Entry tags:

August Event Log: Part I

Who: Everyone
When: August 9 and onward
Where: An unexpected destination
What: The newcomers go on a trip and end up far from where they expected
Warnings: Potential violence. Please label your content!

NOTE: PLEASE READ THIS OOC POST FIRST.

When the time comes for the travelers to go on the off-world trip that will help restore Thisavrou, they are not alone. Others who have settled on the planets longer and come to call them home are also prepared to travel; through the Ingress and do their part. Yet when the newcomers step through, whether they stepped through the Ingress seconds or hours apart, they will find that they have arrived at the same time, and only newcomers are in sight.

What awaits them is not a land of plenty. The land is barren, and dark storms in the sky resemble those held at bay by the Ingress complex—but much, much closer. Those who traveled on the Moira may recognize the landscape; though they have come through at a different point from the crash, they are on the Midway Hub. And there is no portal back. They are trapped.

hitting the road

Though some have been here before, the Midway Hub is not as they remember it. The storms fill the sky, leaving it dark and ominous even when they are not sweeping across the landscape—but they have clearly done so in recent times, and often. While never a lush land, large patches of ground an acre or more wide looking nothing more than utterly dead; the thistle that naturally grows is brittle, black and unable to be consumed even with the usual preparations to make it edible, and here and there animal corpses are found twisted into unnatural poses, but seemingly uninjured. These places are particularly concentrated near the broken Ingresses litter the landscape. While Midway Hub as a whole may seem naturally arid, these dead spots leave no hope that anything can possibly live there again.

The travelers have two options: stay where they are, or move on. While it might seem that they've been tricked into coming here and been left abandoned, those with the technological ability to do so may detect a sign of hope: a familiar energy source, far in the distance. Although none of the Ingresses they pass will ever work again, the faint energy shows that one still-functioning Ingress lies far in the distance, days away.

Although technological scanning or impressive memory of the landscape indicates that they are not separated from their destination by one of the gates that divide the land, they are also far from the shelter of the facility at the center of the Hub. Any attempt to travel in a direction other than that of the energy signal will result in a strange disorientation after several hours, bringing individuals back to their original path as though they've gone in circles. Meanwhile, though travelers will feel the need to slake their hunger and thirst through any natural water sources they discover, wildlife they can hunt for food and any supplies they have on them, if they don't find sustenance, they'll find that they will never pass out or reach the point of starvation. Instead, they'll be left alive and awake but feeling utterly hollow.

storm front

At regular intervals, the energy storms above descend onto the land, bringing not rain but violent clashes of negative energy and thunder so loud that nothing can be heard above it. The passing of the storms leaves some strange effects. The ground is warped and rotted by their touch, even solid stone degrading to a spongy surface. The air is tepid and oddly charged. Prolonged contact with air or ground will not supply energy, however — it drains it from organic and synthetic life alike.

Those who remember their last trip to the Hub, or simply explore in the right direction, may come across the cave complexes with their glowing surfaces and streams. The light is dimmer now, a sickly green, but drinking from the streams will still restore the energy lost, for a time. This time, however, the lethargy that inevitably follows is much more severe, and the drinkers are left with a raw, empty feeling leeching in from the wasteland around.

Those who are exposed to the storms, either by finding themselves in very close proximity or even closely observing them for too long as they approach, may lose their sight, or hearing, even much of the ability to feel touch — whatever sense they used in observation. What lingers in its place is a numbness. A hunger. And as time passes, the time between storms decreases; what seemed like hours between the storms becomes scarcely one, and their intensity grows.

wild life

Sentient beings are not the only ones affected by the storms; these creatures, attracted to sound and able to track by scent, and these panthers, which once looked normal but have been twisted by the storms into more monstrous forms, are numerous enough that travelers must be constantly alert for their presence. Though natural predators, the threat the creatures represent is not itself natural. They are also more aggressive. Some strange instinct drives them, not a need for food. While the panthers themselves can be caught and their meat cooked, it has little taste, offering nutrition but not satisfaction.

old familiar places

Although it's difficult to track the passage of time without day-night cycles, after what seems like more than a week of the travelers' unexpected trip, the storms abruptly come rushing in at the group of travelers, as if they're herding the group to move faster toward their destination and the Ingress energy that awaits them. The true nature of that destination becomes clear when debris appears on the horizon; the energy comes from the wreckage of the Moira, the interstellar ship that crashed here months ago.

Despite the trauma of impact, large sections of the ship remain surprisingly intact, though few of them are properly vertically oriented. If travelers are able to make their way inside the damaged sections of the ship, they'll find familiar territory, if they are one of those who traveled on the Moira, as well as shelter—something that's increasingly necessary as the storms seem to center over the ship, leaving little hope for survival outside. Useful items may be scavenged from the ship if they are willing to explore, but no personal items of any kind remain.

Strangely, the deeper travelers go into the crashed ship, the less familiar their surroundings will seem, regardless of their orientation. The inward-leading paths into the ship become generic metal, and as with the travel on the surface of the planet, they may find themselves back where they started. And no matter how far they go or how hard they try, they will find themselves unable to make it to the Ingress chamber itself...for now.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[She knows; she doesn't care. That he lets her call him anything at all aside from his rank as her commanding officer is enough of an inch that she takes a mile.

That, and it's a good gauge for how deep his anger with her might still be running.]

And now it's doing us both a favor.

[Sombra reaches over, hooking a finger in her coat and sliding it back towards herself to wrap the sleeves up neatly. A makeshift pack.]

Maybe it likes you more than you think.

It's a ship.

[Besides, nobody likes him, remember? He isn't living under any delusions. It's all about the end game, what people can get from him and how far they'll go.

And if anything on the Moira actively would have hated him, it would be the med bay. Followed by the cafeteria.

For what it is worth, he is still mad at her. Perhaps it shows in his curt replies But angry or not, she was still his responsibility..]

One that used to be your home.

[The coat's coolly swept off the edge into her arms, turning to rest her back against the cabinets, attention still fixed on him. On measuring— without sight— how those words might hit him in light of recent events.]

[He didn't ask to live here. He was dragged here, alone and without allies. He was forced to find his own way again with minimal resources and enemies on all sides. This was never his home; it was a jail cell.

And she is not as clever as she thinks she is. Disapproving of how she fishes for a reaction from him, he growls at her again.]

Is that what you think this was?

[His tone suggests that his reserve of patience for her is running low.]

Edited 2017-08-20 17:00 (UTC)

Does it really matter what I think?

[Planetside in their reinforced base, here in an old, desiccated corpse— back on earth, picking up targets for Talon. Overwatch.

She has to wonder if any of it meant anything to him.]

I don't think what I do is any of your damn business.

[He is so tired. Tired of Jack, tired of Overwatch, tired of answering to Sombra's digs for information. It's been non-stop since he showed up in this same spot, talking to a different person.

She thinks that he doesn't trust her, and she is only half right. But when you're a top dog in Talon, you can't trust anyone. Not really.

So he tries a different angle, carefully laying his hands down on the counter between them.]

You think I don't know that you were rooting around my old case files behind my back while we were tracking Morrison? That I don't know that you've been digging up everything you can get your hands on?

[He lets her digest that information.]

I know you have an escape plan for when things get too hot for you, and you have had it for months. But I haven't asked you about any of it. Why do you think that is?

Edited 2017-08-20 22:34 (UTC)

[It catches her off guard, that sudden conversational twist. If that's what he was going for— putting her on her back foot— it's worked: her sly expression falters, drops as he starts elaborating, lips pursing just slightly instead.

And here she always thought it was Amélie she had to worry about.]

Tell me.

[Because it's not that he thinks they're friends; she knows that idea only runs one way. Teammates, maybe— singular allies surrounded by enemies seems more likely. But whatever it is, it's better that he says it himself.]

Because I am ten steps ahead of you, and everyone else. Because I think you're owed some freedom in exchange for working with me, instead of against me. And because you know it's safer not to be my enemy.

[There is no threat in his words, no attempt to posture. He might not have his usual resources here, but he was far smarter than anyone had ever given him credit for. The military. Overwatch. Talon. None of them had any idea.

And he was going to keep it that way.]

That's what I want in return, Sombra. Cooperation. If you've done your reading properly, you'd know that I haven't been a lab rat under observation since I was in my twenties. So.

[Now he straightens and folds his arms.]

Stop treating me like one.

[He gets through his explanation, she listens, eyes focused as well as they can be on the blurry contours of his mask.

And once he's done, she shifts her coat to rest on the counter between them, leaning back against one elbow— no dismissive remarks, no sarcastic humor. A lot can be said about her tendency to act as an irritant, most of it being that it keeps people at arm's length: they don't pry, they don't look, they don't ask questions because it means getting rubbed raw in the process.

But considering he's already shot down that tactic, there's no point in keeping up with it anymore.]

You know I thought you might be dead.

[Huh.

Normally, he might have been irritated that she thought Jack and Ana would have the ability to finish him off for good, but it did explain her aggressive reaction to him when he had come back home. He isn't sure why he didn't pick up on it right away.

Probably because he didn't let himself feel like that about other people anymore.]

That shouldn't bother you so much.

[He isn't immortal, even if sometimes it might seem like he is. But he also hasn't done anything recently (or really...ever) that warranted that sort of concern. That sort of mourning.]

[He wins himself a flat state for that one— punctuated by one carefully manicured arched brow.]

Seriously?

[Serious as a heart attack, hermanita. He shrugs.]

Shotguns are better when they're close range.

[Is that a joke? Who can say? She couldn't have expected a warm reaction from him -- surely. He's not really sure he understands why she is surprised.]

Its always on the table.

[The rest of what he's going to say dies on his lips. In reality, he's sure Ogundimu has a contingency plan for when Gabriel dies -- how he would orchestrate it from prison was another matter entirely.

But in more present times -- well, Doomfist and the rest of Talon were very far away. Sombra would be on her own here without him. Maybe that's what has her all shaken up. That almost makes sense.

His next reply is just a little less curt.]

You should be prepared for that.

[His joke gets a scoff, the rest, an eye roll. Their perspectives— their thought processes— are so different that most of the time it feels like they're speaking completely different languages even when they're saying the exact same thing:]

I'm prepared for everything, vato.

[Overwatch could turn up, the floor could give in under their feet— he could turn on her right here, right now. She wouldn't be without a contingency plan.]

That doesn't mean I have to like it.

Apparently not.

[Preparedness meant more than just having a plan in place. He knew that now more than ever -- he hadn't planned for Jack to still be alive, and now he was caught off guard with nothing to fall back on. He had planned for failures, but nothing like this. Nothing could have prepared him for what he got.

Not even knowing that they had both cheated death once before.]

What's with your cybernetics?

[Subject change.]

Storms. [All the things she never expected to happen— the way everything in this place is designed to sap the life and energy right out of you ranks way up on the list. She tilts her head up a little, squinting at him.] Also apparently they make you go blind if you hang around too long.

Who knew, right?

Right.

[He knew. Maybe his...whatever his problem was...fixed his vision somewhere between then and now. Or maybe he simply hadn't been around them long enough. Hard to say.]

We should move on. Nothing left here.

Tell me there's a place here worth sleeping in.

[Pack hauled up into her arms, Sombra's the first to move— though it's not like she knows where she's headed. Finding supplies with minimal exploration was a gold mine for her weakened vision, the sooner they embed themselves in the Moira from a defensive position, the better.]

Given what I've seen so far, I wouldn't get your hopes up.

[Still, Reaper falls back upon his memory and takes the lead, hoping that Sombra won't have a difficult time keeping up with him. He has to pause several times in order to make sure he hasn't been turned around, but eventually, he finds his bunk.

Like everything else, its not in the best of shape. He'd largely spent his time here alone -- the presence of his roommate was short-lived. Twisted metal makes the inner common room difficult to navigate. Garrus' quarters are far too blocked to enter easily -- but Reaper's have an opening.

There's nothing in the room, save for a few old notes keeping track of who was relevant to their home, and other persons of interest. A scribbled map of the Moira that's all but useless now.]

Huh.

[It's battered and worn, all the comfort it might have once had cut off by abandonment. She runs a hand along the far wall, stopping when she feels paper curling under her fingertips.] It's not that bad.

[Her supplies are set down, the map peeled off the wall— brought up to her face for one blurry study.] Better than outside, anyway.

And hey, if we're careful, Overwatch won't even come close to finding us.

They're not looking.

[He says that with reasonable certainty. Even if they were, as far as Reaper was concerned, they were effectively neutered. The most they would do was spout something self-righteous before Reaper put a bullet in them. Jack wouldn't kill him. Ana very likely couldn't kill him without some outside assistance, and all of them had to get through him before they could get to Sombra.

Reaper watches her pull down the map. There are names scattered across different rooms. Jack. Ana. Fareeha . Lucío. Angela. Genji. McCree. Reinhardt.

None of it much mattered now. Over half of them were gone from the crew.]

They were.

[But he's right: having Reaper lurking around her shoulders again means she's not sitting vulnerable out in the wastes anymore— not that it was all bad. The memory that comes to mind gets a mild chuckle, the corner of her mouth twisting upwards.

It's a shame her cybernetics weren't fully functioning at the time, it would have made a great recording.]

You ran into them.

[That gets his attention more readily, and he turns back around to look at her. It isn't a question, but rather a demand for clarification.]

Who? Where?

Take a guess.

[The paper's folded neatly and then put back where she found it. A rare little gesture of respect from someone who makes a living disregarding concepts like property ownership.

But she feels it swimming in the metal on her head, along her spine— that low, low pulse that comes from desperately needing energy— something she's familiar with by now. When she turns around and aims to coolly lean back, she buckles against her own elbow, hissing when she nearly slips.] And tell me that bunk behind you is stable.

I really need to sit down.

Edited 2017-08-25 07:56 (UTC)

[Morrison, he is sure. That is always his first thought, followed by Ana. She gets a low growl out of him, but nothing more.

Reaper pauses to glance behind him. It's not exactly homey-- he would never fit in there, but Sombra would be able to squeeze comfortably without much issue. At least, that's what he can tell from first glance. A nudge of his foot doesn't yield anything, nor does the press of his hand on the mattress.]

Don't know. Seems like it.

[He is sure that if he put too much pressure on it, the twisted metal would likely buckle.]

[Her eyes might not have fully recovered, but she can see enough to watch him test the figurative water for her: that huge, hulking shadow reaching down and tentatively pressing on the frame. He doesn't get to blame her for the amused noise she makes while he's at it, just before she slinks over and drops down onto the mattress like it's the sturdiest thing in the universe.

And then she exhales. Hard.

Compared to the dusty, life-leeching landscape outside, this feels like heaven.]

Your old friend, Jack Morrison.

hitting the road

storm front

wild life

old familiar places

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