[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

[skaikru]

Not yet.

( there's a swooping return of that sickly feeling, clawing at her insides and insisting that she'll never see the people she'd been trying to protect. she has no way to get back to her mother, to raven, to jasper, to monty, to — anyone. for their earlier searching, no exits had sprung up, and with that terrifyingly detached mission briefing, clarke can infer that there are none to be found. that hurts. that cuts. )

One of them — ( she doesn't know how to describe the darkling in relation to the two of them; one of the others, one of the ones we woke up with, but not one of us ) — he told me that one of my friends is down there. On the planet. But I don't know.

( i don't believe him, i can't feel him. in this moment, clarke's calm veneer cracks slightly. her face contorts around the eyes and mouth, like that emotional pain of not knowing has transcended into a physical wound. )

[calhar]

[ Her plummeting emotions feel like a sucker punch. Practiced as he is at trying to shut his away, it's starting to feel like a slippery slope — like she's clawing at the edges of his own control, distress eating away at the edges.

He knows what it's like to feel the weight of hundreds on your shoulders, and some of that slips through the cracks of Clarke's composure, a brief and hollowed out flash of guilt before Mat tamps it out. ]

Down there on the planet. Blood and bloody ashes. [ Still a strange concept to wrap his head around, lore and reality be damned. It's easier to focus on that odd learning curve than the sting of Clarke's emotions. He doesn't envy it. Hope can be a good thing, but it can also be a strain, the set up to disastrous disappointment. He'd rather expect the worst and come out of things surprised. ] I reckon you'll find out soon enough, won't you?

[ There's a reluctant empathy for what she's feeling. Mat had felt that detachment when he'd spoken to the Darkling, and he'd found it jarring — closer than was natural, still, but nothing like this. ]

[skaikru]

( for what it's worth, she doesn't mean to rampage across the bridge between their minds, crushing hopes and dreams, setting fire to composure, and letting her own misgivings taint the air they're both breathing. the inside of clarke's mind is set to default stress and anxiety, with a colorful dash of guilt, and arguably the worst part of being broodmates is the ease with which the start of one person blends with the end of another. she doesn't know how to restrain herself, doesn't know she needs to, and thus doesn't.

but — hope. there's a flicker of it in the back of her mind, like a rattled wheeze. maybe, just maybe... )

I guess I will. ( hope not allowed to manifest. the empty static between wanting something so badly it hurts, and already preparing to lose it. her grip tightens on the length of the gun, the faint pressure of ridges cutting into her palms a reminder of where they are and what they're doing besides drowning in uncertainty. )

Do you want to try the rifle now?

[calhar]

[ He won't hold it against her in the long run. The only reason it really chafes is that it's a slightly messy look in the mirror, and denial gets a bit more challenging when there's a rogue element in the mix.

Right now, it's mostly just practice; practice keeping his emotions from chasing after hers, for trying to pick apart the differences, seeing just how far his own restraint can reach. At this point, the answer just happens to be 'not far'.

Mat hasn't forgotten about the rifles. He's deliberately stopped thinking about them, and the question is met by a dull pang of disappointment. Not in her, or even in the question itself — just in the fact that this reality, his reality, now includes these bloody weapons. There's a pause as he considers it, then: ]

Do you know how to throw a dagger?

[skaikru]

( there's sympathy for his worldly upheaval here. not all that long ago clarke had bemoaned the necessity to arm around ninety children like a small military brigade. but how easily her resistance toward violence had eroded when the facts became apparent — they'd been dropped in the middle of a battlefield, and morals came second to survival. she gets it, and when mat none too subtly sidesteps her invitation for more shooting practice, clarke gives a slight smile.

deftly flips on the safety and lays the rifle down on the nearest flat surface. )

Not very well.

( bellamy could throw a hatchet. octavia could throw a sword. all her time alone in the forest may have improved her general hunting knowledge, but throwing knives proved more difficult to master than pulling a trigger. )

I can never get the blade to stick.

[calhar]

[ He can feel that sympathy. It isn't what he was going for, but he doesn't automatically bristle at it — just waits as she puts down the gun, then considers her assessment of her skills. A few words simmer to the surface as she does — Bellamy, Octavia — committed to memory and then skipped past. ]

What about juggling?

[ There's a point here. Throwing knives feels like second nature after learning to juggle, and juggling's a lot easier to practice without taking off a finger. And while he isn't feeling defensive, exactly, he can't help absently noting: ]

We're allowed a knife or two, aren't we? Down on this bloody planet.

