[hatch log / mission: hyrypia] the winds that will be howling at all hours

[onemind]

CHARACTERS: New Hosts & EVERYONE
WHERE: Station 72; Hyrypia - Naerstone House
WHEN: DAY :002 - :003
SUMMARY: New hosts hatch on the Station, are briefed, then make their way to Hyrypia to join the rest of the hosts… while they attend a very important history lesson.
WARNINGS: Will update as necessary. Need a warning added? PM this account please!

STATION 72
DAY :002

NEW HATCHES
YOU WAKE UP are are suddenly changed. --No. That's not right. You're you and there's no suddenly about it. It's been a while, hasn't it? It feels like waking up from a very deep, extended sleep or surfacing up from the darkness of some wine dark sea. Nothing is different and everything is because right there in your own head there's something both familiar and strange. You know intuitively that you've been unconscious for more than just a blink of the eye.

But here you are, a small miracle of the multiverse: lying in a small, faintly hexagonal chamber with a gentle white light emanating from the surrounding walls. If you were injured during your escape, those injuries have been healed. If you were anxious or frightened or distraught, those feelings have been calmed. There's something peaceful about waking up here - like you belong. That feeling persists even as you find the tube running from the base of your neck to the compartment's rear wall.

But once the tube's disconnected? Things get loud. A wave of emotion fills that peaceful void - fear, uncertainty, relief, a sense of purpose or loneliness or anxiety. A matching dread. An easy comfort. Maybe some of these emotions are yours, but they can't all be. After the initial sensory overload, the mental buzz elongates: stretches out into a murmur like the sound of a party happening behind a nearby closed door.

You can sit up - barely -, and shift out of the pod. There’s a ladder at your feet and a little cubby just before it with anything you brought with you as well as a set of crisp, loose-fitting white clothes; while your injuries are healed, whatever you’re wearing is in the exact state it was before. Maybe it's time for a change? Drop down the ladder to the floor of the Nesting Deck and you’ll find you’re not alone.In fact there are lots of you and none of them are the strangers they should be. Some even seems like people you've known for a very long time.They are as familiar as this place you've never been is.

Welcome to Station 72. Beyond this room it's quiet and still, feeling for all the world like a hollow shell.

--Or it does until a voice separates itself from the white noise in your head:


BRIEFING
THE VOICE IN YOUR HEAD isn't really a voice at all. It's the warm tang of camaraderie, tinged with a flash of impatience like ticking hands on a clock face and a flicker of wonder: a falling star. It says:

( My, you're all very fresh aren't you? Unfortunately, the multiverse waits for no spring chicken. Once you've figured out which way's up, won't you all join us? )
Join 'us' where is the question. And yet, once you're ready to meet the owner of the voice in your mind, your footsteps simply lead you there naturally. Two strangers sit in a small circular briefing room - a tall being covered in short brown fur with a rigid demeanor, and a pale alien with yellow washed frills at her jaw and throat who is smiling cheerfully.

"Hey there, sunshine," says Rhan, her frills humming as she speaks. "Why don't you take a seat so we can get started?"

[ooc note: please see here for the catch-all briefing thread]


THE STATION
WITH A LITTLE UNDER 24 HOURS before it's time to make the trip to Hyrypia, this is as good an opportunity as you're going to get to familiarize yourself with Station 72 before you leave it. There's plenty to see, but a distinct lack of people to make conversation with. It's lonely and quiet and there's a sensation of dust gathering even where there is none. Maybe studying the briefing files on your databank and going over your mission kit is the most proactive distraction, but if not? Well there's plenty of places to get lost...

HYRYPIA - NAERSTONE HOUSE
DAY :003

MEETING
A SINGLE SHIP LANDS in a field the color of burnished gold, returning to the place it had until late the night before occupied. It's carefully inserted beside dozens of other spacecraft bearing more than faint similarities, though each has its own unique aesthetic. When the gangplank drops, the loud engines powering down, it reveals--

New hosts. Seven fresh faces - obscured as they are in layers of intricate fabric - are led down the gangplank by Rhan There to greet them is a number of other hosts - any who answered to the sweet crystalline ring of Collector’s voice in their heads hardly a half hour earlier, speaking with certainty born of truth:

( Rhan and Siva’co are returning. Shall we see what stories they have to tell? )

Despite the solidarity that both combined groups provide, there's a feeling of eyes here. A number of guards along the edge of the shuttle field are watching the reunion like hawks. Better perhaps to return to the apartments where they'll be able to speak in private and teach the new hosts what it is that has been learned since their arrival. --Or explore, for those who prefer not to rest. Naerstone House's grounds are vast and they are almost entirely open to the parties of the pilgrims to explore.

THE PERFORMANCE
AS THE SINGLE RED SUN of Hyrypia dips low on the horizon there is a long, low, mournful sound. A deep bell-- or a horn? Or maybe it's something else entirely, but the call is heard and answered as any nearby servants inform the guests of the house:

“There will be a performance of the First Journey in a quarter turn. All guests are invited to attend.”

There's no mystery as to where the event is occurring. A steady trail of guests and servants lead out past the Veranda into the central garden where a number of pillars have been mounted and a large tiered platform festooned with with numerous draped curtains and abstract representations of trees and mountains - a great stage - now sits. The stage is surrounded by numerous low settees and tables, piles of thick cushions and richly colored rugs around which guests can be found clustered, lounging while sipping thick, syrupy drinks.

Each table is illuminated only by a single glowing orb at its center. Otherwise, as the sun sets it pitches the garden into darkness as even the castle itself has been left unlit. There are no lights in distant windows or on Naerstone House's high walls; these small orbs and the glitter of stars in the black sky might very well be the only points of light in the whole universe.

The allotted time passes and the performance begins. A sun rises over the stage. It's a much larger, more intricate glowing orb and reveals a number of players dressed far more simply than the Hyrypians the hosts have met. They wear complex machine masks upon their faces that shutter into different expressions as their hands flitter across their faces: dramatic caricatures to accompany the droning sound of their singing voices as they unfold the tale at the center of the performance - the one which drives this pilgrimage and for the Nest's very presence in the universe at all. It's the story of lost Rabadoceans coming to a planet near barren intent on brutalizing them - about loss and hardship until finally a single player separates from the rest. The orb of the sun over the stage turns, it's mechanical face shifting and resetting to indicate the passage of time as the very central platform of the stage begins to turn so that this lone player might walk. And walk. And walk through deserts and scrub land, through dark woods and dark caves, against the wind and with it. Through it all, the orb over the stage slowly lowers until at last this lone player can take it in their hands.

It cracks like an egg and brilliance streams from it. Braziers catch fire in the darkness. The garden illuminates itself. Every light in Naerstone House comes to life.

With that, the silence of the crowd breaks. There is applause -- each culture in its own unique fashion -- and then there is a rise of chattering conversation as the guests are served several small dishes and talk about the show they’ve just seen - and whatever possible clues it might give to the pilgrimage they themselves would soon be undertaking.

---

((OOC Notes: This is the hatch log for all new hosts as well as the evening's performance. Feel free to make your own logs and posts additional to this if you care to. You can find a more detailed overview of the host hatching process HERE and additional setting information about the Station HERE. Please be sure to review the MISSION: HYRYPIA ooc information. If you have any questions, please hit up either the mission's question thread, the FAQ or MOD CONTACT pages!))

NAVIGATION • SETTING • FAQ • MOD CONTACT • GLOSSARY

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Comments

RHAN + SIVA'CO | BRIEFING CATCH-ALL THREAD | OTA NEW HOSTS

[isorropia]

((ooc note: This a mingle log for all hosts to be brief by rhan and siva'co. Tagging order will be treated cavalierly at best. If you character has questions they don't get answered here, no worries: other opportunities will arise to have them answered. still not sure how this works? check out this thread for an example.))

"Hey there, sunshine." says Rhan, her frills humming as she speaks. "Why don't you take a seat so we can get started?"

[There are seven distinct piles of folded fabric on the slab at the center of the room, each topped with what appears to be a slim piece of plastic and two sheathed daggers - one ornate, and the other extremely sensible. However from the way Rhan all but ignores the collection of objects, it's clearly not time for party favors just yet.

Instead she crosses an ankle over her knee and settles in. Karn, this is going to be complicated isn't it?]

I suspect you might have some questions.

[Her companion actually does move to disassemble the mission kits then. He retrieves all the plastic sheets - databanks, a super slim tablet - and passes one to each of the assembled hosts.]

Take notes. You will need them.

