[hatch log] i had a dream which was not all a dream

[onemind]

CHARACTERS: New Hosts & EVERYONE
WHERE: Station 72; Hyrypia - The Red Coast
WHEN: DAY :025 - DAY :026
SUMMARY: Somewhere deep in the void between multiverses, a fresh clutch of Hosts hatches; getting them down to Hyrypia proves to be more complicated than usual.
WARNINGS: Will update as necessary. Need a warning added? PM this account please!

STATION 72
DAY :025

NEW HATCHES
YOU WAKE UP and the universe and you in it are suddenly different. --No. That's not right. You're you, the universe is as it's always been, and there's no 'suddenly' about it. But it's been a while, hasn't it? It feels like waking up from a very deep, extended sleep or coming up from the darkness of some wine dark sea. Nothing is different and yet everything is.

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. Some of these emotions might be 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. There are a handful others very like you here, all of them somehow intimately familiar.

Welcome to Station 72. Beyond this room, the vast Station is quiet and still. It feels for all the world like a shell for some vast dark thing.

Eventually, a sensation manifests out of the hollowness:


PREPARE YOURSELF
THE VOICE IN YOUR HEAD is sound and sensation: a brilliantly warm shaft of sunlight through smoky glass - a gauzy curtain twitching in some summer breeze - the blooming pleasure of a familiar face after a very long time away. It says or feels like:

( Come meet with me, won't you? )
Where exactly this meeting is supposed to occur isn't immediately clear, but head in the direction that seems correct and eventually Station 72 gets you where you're meant to be: a small grassy lawn in the center of the lush, circular gardens where an aging woman waits on a stone bench. The pin straight sheet of her hair hangs like a graying curtain and the sensation from her is lovely and golden, real delight pouring through her like light through a pinhole camera. She smiles and sets aside the book in her lap.

"There you are. Unfortunately, you won't be here long but we'd like to answer as many of your questions as we're able before you leave this place."


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 other than the people you woke up with there's a distinct lack of company 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 is the most proactive distraction? Otherwise-- well there's plenty of places to get lost...

By the simulated morning, a strange archaic ship has arrived on the Hangar. Its very alien pilots are in the process of unloading-- bodies. No, scratch that, they're clearly still alive, though in some kind of comatose state. One of the pilots - a pale female alien who calls herself Rhan - says, "Well, this is awkward. We were supposed to be done with this already. Uh don't mind us, darling. We'll finish up here and get on our way. In the meantime, why don't you go through your packs and get changed?"

She nods toward two trunks on the hangar deck where assortment of pre-prepared packs are waiting for each new Host. In each pack is a series of items, including a set of beautiful and very all-encompassing robes. Better get comfortable. Not hot on the fabrics or patterns in your pack? Mixing and matching with your new best friends is totally acceptable.

Eventually, you leave the Station. If you're lucky, you might one day make it back.

HYRYPIA - THE RED COAST
LATE DAY :026

A PURPOSEFULLY SUBTLE WELCOME
UNDER THE COVER OF DARKNESS, Collector and Lyr make their way through the barracks where the Hosts on Hyrypia are meant to be sleeping. It's nearing whatever the Hyrypian equivalent of midnight is; if you're awake, all the better. If not? Expect to be roused (gently and silently by Collector, rudely and abruptly by Lyr).

"Get dressed. We're going for a walk."

There's nothing quite so suspicious as bringing a bunch of reinforcements to the planet in the aftermath of a rather public murder, which means a highly ritualized midnight procession of Carbasuchians into the highlands. It's easier to secret a handful of newbies in an anonymous group, right?

That meeting in the dead of night in the rocky wilderness above the Red Coast bears even a passing resemblance to the strange occurrence on DAY :010 is probably just a coincidence. Besides, there aren't any mystery circles burned into the stone and grass here: just a stealth ship materializing out of the black night and touching down in a stony outcropping where it disgorges the freshly hatched (or newly reawakened) Hosts.

---

((OOC Notes: This log covers the hatch on Day :025 as well as the arrival of new Hosts on Hyrypia late on Day :026. Feel free to make your own logs and posts additional to this if you care to. You can find additional information pertaining to the Red Coast on the previous mission log (located here); newbies are welcome to utilize that log as well as it occurs within the same time period as the hatch.

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're brand new to the game. If you have any questions, please hit up either the mission's question thread, the FAQ or MOD CONTACT pages!))

NAVIGATION • GAME CALENDAR • MISSION: HYRYPIA • FAQ • MOD CONTACT • GLOSSARY

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Comments

cathaway | npc | ota (station)

[polyphonos]

((ooc: feel free to either have a one-on-one conversation with Cathaway or pile in for larger group threads.))

[It's not much of a garden party, is it? But at least there's some concrete sensation of life here - untamed flower beds and overgrown ferns, a whisper of air moving that must be the product of some circulation system but nonetheless occasionally stirs the highest foliage of the strangest trees. The woman on the bench reaches to retrieve a plastic card from inside the voluminous folds of her draped wrap, the assortment of metal charms ornamenting her wrists and fingers and forearms chiming pleasantly as she does so.

Cathaway turns the card over in her hands, unfolding it out into a larger tablet screen. When she's done, she pats the spot on the bench beside her.]

Why don't you take a seat and we can have a conversation? We assume you have some concerns that may need addressing before we attend to matters of the immediate future.

[incinerates]

Oi, slow down a little more grandma. First thing's first.

[ Um.

There's an unsubtle refusal in the way he stands, arms crossed over his chest, stance staggered out like he's braced for escalation. At some point, he's changed out of that battle ensemble he'd arrived in, and actually donned the clothes left out for him - considering his school uniform and other clothes were probably not in the vicinity. ]

Where's that oozing, disgusting lime-flavored jerk that brought me here.