[skaikru]

( mat gets a look, a rather perplexed what about juggling? look because, uh, no. that's something that has never struck clarke as something valuable to be learned, and she can't think of anyone (except maybe jasper, who knows) that would have had the time for it. but she doesn't think mat's making some sort of joke and bites down on any subsequent questions.

instead she shrugs. )

We're allowed a bag and those other two knives. ( the fancy ceremonial one and the more practical electrically charged ones they were given at the mission briefing. ) If you wanted to pack more, I don't think anyone would stop you. It couldn't hurt.

( hey mat, guess who's planning on trying to smuggle a gun out of the shooting alley down onto hyrypia, and then guess who's going to be moderately upset that the range doesn't allow these weapons out of the room. guess. )

cues training montage music

[calhar]

[ Clarke.......... please .................... if he gets any impression of that terrible plan, he's the last person to enforce the rules around here. Despite her best efforts to be polite and respect his idiotic question, that perplexed look is enough to earn a small grin, amusement partly at her expense. When he lowers one arm and shifts a dagger free of his sleeve, there's no flash or fanfare to it; he isn't holding a dagger, and then he is, and he lifts it to offer her the hilt. ]

I wasn't planning to ask. I just thought knife lessons might be time better spent than rifle lessons, unless you intend to slip an entire bloody rifle under your robes.

[ Figure of speech. He's not completely discounting it. ] And if you can juggle, you can make a dagger stick.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZSS5dEeMX64

[skaikru]

( it's a mark of how far they've come — in the last, what, few hours? — that when mat produces a small, sharp blade from seemingly nowhere at close quarters, clarke doesn't take an automatic step back, and doesn't reach for the semi-automatic off to the side. be it the tug of the symbiote urging trust to form, or the complete lack of a threat he presents between talking about fireworks and foreign myths, but clarke's more inclined to give him a strangled smile and a soft snort.

she'd 100% slip a rifle in the bloated pantleg of the costumes they've been given, but was leaning more towards a handgun. )

Guess I'll work on my juggling.

( she... probably won't. but hey, he's offering up the knife, and clarke will oblige. gently accepts the dagger and runs a careful finger over the flat side of the blade. she's most comfortable with knives in close range scenarios, in the vein of anchoring the hilt to her sternum as a large black panther descends upon her, pressed to the delicate skin beneath a woman's chin, slid with wavering intentions into a boy who —... well, the point is made. she's familiar with her whole hand wrapped around the handle, but knows enough to grip just the very end of the haft between thumb and index finger. knows enough to keep her wrist straight when she turns to flick the dagger at the same targets they'd been utilizing for shooting practice, and the blade arches and flips in the air, but ultimately misses.

breezes right past the cutout targets and bounces off the wall with a light clattering sound. it's no real disappointment, she hadn't expected to stick this landing either. but clarke sighs and mutters, ) Or I could stick to bullets. ( somewhat wryly before moving to collect her failed projectile. )

lmfAOOOO

[calhar]

[ Her memories aren't crystal clear, but they're strong enough for him to get the hint. In retrospect it was a stupid question, asking whether she'd ever used a gun on a human. He wouldn't like it much if she asked him the same of his daggers.

He watches the throw without interfering, though the muttering afterward earns a broad smile. ]

You're overthinking it. [ Which... seems to be habit for her, honestly, though that might be more guesswork than any mental link. He waits until she's well clear of the range, then throws a dagger — underhand, no real wind up, no spin. It doesn't hit the dead center of the target, but it does hit.

It's also showing off more than any kind of lesson, really, but whatever. ] What do you think the odds are we'll need them? Daggers or your bullets.

[skaikru]

( showing off isn't inherently bad, nor a bad way to teach by example. though clarke doesn't necessarily have the mindset of a student at the moment, she turns and watches the dagger hit him on the cutout target, offers a hum of appreciation for the fact it manages to stick. impressive, or at least better than her and serving to taper the edges of distress that threaten to creep in when she imagines how woefully unprepared they all are for this mission.

because for all their hosts press that it is simple political intrigue with a hint of rigging events, she doesn't expect anything to go as smoothly as that. the waters around different parties coming together in the name of cooperation — coalition — were murky at best, bloody at worst. and as fiercely as she wants to disentangle herself from this war that isn't the one she should be fighting, clarke isn't ready to die for this cause.

and a good way to avoid death was to properly equip themselves, so they should all have guns. or maybe daggers. like the one she's turning over in her hands, careful to avoid the sharper edges before offering it back to mat. )

I think it's better safe than sorry.