[skaikru]

( you know, loud and obtrusive voices in her head, she probably could have dealt with. so it felt a little like losing your mind, that could be manageable. but rounding the corner and coming face to face with two persons so obviously not human, it... throws her for a bit of a loop. clarke's seen some shit — two headed deer, an absolutely gigantic gorilla intent on eating her, radiation ravaged bodies — but never aliens. and she'd spent seventeen years in space.

her hesitance and immediate distrust is obvious, and at first she hangs back by the door, the desire to run the other direction and her curiosity waging war between her eyebrows. but, in the list of cosmic curveballs the universe has deemed to throw at her, this seems to fall right in line with everything else, and curiosity wins.

curiosity always wins, and clarke's shuffling forward in time to be handed a slim piece of technology. it's incredibly lightweight. raven would have loved it. )

Notes on what exactly? ( she eventually asks, because sure, she's got a lot of questions. but between the knives and tablets, this feels less space station orientation and more classroom lecture. war council? the question reverberates softly in her mind, too, because she's a fresh baked cookie oozing melted chocolate everywhere; sorry for the echoes, guys.

and although bid to take a seat, she doesn't yet. )

[unsea]

[ this is familiar; he is an old friend of war and its complexities.

he comes to the two veterans, and joins the ranks of those who have just awoken with a biG FAT YAWN --- ]

Well, then. How many of the others have already considered removing the source of this problem entirely?

[ with a measure of dry humor ]

[shri]

[ She's still recoiling from every touch, that she's slow to take up that datapad that is passed to her.

And in no small part because she has absolutely no idea what the thing is, but it is clear she is supposed to, or that it was important some how - so without knowing what else to do with it, she sets it down beside her. ]

Do you have paper and ink?

[adamance]

[For those familiar with Lexa, she has been absent since some time after the new arrivals came to the apartments, but before that, there had been a heightened moment of emotion—emotion seemingly unheard of, emotion that hasn't had a place since she felt blinding rage toward Bellamy months and months ago. But it's different from that: it's joy, mixed with happiness, mixed with the present feeling of love—if "love" itself can be defined by anything. The fortifications of her walls splinter and fall away, at least for a moment. That moment is when she sees Clarke again.

Beneath all that is a feeling of guilt, unease, and anger, for the last thing she wanted was Clarke—any Clarke—to find her way to the Station. But she squashes that subtle, underlying feeling, that mixture of emotions, well aware that for the first time, Clarke won't have to guess what she's feeling. And, for that brief moment, neither will anyone else in the Nest.

She's careful to drag them back up, especially for what follows, and she won't be visible until the call for the performance begins.]

aftermath of the performance | ota

[At the performance itself, Lexa is concealed, tightly kept under wraps lest anyone's curiosity gets the best of them. Her mind reaches out to Clarke from her perch once or twice, but otherwise, she focuses on what's ahead of her. While the ceremony does act as a preview of what to come, it also makes her think of life back home, of the trials she's faced. Do these people know true hardship? Is living in the Dead Zone to find hope truly anything to hold on to? She has her doubts—and though she knows of the City of Light (had Becca to explain it further), she doesn't know about certain hardships that led to "finding" it.

As the performance comes to an end, her mind opens up to the other Hosts. Her emotions are as concealed as they usually are, but not so tightly hidden away like she is when she fears being seen as vulnerable. The performance seems to have helped her with that, at least.]

( What lies ahead may involve a great deal of suffering. How we've chosen to hide ourselves may help, but may also limit us considerably. ) [It's a thought, passed through the others. It's a necessary evil, but just one more limitation. She knows of the need to conceal one's self in such difficult conditions, but they may not be able to withstand it otherwise.

As it is, she is curious about the other Host's opinions on the matter. That much is clear.]

[greentech]

[ Pidge tries not to pry into peoples heads, but it's hard for her to miss the way that Lexa seems to... not fall apart. That's not a good phrase for it. It's something else. More shock, more... love. A feeling of love that Pidge isn't sure she can fully comprehend. She's also very aware of how Lexa seems to withdraw into herself until they have to go out in public again. She's not sure what to think about that or how to react. So she keeps that slightly unsettled feeling to herself and sits through the performance.

Which actually helps.

The masks fascinate her, as does almost everything else about the story and the stage and the lights. It's an interesting perspective on their history and even if she's not exactly a historian. And on what might lie ahead. She frowns as Lexa murmurs in her head and then she sits back in her seat. She wants to ask about her, how she's doing. But this probably isn't the best place. So she shelves that until later. ]

( Looks like a lot of walking and rough terrain. What are we actually allowed to bring along? )

[inflori]

[ The surge of emotion he feels, with the vague identification of its source, has confusion condensing into something he can't put a name on. Some anger that once again, someone he's grown attached to is having feelings toward someone else.

He wouldn't have thought that resentment would spread away from the first web that was weaved around his thoughts, but. There have been more attachments ever since, and with them new reasons to feel possessive.

(No one's ever felt that happy to see him.) (Not that he cares.) (Baka.) ]

[ And later that night... ]

( Yeah, no shit. )

[ If nothing else, acting like a prickly brat hasn't changed. ]

( Think one of us isn't gonna last? )

post clarkepocalypse.

[deployed]

[ The Darkling was a diversion, but Bellamy had still felt Lexa's reaction to Clarke, and Clarke's reaction to her. It goes muted, fading down to an echo caught in the back of his mind; Bellamy only know it because he knows this emotion by heart. Feeling it in Lexa forced him to put a name to it for himself, though he isn't thinking of that when he finds her in the small flower garden the next morning. The setting reminds him of Concordia and the Bearings; he can't tell if she's here on purpose, because she knew they would have to speak after Clarke's arrival, or if she's here seeking solitude to order her thoughts. Either way, it serves Bellamy's purpose as he seats himself beside her. ]

( How is she? )

[ Sleeping, most likely. Bellamy remembers when he had arrived. He'd alternated between sleeping like the dead and lying awake nights, too aware of his own nightmares. He suspected Clarke would follow the same pattern. Her guilt was a twin to his own. Even reaching out to touch feels like too much just now. Touching Clarke's mind would be like grasping a live wire. Bellamy isn't prepared for it.

Even if he were, he's had enough time to consider what his own mind would betray. Until he managed some composure, it was best not to inflict his mind on Clarke's if he could help it. ]

[skaikru]

I. this is not how i expected my teenage years to be ( the hatchening )

( this is nice. this is warm and comfortable. there’s no pain in the city of light, and for the moment clarke is content, but — no, that wasn’t right, was it? the ground had split, something inhuman had tried to swallow her. she’d run before, hand in hand with a stranger and heart in her throat. but time seems to have blurred between the then (heavy footfalls on wet cement, ragged breathing, a sense of urgency, a deadline) and the now (this soft light feels like a sunset, i feel weightless, can i go back to sleep?) she’s slow to come about to full wakefulness, slower still to shift and stretch but damn that feels good. there’s an odd weight at the base of her skull, and the hazy pleasure of discovery as her fingers dance the length of the tube anchored in her skin. in the moment, it seems like the right thing to do, tug until she’s no longer tethered to the wall; get up, find the girl who saved her, find the killswitch.

it isn’t.

a scream is partially choked off. something inside of her head snaps, and every nerve ending is lanced. she writhes in the small honeycomb cell, eyes screwed shut as a few dozen pinpricks of consciousness burst into life behind her eyelids. it’s over quickly, and clarke is on her side, panting, with both hands clamped tightly over her ears as if that would help stave off the suffocating hum of life that has filled the air around her. like when the flame had burrowed into the back of her neck, clarke knows, knows she’s not alone.

and that’s enough to get her moving, scooting to the edge of her cubby, snatching all the contents from the carved out shelving without really looking at them. there’s no time to strip off dirty dust-caked and blood smeared clothes in favor of the clean two pieces provided, and no time to descend the ladder in a graceful fashion either, no she’s half-jumping those last few rungs, half stumbling, and suddenly, rudely aware that she’s definitely not alone. nope, it’s not just in her head, there are other people emerging from the tall wall of nests.

clarke doesn’t say anything at first, lips tight and eyes burning. but the veritable mental checklist of assessment and subsequent digression — is he dangerous? is she? if i had a knife i could maybe take down those two, but not all them. should i run? where’s my mom, i want my mom i need to get back to my people i need to find the killswitchineedtosavethem — is loud. unfiltered and frantic. if you get the impression this isn’t the first time clarke griffin has woken up in a strange place featuring stark white pajamas and grossly overreacted, you’d be spot on.

after a tense moment of sizing up her company, clarke snaps — )

Who the hell are you?