[ leading the charge, the bakugo way: with class and dignity ]

[theycalledmeacurse]

[ Having another presence in her mind is nothing new to Rogue, and it almost makes her feel like she did in the old days back at the mansion, though the woman in front of her is quite a bit different than Charles Xavier. It feels pleasant though, and the atmosphere of the gardens does wonders to chase the memory of the mansion from her mind -- it's a good thing, since there are cracks in the walls of her grand plantation house, the shutters unhinged, the windows full of broken glass. She'll have to work on building up her shields again if she's to keep the psyches in her mind at bay.

A deep breath, held for a few long moments, and then she nods, reaching up with gloved hands to nervously tuck striped hair back behind her ears before taking that offered seat. The grey of her gloves is like a dark smudge against the white of the clothes she'd been provided, but the last thing she wants is to hurt anyone here. ]

Why was I brought here? [ Her voice is soft, a smooth southern drawl coloring the vowels. ]

[whereabout]

I'm fine right here.

[ Standing, that is - the posture of someone who's always ready to move if the moment calls for it. He doesn't feel anything threatening from her, but when the proverbial switch is flipped, he's not inclined to trust a feeling over the pure pragmatism of possibility. ]

What happens next?

[ There are a lot of questions...but a lot of them, when you get right down to it, are just ways to dance around that one. ]

[iuno]

[ he doesn't sit — simmering with resentment, suspicion, irritation because all of those things are easier to let fill him than the dark grief that's waiting further below. besides, he doesn't care much for friendly overtures. nobody came here to make friends. he talks fast, hands in his pockets. ]

What concerns? [ he's had time to think, dragging his feet to come find her: ] You pulled me out of Hyperion when it was about to be reduced to rubble, and the only proof I'm gonna get that it made out better than I did is your word and a lot of good faith. Now I'm at least a galaxy away from Mars, probably recruited to whatever your agenda is because I didn't want a planet to die just for my sake.

[ he's least bothered by the part where he had to give himself up, no worth assigned to that: as far as you're concerned, that's very little on the line. but talking about the state he left Hyperion City in skirts dangerously close to the edge of a hole he's only just keeping himself from falling down, an empty space in his head and his chest, something missing from the shape of him. like taking him away from the city had ripped out parts of him, too many of his wounds scabbing over roots that Hyperion had in him. less than what he was now; he thinks about the empty skeleton of an abandoned building and how it unsettles, knowing there should be more. ]

And somehow, between then and now, you stuck something in my head that's getting me more up close and personal with the other suckers here than I'd like — this isn't my first telepathic tumour, lady. [ a memory of something cold and inhuman that makes him shudder. not so far behind him. ] But I'd prefer it if this one doesn't take out my other eye.

[ there's a moment, a pause of that thought clicking into place. ]

I guess that's a concern. Any chance it's going to pop if I work it too hard?

juno steel | ota.

[iuno]

I. FOR THE HATCH

[ for the first few moments after he's pulled his plug, everything Juno does is on automatic, like waking up at noon with a hangover and stumbling around his apartment, eyes half-shut to avoid the glare of the sun through his blinds. the noise in his head is certainly a close enough mimicry to his morning state. he gathers his things — most of them useless here, but a habit is a habit — and pockets them all, holsters his pistol, and makes his way down the ladder.

it's once he hits the floor that something shifts out of place, the equivalent of putting weight on a broken bone. because it's not that he'd forgotten where he is or what he agreed to; it's just that it comes over him again in a wave, something too big to take in, too nebulous for him to have confronted it. the grief strikes him suddenly. because he dug himself in so deep for Hyperion City, gave up so much for it, made it his identity and his future and his reason for bothering to wake up day after day after day to a world that wouldn't change... and it's gone. or — he's gone from it. he left the only person that he might have been able to be happy with for Hyperion, and now he's abandoned that too. he's lost everything this time.

turns out that after everything he did, the only way to save Hyperion City was to get rid of Juno Steel.

and just like that, Juno starts to laugh, a wire-tense, hysterical sound as he leans back against the ladder; starting out quiet, but it just keeps going, loud enough to echo by the time it finally dies down. this is actually — really, truly hilarious. god, didn't he tell everyone that it was his fault, everything, every single thing that ever went wrong in the world, like he was a fucking plague on the surface of Mars? things would be more broken without him around, nice try, Mercury. of course it was him in the end. to everyone around him, his mind is an awful, dark thing, a black hole with the dragging gravity of guilt and self-loathing and so many sharp little claws, unmanageable like trying to swallow tar. which is nothing new for him. he just isn't used to sharing it. ]

( God— ) [ still with that incredulous, high-pitched hysteria in his "voice" even now that he's stopped laughing aloud. ] ( You've really outdone yourself this time, Steel. Give the lady a goddamn prize. )

[ he also likes to talk to himself in vicious, scathing monologues. he's a fun lady. ]

II. FOR PETER (even if everyone else gets to overhear his distress )

[ he's still a mess in a way that no amount of rest will fix, when they touch down on the planet; Juno spent his whole life making himself a part of Hyperion City, and being pulled away from that has left a gaping wound in him, something cavernous and starved. he isn't sure that it's even processed yet. there's awful grief coating his tongue for a place and a purpose and the only good thing he was ever going to be capable of doing for the galaxy. Juno has dealt with himself in that state before, enough to auto-pilot through it — but he might feel like something of a time bomb to the people around him, unstable and easily turned volatile.

and even in this half-dazed, half-despair state of mind, he still recognises what was once a lifeline to him, in a tomb below the surface with pain screaming through his head: a connection, the presence of a mind he knows trusts loves, a reason to keep going. he's been in very few minds but he knows what Peter Nureyev's feels like as the other Hosts approach.

the symbiote doesn't work the same way that the Martian telepathy did, so he doesn't know how to follow that line to actually find Nureyev; he just reaches with more panic than determination, like shouting through a crowd, like firing up a flare and hoping it gets seen. he doesn't even have words, only a feeling of you're here you're here you're here, meant for Nureyev no matter how many other people take notice of it along its path. desperately clutching despite knowing he has no right to this at all. fuck. he'll hate himself for this later; right now he thinks about the sight of Hyperion City caving beneath an unfathomable, monstrous thing that would have destroyed planets and galaxies just to get to him, and all he wants is to see Nureyev safe. ]

