the mood to be interrogated. We're here because we need to be. The fact that some of you might learn a thing or two is a happy side effect.

Now, do us a favor. We need time to collect data. Would the three of you let everyone else know to prepare their things for a trip? A short one. We'll meet you on the hangar deck shortly.

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MISSION: WAYPOINT SHRIL, PT. I

PRINCE and CATHAWAY | NPCs | pile in for one group thread, max 3 player characters

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still room for 1 more, feel free to tag in!

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