( there’s a faint prickle on the back of her head, right around where the tube had anchored in her skin. a glimmer of recognition, a sense she doesn’t need to ask, it’s not like they’re strangers. but that tickle in the back of her mind is squashed in favor of the logical notion that no one here bears a familiar face. there’s anger underscored by panic, and misdirected onto those around her. she’s leaking emotionally, forcing her own feelings to the forefront of her mind to make sense of the turbulent swirl of thoughts and emotions, like trying to shout over a crowd to make yourself heard. there's the vivid threat of imminent danger, the burden of responsibility, the notion of an objective. whatever specifics are still secreted away are urgent, life or death. most recently, a blossom of dread; guilt and failure, because this isn’t where she needs to be right now.

and if it sets you faintly on edge just by proxy… good. welcome to the party in clarke griffin's head. )

( ooc | dogpiling on this thread is a-ok and encouraged, my hatch homies! everyone get in here )

II. cool, let’s try this again ( around the station | open )

( twenty-four hours is a long time, long enough to digest the information given to them as best as she can, and still find herself wrapped up in a swirl of unpleasant emotions that beg distraction. so clarke wanders.

finds herself in the ( option a ) recreation room with a box of chess pieces, marveling at their completeness. they’re a set, not an amalgamation of scrap metal knights and welded checker piece rooks. another stark contrast between this ship, their new home, and her old one. she doesn’t really want to play, but sets up the pieces anyway.

later, a good four hours before they’re to launch down to hypypia, clarke’s in the ( option b ) hangar, dressed from the waist down in their provided costumes. it got too difficult to wrap everything herself okay, don’t judge; does anyone actually want to wear those precariously heeled boots longer than necessary? clarke doesn’t, so she’s taken up residence on the floor next to a pile of the rest of her costume, and is flipping through the briefing files on her data bank again. in theory, everything makes sense, but the whole situation seems… risky, even with all the preparation and retcon put in already. they’re readying to plunge into a familiar set of circumstances, and what with how mount weather ended, clarks’s not in the least bit excited.

if/when the others start to trickle in, she’ll look up at them from her studies. the words have begun to blur and lose meaning in front of her eyes, so another person is a welcome distraction. they’re new too, and given the same run down. and if anyone is feeling a bit more confidence than she is, she’ll take it. )

What do you think about all of this?

( she gestures about, truly meaning all this; the station, the ships at her back, the air between them that’s fraught with the fizzle of emotional crossover, the clothes, the mission… )

III. ripping each others clothes off but not like that ( closed for bellamy & co )

( clarke notices three things in rapid succession the second the newest hatch steps onto the gangplank. first, it’s hot, especially under the layers of blues and blacks she’s been provided. the fabric of her pants swish and move with every step, but the gloves and cloak aren’t nearly as forgiving, and she’s already uncomfortable. second, there’s more of them. that was expected, but the similarly dressed people on the ground are less of a comfort than they should be. more bodies for the mission, and more eerily familiar strangers. even puttering around the station for a day had been exhausting mentally, and more voices in her head made it harder to think and concentrate.

and that, coupled with the third observation — that they were being watched from all sides — gave clarke all the reason she needed to hightail it to the apartments once they’re pointed out. she’s a swirl of poorly tapped down emotions whilst skirting the group, trying to look casual under careful supervision from all sides. once inside the apartment block, it’s a bit easier to breathe. she’d like to strip off her cowl and suck in air, but has better self control. inside doesn’t mean safer, she ought to make it to her room.

she’s walking down the halls in search of her quarters when something in the vast, loud world shifts; when something sharply familiar ghosts across her mind.

knowing bellamy blake and knowing bellamy blake are very different experiences. but she’d recognize him anywhere. her breath catches in her throat, and there is the sudden, knee-jerk reaction to reach out; chase that tendril of thought. her world narrows, and there’s a hint of relief that’s choked off, deemed premature. feeling him isn’t enough to assure this is real, not yet. and so clarke's turning sharply on her heel, going back the way she came — following whatever flicker of instinct tells her that he’s this direction.

eventually, her heart kicks up into her throat, and she starts running. )

IV. sexy can i… cry on you after sex? ( closed for lexa )

( sometime after the initial reunion, they leave bellamy to his own devices. clarke doesn’t want to, not really. there were flickers of emotion she’d picked up on — reservation, a deep displeasure at her presence, his own unkind memories of mount weather — and had wanted to ask more about. and that would happen. but then there was lexa. lexa whom she last saw still and lifeless, lexa who’s blood had covered her hands; lexa for whom clarke carried a great deal of guilt in the part she’d played in her death, who’s spirit she’d guarded to the best of her abilities. lexa whom her heart ached for. seeing her again is… hard. it’s hard, and clarke has a difficult time not dredging up memories of finn collin’s ghost, his hand lowering hers to the funeral pyre. those are painful, too.

she doesn’t take her eyes off lexa as they walk down the hall of the apartment building in search of an empty room for clarke; worries that if she does, in that second, she’ll be gone. no matter how real she looked, and felt, it still seems like in the blink of an eye, all that would vanish. so clarke remains steadily on the other woman heels as they walk. and when they finally make it to a room with no occupant, she holds the door open until lexa walks in first.

the inside is dark, cooler. they can finally strip off their hoods again, secreted away from prying eyes, and if clarks’s hands shake a little as she undoes the fastenings and pulls the fabric off her eyes, she tries to hide it. she stares at lexa, who is beautiful and looks just as heat flustered as she does; who is so very alive that it hurts, and clarke wants to touch her face, but twists her hands deeper into the fabric she’s holding instead. )

I still can’t — ( believe you’re real, she mean to finish. but no, this is it, this is when the dam breaks and clarks’s resolve physically crumbles on her face. this is where her eyes tear up and her mouth presses into a twisted line; where her shoulders start to shake, and something heavy twists around her lungs and squeezes. )

I’m sorry, ( she manages to choke out before the crying begins in earnest. but the sentiment repeats over and over in her head for both of them to hear. )

( I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. )

V. unity day play ( before the performance | open )

( like everything else, the festivities seem exotic. bigger and more excitable than the gathering of children on the ark, who retold how the space stations came together more than 90 years prior. brighter, and without the swirling discontent the enlisting of the thirteenth clan. it’s different, but that doesn’t mean she can’t appreciate how beautiful all the little things are. clarke arrives early, having excused herself from the company of bellamy and lexa both to venture out on her own and attempt to make sense of… well, everything.

she’s less angry than before, calmed by presence of a firm friend and a dead lover. you could even call her happy, and curious, confused. cautious, too. so when people watching and toting around a drink she doesn’t know how to sip under all these layers grows tiring, she seeks out the closest person dressed in the same heavy stylish wrappings as herself. they’re all together in this after all, aren’t they? and even if no one could see her wandering eyes beneath the disguise, it seemed smarter to slot herself alongside someone else before raising suspensions.

and when she finally finds someone among the bleachers and chairs, carefully minds her volume, asks: )

( Can I sit with you for a while? )

VI. wildcard

( don’t see anything that strikes your fancy? choose your own adventure! clarke is going to be a little ball of negativity until she meets up with her homeworld homies, but then much more content and ready to dive into the business of world saving. feel free to make up your own starter, or hit me up at inb4circlejerk if you want something specially tailored. permissions and mental link are also primed and ready for inspection. )

VI. I DO WHAT I WANT (at night)

[miscreant]

[Seviilia's presence at the performance was based only in need and hardly at all in desire. Her attention had been on other things, other people, and she'd been far too sense at the reawakening she had sensed to address much of anyone. The Darkling's presence hung heavy in the back of her head, reminding her quite suddenly of the preparations they had been making before -- well, any of this.

It makes her skin itch worse than Murphy's marked change in attitude at the front of her mind. She was too often tuned into him like a live wire, monitoring him when she could, sat against the walls of his mind where he closed himself off. But blocking from brood was a near impossible task. Something changed. Seviilia could tell.

But what?

She hears footprints ascending the staircase as she stands from her bed with the intent to close her door -- she needed some time to think, digest what she was going to do next, but she is forced to pause when Clarke makes herself known. Seviilia herself is still dressed in her outfit, additives to disguise her further pushed away from their respective areas. The sunglasses, tucked around whispy black hair and behind long rotting ears.

Her glowing blue eyes squint curiously. Thusfar, she hadn't spotted any humans on Hyrypia, so it was easy enough to assume that she had just arrived to join them.]

I trust you found the building without much trouble?

[With the voice modulator still buckled to her neck, power indicator in the 'off' position, her voice echoes in its ethereal manner in a way that appears perfectly normal to her.]

V, Demiiiiii <3

[huntsmachines]

[ Aloy had sat and watched the performance with rapt attention. It's something new and fascinating and beautiful. It reminds her of the stories the Nora tell of their own past. Despite the situation of their mission, she can appreciate some of that beauty, at least for a moment. She's let herself be separated from her supposed charge (Lexa's... somewhere over there. Aloy can feel the buzz of her mind) and is simply sitting, letting her mind clear and re-centering herself on what's to come.

So when an unfamiliar mind brushes hers, she seems a little startled. It's so strange to think of someone's mind as 'unfamiliar' but it has grown surprisingly easy since she's arrived. She looks up at the new arrival, probing at her. Aloy's mind has a roughness to it, a sort of unpolished feel combined with a razor edge intelligence and deep curiosity. It's impossible to see who Clarke truly is through all this fabric. so instead Aloy just tilts her head in an affirmative gesture. Her reply is warm and welcoming, curious and intrigued. ]

( Yeah, of course you can. I'm happy to have the company. )

[ As Clarkes sits, Aloy looks at her again. ]

( I'm Aloy. I don't think I've met you before. You mind feels, uh. New. )

ryohji kaji | open

[ryohji]

the station / circle gardens

[ if you're like him, you will make a beeline for solitude moments after the meeting with rhan and siva'co concludes. you don't have high expectations, if you're anything like him, but you are stubborn, and you will keep looking for a place suitably peaceful until your instincts lead you to the gardens. if not the for symbiote, you would miss kaji with how neatly he seats himself under a dense flower shrub. he hasn't bothered to change out of his shirt - blotchy, mottled, and ruddy red against the chest of his blue cotton. the blood has dried but it doesn't make him look any less ghastly, as if he's been porked by sharp objects of varying sizes and shapes so that someone could figure out which had obtained the loudest scream.

he's smoking, unrepentantly. who knows how long he's been here. ]

( I know what you're thinking. 　he notices you, too, thanks to the symbiote: one simply cannot spy without being spied on in turn. an easy smile supplements the joke, his double entendre, kaji plucks the cigarette out of his mouth and jiggles it between his fingers. 　'Can't be good for the flowers.' But I wonder how they manage to survive in space at all. )

[ he knows how artificial light can supplant a star's phosphorescence; logistically the station's gardens make as much internal sense as the indoor greenhouses with which he is accustomed. but it's an anatopism, a putting of a thing out of its proper place, flowers in space. it doesn't cohere right. quiet appreciation is radiating off him, because his being here is also an anatopism, and the same is true for you. ]

( And so beautiful, too. )

naerstone common area

[ he steals five books from the library.

he had swathed them safe within the folds of his disguise as if the designer didn't engineer those folds with this expressed purpose in mind. kaji had robbed the books of their shelves with preternatural reflexes, an almost bored kind of finesse. no one saw him do it.

when he makes his way back to the apartments, he situates himself down on a table seat center the common area, his hood draped unceremoniously across his lap. for anyone who happens to be watching, he begins to peel the books out from the folds across his chest, one by one, like a magician pulling too-big rabbits out from a too-small top hat. the books are thick and cumbersome looking. they could pass for bricks from afar. he removes them slowly, deliberately slow, slow to ensure your attention whether you want it to or not.

then, he begins to arrange the books down in front of him, one by one. to his credit, he pointedly refuses to make eye contact with his audience. his loot enjoys his undivided attention.

( Well? 　well, you thought. 　Don't just stand there. Make yourself useful, and let's figure out what these have to say. )

the naerstone apartments (closed for misato)

[ when in rome, do as the romans do. suffer their stares as they watch you with the trepidation of a predator milling about small animals. when out of the romans' purview, take off their oppressive hoods and get some fresh air.

kaji doesn't waste any time. he meanders through the halls of the apartments provided, his hood tucked across his elbows, his strides growing shorter with each step. he'd spent the last night pouring over the databank, searching for the motivation rhan and siva'co had failed to instill in him, searching for the consent he didn't remember giving them. afterward, he forced himself awake with thoughts of the vice commander until it was time not to think about such things. as he passes through kaji makes wide, sweeping surveys of each door, letting his eyes linger wherever they are left shut and linger longer wherever they are left ajar. he's not looking for anything or anyone in particular; reconnaissance came to him without thinking - he'd find himself canvassing each new building and hotel, his own home, after long periods of absence. anything unfamiliar would be subject to this grave ritual, many times over, against his better wishes.

something familiar stills his feet. a shut door, unremarkable in every conceivable way, talks to him in ways kaji has trouble articulating. the closer he shifts towards it, the more potent the tug. it comes from the symbiote, that much kaji understands. it's is only the vaguest of impressions, however sudden and strong. he could ignore it if he wanted to. kaji moves closer.

trepidation settles like a blanket over him as he raises one slow, incredulous first. he think he thinks of her, but rationalizes away the impression. it could just be, it is only, an ill-timed coincidence. he has no expectations.

knock, knock. ]

choose your own adventure

[ wildcard option! ]

[wille]

[ Misato has little interest in stories not of her own composing. That is, tales in which the leading role belongs to someone other than herself, where she doesn't wield the authority to name every character that occupies her world, decide the significance of each incident, conceive of an overarching moral that makes sense to her. So while others of a friendlier bent have gone out to greet the new hosts, she has cooped herself up in the room still dressed in yesterday's clothes to parse through her notes, or pretend to. Truth is, she has memorized every word of it but fails to draw the necessary patterns. So the solution she chooses is to read, and read, and keep reading as if obstinance might yield a drop of inspiration.

The knock is what scatters her thoughts, bricks off a toppled wall to reveal a face of anger. Simple and universal as it is. Who dares disturb her?

Her mind turned upon his is the pinpoint beam of a strobe light so blinding that it renders whatever lies behind it pitch black. It is unyielding and unapologetic when it broaches and grasps at his smoke and mirrors, insistent fingers digging into the thick layer of lead on his face-- only to recoil the moment she touches upon the idea of skin. The person underneath. She knows, thinks she knows, can imagine, the other half of their conversations, the other side of the kiss, but only now realizes that she never had the slightest idea. What she tastes is both familiar and utterly strange, and she betrays a whiff of fear, like an ache in chilled bones, as she retreats.

But a knock is a wave of greeting is a phone ringing. ]

( Hello? )

[ Hasn't she waited long enough for it to ring? ]

the darkling.

[unsea]

THE STATION ; CLOSED TO THE NEW HOSTS.

[ -- among the minds of the recently awoken, there is another that rouses from the depths. Dark waters, lapping at toes and heels once more. The Darkling's mind has returned to the fold, and it seeks out the new and unfamiliar shortly after confirming that

his own brood is distant, and he does not enjoy it

and it seems as though the remains of Castor have finally found one another in the dark. There is a pang of loss there, a chill that runs through him - but, the knowledge that even the strongest among them are susceptible to "disagreeing" with their symbiote is a lesson learned. Even he was not immune to exhaustion. And exhausted he is, with all the weight of one who has overslept, and the temperament of an old thing that is stretching itself among new minds, invasive and curious all at once. He brushes along them, briefly seizing hold of mental constructs - looking for faces familiar to him in a previous world. ( None pass his inspection. He moves on. )

The new hosts will find him easily enough. He makes himself very available to them at both the meeting with Rhan and Siva'co, and in various wildcard locations across the Station proper during the twenty-four hour stay-over, whoops. ]

I suppose you have questions. I won't be able to answer them all for you - only some. I'm not an authority in this place.

[ cathaway? prince? who needs those guys. hang out with him newbies, he is the BEST influence ]

NAERSTONE HOUSE ; OPEN TO ALL.

[ he remains in the fields for long enough to briskly greet those who had come to collect them; however, he seems fixated on leaving the watchful, hawkish eyes of the guard behind before conducting even the most basic forms of mental communication. the darkling comes dressed in the supplied disguise; though - shockingly enough, he's in layers of tawny gold and warm grey - not his customary black. it might be enough to throw those who have known him to really only have one favorite color: DARK.

there does not seem to be an air of immediacy among the nest as a whole, considering the nature of their mission. there are a handful of individuals, in particular, he must see to before he feels he will be able to integrate back among the ranks of the experienced nestmembers - and he attends to them first, and will not be available until he's at least spoken to BELLAMY, first and foremost. and that, you poor saps, is an EXPERIENCE.

after that, he's to be found in THE HALL OF THE PAST, seated close to the shimmering pool of nectar. there is a tome open in his lap, one hand resting on the pages to mark his place - but, perhaps alarmingly, the other is pressed to the glass separating him from the real object of his curiosity: the Nectar. ]

All right, [ he sighs, ] have we decided on a course of action, or are we scattered to the winds once more?

[ give him the deets, fam. ]

OR HECK JUST WILDCARD ME

[ all locations on the station or in naerstone house or during the performance are wildcardable. come at me. come the HECK at me. ]

bellamy.

[unsea]

THE APARTMENTS ; CLOSED.

[ the privacy of their quarters is the only place that he dares to have a meeting of this nature - one that he feels will be a ruin of emotion. tired as he is, freshly-awakened as he is, he's not here to ask his hatchtwin for any form of forgiveness for something he could not control. more simply than that, he is not the sort of man who would ever ask for forgiveness, for anything that he has done, or will do.

his broodmate is a tender thing, that he has grown quite fond of and feels as obscenely beholden to. pushy, emotional, terrible bellamy. among the first that he had turned his thoughts to, upon waking. there is no guilt in his mind, for leaving him. not even so shortly after going to him, overwhelmed and disgusted by his own vulnerability, and forcing him to promise that he would not go - not like ren, not like rey or ahsoka or -- ilde, now. ilde, too.

he stands to the side, in this silent room, the 'guise upon him - open to his broodmate. as he is to all of them, a chill presence among warmer hearts and minds, and with that sharp, knife-like mind he possesses, he rakes over bellamy. inquisitive, thoughtful. seeking harm or duress, sampling the newness of his person. admiring it, perhaps. ]

My, how you've grown.

[ not physically, but in mind, spirit - the more important things ]

mat cauthon | ota

[calhar]

i. HATCH

[ It's far from the worst way he's woken up, and for a few blissfully lazy seconds he doesn't realize he's in the wrong place. An absent attempt to reach out for someone — a woman, dark hair, sharp eyes — meets the side of the chamber, and that's when he realizes this isn't Tylin's bed. The slow crawl of awareness feels more like a long night of drinking than what he'd expect after having a building dropped on top of him. Still, that's what awareness brings: he remembers the bloody Bowl and the Seanchan and the pavement, intimately, and he remembers Olver running off in the middle of a bloody battle.

Mat sits up with a start, stopping short when something catches at the back of his neck. There's a flicker of confusion and curiosity as his fingers find the cord, a slight pause as he wonders at it — then he pulls.

Curiosity's drowned out by the wash of confusion and fear and thoughts, things he doesn't know and can't describe, and he pushes his palm to his forehead with a wince. His own paranoia's chased out by anger (anger fueled by fear, admittedly), but it's more productive than simply being scared. When he moves, finds his belongings and gets boots on the floor and starts to wander the halls, it's only because staying put feels like the worse plan.

Controlling his reaction hasn't got anything to do with controlling his thoughts. Stubborn resolve is undercut by the sound and sentiment of a sharp curse at every turn, and the memories are a constant, chaotic stream: red stone, dry desert, a rope scratching at your neck. Faces with pointed ears and narrow eyes, fox-like. The visceral recollection of the air being snatched from your lungs.

For as loud as his head is, Mat doesn't bother to speak up. At the first sight of someone, his first instinct is to tug his hat lower over his face and turn the other way. If there's a sense of recognition there, it isn't bloody his — and all it's met with is more belligerent avoidance and a distinctly offensive spike of emotion in response. ]

ii. STATION

[ In the hours between waking up and being dragged off to the planet, Mat does a good job of acting like he's seen all this before. Or he would, anyway, if broodmates didn’t have direct access to his thoughts. They vary between a string of frustrated complaints and curiosity and wonder, though that's always snuffed out by paranoia and irritation within seconds. It's all in stark contrast to the way he wanders the ship and lounges about in the common areas, testing out food and drink and generally avoiding being sociable.

Things that he's got no patience for: half the tech in the kitchens. The data pads. The rec room and gyms look like torture chambers, for all he's concerned, and the private quarters feel about as secure as standing naked in the middle of a field. The range is the first room that gives any of his abrasive thoughts pause, and Mat finds himself putting down the spear he's still childishly keeping on hand in favor of investigating the guns.

There's a distinct tangent to his thoughts, then. From petty and frustrated and new, they take an abrupt turn for something older, more patient. More analytical. Mat doesn't go so far as to pick any of the weapons up, but there's a tug at his memory that makes him think he'd know how. How to hold it, how to use it — channel it? His thoughts say shocklance, but that doesn't fill in all the blanks. ]

Burn me.

[ It'll be easy to interrupt. If there's a way to separate one voice from the hum of all of them and tell when someone's coming up behind you, he certainly hasn't figured it out. ]

iii. PERFORMANCE

[ He hates literally everything about this. Starting with the outfits that make him feel like some kind of fussy, noble woman and stretching all the way through to the open apartments and the fancy party. The fact that these people look more like snakes or foxes than people doesn't help. Mat spends most of his time from planet-fall until the performance shirking responsibility and being generally lazy (lounging around in chairs in various locations, really), but restlessness is enough to keep his complaints to a minimum when the event starts in earnest.

Going doesn't translate to putting any extra effort in, though. Mat settles in at a table with another overdressed fool at it, and if it weren't for the flicker of caution that proves some tact — he does take a second to make sure it's one of his people, at least — it'd seem like he had none, given the way he skips introductions and jumps straight to insulting their hosts. ]

Bloody planet of bloody witches. [ Planet's a new word. Not his first new word lately, though, and he's taken to cursing it as adeptly as he would anything else. The mention of witches does earn a faint pang of guilt, but it passes quickly. The girls aren't here to take offense. ]

iv. WILDCARD

[ Run into him wherever on the station or on the planet, I'll roll with it! Mat's ability is power amplification and he sucks at controlling it, so you can read about it here if you want to heck with it. ]

hatch

[ryohji]

[ it isn't his memory that serves him a reminder. it's when he looks down for the first time since opening his eyes, laboriously, as though his head had been stuffed with feathers and cotton and tied from his chin to his bellybutton was a string. the massive blotch of dried blood on his shirt startles for a moment, and then his wits come back to him in an unyielding flood. an old man, his stomach severed open, spine and sinew visible. all consuming darkness, enough to drown in it. fear of the kind that stills your feet and keeps you put despite yourself.

it's these memories kaji takes with him when he finally makes his way down to the deck. before he makes any determination about where he is, and why, he fishes for a cigarette. four and five more directionless paces and he spots someone else, a man, looking just as lost as he feels. he is a stranger, or not - the thought is intercepted by a more abstract sense of familiarity, one that transcends the limits of reason. what is clear: the man's youth betrays him and his avoidant behavior doesn't exactly communicate a license of authority. ]

So they've taken you, too. [ bleary eyed, kaji attempts to meet his gaze. the longer he attempts, the more foreign the images that ripple in his mind's eye. the sensation of rope-on-neck makes him brush against his adam's apple absentmindedly, but the belligerence rolls off him like water off a duck's back. ] Isn't that right?

Sam Wilson | OTA

[sizeofyourbaggage]

MEETING

[ Sam is among those who responded to the Collector's call, and waits to greet the new and returning Hosts. For the most part, he keeps his connection as closed as he can, not wanting to overwhelm anyone - but he can't help but reach out just enough to brush over their minds, searching for those that are reuniting with the Nest rather than joining it.

There are many reunions to be had, it seems, and he feels the heavy, familiar weight of the Darkling's mind as well those unfamiliar except for the echoes he's picked up from other Hosts. He leaves them, for the moment, for the people waiting for them and the people they seek, and turns his attention to the other new Hosts. Anyone on their own or looking particularly confused might find Sam coming to introduce himself. ]

PRE-PERFORMANCE

i. explore
[ Just after the meeting, Sam takes the opportunity to explore a little. He can be found in the veranda, sitting by the pool and eavesdropping on people's conversation while he reads through a tome of poetry or mingling with other diplomats and nobility, always with another Host as a "bodyguard" nearby or in the the hall of the past, sorting through tomes and sliding some into the folds of his robes for further reading - mostly romances and love poetry.

When he recognizes the feel of another member of the Nest, his mind brushes theirs briefly in greeting. ]

ii. apartments
[ Back at the apartments, Sam's shed most of the layers of their disguises, although they're within easy reach in case he has to put them back on quickly. He's down to black pants trimmed with crimson and a deep purple shirt, and he's sitting cross-legged on one of the beds that may or may not be his. Tomes on magic and stories about the First are scattered around him, but the book in his lap is a love story.

He'll look up if someone else in disguise enters the the more private location, giving a little grin. ]

Looking to get out of that for a little while too?

PERFORMANCE

[ At least one of his ever present "bodyguards" are close by, but aside from that, when it comes time to be seated for the performance, he settles among the acquaintances he's started to make in the other envoys. When those sits next to murmur about the performance, Sam listens - occasionally rephrasing an echo of their opinions of it or disagreeing in a way meant to prompt friendly discussion. Despite that he's playing a part, Sam is genuinely impressed by the performance.

Even with all the themes of loss and hardship and the endless walking, though he can't help but comment on that last one. ]

( I'm guessing this is a preview of what we've got in store for us. )

performance

[adamance]

[Given their titles and their status, Lexa is never far from Sam, though she trusts him to be able to act independently. Of the people in the Nest, there are few who she believes can do that with ease. And one of them just arrived today, which is a blinding moment of sentiment that reveals how much faith she has in Clarke.

As it is, Sam's words catch her attention. Walking endlessly in hopes of finding something seems ... fruitless to her, but it makes sense within a society that hopes to be so amicably neutral. Or rather, a society that pretends to be that way.]

( For some of us, at least. I don't believe they mean to make us all take this journey. )

Cathaway | NPC | OTA ON THE STATION

[polyphonos]

I. THE MINOR GARDEN

[The Station's corridors turn and twist and eventually they cede to a small garden. This place isn't at all connected to the circle gardens; it isn't at all connected to anything. Where the circle gardens are in places overgrown and in others too rigidly manicured, this place feels like a secret: private and quiet and tended with particular, individual care.

At it's center on a rough stone sits a woman with a sheet of pale hair in a dress of wrapped layers strung with fine golden chain and tinkling with an assortment of charms. The jeweler's chain wraps the length of the woman's arms - to elbow, to wrists - and every motion of her hands as she turns the pages in her book causes the small pieces of metal to chime against one another.

Cathaway doesn't raise her attention from the book balanced across her knee. But--]

( Did you have a question for us? )

[--her mind drifts as a summer breeze through an open window, a warm breath stirring some distant sheer curtain.]

II. WILDCARD

[Looking for Cathaway? The Station bends itself to accommodate your desire.]

[unsea]

( When do I not. )

[ This time, he brings with him the scent of cinnamon, cardamon, hot sugar and dark tea. Somewhere among the Station's collection of old things and belongings, he's located a handsome, well-loved samovar. With his sleeves pulled over his hands, he's able to bring the heated thing to Cathaway. And cups. To this, the depths of what he assumes is Ilde's garden ( -- he has seen her burned world, and her beautiful grove, and he knows she is now lost to those dreamless depths; this place is well-tended, cared for, surely it is hers? ). ]

( How do you take your drink, Cathaway? )

lakshmi bai | ota

[shri]

I. BURNING ON YOUR TONGUE ( hatching )

[ It is no easy birth, but when are they ever? Hadn't been when she had her son, no doubt she wasn't any easier to her own mother, and here and now, she is there screaming just the same. Scrambling desperately with things she does not and could not comprehend and a life time of fight gives her only so many responses. Wrenches the wires out of her skull, and the mistake that is as a cacophony greets her, pounding loud as canons. Hitting the ground where she slips on the ladder and scrambles first not for her clothes or for understanding but to the only thing that makes a bit of sense to her.

Cold hard merciless steel that she grips hard until fingers ache. It's then and only then that she takes deep, stabilizing breaths and looks around. Held at the ready with that weapon for - whoever and whatever she finds. It hadn't been cleaned, she notes in the small part of her mind. The blood is dry on that edge, in her mouth, in each breath, she takes in an utter state of readiness even if she can barely comprehend what it is that has happened. The feeling of loudness inside of herself that she cannot shut and worse than that - the surety that loudness is echoed the same in those she can feel from herself. ]

I.i we hitchhike to hell ( closed to elena )

[ Loudest, loudest of all is this voice - this being that she feels in the same breath as an emptiness - a whole other part. But in the feed back of images, she feels something unknowable but even so, familiar. Something she has seen, but has never felt. How could she?

After all, she'd gut herself before she ever had such an urge as the one she can feel pressing against her mind. That before her feet lead her towards they other - they take her towards that otherness ( that other part of herself ) - and not once, not ever - even once dressed and the heavy sheath strapped to her back, her clothes blood soaked and dried - she holds fast to that weapon so that when she finds that other part of herself - this girl that she looks over hard and directly without ever once back down, the edge of that flat steel makes her motions direct, even if their shared thoughts are a battlefield shared. ]

What are you?

II. flying 'round the highway trying to get away ( arrival )

[ After she's been told to mind herself, of the price that will come from striking out in the way she knows herself best - she does her best to settle in, even if hell and high water would force her to take her weapons from her. But under the veils she is given, it's easy to pretend. A familiar pretense, even that she can feign being lead - sensible retreat until she's finished learning her position. Watching everyone and everything and speaking as little as she can to anyone, lest some how - some how she opens her mouth and these loud thoughts - these thoughts of wariness, bitterness, frustration and a more blatant fear let themselves out again where she wrestles them as hard as she can. A physical effort that wills the mental - she holds herself so still, so together, from teeth to posed fingers to the weight resting on the balls of her feet, she's aching.

But even so, none of it comes into her voice, as once she's out of sight and in closed quarters, she sheds those veils readily. Turning to beckon to someone to come close - not too close but even so - and gestures to them. ]

What do we do with such things?

[ Said with the effort that whilst she doesn't have a clue, she's trying not too hard to press against others good will, and she most definitely doesn't want them coming close to her, touching her - she feels like she'll break, shatter like a snapped string of pearls onto the floor with this pressure in her mind. ]

II.i we'll go down in flames ( closed to damon )

[ She keeps herself together - or rather, away - from others as she can. Easy to do, as she goes over her mission kit, as many times as she has excuse to do so, running her fingers over her blade and moving in practiced motion. She cannot relax, even if no one else will take such a thing seriously, she will find no rest with the pressure of a half breed against her mind. Her disgust so barely contained over it. A want to gouge into the part of the mind that harnesses it. Inflict pain both of them will feel since apparently, she can have no control over it except with time.

But where she knows not to draw excess attention to herself, she settles into cleaning her long knife properly now that she has a minute, the cleaning cloth in one hand, running over it, again and again, to remove the embedded filth from the knicks and scratches on the blade itself, then working the blood out of the intricate filigree of the lion's head pommel. It's an easy centering task to soothe herself.

Until she finds herself not alone. Her eyes slide up, she never looks pleased to see anyone, apparently, and less so when she is doing something so personal. But even as she sets the weapon on her knees, she does her best to keep mild. ] May I help you?

III. don't speak, I'll try to save us from ourselves ( time out corner )

[ There is one (1), very angry, very frustrated queen, tied up, sitting where she can be clearly watched. Proudly - because what else does she have at the moment? - stubbornly, meeting the gaze of everyone and everything that comes past. If she were a little less composed, she might just be gnashing her teeth. But as it stands, or sits, since she can't move particularly far, where her ankles are caught underneath her, she's doing her best to look completely above being wrist bound, frustrated occasionally trying to work her hands-free. If only because her nose is itching.

Not that she'd admit it, at all. ]

IV. one mountain sung to another ( performance )

[ After -- that, and her promise of good behavior to not compromise everyone else, and she's let out, she's desperate to do anything that isn't sitting interacting. It might be foreign to others, but the process of attending things like theater is - easy. To drape herself in veils and bells, paint her hands in designs and settle herself into something where for at least a while, she has to do nothing but watch. Let the light wash over her behind that material that she can smile and delight as much as she pleases without comment from another. Settled back into the cushions, feet curled underneath her and every so often, a hand can be seen to reach out from underneath the material to reach for her glass to sip lightly. Absent habits that contrary to how easy she is to fight, to snarl and rage and promise to do nothing but tear and rip -

- she was always, first and foremost, a queen, and each movement is particular to that, if not out right delicate. Her gaze direct even behind the material because her mind is taken up so wholly in one thought as she watches the light dart and the play unfold - he would have loved this. ]

iii

[wille]

[ The brood connection doesn't tell her everything she wants to know about the altercation between this woman and Damon, but it tells her enough of what she needs to know. Making friends of enemies and enemies of friends is just a day in the life, really.

Misato is dressed in her layers but with her hood down, walking over quietly and meeting Lakhsmi's eyes without fear or challenge, just tired resignation. A certain lethargy most uncharacteristic of her. She spares barely an arm's length of distance between them when she takes her seat right by her, holding up a glass of the common bitter water. ]

Here you go. I'll hold it up for you.

MURPHY | open

[wrackful]

( THE APARTMENTS GARDEN )
[Murphy had gotten out of the way of Bellamy and Clarke's reunion almost immediately, but that hadn't stopped him feeling it. Bellamy had next to nothing in terms of walls at the best of times, and Clarke was new, completely open, a turbulent spill that swells louder again when Lexa joins them.

He wouldn't expect anything different for her arrival. And he had been expecting it, on some quiet level, like a simple, accepted fact of life. Where there was trouble, a war, the future of humanity on the line, Clarke Griffin would be there. Sooner or later.

What he hadn't been expecting is the envy. It isn't for Clarke, Bellamy or Lexa, nothing specific to the ties between them. It's for the feeling of being reunited, all that hope and joy bubbling up warm between them like a damn fountain, and the cold, certain feeling that he was never going to have that.

It rakes through and wraps around him like thorns, growing larger and blacker in each passing moment. Sat hunched over on one of the benches in the apartments' garden, somewhere on an alien planet, on an alien mission in an alien war, an alien bug steadily growing tendrils through his brain. Emori's face in the throne room as he'd turned, ran to take the hand reaching for him, promising survival. He'd left her behind. And even if Cathaway's warnings about this mission ended up being false, it didn't matter. He was never going to see her again.]

( THE PERFORMANCE )
[He's been a black cloud on the mental landscape of the Nest since the new hatch arrived. Dark and heavy, but withdrawn, contained, maybe even starting to calm and shrink as they all filter into the garden for the performance.

