multiversallogs | The City at Large & Mission Alpha

Entry tags:

The City at Large & Mission Alpha

Who: OPEN to all residents.
What: The ant-situation is changing!
Where: Throughout the city.
When: NOW. This thread will likely cover a few days.
Warnings: To be updated.

Dear Mission Alpha,

It is your undeniable privilege to bring back as many of the so-called 'crow pearls' as possible to the Temple. Any temple. No one important cares how you do it, just get it done. Try to be substantial about it, let's say more than 50, hmm? The actual task here is to deprive our deranged ant-friends of as many pearls as possible, but no one is going to be rewarded for stories like 'oh we absolutely threw two tons of pearls down the whirlpool, we swear on our broodmother's grave', okay? Okay. Peachy. Bring me the pearls, chop chop.

Your totally sweet gods have decided to lend you some ...boons I guess, however that goes, to aid you in your quest. Useful objects. For you, my gifted pilferers and negotiators:

A Skeleton Key - it will open any unwarded lock. It will not open warded locks. That means magical locks. No magical locks will be opened with this key. Unless the magic is broken first. Good luck with that.

Get-Out-of-Jail-Free Card - I realize no one has bothered to build proper jail cells in Our City yet so it's more of a Fend-off-The-Local-Authorities-Free Card but that's not as catchy. Think of it as An Official Voucher From the Gods that says you're on Official Twelve Point Business and can't be arrested right now. Keep it for the Sheriffs as it might not have the desired effect the Militia.

Privacy Ward or App For Your CiD - Well you don't want to get caught leaking signals and communication everywhere, do you.

It is a week and some change after the ants first noticeably began their labour and it seems they have finished rebuilding their houses. It's hard to see exactly what is going on from the ground, but the brave few who have ventured into and up the hives or climbed neighbouring buildings get a good enough view. The rooftops are now crowned with organic spires, much like malformed and undernourished termite nests reaching for the heavens. They are not the best constructs, some of them have broken off or imploded, but the majority of the spires stand.

Then one morning, individual ants are seen climbing to the very top of their towers. They then sit still, mandibles locked and antennae arched. It's hours before any change becomes noticeable, and by then it's too late. The ants have sprouted strange fleshy fungal tentacles, all filled to the bursting with spores.

Soon there after, reports come in from all across the city about people acting out of character; some have become catatonic or violent after brief a period of sickness. Individuals have been seen entering the ant-occupied buildings to help defend the ants against intruders, others have attempted to climb high points in the city or thrown themselves in the rivers.

Once again the City is under siege, but this time the enemy is invisible.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The internal monologue of one Martel of Damerel is presently not anything he'd repeat in mixed company, a litany of curses intermingled with the inevitable satisfaction of his own brilliance (...look). Mixing with the sand is the debris of the structure that was above, and it's that that strikes him in the back, driving him down to his knees as he drags himself through the sand on the ground. His hands scrape against the sand and the stone beneath, his shirt is torn and bloody at the back, and he's familiar enough with broken ribs to know he's going to be feeling today for a long while.

Down the street, Kalten's muscles bunch as he clears a second blockade to charge back towards his master and his master's new friend, through the hive's guardians.

The giant ants and the enchanted people giving chase to Jim stop short of where the sand is rushing down from on high, survival instinct kicking in for just a moment. That's enough time for Kalten to rush in and scatter them again.

Jim very nearly reaches Martel before he's knocked down, vanishing momentarily under a flow of sand. Everything is still for one second, two, three, and then there's a small explosion of sand, Jim popping up from below.

"Martel!" He clears the sand from his face, coughing to clear a bit of grit from his airway, and then he's dragging himself through the sand, feeling this way and that.

The clatter of hooves, the rush of bodies and his name all sound irrelevant as all the nerves in his body scream a protest at their treatment - sand streams into the open wounds on his back, his ribs jostled painfully as he struggles to get from his knees to his feet. Kalten is wheeling around for a second approach, and through the ache and the sand and the rush of his own blood in his ears, Martel is relatively sure he can catch the reins this time.

He grasps Jim's arm when they reach each other, and his voice is rough and low when he says, "You'd damned well better be able to steer," because they need to get away from here and his head is still ringing where stone rolled down his back and left a bloody lump before it hit the ground and drove dust up into his eyes.

"I can." It's said with conviction, confidence. He may be many years removed from regular horse riding but the basics never leave you.

Martel's hand closes around his arm, and Jim raises his other arm to grasp Martel's wrist. "Can you stand?" he asks. He wants to get Martel to his feet but he doesn't want to bodily haul the man up if doing so would damage him further.

Kalten is bearing down on the others again, scattering the few that had the nerve to regroup and make another attempt to get to Martel and Jim. He readies himself, thigh muscles tensed and ready to lift them both if Martel gives the word.

