[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.

[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? )

[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. )

[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. )

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.]

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! ]

[isorropia]

[Rhan shoots her companion a glance, but returns her full attention to Clarke just a moment later.]

On the mission. And this place in general before we leave it, I suppose. I can't say either of us is as good at answering questions about it as old Prince and Cathy but-- [But she's sliding down a rabbit hole. This isn't what she's here to talk about really.]

Tomorrow once you lot aren't quite so scattered, we'll be going away to a planet called Hyrypia where your brothers and sisters are already. We've work to be done there, my darling.

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. )

[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? ]

IV

[adamance]

[The blinding burst of emotion in seeing Clarke for the first time in months is brief, fleeting—but there's a low buzz of it just the same, just as she wraps her mind in walls, ensuring that anyone but those within the vicinity of her can't know how she feels. But the feeling remains, even if her expression is cool as they proceed down the hallway, even as they end up in a room and Lexa watches as Clarke's hands tremble and twist into the cloth she's holding.

No matter what, Lexa has always cared too deeply for Clarke—or, more accurately, has felt too deeply for Clarke. From intrigue to curiosity to wonder, she had always found herself enraptured by the other girl. She was a wonder to behold: she could both feel compassion and love for her people, but make the incisive decision to show mercy with both her head and heart. No matter what praise has come Lexa's way for her wisdom and vision, she has never managed that line like Clarke.

It's what makes this moment painful. It's what makes the reality of her failure to protect Clarke from her death so real. She had promised to protect her, to protect her clan, yet none of it feels like a success in this moment. She recalls the blistering pain and blinding emotion of finding Costia in her bed—to finding the remains of Costia, left aside to taunt her, to remind her that she has extensions of weakness. Before now, it had been less her death that haunted her (though it had) and more the death of the coalition, the signs of chaos and Polis burning, that had left her feeling this bereft.

The tears that burn in Lexa's eyes are immediate, but she acts in spite of them. She steps forward, hands coming to cover Clarke's, all to ensure that Clarke can recognize that she's real. She pulls away the cloth and drops it on the floor, as it can be picked up later, before she touches Clarke again. Lexa then leans in, forehead to forehead, her breathing raspier than she'd like. Her lips don't purse, instead spreading to make a soft sound:] Shhhh ... [Which is then echoed in her mind:] ( Shhhhh. )

[Each and every wall comes down around Lexa's mind then and there, opening up so that Clarke can feel and touch and recognize that it is her. She has done this for no one past her initial awakening, and then it had been intentional. Here, every step is done with intention, as she allows Clarke into her mind: into her childhood, growing up running among the trees with Anya looking on, preparing her as a warrior, to her time in Polis. None of it floods into Clarke's mind at once, but there's a sense of who Lexa is: more than just a Commander, more than even just Lexa, but a culmination of all her parts, including her time here, hoping that she could end this particular war so that Clarke may never see or experience this place. It's all raw, but subtle enough so that it doesn't overwhelm her. After all: these walls are meant to confirm the reality of her, and to confirm that there is nothing that Clarke needs to apologize for. She doesn't know that it will be enough. No, rather, she doubts it will be.

Without pulling back her forehead, almost in tune with this sensation, she adds:] I'm here, Clarke. I'm here. [In her mind, these words sound more grounded, more forceful. In reality, they are just above a whisper, thanks to the tightness of her throat, the welling of emotion.

Still: she's here. There is no denying that she's lived on in some way.]

common area

[redheadcarrier]

[ There's been something familiar on the edge of her consciousness. She hasn't been able to place it and, besides, she's been occupying herself with so much else. Reading, trying to learn everything she can so she can useful again. She hadn't gone to meet the new hosts; she'd preferred to stay behind and so now that that something is much closer and tugging at her attention, she follows it. It's the common area. She finds him and for a long, long few moments all she can really do is stare as emotions flit through her head and her shields seem to drop open.

He can't be here. Ryohji Kaji is dead. Has been dead. But there he is, pulling books out of his robes like he's some sort of traveling bookcase. He looks exactly like he did the last time she saw him and that - that just sends more emotion swirling through her. Anger, relief, excitement, joy, resentment, jealousy - it's all there. It's all a part of the confused mix that seeps into her and consumes her in that moment. He's here and he's alive and she wants to be happy about that, but she also remembers the way he brushed her off, the way he and Misato carried on (Misato, won't she be overjoyed) and then there's the part of her that feels like a hand has reached into her chest and squeezed her heart until it feels like it's about to burst.

For all of her resentment and anger and hate, she still cares about him. Did care about him. Wanted him to return that affection, even if it went no where. But he says she's a child - but - but- ]

Kaji!

[ Her voice rings out in the common room and she's crossing it, robes and scarves trailing behind her like pennants and there's something painfully joyful in her voice. It's a sound she hasn't heard herself make in a while. And the worst part is, that she's genuinely happy for a moment, even if she knows (knows) that this will probably all fall apart.

She doesn't bother with any other greeting. Just hurls herself against him and wraps her arms around his shoulder with a squeeze. Her tangled emotions are right there with her and - he'll probably notice - that she's wearing an eyepatch on her left eye. ]

[deployed]

[ The hatch is impossible to miss. Their new-spawned nestmates' consciousness stir in the back of Bellamy's mind as distant pinpricks of disturbance, with the Darkling eclipsing them. Something in his chest had loosened at the recognition; his relief may be mingled with anger over the fear of having lost him. He thinks at the time that it's lucky his face is covered over, because surely the emotions would have shown on his face otherwise.

By the time the shuttle lands, he's retreated to the apartment. He's overheated and sweating beneath his robes, and shared irritation is pinging between his mind and Murphy's. And it's lucky that they've sought respite from the other delegations, because the second he feels the press of Clarke's mind, his composure shatters. The hollowed out book in his hand drops as he shoots back to his feet. Ooze baby scuttle to curl on the exposed pages, but Bellamy doesn't pay any attention. ]

Murphy, someone from the hatch is—

[ The insistent tugging in the back of his mind carries familiar images, tinged with smoke and fire, dirt, the smell of rain. It's someone from home, but Bellamy's thoughts have already narrowed to a single, identifying name. ]

Clarke.

[ Bellamy's already taken two steps forward. Clarke's name is more a statement than question. His mind is heavy with certainty, shielding traitorous, delicate hopes as he reaches for the door. ]

[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 ]

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 ]

seviilia.

[unsea]

THE PERFORMANCE ; CLOSED.

[ she, he avoids. not out of malice or disinterest, but because she is a chaotic thing - and he is still rousing from a long slumber, finding his footing among new minds and ones that have stepped just beyond his reach. only for now, he assures himself. he avoids seviilia until the performance is in full blossom, until eyes and hearts are rapturous and he wonders how she feels among it all

and

saints, he is so bold. so audacious, this curling dark thing that he is. less human, more beast. he finds her in the crowd, a beacon of chill and hunger, and curls a gloved hand around her wrist. like this, he is held apart from a majority of the nest - he cannot lend himself to their power, he cannot feed into them but through the deep waters of his mind. he seizes her wrist, and forces it to mean something, though. ]

( Come with me, ) [ he urges, and fills her mind with a different place among the crowd

less inhabited by their nestmates, but still full of life. he's audacious, but not fool enough to assume her mind. ]

V

[redheadcarrier]

[ Asuka's a bit shaken up; she's met someone she thought was dead and now she has a performance to go to. She has to keep moving, though. She can't let it weigh her down. Orders and mission to attend to, even if she'd rather go back to her apartment and curl up in bed and cry for a while. Preferably alone, but she's never really alone anymore, is she? There's the feel of someone new tugging at her - a voice asking for her attention and she glances up through the veil of her disguise and blinks at Clarke. Her response is a bit sharp, tinged with a touch of restrained hostility. ]

( If you want. I'm not going to stop you. )

I. f i n a l l y

[unsea]

[ this must be her.

the young woman ( clarke -- ) who bellamy shared with him, with such reverent fondness. a beacon among her people. one more noisy mind among a sea of new hatchchildren; and as she rattles the walls with her thoughts, her checklist of unfiltered fears and concerns, he is caught by her. pinned, for a fraction of a moment, in the long stretch of eternity found between one thought and the next. she is familiar in the sense that ALL are familiar, but made personal to him because she is the other young woman he catches bellamy thinking of. the one who isn't octavia. ]

Not the enemy that has threatened you, certainly.

[ he says it, voice a snap of authority as he tugs his coat on - the dark, layered fabric of his kefta. kept clean, tidy, pressed by an unknown force. he prides himself on his appearance, and to be caught unawares by clarke, even for a moment, sets his teeth on edge. he turns to her, as he straightens the collar of his armor, the cuffs, the sleeves. aligned, he's better composed, better able to unfold his mind for her.

to show her snapshots of bellamy blake: alive, grossly emotional, sentimental - he can't hide the mix of loathing and love (???) he feels for his hatchtwin from her. ]

He's told me of you.