III. FOR EVERYONE ELSE / WILDCARD

[ you can catch him during a moment where he eventually, reluctantly, pulls himself away from Nureyev, even if he knows with cold certainty that he'll end up gravitating back towards him later, still too raw and open not to let himself be dragged in. and he keeps reaching and pulling away at the last second when the guilt spikes in him, the way a sprained muscle twinges to remind you it's there. for anyone that isn't shielding, he's not a pleasant thing to be around, an open wound, a collection of broken glass and shrapnel; bitter, angry things leaking out from him like a poison. a bruising heartache for the thought of— of Hadrian Black.

he doesn't care about the voices around him or the connections that have a stronger gravity than any of the others. in fact, without Nureyev around, Juno just keeps himself occupied with the other new addition to his head, the cybernetic right eye that has its roots in as much of his brain as the symbiote does. mostly because he has no idea how it works and he'd like to be useful by the time he needs it to, dark thoughts of cyclops and has-been in his throat. he feels irritated. frustrated. ]

Don't you come with a manual or something? [ he talks to it aloud because it makes it feel more like a tool, an annoying personal assistant that isn't in his head. there's a strange echo without words when it responds with words that only he hears. ] Great. When someone is shooting at me, I'll be sure to start guessing commands for you.

[ or, wildcard, just find him wandering around and being generally suspicious of everything and everyone. ]

HATCH TIME.

[incinerates]

-- the hell with you, how about you pull yourself together.

[ Words, said out loud. Somewhere between an inner monologue broadcasted among the gathered bodies and the thundering crash of a heavy gauntlet hitting the floor near Juno's feet ( he threw it; he literally threw the thing, this thing rigged and wired and created to combust dangerously ). It's not a very nice gesture, not a very friendly one either. It's one meant to shake someone up, make them worried, make them flinch. Anything to cut off this lady's hysterics before he winds up infecting any of the other lesser characters without spine or the ability to stay cool. Bakugo can stay cool, look at him. Cool as a cucumber, if not twitching with something like resentment for such a display of vulnerability.

Ugh, people with emotions. ]

Seriously, knock it off. You're freaking me out, you damn freak.

[ His tone is scathing, as he fits one bare thumb under the edge of the mask still upon his face and lifts it. Up, into his hair, where it sits like a strange hairband, heavy with extensions that resemble quills. Maybe butterflies, if you squint and don't breathe a word about it to him. ]

slowly. slides in here.

[stilettoes]

[ juno steel is loud.

which peter is fairly certain shouldn't be happening. it'd be awful timing and he's not even sure he's prepared for it (but really, what kind of preparation do you need for this kind of meeting?) so it can't be juno, but the sensation is almost unmistakable in a way peter isn't very certain how he knows. it's the sensation of his name, not spoken aloud, not even though so much as encompassing the idea of him. nureyev. there's no shrugging it off, just leaning in, listening closer as they watch the ship unload its cargo of hosts - there's a feel to them, shiny and new, and peter is glad for it if only because he's tired of being new. but he can hear him, an empty, yawning echo of a cavern with a repeated calling sound from the bottom. it's dark down there, empty, as if something's gone reaching in, unearthing something and leaving juno at the very bottom to try to climb out for himself.

and peter immediately loathes it. whatever's done this.

all of them are robed, so distinguishing him from the rest isn't easy by sight, but by impression? oh, juno is like a fist to the jaw, so indelibly himself. he isn't his the way that elliot is his, his brood, but he's still no doubt his in a different way, one that makes him step forward at once. ]

( Juno? )

[ peter doesn't make to run up to him, rather, walks just on the edge of the group of hosts - new and old, trying not to make the scene bigger than it ought to be. he doesn't lift his hand, only raises his head, the veils draped carefully. hard to see in the dark due to its color: a deep burgundy and black. he steps forward, unspooling, unraveling, unwinding something soft and desperate, smooth as silk, desperate to calm in the face of juno's cavernous, frantic panic, though it bleeds outward so much that peter feels his entire mind shudder under the wave of it. the impact is bruising, and peter digs his heels into the sensation, drawing attention, answering the horrendously loud beacon.

he doesn't know how to do this, he just. does what he can. and what he can do is press the impression of himself up against juno's mind in a strange embrace of consciousnesses. weird and melding and sliding in through the gaping crack that makes up that enormous part of juno steel, that city on the horizon, that red desert dirt.

in disbelief, half distracted by his task at hand, of filling in the panic, already feeling it eat at him slowly: ]

( You're here. )

3

[shiro2hero]

... Sorry?

[There are new people around. Which, of course, means he's doing his best to keep his thoughts clamped down. Keep the wall of stars secure around his brain. He absolutely refuses to add to the clamor going on for all the new people. It's not fair to them.]

[As much as he hopes for a familiar face.]

[He's not used to people verbally addressing the things in their heads, though. It's probably a good thing they're in the house they've all been assigned. With himself sitting on a bench against a wall, trying to relax a few degrees.]

[Only to jump at the sudden voice.]

You weren't talking to me. Were you?

III

[greentech]

[ Pidge is still shaken up from a rather intimate experience she's had with one of her few remaining brood-mates. She's still out there in the dead of night to help greet the newcomers, swathed in robes like all the rest of them. It's dark, though, so finding who's new once the group breaks down into another swirl of robed figures makes life difficult. Still, it's not entirely hard to guess when some of them are using such language - and the twinges of emotion that she's getting off of him.

Not exactly good at shielding just yet. ]

I wish it came with a manual.

[ She responds as if he'd been talking to her. ]

Would make my life a million times easier.

wildest card

[raw]

[ The collision of two black holes is an event NASA scientists would probably document as "exciting", but maybe not in this case. It's pretty ordinary when Elliot sits down alongside Juno at whatever Red Coast arts and crafts bullshit he's doing — Elliot doesn't even pretend to pick it up. ]

You're the guy.

[ Mouthwords, because even proximal he can sense that a connection might be a bad idea, that the lurking malware of guilt and self-involvement he personally carries doesn't need to be multiplied by itself. Fuck up squared. Pass.

But he thinks better of it after a moment because they're not really alone, none of them are ever really alone here, and there's politics at play, the whole alien facade to maintain. Maybe it's paranoid, but Elliot is a paranoid person. So, imagine some old modem noises, the shrilling whine of connection, his gaze fixed and sharp beneath the veil. Network connection. Trying to keep everything else behind an encryption, a firewall.. ]

( You're the one upsetting Hadrian. )

[ Words have more textured nuance, like this, and it's obvious he doesn't mean tears and sadness, means "upsetting" the way a jug of water can be upset, spilling everywhere. He's been caught up in his own anxious-relief-guilt at the arrival of his sister, Darlene, and all his feelings have had an echo, some twin emotion twisting up the liquid black glass of Hadrian's mind. ]

wildcaaaaaard

[extradite]

[ Rules of survival say, you see someone with a problem, you either hope you're it and they're on the brink of expiry (bad), or you walk away slowly but surely, with the traditional enthusiasm of a snail for an uphill crawl (perfect).

Shinji has spent fourteen proud years of an unremarkably pathetic life perfecting the awkward twitch. He has excelled at being that one person on an abandoned road whom people can't help side-eyeing, giving a wide berth or a graceless pat on the back, because, lighten up, little guy. Stay safe. Eat some protein.

So, he recognises the trend of antisocial volatility when he spots it in this one strange man, and he has the good sense to mentally clap for the performance. He won't be the newbie who lets the suspicious sniffing or cautious paranoia get to him. He has lived much of his life in a city, avoiding stray glances in public transport and pointedly pretending not to notice anyone else's inconvenience. He is learned in the way of shrug-and-carry-on.

But it's a quiet night, he's aware of the robe uniform, and, you know. Sometimes you see a fellow freak cruising on his merry way, and you have to huddle. To hell with survival, this is Shinji sliding almost close enough to be a daring five steps away from the man's personal space, and murmuring: ]

...ahhhhhhh. Sorry. You'll look strange. To them. Not to me. But to them.

III

[ophidia]

[From nearby, a casual interruption:]

They say talking to yourself's the first sign of madness.

[There's a tone in it that communicates easily that he knows what he's saying is bullshit. It's an icebreaker. And a test. This guy has been nothing but sharp edges pointed outwards like a damn porcupine since he glimmered into existence in Richard's awareness, closed off, distant, and definitely all wrapped up in someone else. This is the first chance Richard's had to really scope him out, and there's a sense of it emanating off him: heavy, intense observation.]

wildcarding it! sort of. ish.

[theycalledmeacurse]

[ While Rogue has made an effort to meet as many of the people who woke up on the station with as she can, there's one particular walking disaster she's been avoiding. It's not like her, but she's actually grateful at times over those first days that she's not attached to that darkness — she's working hard to stay above her own and she knows all too well how easy it is to influence the state of her mind. But after a while that niggling guilt catches up with her and so she catches up with him in the barracks. ]

It's new, isn't it?

[ Her voice is smooth, the vowels rounded by a southern drawl, and she keeps her tone casual as she gestures with a gloved hand to her own eye as a way of indicating his. Her shields are up as much as they can be, though there are still cracks in the walls that will let things out before long. ]

III.

[earthborn]

[It's a nice nice for an evening. The beach is... a beach. And the sea is... Well the sound of the waves isn't completely terrible, right? Sort of soothing, in that white-noise covering up the approach of people behind you kind of way.]

Shit, if only.

[Shepard would like to have been out here to smoke. But she gave that up years ago and even if she hadn't there's little enough point-- the nicotine urge isn't chemical anymore, hasn't been for a decade, but sometimes she still nurtures it like a beloved grudge. That's masochism for you. Well, that, and the veil they all have to wear in public. Semantics.]

You find a manual, you share it with the class.

just ilde things

[erbier]

station
[ Ilde Vilmaine is a pretty girl of twenty. She wears the plain charcoal jumpsuit made for the hosts without looking uncomfortable in it. For a long time she had clung to her white frocks, but that need to individualize and cling to her past station has faded from her. While she has awoken with these new hosts, she is not a fresh hatch herself. Her mind is frigidly controlled, still and peaceful, delicately obscured.

She has always made it a habit to introduce herself to new hosts, however, and she will approach any new member with a polite, ]

Hello, how do you fare?

planetside - greetings
[ Obscured behind cloak and her own careful shielding, it may not be entirely obvious who she is, until she removes her hood and cloak in their quarters. The first thing she does in this privacy is take several small spheres off her belt -- each smooth and white, the size of a pool ball. They expand to the size of an ostrich egg, lids popping open with a hiss to expose six plants that she reaches in to tend to, humming peaceably to herself. ]

planetside - culture time
[ Ilde enjoys crafts. She is the first to volunteer herself to partake in the sea-weaving, the jewelry making, the pottery. When it comes to entering that blood-colored water however... She balks like a frightened horse, only noticeable to other hosts in the sharp pang of panic it causes her.

She has worked hard to overcome her fear of water, but this hideous sanguine sea is too much for her. It prickles anxiety at the back of her neck. ]

[incinerates]

What the hell are you.

[ There's no mincing words, when it comes down to it.