"I will." Which isn't exactly the same thing as being sure he can or even should, but he is perhaps best described as unrelenting and there are few exceptions to that rule. If any. He keeps a firm grip, and when Kalten's close enough- "Now-"

He doesn't miss the choice of words--if the guy says he will, then he will, and Jim's going to trust in that. Kalten draws near and they rise as one, the horse's reins caught to stay him while they climb back on.

"Fastest route out of here?" Jim demands as he takes the reins. "We should get to one of the temples, or somewhere else safe. I know someone who can offer some medical help if you need it."

"Left, forward," Martel half-groans, fabric and blood and sand and torn skin scraping against each other whenever he shifts or is jolted by the movement of the horse beneath them. "Further into the city, avoid the river. Who?"

Left and forward Kalten goes, indulging Jim's guidance. "Marie-Sixtine St. Vincent," he calls over his shoulder, and if either of his best-officers-slash-close-friends were here they'd be staggered at him getting the pronunciation exactly right, he imagines. "I spoke with her about the same time I did with you. She offered her assistance if it was needed. I think it's needed."

He steers the horse away from the river, easily leaving behind the infuriated masses at the toppled hive.

"Her?" Of course. He remembers her - the woman he stole from birds. What a day this is becoming. "I grant I've had better days." Much better days. Worse ones, too, as will become apparent when he inevitably has to discard his ruined shirt. "Her, then."

"Her it is," Jim replies, and pardon if there's a tiny hint of a knowing smile in his tone. He and the lady are obviously acquainted.

He gets out his CiD at once, managing to properly set up the call and make it while steering Kalten deeper into the city. He explains, as brief and thorough with Six as she was with him earlier today; she gives him directions to the temple where she's taken shelter.

"She'll be waiting," he calls back over his shoulder, stowing his CiD. "You all right for now?"

No less dry for being all the more hoarse, Martel says, "I'll live."

...it's sort of a private joke.

Joke or not, Jim will take it.

He speeds toward the temple--God, he's missed this, you know, tearing along over the ground on a horse--and he pulls Kalten up outside the doors, taking a moment to secure the horse's reins.

He hops down and stands ready to help Martel down if he needs it. "She's inside."

Whether he likes it or not - he doesn't - Martel catches a firm, slightly bloody grip of Jim's shoulder (which just digs grit and grime into his scraped open palm) as his dismount bears a far too close resemblance to 'falling off'. Now that they're out of the chaos, it's easier to see how badly off he got himself, the mess that's been made of his back and how much it costs him to stay upright and steady.

But he does, of course, because his ego is damned near to being a physical force. Inside, then.

Marie-Sixtine is waiting for them with her sleeves rolled up and a slightly worried expression, though she's doing her best to conceal the full depth of her concern. It strikes her as unprofessional, even if she is not, in fact, any kind of professional at this, unlike the two men she greets at the door.

"Do I even want to ask either of you what happened?" The question is rhetorical (of course she wants to know, but that can wait). "Come sit here, I've got a table."

Inside they go. Jim grimaces slightly at all the injury he can see all over Martel's body, but he says nothing. He understands, a bit, about ego, about needing to carry yourself tall and steady even when everything's coming apart and you've taken a good beating.

Jim doesn't answer the question--he knows it can wait, he can tell she knows too. He moves closely beside Martel, just in case (though he suspects the man will remain upright even if it kills him). "Thank you," he says to Six. "I appreciate this."

It'd be nice to say that this certain stubborn recklessness with his own wellbeing is something Martel developed recently, in conjunction with his bewildering, unasked for resurrection and all that came with that - the uncertainty in what had once been inarguable fact, that dead men stayed down.

He might even claim that, if someone were in a position to ask.

And yet.

Martel's strained voice as he clutches the edge of that table nevertheless carries a note of humour- "Your turn, my dear." With the rescuing. She can borrow his horse and everything, if she wants. "I've a few broken ribs and my back's torn open to the elements. My head feels like a troll just backhanded me, incidentally." Hands could use cleaning, too, but ... well, priorities, and he can take care of scrapes on his own.

"Of course." Six tips her head toward Jim, acknowledging the thanks. She can't imagine not helping, but it's gracious to accept.

"I'll start with the ribs." Because she knows how hideous rib injuries can be, and he should be able to at least breathe before she works on everything else. "I'll need to grab a cloth, wet, to begin with, for the bleeding injuries."

Seeing all this blood and the way he's ripped open is honestly a bit freaky. She's accustomed to blood, yes, but--her blood, her feet bleeding, things like that that horrify other people but not Marie-Sixtine. It's different seeing it on someone else. For a moment, she just looks at the mess his back is, and then she takes a quick breath, and moves on.

"I suppose this does make us even. This will ache a little at first. I'll count from three, and then start." It is, FYI, more than 'a little', as she has to put her hands on his ribs, but she counts him down and focuses her energy on those wounds. She can feel the way the bones are broken, the clean breaks, like nails on a chalkboard in the back of her mind. Every part of her says fix it, because it's uncomfortable just to feel in her own psychic mind, and so there's an accompanying warmth (and pain) with the recovery process, but it does begin. In earnest. Rather quickly, actually.

Jim moves closer, watching in quiet fascination. For a moment, he's reminded of Bones--Six has that same way of calmly telling the patient what she's going to do. It took Jim a while of hanging around Academy examination rooms waiting on his friend to realize why he did it--to keep the patient from freaking out at some unexpected touch or pinch or what have you. He had a new found admiration for his otherwise cantankerous friend after that.

And then he's overcome with a wave of homesickness. He misses his ship. He misses his best friend. It's been a scant but action-packed pair of hours and already he feels the loss deep down in his soul.

He shakes his head a little, refocusing his attention on the present moment and Six's ministrations to Martel. He hadn't realized his new friend was in such a bad way, but he's not going to point that out. He's not going to say anything, actually; he isn't sure exactly what is going on, but he has the decided sense something is, and he won't interrupt.

...Bones taught him that, too.

The shirt is going to have to come off, but Martel's not inclined to bother with it until he can move without worrying he's going to crack another rib in the doing; he grips the table, hissing out the pain of healing through his teeth and closing his eyes against it, white-knuckled. Healing magic isn't entirely unfamiliar, but it's not the speciality of anyone he's known in more than passing and it's not something he's ever had the benefit of so directly or for anything so extensive - a part of him is cataloguing every sensation and listening, sensing, following what she does in an effort to keep track of how she's doing it.

Some things don't change.

It takes about four minutes, and while it'll still ache like hell, it's healed. Muscles and bone knitting back together is always a painful process, though, that doesn't change just because it's faster. Six steps back, blood staining her hands just a little. She should have thought about that before, but...she's not exactly experienced in the field. Her doctor sister would scold the hell out of her.

She glances over at Jim with a small smile of confirmation--halfway there--and then looks back at Martel.

"There. Your ribs should be better now...and I didn't get the impression of any other internal injury." Breathing is now a possibility! "Do you want a painkiller or something?"

Jim stands there, just staying out of the way though he watches intently. He can't see anything happening. Is it some sort of magic? Energy transference? Though to be fair, it's not like he ever knew what Bones was doing, either.

"Thank you," he says. And no, he's not the one who received the help, but he's grateful for Six being willing to give it, grateful Martel is now mended. Grace and good manners are something he's learned as he's grown into command.

God in heaven has he accidentally adopted one of those.

(The dry look Jim receives over his shoulder is one of a man who suspects that now he's fed the stray, it's not going away. ...he's inclined to like him, he's just got to be himself about it. At all times.)

"No, thank you." Heaven forfend he even sidle towards the easy way of anything. "If you might do something about my back, the rest will keep." As he says this, he's straightening away from the table, peeling what's left of his shirt away from him. The scar on his chest is hard to miss when he turns briefly to get a better idea of the room they're in now he's not concentrating on not developing flail chest; something large went through him like a knife through hot butter and he should not be alive. "I'll take care of the small things," he says, briefly.

The scar is a little unsettling, but she chooses not to think about what did it (people don't survive chest wounds that come out the other side, and especially not if they're from a technologically deprived era and world). Or why. Not right now, anyway--later, she'll wonder, and maybe wish she'd asked, but presently it is not the time.

"All right. I'll disinfect first, and...for the record, it'll sting a bit." 'A bit' is, once again, sort of an understatement, though she goes around the wounds and not directly on them with the cloth she uses to clean up the blood. "Just stay seated, though, or I won't be able to reach very well."

Martel is a giant, okay, and she is small.

Edited 2011-08-09 16:54 (UTC)

He has indeed adopted one of those. But Martel's dry look is met with a look of polite confusion; you see, the those in question does not yet realize he's become one of those, it's an ongoing and pretty new process.

He leans on a wall, staying well out of the way. Instinct has him wanting to offer help but er, no, he's not the professional, here. He's a captain, not a doctor.

...He's got to stop reminding himself of home.

Once he's eased down to sit, Martel's not inclined to get up again for the foreseeable future - so that's something. He rests his elbows on the table in front of him, his weight forward, and endeavours not to flinch inconveniently at the sting of antiseptic.

"I'm an old hand," he says, through his teeth, "I'll behave."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The City at Large & Mission Alpha

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject