[MISSION LOG] BRAVE NEW WORLD

[onemind]

CHARACTERS: All
WHERE: The Station + Concordia
WHEN: Day :000 - ???
SUMMARY: Leaving the Station; the arrival and first days on Concordia. Concordia pt.1.
WARNINGS: Will update as necessary.

IT'S EARLY IN THE DAY and something feels strange. It’s not unlike when a new Host - not one of your brood, but close enough to feel the tug - comes awake on the Nesting Deck. But it’s just the initial tug. There’s no noise, no hum of confusion or volume. Today, it’s just there: a sensation of presence that a moment ago wasn’t. Soon after follows a prickling awareness of urgency. A small electric bolt through the mind. Cathaway doesn’t use words in the mind, but her meaning is nonetheless easily understood: come to her on the hangar; your presence is required.

On the hangar there is a sleek, low profile transport ship. Before it stand Cathaway and Prince and in their company is a stranger: a short woman with warm skin and dark hair, wearing unfamiliar colorful clothes and a quick, pleasant smile. You’ve never seen her before, but you know she’s a Host.

“This is them?” Her voice is light and sweet. Prince, occupied by a databank, glances up at her then nods once. There’s a tension in his shoulder and through his jaw - a distinct contrast to Cathaway and the stranger who lack both.

“Lovely.” Her tone is breezy and easy, delighted. “Hello, it is so nice to meet you all! My name is Carata. My partner and I have been away on duty for a few months, but it’s become clear that we need backup on our assignment. We are hoping you can help.” Carata motions to the mission equipment in neat kits at her feet. There is one for each young Host.

Prince folds his pad down into its smallest form. His expression is set and serious.

“You will be joining Carata and Nirad on the planet below to assist them with their mission. Your datapbank will provide you with information about the planet and the city where you will be stationed. This mission is covert and the planet itself has no contact with other planetary races, so you will need to do your utmost to blend in.”

Cathaway sharpens slowly beside them: a dull pencil being sharpened to a point as her attention curves back to this place, this instance. She unfolds her hands. “You’ll be provided with an earpiece that should allow you to interface with the local technology and a fake identity for your cover on world. Please mind both carefully and be sure to keep your databanks offline. It would be inconvenient if they were networked while on planet.” From the way she says it, it sounds like ‘inconvenient’ might be an understatement. “This mission shouldn’t be inherently life threatening. Your primary goal is to investigate the anti-android movement. Carata and Nirad will be able to tell you what your databanks do not.”

“You should listen to them,” Prince adds. “Rely on their experience and knowledge to help you succeed in your task. Be mindful, and treat them with the respect they have earned.”

At this Carata laughs. It’s a bright, joyful sound, her hands coming up to clasp in front of her chest, “Please, teacher, you are too serious. I am sure they will do very well. Come along then! Gather your things; we must leave as soon as possible. I do hate to leave Nirad alone for too long.”

Turning her back to the Hosts, Carata takes Cathaway’s hand for a moment Nothing is said, but there’s the distinct impression of something passing between them. They release their grip, then Carata turns to Prince. She places her hands on his shoulders and goes up to her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. He doesn’t return the gesture, but those with sharp eyes will note he does lean down slightly to make her job easier.

Gather your gear, get anything from your rooms you might not want to leave behind. In two hours, everyone attending the mission will be buckled or strapped into the transport as Carata readies the ship for takeoff. She explains, neatly and concisely, what they believe the enemy to be doing in Concordia. Then, with a turning of the deck, the ship is freed from the embrace of Station 72.

It will be a long time before you see this place again.

     I. THE WHEELS ON THE BUS
The flight to Concordia is surprisingly short. By the time Carata's finished her explanation, you've passed into a new universe. It comes with a strange wave of something akin to nausea. Outside the transport's starboard viewports lays Opia in all it's glory: a beautiful blue marble speckled with sixteen landmasses and swathed in thing clouds like spun sugar. From this distance, clusters of light burn from specific points on the continents like a map of grounded constellations. As one of the great megacities of Opia comes curling from around the edge of the planet, the transport ship begins to descend.

Atmospheric entry is smooth. The transport drops at the outskirts of Concordia on what is, hilariously, some kind of large parking garage. It has engaged the most sophisticated of its cloaking technology to do this and Carata urged everyone to disembark quickly so the ship can return to orbiting the planet before it's detected.

"It will be back," she says flippantly. "When we've finished our job."

The ship departs. It's quiet and still for a handful of minutes; Carata seems unconcerned and gives little in the way of direction or instruction. The city flashes around them - bright lights and neon masking the fading of natural light - and nearby, a roadway hums. Eventually the sound of a car pitches louder. A set of headlamps shear from the long line of cars and in moments a long, squarish transport van pulls up and parks at the top of the garage. The side door slides open to admit everyone. In the driver's seat is an android - shining metal and cheerful as it greets every host by name. Beside the android in the van's passenger seat sits a tall, dark skinned man who - much like Carata - is obviously a host.