As sharply as he pulls away from the connection, there are -- there's just -- everyone else continues to talk at once. They bleed, like open wounds, bruises that keep being prodded, sore throats that you swallow against in the hopes that this time the ache will be alleviated. But, not her. Among the noise, she's quiet. A still, subtle little pond of a person. Like a caldera full of rainwater, atop a remote mountain at daybreak. Chilly, pristine, hiding its depths and ushering fools into danger. ( The shoreline is too steep, you'll never climb out if you're not cautious. ) ]

-- and where do I get clothes like that.

king explosionmurder ( ota + some closed )

[incinerates]

THE STATION ( HATCH )

[ The world -- kind of tastes like limes gone sour, soft and bitter in his mouth as he leaves the pod and immediately ( immediately! ) loses whatever nutrients were in his stomach into some grate nearby. The combination of nausea, the sudden brilliance and mis-balance that he feels puts him over that edge. It's gross, perhaps concerning to some, but he's quick to rub his fingertips over his temples and pull himself the hell together -- faster than most people who've just gone and done something highly embarrassing and very private would.

( Limes; limes in his mouth, disgusting, runny limes -- a leftover remnant of the thing that had thought itself a savior, a viscous and greasy thing that had urged him to run. There's the sense of something furious and insulted, hammering alongside his heart. Resentful, building towards vengeance upon the savior and some star-bodied freak of unreality that had called his name so adoringly. He can remember them both, clearly. Two shitty creatures on his shit list, and he'd handle them both in due damn time. )

Inside of the cubby, he puts his hands on what appears to be a very crisp, very clean uniform. What he's actually wearing, for all intents and purposes, the strangest sort of attire that those present might be familiar with - with the exception of those in equally-strange clothing. Already, he's removing one of the massive, grenade-shaped gauntlets in order to search through the cubby. And move on to the next, and to the next. Investigating? Nosy? Any which way, he might have just poked his nose into someone else's belongings. ]

Where the hell is that thing.

[ /murderdeathmurder ]

THE STATION ( WILDCARDS )

[ There is -- a lot. A lot to do, a lot to see, a lot to ask. And there is so little time.

There is: a room full of mirrors that do not reflect, a dead end full of whispered things you do and do not wish to hear. In each, you find a young man, with his palms sparking like flint and tinder - waiting to ignite. There is a breeze, there is a stillness. Who are you? How DARE you? A table in the kitchens, laden with spicy curries and a sink full of dishes, the scent of food and something like gunsmoke heavy upon him as he eats, and eats, and his mind comes to a simmer when he catches wind of another's presence. ]

HYRYPIA ( CLOSED TO AVIOR )

[ Ugly, unnatural familiarity.

( The rest of Avior will feel it, when he finally comes to the planet. Swaddled in layers and layers of greens with accented copper, oozing something white-hot. In his mind, he rejects the connection, but is too young, too unskilled and there is simply too much inside of him to be able to keep each spark of anger/rejection/anger from slipping out into the brood's mixings. ) It may be the first time, the last time, the only "slip" of the mind that that he'll allow himself. Tumbling head over heels, messy, chaotic -- young -- into the crook of Avior, bursting open like an aerosol can caught over an open flame; all shrapnel and venom as he spits through the mass connection: ]

I don't know you. I don't care to get to know you. Just stay the hell out of my way.

HYRYPIA ( WILDCARDS )

[ Some, he seeks out of his own volition. Those who seem positioned as "in-the-know", key players, people with something to say. What do you know, he demands of them; less a question, more a hunger. A sharp, deep-seated yearning to not feel like he's in last place, like he's late to the party. What have you accomplished, is the hair-trigger insult, lingering below his questions.

There is the sea, and he spends time skipping stones. A burst of something explosive, and the rock spins and hops far, far into the distance. The thrum of his mind betrays something calculating and attentive; what seems to be an idle way to pass his time is equal parts an act as it is him literally watching the rest of the nest. Observing. Filing away words and actions and, ugh, even stray thoughts. It might be kind of creepy, it might be kind of obtrusive. ]

[perroquet]

[ Being watched has never really bothered Gildor. At least, not while he's playing. He loves that spotlight attention, even if it's just while he's going through repetitive practice. He sits on a bench of driftwood, between the sea and the hill back up to their camp. Just far enough that his unrefined attempt at fiddling with gloves on won't bother too many envoys, but close enough to be seen.

While he can't feel a gaze on him, he can tell that one of the new members is transfixed. Their symbiote is fresh and loud in his thoughts, and it's making him self-conscious in a way he isn't used to. So much that he stops halfway through a capriccio, lowers his bow, and stamps the ground with one boot.

It's difficult to read the vibrations in the ground when that ground is sand, but he turns to face where he thinks the newcomer is standing. ]

Hello! Come to have a listen?

[ Though his face is covered in veils, his voice - and connection - are cheerful, open, and welcoming. ]

Helen Magnus | OTA

[lifewithoutrest]

The Station

[ This isn't the first time Helen has found herself waking on the station, nor is the distinct feeling that something is missing an unfamiliar one. But there is a stillness about the station she finds ever so slightly unsettling as her mind briefly reaches out into the quiet.

Well, it isn't entirely quiet. Others are waking around her and not all of them have had the benefit of going through the experience previously.

Her mind is calm, quiet. If only she were better at masking the heaviness that hints at someone who's lived a far too long life. Still, she's a friendly face, and almost unwaveringly polite. ]

It can be a bit much, can't it?

[ The voice is kind, softly British. She really does feel for those experiencing the hatch for the first time, knowing how overwhelming it can all be. ]

Hyrypia (Arrival)

[ They arrive in the middle of the night, masked by the darkness and their heavy disguises, and despite herself, Helen feels a certain warmth being back among familiar minds. Once safely back behind closed doors, Helen wastes little time stripping the excess layers of clothing. It's strange to be here again, to be connected to so many others, but it's also welcoming. She has a feeling there's a lot of catching up to do. Maybe someone could give her the highlights. ]

Hyrypia (Wildcard)

[ When given the chance to mingle with the locals, Helen readily takes it. She tries her hand at the jewelry making, but she finds she's ill-suited for it. The potters seem more talkative, and she spends more time in their stalls, watching those more skilled than herself shape dishes and clay pots. But what she seems most interested in are the weavers. She'll spend a great deal of her time watching them work and listening to their stories.

When evening falls, she's drawn back to the beach. So bustling with activity during the day, it's quiet and empty in the nighttime. She appreciates the hint of solitude, even if she can still feel her connection to the others under the buzz of her own thoughts. ]

arrival

[shiro2hero]

[When the new faces arrive... he doesn't say much. Doesn't peel himself out of the corner he's stashed himself away in for the time being. Keeping his mental walls up, keeping himself held back. It's safer for anyone new. His brain is a mess of worry. Of tension held in suspense.]

[No one else needs that.]

[He does crack an eye open as people start entering. It's not the face he was expecting to see. But even so--]

Helen... right?

[theycalledmeacurse]

I { day :025-:026 | station 72 } some days i can't get out of my head, that's just the dark side of me

[ That peace in waking up is the first Rogue has known in years. It wars with the knowledge that she should be alarmed by the tubing she's connected to, by her confinement in the compartment, but she belongs here, doesn't she? If only that peace wasn't chased away by that surge of emotion when the tube is pulled free -- it's like whenever she borrowed telepathy, the rampage of emotions and distant chatter not entirely of her own creation. But after a moment, that too feels familiar, and it takes a good moment of internal processing to realize that those aren't from the psyches still safely shut away behind her shields. She's connected to something--mentally, and it feels as if this is how it's supposed to be.

She pulls herself out of the pod and finds those white clothes; it takes only a second of consideration before she's quickly pulling off the form-fitting grey suit she'd been forced to wear in the lab, the many zippers and fastenings giving her little trouble. The pieces are stuffed into the cubby where she'd found the white clothing she pulls on instead, but it's a pity that she has to keep the grey boots and grey gloves. They look like dark smudges against all that pristine white, but she can't hurt anyone here with selfish carelessness. Not with all the blood she already has on her hands.

After visiting the gardens to speak with Cathaway, she'll explore, wandering through the halls at random, committing the turns to memory as she goes. It's not long before she stumbles upon the training wing and--

She can't help herself. She runs on the track until her lungs burn and her body aches, which unfortunately isn't long at all thanks to her years of confinement, and then she finds the pool. It isn't wise to swim alone, but that's all she's ever been able to do, so she takes advantage of the solitude, dons the provided suit (a simple charcoal one-piece with white piping), and spends what might be hours floating in those waters.

When the days wears heavily on her, she returns to the gardens to sleep, settling in among that sense of life in the hopes of escaping the nightmares that constantly plague her. It doesn't work, unfortunately, and any of her broodmates may catch residual impressions of being held captive in a metal prison, waiting for a rescue that never comes. When 'morning' dawns, she won't have slept much, but that doesn't sway her focus on reviewing the information provided about their mission. ]

II { day :026 | the red coast } when the lights go out, I need to know, are you afraid of the dark?

[ It's like the first day of school, a nervousness eating away at Rogue beneath her mental shields, hints of it leaking out as they arrive on Hyrypia. Worry about the others in the Nest, whether they'll accept her or if she'll be rejected like so many times before, and worry about the mission. They have to succeed in their endeavour, there isn't any other option. At least she feels safe wrapped in the layers of her costume, with not an inch of skin exposed; everyone will be safe this way, and there won't be any accidents. It is strange though, to not be able to see any of the others, to lose the slight tells that human beings have. Relying on the mental connection they all have to each other isn't something she'd wanted to do so quickly, not when her shields are still fragmented, but there's no helping it.

Hanging back from the group and observing seems the best way to approach the situation, for the time being anyway. If she's to be accepted by them and make herself useful, she needs to judge the group dynamic as best she can. This isn't the X-Men, and there's nowhere here for her to run if things don't work out. This is her purpose now -- she refuses to mess it up. But as focused as she tries to be on the groups of hosts assembling, it can't sway her sheer joy at being out under the open sky again, a joy in freedom that will reach out to anyone who mentally comes near her. ]

III { day :027 | the red coast } if you ever ever call my name, you will find out that we're both the same

[ Being out among people, so many people, does absolute wonders for Rogue's mental state. It's been years since she saw people just living their lives, going about daily business and... not fearing that those lives might end at any moment. These people are happy, they're content with their existence, they have passion for their crafts, and she drinks it all in like water after a long thirst. The weavers, the jewelry makers, the fishermen, she visits all of them, watching and listening and learning, but only partaking when prompted. ]

2

[shiro2hero]

[When the new minds arrive, he's shut himself off. Pulled back as much as possible. As he always does when people arrive. Because it's always safer that way. It's always better for them. Especially given how worried he is over Sam, over Bucky and Pidge. They don't need to feel that on top of everything else assaulting their senses.]

[He's in the housing, when they get there. Awake as usual. Pulled up on a bench to watch stars in the small hours of the morning. It keeps him awake.]

[Someone, though, is basically radiating happiness. Which is nice, considering the stress bouncing through his own brain. He offers her a nod, a sort of half-smile. It's strained, but real enough.]

Hey. Nice to hear someone's in a good mood.

joshua bright | COME AT ME, BRO.

[whereabout]

station: hatch
[ It's a lot of feelings for someone who's spent most of his life running from them.

For the first few seconds after he opens his eyes, Joshua doesn't move. It's paralyzing; he isn't sure what's his and what isn't and it probably doesn't matter, because he's not sure how to handle any of them -

He promised Estelle he was done running, but he can't help it. He has exactly two coping mechanisms he can rely on, and one of them - her - isn't an option.

So he flips the switch.

And then he starts moving a lot faster, as his priorities start lining up in the most logical order he sees them. Get up. Get out of the pod. Get armed. But as he checks in the cubby and pulls out knives, smoke bombs, sleeping drugs - his hand brushes something else behind them, and for a few long seconds (too long, he shouldn't be wasting time) he's standing there staring at a harmonica and a letter in his hands, before he snaps out of it and pockets them both.

The next order of business is clear enough, even if the path to accomplish them is less so. Find someone. Get answers. Whoever they are, they went to some trouble to get him here alive and in one piece. He's not going to trust it to blind altruism. Things don't work that way.