The shift isn't immediate. It starts slow as the lone player splits from the rest, as they travel, walking and walking through wood and scrub and desert. Endless desert. The black cloud of Murphy's mind grows denser with each step, larger, crackles of fire somewhere in the depth of it. The orb descends into the player's hands, the final piece of the story plays out, and as the audience erupts into applause Murphy is a storm churning, fury rippling over the surface in sheets of lightning, spitting electric heat.

He stands, abrupt, pushing rough past the others seated at his table as he moves to leave. It ripples, the crowd disturbed, many of the House's other guests turning from their conversations to watch his hasty departure. The attention doesn't slow him at all.]

performance

[shiro2hero]

[You'd have to be a normal person not to at lease pick up on something eating at the guy. Maybe he's paying more attention because of the color, because of the feeling like a storm -- like lightning in hot air.]

[Or maybe because the last time he'd seen Murphy up close and in person they'd been fleeing the last mission. Albeit temporarily. There'd been private words, then -- wishing him to look after Murphy. Words that are still clear. Even so many days afterward.]

[He falls into line behind him. Moving through the swirls of crowd left in his wake. A bodyguard following one of the retinue. Maybe it'll make things look less ... out of the ordinary.]

(Are you okay?) [Physically, is implied. Because mentally? That's clearly another story.]

closed to misato

[inflori]

[ Last planet they'd been to, Petre had attacked some alien kid for trying to steal his things. Then he had a spat with Pidge over the advantages and immoralities of taking things for yourself, just because, and otherwise told the dos and do nots of generally acting like a decent... person. Thing. This included Misato trying to talk sense into not eating people just because. Many things need to be learned, and only some of them are really getting in.

For instance, the not-stealing part still has a way to go.

It's a charming place, the market. The scenery is not entirely unlike what he could find back on his Earth, on places where people built their own paradise and gave all credit to the area's god. But their gods were all tyrants, as cruel as they were bright, blinding every follower in the process. Being reminded, here, with the joking implications that they ought to be 'religious' by Rhan on their trip over, has set an overall jaded tone to this mission. That may be why he's even more determined to find something to do, and apply that to a way of challenging whether it's right or wrong.

To no one's surprise, he's going for the food. All covered up nicely, throwing looks around to make sure he is both covered an unobserved, reaching for what looks like a small alien's leg, so fresh it is still covered in a green ooze, like some sort of equivalent of... blood?

He likes blood. ]

[wille]

[ Misato has this idea that the market is where people spill their secrets freely with each other. Like in the movies. Storybooks. Little did she account for the possibility that most of it will just be noise. Merchants peddling goods, buyers haggling, locals sharing inside jokes.

It's instinctive, the way her eyes follow Petre's focal point like a pair of choreographed dancers. The depth of his appetite as palpable as if it were her own, with her subsequent disgust feeling almost like a charade. She grabs him by the arm, to stop herself as well as him. ]

( Ew, you're really gonna eat that? )

[ Says the person who eats day-old fries with mustard and coleslaw on the side. ]

elena gilbert | ota (on the station)

[otrazhenie]

i >> you’re going to think that the pain will never end ( hatching )

[ Everything feels different when Elena wakes. It's to be expected, really. Only minutes ago (minutes? hours? days?) she'd completed the transition to becoming a vampire with only seconds to spare, her body so very close to dying a second time. She'd fought to stay, to have another chance at living, and that, as well as protecting her loved ones, was why she'd chosen to take the hand she'd been offered when the Enemy had come for her. No explanation surfaces in her mind as to what is going on as she opens her eyes inside the compartment, but somehow that doesn't worry or frighten her. She feels safer than she has in a very long time and for a few moments she just drifts in that sensation.

It says something about her life that being chased down by an unknown enemy doesn't haunt her, she just takes it in stride and lets it wash over her. It's only because she realizes that she can't stay there in that compartment forever that she moves, feeling around the space and noticing the pressure at the back of her head. Just a few seconds later she’s removed the tube and—

Everything rushes in on her, the swell of emotions like the pressure of water all around her, feeling her throat and her lungs and she can’t breathe. It ebbs and flows through her, one emotion feeding off the other, and she can’t tell whether that wave of terror is her own or if it’s the loneliness that belongs to her. Probably both can be claimed with some ownership. When things calm a little, she climbs out and down that ladder, retrieving the white clothes that have been left for her. It feels better to be holding something, so she clutches them to her chest as she moves forward, following whatever emotional feedback she’s getting in hopes of understanding all of this.

She doesn’t realize all that she’s projecting, that others might sense the hunger that’s rising at the back of her mind, the loneliness and feeling of being incomplete. Anyone near her will sense that she’s missing someone, a parade of faces and relationships flitting through her thoughts, along with thoughts of blood and water, a fear of drowning in both. Her emotions rattle through her like a pinball machine, unstably rushing back and forth between them, and she feels terribly guilty for it on top of everything else.

Elena Gilbert feeling guilty. At least there’s something here that’s familiar. ]

ii >> you have to let yourself drown in it ( around the station )

[ After recovering from the encounter with her broodmate, Elena retreats, going as far from any other minds as she can. It isn’t easy, and the station really is quite easy to get lost in, but that’s a good thing.

She doesn’t want to hurt anyone. It’s the very last thing in the world that Elena wants, to cause anyone pain or risk someone else’s life. But with each passing minute, the hunger is getting worse, a constant pounding in her mind and aching in her veins for the sweet coppery taste of the only thing that can give her life now.

Blood. Anyone whose mind brushes near hers will smell it, taste it, crave it the way that she does. And there beside that hunger, buoyed along on the ebbing tides of it, is that fear of hurting someone. The rejection by the person she is closest to here, a stranger who would see her dead if at all possible. The pang of loneliness and piercing uncertainty. What is she going to do? What can she do? She needs blood to survive but she can’t feed on people, she just can’t. But Elena isn’t stupid – she’s a new vampire and there’s no denying the fact that if she doesn’t feed on something, people will get hurt. ]

iii >> wildcard

[ ooc: I’m mostly tagging out for this, but if there’s anything in particular you’d like with vampire Elena, let me know!

iii.

[blooded]

❰ the symbiote is both a massive pain in damon's ass and very helpful, often at the same time. it means he can't kill any of the other hosts, even when they deserve it — can't even hurt lakshmi without also hurting elena — but it also means that he can find elena, no matter where she is, always. he hasn't had the opportunity to memorize the feel of her mind and make a space for her in his the way he had when she was awake before, but he'd know elena anywhere. finding her again is easy, all he has to do is open his mind and follow the bright light the she shines throughout it.

it only takes a minute for him to find her — their rooms are close, and he's quite determined. as soon as he sees her he moves toward her, hands reaching for her neck, her shoulder — is she bleeding? it's not like with katherine, it shouldn't be, there was no magic involved this time, but he has to be sure — ❱

Hey.

Rust Cohle | ota

[aluminumandash]

I. THE STATION

[ Rust's never been this kind of tired—his mind has the feel of a wrung-out sponge. There's the premonition of a headache at his temples, he has a gadget's worth of alien history to memorize and ten people crammed into his skull.

Doesn't mean he'll be able to sleep.

It gets late, or so he figures—there's no night to stay awake through here. He feels the others drop off, steeper for some. Feels his own breathing slow. It's peaceful, soothing in a way. In another way it's like watching someone from the foot of their bed. He lies down for a while in one of the empty rooms, wonders if someone else's dreams will flicker on the insides of his eyelids. Then he gives up.

Throughout the night, find him:

a) In the rec room, at first pulling books from the shelves and flipping through them, then reading and smoking, a stack of books at his feet.

b) Searching one of the recently vacated rooms on the life support deck. He's quiet: in his thoughts, the sensation of measured footsteps, a landscape negotiated in the dark. He's looking for anything personal, anything stashed away. He doesn't touch unless necessary.

c) Aimlessly wandering with his databank under his arm and a throbbing headache. Every hour he's been awake is right there on his face and despite everything, it takes him a moment to register that someone else has come along. ]


II. APARTMENTS

[ Brothers and sisters, Rhan had called the group waiting for them on the ground. The phrase echoes derisively in Rust's thoughts as he steps off the ship. He has a better grip on his emotions than the day before, but they still spill off him: suspicion, anticipation. The comfort of a knife at his side, a yearning for air against his skin. An awareness comprised of accumulating details—a flag snapping in the wind, the slant of the sun—as well as bursts of color, the scent of sawdust.

Rust doesn't speak, aloud or otherwise, until they're inside the apartments.

He peels off his gloves, shucks the hood. Gives a shake of his head and asks the nearest person: ] Who's running the show?


