station72 | [hatch log / mission: hyrypia] the winds that will be howling at all hours

Entry tags:

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

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 )

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

❰ she breaks, and he breaks with her, all of the anxiety and desperate, gnawing unhappiness he's felt since she fell into her coma washing away in the tidal wave of rightness that is having her in his arms. he settles with elena around, in a way he never does otherwise, the roiling, howling mess that is his head going quiet as soon as he has her within arm's reach. damon has never known peace, really, not in his entire 171 year long existence, but being around elena is the closest he's ever gotten to it. it was easy to forget, over the few days she's been gone, that he was even capable of such a thing as peace.

for a long moment he just holds her, his grip tight even as the rest of his body is lax, all the tension melting off of him. it's impossible to be anything but calm with her in his arms. ❱

When did you wake up? ❰ he asks eventually, drawing back only far enough to look at her. his arms slip from her shoulders to her waist, keeping her close — he's not going to be able to let her go for hours. maybe ever. ❱

[Even universal defenders and Nest Agents have to drink space coffee sometime, man. Especially if they're trying to stay awake as long as humanly possible.]

Bad news is, there's not really any one in charge on a consistent basis. On the Station, there's usually Cathaway around when she wants to be. Or "the Prince". They're the ones who've been here the longest.

[From what he understands, anyway. And they're also a little creepy.]

Out of all of us... it's a lot more disorganized.

[ It takes her some effort, to force all her mind forward, to direct people outwards. That once she doesn't hold so much to the forefront, it crumbles back away and she lets go of an unsteady breath. ]

My - priests often led us to the instruction of clearing our minds. I do not think they expected it to be so direct of course.

[ A shaky, quick laugh as she drops her head, rubbing her forehead to ease the pressure. ]

[ In that precipitous way, all the little pieces fall into place the moment she adjusts her lens, each fragment fitting into this conclusion that she is slowly and surely coming to: she has been yelling at walls this entire time, thinking that to hear her own words echoed meant they were understood.

When Damon opens his mind, she turns to him with an impassive gaze, a judge beholding the piece of evidence laid out on the table before her. To see a person through another's eyes isn't to believe the narrator without question, it is to interrogate the point of view and evaluate the explanations Damon gives for the things he does, and she is merciless in every sense of the word. What she sees is a rose-tinted illusion, a myth in the making, the need to lie and be lied to, the need to maintain the belief that all the suffering will be worth it in service of this homemade deity called Elena.

Misato is realizing that this negotiation of identities (who is who, who is she to them, who are they to her) was something she has been refused a hand in. She is to be their accomplice in this project of saving a girl she has no interest in, that she would align her priorities as such that the girl's continued viability would be in line with the mission's success because Damon and Sam expect her to. Because to do so would mean she is good in their eyes and therefore on their side, with this so-called friendship being touted as the very thing at stake. Very well. ]

Don't tell me what I should want.

[ Even with her mind folded close, the heat of her fury is palpable, a sleek metal surface that burn to the touch. She and she alone will say who she is and what she will do, and she will maintain her grip on self-determination as furiously as she holds on to life in all the many forms that takes. She would let no man define her, least of all the kind to coddle a young girl. ]

I'll leave you two to it.

[ He is an anchor for her, a constant in her life that she'd never expected. She'd hated him once, been so angry at the choices he'd made, but the more she'd come to understand him, the more he meant to her, and... it's hard to hate someone who loves you the way Damon Salvatore does. Someone who puts you before anyone else in the world, as frustrating as that can be at times. ]

Yesterday. [ That much she's sure of, though something like a measure of hours would escape her. She hasn't slept since she woke and all the hours have begun to blur together, the journey to the planet the only thing helping her properly mark the passage of time. The memory of counting those minutes comes back to her, the struggle of breathing through the hunger, hiding away from another living soul for fear of hurting anyone, and that hunger rises in her again now and her expression turns uncomfortable.

The hunger is accompanied by that disgust -- for the craving for blood, for what she is now, for the destruction she'll cause. Continue to cause. ]

( home. and this is the first instance since her hatch that clarke has not been obsessed with the tumultuous world they'd called home; isn't fixated on the events playing out back in polis, or the mission she'd felt she had failed in the city of light. isn't thinking about the braided bruises on her mothers throat, the hoard of climbers, or ontari's caved in head because bellamy had said it would all be okay. and because she wants to believe that so badly, she allows herself to. at least briefly, clarke shrugs off the all consuming cloak of guilt and preemptive grief, and lets herself fold into bellamy's embrace. it's like wrapping one self in a security blanket, and at least in this moment, that promise of safety feels legitimate.