[miscreant]

[The Hyrypians already speak of her as the most unsettling of the bunch, that she seems to hover from person to person more than walk. When she speaks, she says little, and they rather wouldn't be caught in conversation with her. All things she'd been fine with -- let the others play at politics while she built a contingency plan.

Seviilia hadn't, couldn't miss the Darkling's wakening. It was like hearing a pin drop in silence, but when she had turned to his presence, she could not find it. At first, she imagined it to be a trick of the mind, from beyond consciousness. It left a bitter taste in her mouth, and she had ignored it as best as she was able.

She'd lost him months ago. She'd just lost Ilde. What cause did she have to dwell, to mourn? That was life. How many times had she told herself that she would be all that was left on Judgement Day?

It finds her again, around her wrist, surprising her enough to freeze every singular thought in her own head. Her eyes, obscured by a combination of glasses and the shawl over her face, widen in disbelief. And she seizes his presence, digs her heels, sinks her claws to confirm its reality and abolish the idea that it is another ghost come to haunt her.

But he is there. She allows him to turn her head with his thoughts and spots him in the throng of bodies. And she moves, wary, distrusting.]

slinks over here

[cognitived]

[ The ship touches down, and something snaps back into place. Familiarity ebbing at the hollow spaces still in the meld of Clint's mind, and it's a relief. Bruce and Rey still slumber, but oh, to feel that much closer to completed. Acknowledgement comes as a brush of fingertips, hello hello, a distant greeting. He's patient, knowing their reunion can wait, and so Clint keeps his pace, trailing through shadows, attempting to get a better picture of this place.

But eventually, eventually he seeks out his newly returned broodmate. ]

( So sleeping beauty's finally woken up. )

[ A tease, but there's something of fond amusement written in his voice. The span of his mind is not quite so guarded against his brood now, tendrils of through reaching out to make sure he's in one piece. ]

naerstone house

[somnifacient]

[Noctis is the figure nearby, his own disguise nothing but cloth cut in black. The traditional color of the Lucis Caelum line, so integrated into everything that he is that Noctis had made his choice without much thought. A gloved hand had been pulling at the spine of a tome, curious of its subject and its exterior design. Only when he hears the voice of the Darkling, his question permeating the air, does he turn his head.

It’s a presence he doesn’t recognize, but there’s a fraction of familiarity there; as if a lost thread of the Nest has reattached itself properly, where it had been displaced and lost before. This alone is enough to drag his attention away from the book (a lazy, lagging sensation), dropping his hand.

He responds, but only mentally. Noctis has made a habit of speaking aloud only when absolutely necessary. The timbre of the voice the Darkling will hear, at least, is clear. It buzzes with mild curiosity, but stretched with something tired — the lingering aftermath of having lost broodmates recently, swirling still within him.

He frowns. He focuses.]

(We’re still in the info-gathering stage.)

[Which doesn’t mean they’re not scattered to the winds, admittedly. He doesn’t bother remarking that much.]

WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN | also house

[shiro2hero]

[If Clint's realization is like a gap being filled, like relief, it hits him like a lightning bolt. To keep up the whole air and space metaphor his brain apparently works on these days. In some way it's unnerving, how easily the whole thing tilts reality back right-side up.]

[Mostly, he's just glad he doesn't have to deal with a hole in his brain, anymore. Figuratively or otherwise.]

(Where are you?)

[As he's tracking through the house, right now. It's less of a real question and more of a brace yourself. Incoming dorito.]

common area

[shiro2hero]

Are... you serious?

[It's their common room, right? So he doesn't think much of having his headdress off, even if the robes are still there. Too much effort to pull off and on.]

[Who even is this guy?]

[He's used to keeping his own thoughts sealed away behind mental walls. Behind imagery of space and stars, so, that little thought doesn't get through. Gingerly, however, he reaches out to flip open the nearest book.]

I've got nothing. Languages aren't really my thing.

V

[shiro2hero]

(Sure thing.)

[Honestly, he's glad it's someone from the Nest. There are a handful of other aliens here who seem to keep circling. He's going to blame the curiosity, the novelty of being around people you can't even see. But he'll more than accept a seat partner he doesn't have to dodge.]

[Even if her "voice" is unfamiliar. She must be new. So he offers, with the mental impression of a smile, amid his mental shielding:]

(You holding up all right? I know it can be disorienting showing up in the middle of a mission like this.)

[Nothing projected beyond his voice but the thoughts of stars and space.]