[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

hawkbro.......

[unsea]

[ He woke up at the Station with the second member of their brood, and had grown to know scraps and shreds of information about the first - the one who had arrived before them. The Darkling doesn't have to pretend he can imagine what it must have felt like for Clint, to be the only one of his "kind" aboard the Station. Not even a little. And here they finally are, after hours - no, days? - of dancing around one another's presence.

He meets him in the kitchen. Neutral ground, hardly intimate or personal, considering the foot traffic that travels through it at odd hours of the day. The Darkling has his thumbs dug into some... pomegranate-looking fruit, something hard and full of juice, and is extracting the innards of it of it over the sink. What a mess. He lifts his head from his task, when Clint finally arrives. ]

This enemy of ours travels fast, it seems. [ They've arrived only, what? Days apart? ] You're not happy about it?

[cognitived]

[ Neutral ground, yeah, Clint isn't unaware of what this means. It's -- well, it's actually a good move. He's got the instincts of an assassin, even years away from SHIELD work, and he can't say this whole thing is making him feel uncomfortably trapped. The kitchens aren't safe ground, but there isn't really a single place here that is. Not really.

So he feels the still new awareness that says someone is before him, someone that belongs, stitched in alongside him. He knows what it means. Still -- Clint isn't expecting the Darkling. ]

What? [ He pauses, confusion giving way to slow sweeping understanding. ] Oh-- nah, that ain't it.

[ Clint's mouth twists, a wry little smile, even as he slips around the Darkling to try to hustle coffee out of the not entirely hi-tech coffee maker. His gaze slips, tracking down to that fruit, the Darkling's fingers slick with red as he shifts through the chaff. It's enough, with the unease another person nestled alongside his mind brings, for a sharp You have heart to cut through him. Thin and slender like one of Nat's knives, cutting to the quick and slipping away. ]

Reinforcements are fine, it's just the whole--[ A tap of his fingers against temple. ]--thing.

[unsea]

[ The common area is littered with the Nest's individual presences. While their rooms provide some sort of personal haven, there is always, always their connection. It's like a stain on his person, something he can't scrub out of his head the way he could scrub the fruit's insides off of his hands. Something bursts between his fingers, and he pulls a thumb free to reposition and tear into the thing, peeling it apart. At least he's contained the mess by leaning over the sink. ]

Ahh. [ He says, in response to Clint's gesture. There is that, indeed.

-- and his own eyes are drawn down to his hands, unconsciously following the path of Clint's, as if suddenly aware of the macabre result of his gutting innocent fruit. ]

So, you're saying that you don't enjoy sharing your innermost thoughts and feelings among strangers.

[ Was that a joke? Oh, that was a joke. His mouth has twisted the way Clint's has, humor dry, but present. He nods his head towards the machine that Clint is operating, and the promising smell of coffee. ] Would you make me a cup as well? If we're to share our awareness, I'd prefer to get to know you as you'd say to someone who doesn't share a mind.

[ So. Over a cup of coffee. ]

[cognitived]

[ Honestly, even in his room Clint can't escape the threads of these connections. Not since he's sharing with Sam, trusting his teammate to have his back in a place far from home. But that's easier, familiar, in a way. They've known each other for a while now, fought and bled and killed together. It's completely different from the clinging threads that linger, wisps of thought and emotion, far too many people curling in his mind. Still, Clint treats it as he does most things: he ignores it. Sets it aside until the time when he'll be forced to confront it all.

But for now, there's a snort of laughter, mouth curving with a little smile. Tiny, yeah, but real enough. Yeah, maybe that was one dry joke, but Clint's no stranger. ]

Might actually beat out the DMV.

[ It would probably help if the person he's telling this joke knew what a DMV was. Still, Clint catches that little gesture, and some kernel of goodwill kindles beneath his breast, some edge of impossible familiarity. He pulls down another mug, settling it on the counter next to his own. ]

Yeah, sure. [ He pours their coffee with easy motions, putting the pot back in place when he's done. There's another glance at the Darkling's hands, and Clint moves, opening the fridge. ] How d'you take yours?

[ Which is to say, he's agreeing to their little meet cute. And also he might be reenacting that one time Fury decided being a barista was a great cover. The job was completed, yeah, but man -- even years later Clint can't look at a Starbucks the same way. ]

[unsea]

[ The Dee-Em-Vee. Indeed, he has no idea what that is - nor does he seem aware of what motor vehicles might be.

They have horse-drawn carriages and Squaller-powered airships, back home. The creation of better gunpowder and more accurate guns, more dangerous weapons and swifter transport in response to a three-front war has begun to render his people obsolete. A motorized vehicle would be the death of those like him. So. A good thing that he does not know the DMV, hilarious as the image of his awaiting his number to be called to re-register his plates would be. ]

Black, if you please.

[ It's not at all surprising, considering. ]

Would you like some? [ In return, he gestures to the fruit that he's been tearing apart with an increasingly alarming focus. The small glances towards his red-soaked hands could not go unobserved. He's finished gutting the fruit, and has set the bowl of edible flesh to one side of the counter. The rest, he's washing from his hands, and red spirals down the drain until his hands have been scrubbed of the evidence. ] Supposedly, it matches well with a bitter drink.

[cognitived]

[ Hell, Clint would more than understand that. He's just a guy with a bow and arrow, in a time where such a weapon is considered more than obsolete. Sure, he's just as good with a gun, but it's the principle of the matter. SHIELD gave him a place, the Avengers gave him a home for a brief moment; this organization has yet to reveal what it wants from him.

But that's not the here and now, and it's certainly not on Clint's mind. Instead, it's a slow building calm, forged by the ritual of coffee-making, and a little bit of banter. Easy. ]

Yeah, thanks.

[ His mouth curls with a lopsided grin, easy, even as Clint sets the Darkling's coffee aside untouched. He fixes up his own, a splash of milk, no sugar, and returns the carton to the fridge. Leans up against the counter with easy grace as he watches the red spiral down the drain. Red in my ledger, he thinks with a bittersweet fondness. The coffee is hot, just enough to burn the tip of his tongue, and Clint pulls back with a wrinkle of his nose. Just his luck. ]

Clint Barton, by the way. [ Half-hazard, as far as introductions go, but enough to suffice. ]

[unsea]

[ They can do this. It's only a casual exchange of food and drink. No different than if they were meeting for mealtime in any other circumstance - despite the hum and the pulse of their immediate connection. It feels as strongly as his connection to Bellamy does, and he wonders if he is containing his thoughts and emotions well enough to keep them from Clint. Or maybe, Clint is too deeply intertwined with him for that to work. In such case, he'll have to be cautious. ]

Clint.

[ A unique name. Like the other member of their strange little "family". The smile on his face is -- wry, at best, as he finishes washing his hands and separates the fruit into two small bowls, by use of a spoon this time. He trades coffee for fruit, as promises, and pulls his own towards him, the scrape of ceramic across countertop the only sound until he takes the first pull of fresh, hot coffee. After he sets the mug down, he introduces himself. The words sound a little practiced, if only because he's -- well. ]

I -- where I come from, I am a title. The Darkling. It's my pleasure, Clint.

[ He's -- that. ]