(there's something else there, too. it's different from the last time they'd hugged in a way she can't quite pin down, and thus disregards as a shift in atmosphere. this may be the first time they've ever had the chance to celebrate the survival of their people without another immediate upset, but even that is inaccurate.)

her arms circle around his neck, standing on the slightest of tip toes in order to rest her chin on his shoulder, and clarke just breathes. exhales relief and reassurance into his hair; squeezes bellamy tight in a physical show of the gratitude coursing through her veins. he still smells the same, she notes lightly, an afterthought. they stay like that for several long moments, content. this is nice. which means it can't last for long, and clarke disentangles first.

but she's smiling, and for once it doesn't even seemed forced. back to business — ) Where do we start? What have I missed?

❰ damon nods, leaning his head forward to touch their foreheads together. no amount of reassurance that she's here, she's real will be enough, but her skin on his, the warmth of her breath hitting his lips, that comes close. things that are tangible, that are real. she's not asleep up on the station — or she is, a version of her, but she's still here, under his hands and real. that's what matters. ❱

I'm not going anywhere.

❰ he remains like that for long moments, but eventually he pulls back — and draws elena with him, scooting up the bed to lay down on it and pulling her to lay down with him. when they're settled, her laying against his side, her hand in his, he ducks his head to kiss her forehead. ❱

You're going to be fine, Elena. I promise.

❰ it's not a promise born of fear, said to keep both of them from worrying that she might not be up to it. that kind of promise wouldn't help, would be seen through in a second. it's a promise born of certainty, of the knowledge that she is strong enough to get through all this and come out the other side with her head held high. ❱

[ Her head turns, testing in her bonds at her wrists, absent simply because so in turn do animals claw at their cages. That fixed worked, a show of that she would not simply be held, absent and constant. She cannot be otherwise than what she is. ]

Anything less is not worth entertaining.

[ And in that shared bond, she finds comfort in someone who follows that same drive. ]

[ There's something that could almost be amusement at her disgruntled look, if it weren't faint and tinged too much with curiosity on what the hell this is all about.

His brows furrow in consideration, thinking about that. Honestly, he doesn't think about the symbiote as its own entity all that much. It's something they can change, something they have to figure out how to deal with as best as they can, and at the moment he's okay with his approach. ]

I don't think it's conscious enough to do anything like want. But I guess - it's gotta survive. As long as we aren't killing ourselves or anyone else in the Nest, I don't think it gives a shit what we do. Otherwise it'd be pushing us more towards the brood bonds, you know? I'd be more upset that I don't give a damn about Parker; it wouldn't let me choose who I want to be close to and how much I let them in.

Good. ( the chilly buzz of disbelief, then the cold hum of reawakened grief clarke had experienced in the last twenty minutes has begun to give way to the delightful, warm and tingly sensation in her chest. it's happiness washing over relief, folding back in on itself to bring her as close to giddy as she could get while a tears still wet her eyelashes. her thumbs brush soft lines along the cut of lexa's cheekbones almost unconsciously, each stroke affirmation that the other woman was real, solid, and here. not going anywhere — ) Me neither.

( there's weight in those two words: regrets for staying in polis for as long as she had, to the point titus had resorted to desperate measures to be rid of her, and resentment for ever having to leave. remorse for the world being the way it was (had been?), and their circumstances preventing them from ever getting to know each other without the shadow of command and responsibility hanging above their heads. once upon a time, they'd spoken of a life where they owed nothing more to their people. and now, clarke can't help selfishly thinking this pseudo-afterlife might be it.

clarke leans back a little, just enough to get a good look at lexa's face without going crosseyed from proximity. she is as beautiful in their alien disguise as she'd been in armor; as formidable with wet, earnest eyes and a small smile as with black war paint, wielding a sword. there's a rush of sentiments that can't make it past her teeth; clarke nips at her lower lip, undecided if she should try to voice any of the swirling thoughts in her head, momentarily forgetting they were wont to bleed over anyway — black blood seeping through cloth and staining her fingers, that bulldogged determination to fix this, the crushing realization she couldn't; murphy's hands on her shoulders trying to guide her away and that anger at the very implication. wanting to die. may we meet again.