(Except when they do, and they did, and he was eleven years old and waking up in Cassius Bright's house wondering why he wasn't dead, and nobody had a better answer for him than "things just worked out that way.")

Things don't work that way. There's a purpose to his being here, and when he hears (feels?) the voice coming from the garden -

Well, now he knows where his next stop should be. ]



hyrypia: just chillin'
[ Joshua's not silent on the trip over, exactly, but he's not particularly forthcoming, either; he speaks when he's spoken to or when he's seeking information, and he gets straight to the point in either case.

He's much the same when the new arrivals begin to integrate themselves with the hosts already on-site; if he approaches to ask you a question, it's direct, to the point, and he doesn't follow conversational tangents very far before he gets back to the matter at hand.

And when he's not seeking information, he mostly stays away. Sometimes the beach, sometimes the orchard, anywhere he has a hope of finding some mental quiet.

His mental presence doesn't draw much attention to itself, seeming calm and even enough at a glance...although anyone who brushes a bit closer won't have to look very hard to find the chaos under that icy veneer.

He's having a hard enough time trying to ignore his own feelings, thank you very much. He doesn't need to get anyone else's tangled up in there. ]



wildcard?
[ I am open to all kinds of shenanigans. If you're not sure something will work, prod me and we can talk, but if you wanna just throw me a curveball I'm game for rolling with it! c: ]

chillin'

[greentech]

[ Pidge can... sort of feel the quiet, if not hear it, from one of their newcomers. He's been keeping to himself and she's been keeping an eye on him. She's not always the most friendly and sociable herself, but there's something about his aloofness that bothers her. Just a little. He can't just... avoid everything and everyone. Can he?

So she finds him the morning after their arrival, before the day's hustle and bustle has really begun to pick up. She gives him a little nod. ]

Hey. How - uh - how are you settling in here...?

darlene || ota

[nastygram]

[ 1- the Station - HATCH. ]

[Darlene is freaking the fuck out.

It started in the pod she woke up in. Short breaths, echoing weirdly around the enclosed space. Living her Matrix fantasy, which is to say, her hand was shaking almost too bad to pull the plug on herself. That hurt. The interior cacophony of noise swelling in crescendo, to a tune she didn't recognize. And then she sat inside with her hands over her mouth, trying to get control. Crying, a little, which she hated, and at least that was something she could get her hand around. Hate, as a totem, is pretty good.

Now she's out in the room, staring dazedly at the pods all around her. All walls down as she takes it all in, panic oozing like a grease stain. The room looks like if someone was going to build a sci-fi temple to the neutral pleasant calm vibe that a doctor's office tries to cultivate. It looks like hushed voices, but all around Darlene, there's noise: other people, climbing out of pods. Voices pressing in on her. All of her shit is in her backpack and her backpack is on her back and this is all too fucking much, so the moment she IDs a door that looks like a way out, she books it, ignoring everyone.

The hallway is a gentle white slope like a tunnel through snow. Darlene bites down hard on her lip and walks, quickly, even though she doesn't know where she's fucking going. Her hands are curled tightly around the straps of her backpack and her mind is tearing through possibilities, explanations, panic.

After a few minutes, she realizes that she isn't alone. Someone is behind her, walking. The possibility of coincidence does not even enter into her brain; animal panic seizes first. Then she gets pissed, the best defense. Turns on her heel.]

Fuck off, psycho! Quit following me!

[The more unfamiliar familiarity thrumming in the pushback she gets from the other person, the angrier she'll be. No one is welcome here.]

[ 2- the Station - DEPARTURE PREP. ]

Hey.

[Darlene has already gone through the contents of the pre-filled pack. She works quick. Now she's staring jealously over at the gauzier scarves provided to her neighbor. Her scarves are rough-spun, and closer to the color of baby shit. She holds out one of the scarves now.]

Trade me.

[If it sounds more like a demand than a request, that's because it is. Darlene is less of a wreck than she was just a few hours ago. Not happy, not comfortable--but she has her walls up, and she's briskly guarded with everyone. She's done her homework, read the background materials on her Epad or whatever they call it. She's looked at the corpse delivery and decided she isn't going to fuck with that. These outfits are whatever, way more billowy than she likes. Limited options means she's got to get picky over colors.]

[ 3- HYRYPIA - THE RED COAST, various. ]

[Darlene is shit at keeping up the disguise of modesty. She plays along in public, for now, but the cloying layers of fabric are way too irritating to breathe through, so every chance she gets, she breaks away from the crowds and ducks down alleys or into walled gardens so she's free to shove whatever layers she can to clear up her face and get some real air. Anyone that looks twice at her doing this, she'll give them a terse command: move along, dillhole. There is nothing to see here.

Darlene is also shit at pretending not to care about technology. She's not some total neophilic geek, she doesn't stand around mouth breathing and pissing herself over new releases--but she is still interested. It's an alien freaking planet and they're into tech as some sci-fi magic power hybrid. That means whatever examples of technomancy she can get an eyeful of, she does. And if some workstation by the docks is left unattended, Darlene can't help herself. She waits, first, makes sure no one is watching. Then she steps in place and starts looking, running her fingers carefully over buttons and keypads. The shitty thing is that the real power is all in the user, and she has read-only credentials at best. She doesn't stick around for long, but she's a frequent haunter nonetheless.

At night, Darlene sits out on the beach, purposefully alone, stripped down to the first layers of her disguise. The scarves and vests and everything else she keeps balled up and stuffed in her backpack, which sits beside her on the alien rocks. Darlene has precious few cigarettes to her name, but she gets one out and lights up, her back to the wind. When she exhales, it's shaky.]

>> 1

[theycalledmeacurse]

[ The panicking angerball in front of Rogue is starting to really grate on her senses. She's not used to feeling things like this constantly, the myriad collection of psyches in her mind kept behind carefully constructed doors within the southern plantation house in her mind, their memories and emotions alike quarantined behind those walls. Not that her shields are all that stable at the moment -- recent experiments in the lab have left her feeling raw and mentally battered, and she's eager to get down to the planet and embrace her new freedom.