Welcome to Concordia.

     II. HOME SWEET HOME
It's a long drive into the city. The buildings get taller, the lights get brighter, the streets get busier. There are throngs of people on the street, dogged by endless rows of neon bright advertisements. Traffic is either miserable or flowing depending on the neighborhood and trams run on tracks fifty feet or more above the roadways. Streams of people files from the pavement to the subways, countless numbers of escalators leading down.

When the bus finally stops, it's in front of a building as tall as any others. The signs here mark this section of the city as BETA BLOCK and when you get out and into the building lobby you find that the door opens for you automatically. A chime rings through the interfacing ear piece and when you enter the elevators, the only floor accessible to you is NUMBER EIGHTEEN. When you disembark, a kind voice welcomes you by home in your ear. There are a large number of rooms here in Bearing - stake your claim, everyone! Nirad and Carata already have a couple of rooms in the Southwest corner of the building, but the rest are open. Time to settle in!

     III. FEET ON THE GROUND
You're given the rest of the night to sleep (or...whatever), but by 9AM the next morning everyone is awoken by Carata's voice in their head. She's clearly not shy of using her symbiotic connection.

( Good morning! I know this is quite a lot to get used to. I believe this is your first true assignment? But I have always believed that the best way to learn something new is to jump right in. ) The words are accompanied by the sensation of someone clapping their hands together, a cheerful kind of practicality. ( You’ve been given a credit card. I encourage you to go out today and learn what you can about this place. Talk to people. Listen to the news. Be sure to remember your cover identity, and don’t hesitate to call if you find yourself in trouble. )

There is nothing pressing to the suggestion, just the sensation- light. Airy. Fun. She switches track after a moment, a thoughtful addition: ( There is also a rally in town today. It’s being run by The True Children of Opia, some minor little hate group-- ) She seems to wave off the unsavory aspects as she forges ahead, ( They aren’t affiliated with Humans + Humans 1st, but they do have very similar ideologies and it is quite probable that there is overlap in their membership. If you would rather, it is also quite likely that there will be protestors there as well, both members of Mind Life and those who are adamant about pursuing digital resurrection. Please do be careful, though, sometimes those rallies can be a little... ) An image of an oily substance catching flame, quickly and hotly.

( Whatever you chose, simply do your best to get your bearings. ) She seems to realize the unintended joke there, given the name of their current residence, and a bright happy flash of color accompanies it. What a delightful surprise. ( Prepare yourself for what is to come. Nirad and I will continue our investigation in the meantime. )

---

((OOC Notes: This is the catchall log for the first stages of the Concordia mission. You'll notice there's no set ending date, so use this log however you like - alternatively, feel free to start your own logs in the setting! Don't worry; we'll be keeping a close eye on things, so if something big starts to happen that necessitates a new long, we'll make sure to keep our bases covered and all of y'all updated. Just be aware that dating forward farther than :010 may get a little dicey.

If you have any mission specific questions, direct them to the OOC post here.))

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Comments

[unsea]

[ Respect, and a competitive, near-resentful edge, linger within him when he considers Cathaway's existence - were he aware of Ilde's own feelings towards Cathaway, he might find that his own are similar. They are the same feelings he felt towards the dead woman, currently entombed in the Station's crypt until further notice. He has not replaced one with the other, but something is shattered inside his head at her death, and he has pressed those foundering emotions towards someone who is yet living and breathing. ]

Cathaway is undoubtedly more experienced in the matters of the Nest.

[ That's that they're called now. He has gone from leader, to member. His pride surges: fitful and resentful of such a perceived demotion. ]

"Hidden potential", is such a curious way of putting it.

[erbier]

Unreachable, perhaps. Had she left me where I was, even before the Enemy came, my only destiny was to die.

[ Waiting for the cup run over, for the fire that burned inside of the Godking to finally exceed all restraint. The world already burned, perpetual, smoke clogged skies, but there was a ragnarok to come in which there would be nothing left to so much as even smolder. ]

[unsea]

How must it have been, for a savior to reach forth and offer an escape from destiny itself.

[ It makes him wonder, what sort of history would result within their worlds - all of their worlds, but his most of all - without their presence. He does not know the importance of anyone else, but his own existence in the context of his country had been as vital, as essential, as hers. The woman in his mind's eye. Bathed in light, white-haired, passionate - his mirror. ]

Is not destiny inherently mutable, then? Given the right tool.

[ His turn to posit a question to her, in the hopes of witnessing how she reacts. ]

[erbier]

[She looks at him, such a thoughtful gaze that pierces right to the depth of the question he asks her. She does not care if perhaps it was rhetorical, it was a worthy question. She was not raised in a dogma which believed in such things. Destiny was fixed. Death was the destiny of all, and it was implied to be brutal. What was mutable was how much one might suffer before that point... She contemplates this idea deeply, even without his provocation. It shows in her eyes.

When she answers, she lowers them once more. There is a sorrowful fondness to it all. She had loved the assured instrument of her demise. Seen the mortal man beneath the Godking, a man who would lay his head at her knee and weep at times, so sorry for what he had done. So in love with her innocence. ]

It seemed as if destiny itself had reached out to me. That I had earned a second chance, by following the mandates set by my Godking...

[ An inhale, an exhale, deep and nourishing. ]

Seeing the multitude of means and beliefs in the universe, I question that certainty. Perhaps convincing me of my... ascendance was only convenient.

[unsea]

[ He was assured at a young age, that his destiny belonged to him. That no other, besides himself, was possessed of the ability to become the master his fate, or to command his soul. His heart, he was instructed to hide away - and dutifully, he did. In doing so, he took the first steps of the sovereign - polar opposite of the supplicant. She speaks of mandates set forth by another, and the thought of obedience is so foreign to him, unless it is given to another as means to an end. ]

I, too, once served a king.

[ He does not admit that he had served many kings, over many countless years; that he, wrapped in falsity, was biding his time. Like a serpent. ]

Forgive me if I do you wrong, as I do not understand the ways of your world nor your heart. But, I learned what we are certain of, we must create for ourselves.

[ For a moment, he closes his eyes, his teeth snagging at his bottom lip - a boyish gesture - and he spreads his gloved fingers, apologetically. ]

I don't mean to lecture. You remind me a little of a woman I knew.

[erbier]

[ There is something almost shy in her face, hesitant. When she describes her past with words, there are few who understand. Her brood tolerates her well through the shape of emotions, but even the majority of them do not truly see the meaning of her sycophancy. Other broods even less so. The Darkling's statement that perhaps he understands is unexpected, mistrusted, but she listens. There is a great gaping gap between what she knows, but the chess pieces are at least similar. The set dressing easy to comprehend between one to another. ]

I do forgive. [ It seems right to say so, to acknowledge that their experiences are different but to appreciate his empathy. ] Do you mind, telling me more of this woman?

[ His ability to hear her own experiences with understanding rather than rejection makes her feel as though she can ask. As though she would like to offer some understanding in kind. ]

[unsea]

[ If only because they both belonged to a court, in one way or another, he could understand the language she used and the direction from which she approached. Ilde seemed to look from the bottom to the top, and he was so very used from looking down upon others. In many, many ways. Being beholden to another, however, is not something new to him. Though he rebuked his king, in the end. Usurped him and sent he and the remains of the royal family running into the night.

Does he mind, telling Ilde more? Of course not. Politely, he locates a surface upon which he can lean, and gestures with his hands as he speaks. Tight, delicate little motions to emphasize one word or another, spoken in an accent of curling vowels and thick consonants: ] Her name was Genya. [ His tone suggests she is not dead, despite his referring to her in the past. ]

She was, like all of us at Os Alta, a soldier. Powerful, beautiful. She was favored by the tsar and the tsaritsa for her unique talents. The king and queen dressed her in livery and used her the way monarchs use their subjects who could not speak out against them. It isolated her from her peers. They drove her to near madness, such was her grief from their betrayal.

[ There is something deeply sad, in his eyes and in the frowning corners of his mouth. It suggests that her story is not the first of its kind. ]

[erbier]

[ Ah, a true court with a king and queen in finery, with servants to abuse and factions of intrigue. Ilde smiles sadly, acknowledgement of the concept, all though not fully understanding. ]

Dreus was mad, and he made us madmen with him.

[ Perhaps a surprisingly blunt thing for her to say, but it wasn't as if she was ever delusional about her king. But awareness had not changed the realities of the situation. ]

[unsea]

Such is wont, when madmen are made like gods. [ Whether they are self-made or raised to such heights does not matter.

He respects her candor, however deeply he loves his tales and his stories. A result of their different worlds, indeed. ]

In the end, she was given the choice between rescue or reimbursement. Excluding our unknown enemy's involvement, do you think you would have chosen either?

[erbier]

[ His acceptance is... interesting. Her stories make many of the other hosts sad, confused, angry at the cruelty of it all. There are a few who grasp mad kings or dead worlds, but never quite to the degree which truly eases her sense of isolation from them all. This one... is comforting, in a way. His question is not. ]

One cannot be... reimbursed for suffering.

[unsea]

[ He grasps the idea of mad men and martyrs, men driven by ambition and single-minded desires. Molding the world into their own images, praying to the bones of every forgotten saint, lost and buried in overgrown vales, twined into the nests of gargantuan birds, lost on the dark shores of the Unsea - among shrieking monsters that were once men. It's not a far leap from that to mad kings, dead realms. ]

Vengeance is its own currency.

[ Something sharp in grey eyes, as his mouth curls into a smile. ]

[erbier]

[ She catches the look on his face, watches it without reaction for a moment before she pushes to her feet. She strokes the soft tail of her braid thoughtfully. ]

I will have to think on that.

[ Not offended, not quite dismissive, but she is excusing herself from such a dangerous conversation. For now. ]