III. WILDCARD

[ GO FOR IT

...also lol his permissions aren't done yet so don't hesitate to hmu if you need additional info ]

[greentech]

[ Pidge is one of the people at the apartments. Shrouded in her disguise, she might be mistaken for simply a rather short person. But when she strips her cowl off, she looks like a young owman - or young man. It's a bit hard to tell when the rest of her is swathed in cloth. She shakes her hair out and glances up at Rust. He's new. Or at least an unfamiliar face. She wrinkles her nose and shrugs in response to his question. ]

No one, really. We don't have a chain of command, unless you kinda count Rhan and Siva'co. Lexa's got a good head on her shoulders - uh, so do Sam and Shiro, actually. And Misato. We mostly just wing it, I guess.

[ Great. ]

( closed to damon )

[wille]

[ This is after the performance, long after the guests have emptied out of the garden to retire to their quarters, with the silence falling deeper as the evening wears on.

Misato has changed out of her robes, donning only the hood fastened over her white slacks, sitting in the room and parsing through a book she isn't actually reading. The idle thought strikes her as comic, her waiting in the dark of the night for a vampire (not of the abstract and metaphorical soul-sucking sort but of the Stoker/Nosferatu and Orlok/Dracula sort with all the concomitant physical implications) to talk about another vampire and the accompanying vampire hunter. Fancy that. There will never be a time when she's used to it, the hunger in the pit of Damon's stomach, the want for human blood. It disgusts and flatters her and makes her think of a Jishin-no-ben. A dragon consuming its own tail, its trashing the cause of earthquakes that throw all things into turmoil.

Turmoil. That's the word. A seismic shifting under one's feet, unnoticeable until it changes everything to its core. ]

Hey. [ The longer she lets the silence remain, the more difficult it becomes to break it. She crosses her arms, as if she needs to, before she can speak again, stating the obvious. ] Elena's back.

[blooded]

❰ misato's quiet reaching wakes damon from peaceful sleep, curled around elena with a light grip. they'd fallen asleep like that, a leftover instinct from their stefan-less summer, when she would wake up sobbing and he would sleep on her bed, above the covers. having another body around was comforting for her, and when she woke up so full of grief she could barely move he never told anyone.

this is the elena he's missed so sharply — plus a few months, but his, as much as she ever will be. he's loathe to leave her, even to talk to misato.

but that attention is insistent, and eventually he gets up, silent and cautious enough that elena doesn't wake. he makes his way out to find misato, and at the thought of her jishin-no-ben their link gives an amused hum of approval. yes, that sounds like him. ❱

She is. ❰ his voice is soft around the words, the contentment they engender suffusing every inch of the link. the difference between damon without elena and damon with her is stark — no matter the turmoil she brings, the worry over her new species or the hunter that will dog their steps now, damon is at peace in a way he hasn't been in days. she's here, and she remembers. the rest is details. ❱

buckoroni n ches | one open, one closed

[bracchium]

[for sam; night 002]

[Since arriving on the planet, Bucky’s restlessness has grown more and more intense the longer he spends around a cadre of hosts he rarely greets in the vastness of the Station. The mental noise is easier to keep out with Sam around, with the strength of their brood bond allowing occasional mental venting as emotions run hot. And then Steve’s connection to them goes silent.

It’s not quite the complete severing like Anakin’s, instead more like either of the other Sam’s, a light suddenly dimmed behind murky glass.

The cracks in Bucky’s foundation sheer, still not quite fully healed since Sam and his most recent battle against the programming. Guilt billows in from the blizzard, eating deeper than ever before, but there’s no room to grieve, to breathe, to run, to move. He has to stand still and make nice and throw up shields that do little more but allow the acid burn in his chest to grow.

He sticks to the edges of conversations, to the corners of rooms he simply must be in, but every interaction makes him feel more and more crowded. For all that he reminded Sam of responsibility before leaving on the mission, Bucky finds himself wanting to abandon it all, to run until the road disappears into nothing, until he disappears into nothing.]

[performance; ota, but especially bodyguards]

[No matter what happened the night before, Bucky has to keep the mission in mind. Without the help of his broodmate, Bucky has become even more stiff, his mental shields smeared with ‘NO TRESPASSING’ even when among his friendlier acquaintances. He’s here to keep his fellow hosts safe and focus on looking neutral while doing it. Engaging beyond that is beyond the scope of his mission parameters and no one wants an erratic weapon going off-mission.

Because that’s what he is, still, after all this time: a weapon— a broken one, but a weapon nonetheless. Might as well point him in the correct direction. He stands well away from Sam’s chair, but keeps an eye on anyone that moves in too close.]

[wildcard??]

[sizeofyourbaggage]

[ Responsibility feels different, without Steve's presence in his mind. Sam honestly can't pin down how - is it heavier, the extra determination not to lose anyone else, is it bitter, the edge that Sam can feel that reminds him of the way he'd once lost his reason - but he tries not to dwell, tries to keep going, to focus on what's here and now.

He tries.

He uses his coping skills, he puts himself out there among the people he doesn't know as well so he has to fake it - he leans on the connections that are rooted deep in his mind when he forgets, when he touches the space where Steve should be and comes up empty.

Sam can feel the way Bucky starts to crack, the way both of their foundations shift over Steve's absence like sand, and he doesn't know if he -

But he tries anyway.

Most of the others are out exploring, out mingling, or maybe out hiding, but Sam hangs back in the relative privacy of their room in the apartments, settling himself more in their connection as he slips automatically into Bucky's personal space. ]

( Stay with me for a bit? )

Shepard's Pie | one open/one closed

[earthborn]

for damon.
It wasn't impossible to miss the waking of the new hosts. True, it was hard to ignore--or it seemed hard, to Shepard. The sensation was like movement out of the corner of her eye, something new entering a battlefield, some new variable. It would be easy to miss in the chaos if you hadn't been so attuned to focusing on exactly that. To her, it sang.

Which meant that when the oppressive, hateful darkness that lay over Damon's connection to their brood lifted, She didn't know what to think. You didn't lose that kind of grief over nothing-- not unless you'd made a decision, of some kind. So she leaned toward him, a mental question-mark, and went to find the surly bastard in person.

What the hell, Damon?



day iii, open.
[Say what you want about the Rabadoceans, they know how to use light for good effect. And that's fortunate, because Shepard is the kind of person who could not possibly be more bored by the display if she tried to be. And, it should be noted, she's trying not to be. She's trying desperately to find something to enjoy in the weird emotional contortions of the mechanical masks. She's trying to be fascinated by how the orbs glow, or how the darkness is made so absolute. She's just...

...it's just...

God, it's just so fucking boring.

Even watching the room is dull, every face rapt in attention, or in pretend attention. It's dark and she doesn't like being unable to see, and the melodrama is artsy and minimalistic and boring. Shepard hates this stupid mission. In the dark, the red light of her cybernetic fissures is barely, barely visible through the veil covering her face.]

( I don't really get this modern art crap. ) [That's a joke-- this is only modern art in that it is sylized. Just because Shepard is as common as mud and twice as coarse, it doesn't mean she's stupid. But she is bored.] ( What's your story? Tell me something good. )

open.

[shri]

[ Here she is, saying hi to that call, that jerk that stabbed Damon.

But, she by contrast - doesn't mind it - or at least knows how to feign a sense of being entertained. If only because, of just how new she is to all of this. In every sense. No, not the sneaking and scraping in the dark. But... the rest of it. The things she could never have imagined, let alone begun to process herself seeing them at all.

But. Someone only just got over the invention of gas lamps in houses. Perhaps not true entertainment, but true wonder on her behalf to be enough like it what she watches. To see light used such, to see things move in such ways. A want to indulge in it - but then. Still no good at willing her mind shut, those teeming images of, when asked for a story, she had so many she loved and they come up in response like someone whispering at her.

Granted she hovers on which one in a distraction between those lights, and thinking of something to buffer that press of a mind with. ]

( The story of how Draupadi gained five husbands always amused me. So too the attempts to burn her alive. )

( closed to Kavinsky )

[wille]

[ Misato is focused and indefatigable once she has chosen a mission. In this case: find cigarettes for Kaji. 

She was still scoping out the entire grounds of the Naerstone House for a place by the time she told Kavinsky that she had found one, which she would be hard-pressed to admit as a lie, rather a promise. Because she says she has, now she will. It's the kind of logic that only works in her universe. But find one she has: a small kitchen attached to their apartment, enclosed and underground, with enough vents to ensure they wouldn't die from the fumes. It has taken some explaining of made-up Carbauschian rituals of burning pungent incense to the cooks to ensure they would leave the premises as she requests, but it works, they comply out of courtesy. 

Now she waits in the middle of the common room connecting their adjoining rooms, in her full robes but with her hood still down. By the depth and complexity of the irritated grooves on her forehead, it seems she has been waiting quite a while. ]