The woman in front of her does not share her excitement, apparently. The sudden outburst as the other woman turns isn't unexpected, but still a bit jarring. Rogue just stars at her for a moment, her striped brown hair tucked back behind her ears, the white perfectly matching the clothes she wears that have been provided by the station (save for her own grey gloves and boots). When that moment passes, though, she just frowns slightly and informs her fellow host in a smooth southern drawl ]

Some of us are just trying to walk here, sugar, there's no reason to get all upset.

( closed to her smol son )

[wille]

[extradite]

[ The sand, the sea, the storm — the classical soul-wrenching metaphor of genius, passing time and a life in turmoil. Truly, nothing could hope to transform the scenic view of an alien seascape from postcard goldmine to awkward horror show, except —

Except —

— ...Ikari Shinji, fulfilling his heroic destiny of shaming every opportunity to gaze deeply and meaningfully into the horizon and make some grand pronouncement. Instead, he's glare-guilting his proxy mommy figure into a silent trek down the beach, gainfully crushing, killing and destroying the rows of footsteps left behind by fellow tourists before them.

It's dark, he supposes — or 'evening' — or whatever period of time and inclination suits dimming light and minimal expectations of being seen outright, down to their damning details. Subtlety, after all. This young grasshopper is learning. ]

Misato... you're a girl. [ Newsflash. This is a grand reveal. ] So... please help me. Help me make one of those... shell chains girls like. For a girl. A woman. Whatever she is.

[ And this, despite appearances, is shrewd. ]

Aloy

[huntsmachines]

I. Welcome Aboard DAY :026

[ Aloy is naturally at the clandestine welcome of the new arrivals. She stands off to the side in her blue and red robes, watching from underneath layers of silk and leather with a sense almost of detachment. It feels strange, feeling new minds joinging them here. Not the first such wave of reinforcements that Aloy has seen and likely not the last either. She sways a little, feeling a little anxious and confined. She wants to be out of these robes and feel wind on her skin again. Those who brush her mind might get a sense of that, a brief flash of mountainous vistas. What can she do here? She picks someone out, especially someone new, and takes a step forward. ]

Welcome. I'm sure you have a lot of questions.

II. Open DAY :027

[ DUring the day, Aloy can be found doing a few things. One of them is walking up and down the rocky beach, staring out across the sea. It's the first ocean she's truly seen (even if it's red) and she's fascinated by the way it seems to just go on forever until it meets the sky. Even the largest lakes she's seen didn't feel like this!

You'll also find her quietly sitting among the tents working on embroidery that she's learned from Lakshmi. It's simple work, though the stitches need to be precise and fine. It's something to focus on and gives her something to do with her hands and the anxious, annoyed energy that comes from being stuck doing nothing for so long. Occasionally she mutters or curses and has to undo a stitch to fix something, and these outbursts might draw some attention. ]

2

[shiro2hero]

You okay?

[At some point, tired of butting up against new arrivals and sorting his head out among them all, Shiro left them to their own devices, in order to seek out more familiar minds. Safer minds. Ones who already know him, and ones he knows he doesn't have to tiptoe around.]

[Aloy is one of them.]

[He's just surprised to hear her swearing. So it naturally gets his interest.]

( for kaji )

[redheadcarrier]

[ Asuka doesn't know what to say to him anymore. The illusion of him being anything close to a parental figure is long gone by now. So is her idea that she might be able to find adulthood - validation - in his arms. She knows that it's a foolish thought. A child's thought. But it still tugs at her. The ache of raw emotion is still there. His "death" wasn't all that long ago to her memory. Even with him around, the childish delusions of love and romance and the ache of that loss have mingled into something that probably isn't good for her.

She holds onto it, though. Even if she sees less of him. Even if she knows that he's gone back to Misato and that once again, someone she thinks (highly) of has left her for another. It's difficult to trace the line of her own emotions and introspection has never been her strong suit. She has others to lean on now, healthier ways to find outlets, but the siren call of the familiar is always there. It'd be easy to slip back into that role where she chases him. Where she tries to find something (anything) in his words and actions that will tell her that she's worthwhile. That she's valid.

That she's loved.

So she follows him one day. They're in this strangely peaceful seaside town, even with the blood red sea to remind her of her own failings and the end of the world. She tries to shut it out and focuses on following in his footsteps, trying to think of what she's going to say to him. Of what she can say, now that he's locked back in his world of adulthood and she's seemingly still trying to find a way to it that won't leave her gasping and drowning, like a fish out of water.

She is not the most subtle tail and he probably knows that she's there long before they set foot on the beach. But she continues anyway, as if she hasn't been seen and as if this is some sort of surprise. So she pretends as she follows his footsteps down the sand and when he actually glances back she "allows" herself to be seen and she darts forward, robes fluttering behind her as he tries to catch-up. ]

Kaji-!

[ As if this is chance. She's falling into old habits.

She hates herself a little more for it. ]

I haven't been able to talk to you in forever! [ As if they're friends. ]

[ryohji]

[ it could pass as an inside joke, the game of willful ignorance they place, if they were closer in age and more equally akin in life experiences. this is not the first time he's pretended her away, and this is not the first time she's pretended he simply hasn't noticed her yet. old habits, die never.

he lets her be seen because he has no other choice. there are many reasons their conversations have been few and far between as of late. they're covered in robes now, so she can't so easily exploit the visual expressions (and the validation it confers) in all his markers of adulthood and her fledgling adolescence. and she, of course, has bigger fish to fry - shinji,
and misato, and her dead broodmate, and anyone else she deems to have failed her as they certainly have. ]

It's because you forgot about me. [ kaji makes no connection between the cherry red of the seas and the world he left prematurely. his voice is the cheery dispassion she is so used to. maybe she hates it by now. ] And you're just now realizing it, right? [ the freedom in letting him go. ]