and now they had. words would never be enough to describe simultaneously what it had felt like losing her, and what it felt like now being given a second chance. so clarke just leans in, squeezes her eyes tight, and bumps their noses together gently.

they've only ever kissed in times of high emotion, and yet this time feels like so, so much more. clarke's mouth is dry, her lips quivering. it's the kiss of the tentatively desperate, of those teetering on the edge of a cliff and too scared to see how far they would end up falling; of someone who expects the worse when she opens her eyes, and thus cannot lose herself completely in the pleasant spark of heat that swells in her chest like a balloon. it's a mirror to that last kiss they'd shared, where she'd felt lexa's death rattle against her mouth.

but this is a hello kiss, and when clarke allows her mouth to part, darts her tongue out to drag across lexa's lower lip, there's no suppressing the shiver that rockets up her spine. )

[ She hovers where she expects the girl to start moving - and when she doesn't: ]

You do know how this works, do you not?

[ More's the pity that they are having this conversation out loud where any of the other servants could hear them - a paranoia of such that keeps her voice low, pleasant, without a single bit of concern in it. ]

I... really doubt they expected it to be literal, yeah.

[A trace of humor in the words, though they come out a little breathlessly too.]

[The smile stays.]

Really. You did a great job. A lot faster than I ever did.

[ What, talking? No, she doesn't, at all. She's terrible at talking. She just keeps her eyes on the surroundings, trying to find something - anything - that stands out or rather, something alien within the alienness. She has no idea how to start this up. It's complicated and she's barely listening to the woman drinking wine.

She says something that Parker doesn't register immediately. It takes a good five seconds before she blinks and looks down again. ]

What? [ She repeats distractedly, and then her brain finally registers the words and gives meaning to them. ] What do you want? I'm busy.

( call it — whatever strikes your fancy. curiosity, a blood-deep sense of loyalty to the original 101 she fell to earth with, a tenuous trust and friendship, or that concern that often has clarke readily running head first into questionable situations. or, you know, concern for the mission and the matters of casual subterfuge. but sevilla brings up murphy, it pings something in her chest, and clarke is taking a few tentative steps into the doorframe despite her better judgement. )

He's my friend. How do you know him? ( a beat, in which the defensiveness in that statement melts off her features, and clarke realizes that's a stupid question. everyone here seemed to know everyone, and it's almost fitting — bellamy falls in with someone who screams powerful royalty, lexa adopts dangerous little boys, and murphy is somehow attached to a tall woman with an inhuman voice, glowing eyes, and apparently a penchant for biting people. it makes all her own broodmates seem terrifyingly normal by comparison.

another beat, this one of hesitation before stepping just far enough inside the room to bring the door closed behind her. not all the way, there is still a good six inches of access to the hallway at her back — a suitable compromise when faced with danger on both fronts. and, belatedly unsettled by being lovingly crooned at (little one) in ghostly tenors: ) My name is Clarke.

[ She laughs, laughs and laughs and laughs. Whether it was the thought, that death was some how the worst thing that could happen to a person - or the thought of Damon being muzzled. ]

Perhaps they should - but with this connection, it would be no more than a momentary relief.

( asuka. the name fits like a puzzle piece she didn't know she'd been missing, rings of distant sorrow that runs deeper than simply pitying an upset kid. vaguely, clarke feels like she knows the girl, and tries not to spend time thinking further on the subject; tries to resist drawing on history that isn't her own to place her face, voice, or name. it feels... impolite. intrusive. )

( Clarke. )

( and there's a soft smile beneath the layers of fabric, the impression of it floating between them in place of any formal it's nice to meet you. then, to avoid the potential for awkwardness and get right back to business — )

( Some of us, maybe. But they don't need all of us, and unless the entire population goes on this pilgrimage, there's still going to be people here. This Enemy we're facing, they'd probably think to leave someone behind to watch over everything, ) ( this is clarke, putting herself in the enemies shoes; trying to think ahead and plan, but mostly just spitballing. oddly enough, between emotionally high reunions, and stilted introductions, she hasn't had much time to talk about the mission at length. ) ( and that might be the easiest time to track their movements. When everything is less populated. )

( that sounds like bellamy, always two steps ahead in the action, diving headfirst into dangerous situations. but — being new, overwhelmed, and incredibly confused, the pieces don't click. it takes her a second or two too long to realize his mouth isn't moving, and then a second more to fight down the urge to clamp her hands over her ears. his response is also painfully vague, stoking that agitation in her chest like salt in a raw wound. )

through forcefully gritted teeth and with an edge of accusation: )

I don't understand. ( read/felt: i don't believe you. even at the insistence that he's "distant", clarke is still chancing looks around the room for bellamy — clawing through the suffocating blanket of thoughts and voices, seeking out one that is truly familiar — and ripping her gaze back to the darkling in turn like she expects him to suddenly bolt. ) How can you know that?

( location and mission are also alarming sentiments, but she'll get to that. priorities. )

[ A look that is not unmissed, a short sharp bark of laughter for it. ] it would take me more than that to sway me from making a fuss.

[ Back stiff and shoulders set, she lets out a breath. ] But I can appreciate that this is not the time nor the place for such convictions.

( he walks away from her, and it's like the wall she had been leaning against suddenly disappeared. the connection had been honed as she'd zeroed in on dissecting his personhood in some desperate attempt to gain understanding, and reeling herself out of that swirling pit of thoughts is like swimming against the current. clarke watches rust's retreating back for far too long, eyes wet and a little glassy, wrestling with herself.

eventually coming to. realizing she's holding an extra pair of the stark white clothes that demand flashbacks to waking up in mount weather's quarantine ward. this was like that, but... different. still, there's the thrum of instinct — something here is dangerous; first comes chocolate cake, then they want your bone marrow — and clarke snaps back to the terrible vivid reality that is her unintentional abandonment of her people, and the crushing guilt of surviving while her loved ones no doubt suffered. she has questions, and needs answers.

if she's feeling a little more lonely than when she'd first opened her eyes when turning to walk in the opposite direction, she doesn't dwell on it. blows her nose in the hem of the gifted white shirt a few minutes later, an after thought. )

( she's been working on it, with the walls. has taken to heart the brief lessons on focus from shiro, but concentrating on metaphorically burying all of her thoughts in a dirt grave on earth while simultaneously holding a conversation is proving a little difficult. being calmer helps; being grounded by bellamy's presence and conflictingly elated by lexa's has put a temporary stopper in those darker thoughts that had leaked around all her hatchmates. and sitting with murphy, who is collected if not a little on edge, that helps too. if all else fails, they can simply zero in on the mission at hand. )

( You're expecting all this to end badly? ) ( a question that isn't really a question; an agreement, more so, because clarke certainly expects mishaps and danger. something like subterfuge against an enemy powerful enough to wipe out entire planets doesn't feel like it's going to cut it. )

[ And for who she is, and what she is now: she sees him as no more than he is. A quiet soldier at her side. Where he hovers, she does not, a surety that leads those scarred fingers up, ghosting but not touching. He must have his own reasons for not reaching back. ]

( For that, I would have no idea else at my side. )

( I'm not scared of this. ) ( not the war they're treading on the border of — no, that is familiar, and this whole business of playing at spies isn't all that new either — not the faceless enemy, and not even the slightly intrusive connection the symbiote in their heads forge between them all. it's different, exhausting, confusing, but not... scary. not with the likes of bellamy, murphy, and lexa here; and especially not with the vast majority of the people she's met being downright nice, or at least nonthreatening.

it's a testament to the strength of the nests connection, she supposes, that a thin line of trust could be forged in five minutes of casual conversation. or maybe it's piqued curiosity that has clarke tentative regarding shiro's hand for all of a few heartbeats before raising her own and sliding her fingers into his palm. )

Habit does a lot. [ She eases back, her breath coming in a little easier. The walls come tumbling down again, tumbling with their own weight, the ache in her mind settling for it. ]

Well met, I am in your debt for it.

Information. [ Her head gestures, where she does otherwise direct herself particular. ] From the Seconds.

[ Was there another reason to going through all this spectacle. ] I had thought you might know something about them, to know how to greet them.

[ But the girl - well, she seemed rather like Devi at her most stubborn. ]

[ See, that gets her attention. Somewhat. Still suspicious attention, but attention none the less. She looks at the woman for a beat longer, squinting eyes under all those clothes that hide her, and then back to the people mingling in different ways. She crosses her arms, tapping her finger against her bicep in thought. ]

Last time I talked to one, it just-- [ A half-assed shrug. ] --Talked. [ No, she had not initiated it. Maybe it would be a good idea to find that one again. She frowns again. ] What are you going to ask?

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 33 of 53

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

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject