agogelogs | AND THE ANZAC LEGENDS DIDN'T MENTION...

AND THE ANZAC LEGENDS DIDN'T MENTION...

AND THEN SOMEONE YELLED OUT "CONTACT!";

and the bloke behind me swore

THE SILENT WAR

The news of the day of the retreat spreads like wildfire through the Trenches. Leading up to the final date, all soldiers on the ground are instructed to limit their gunfire, to make it look like the usual traditions for warfare, which have determined much of human history up until this point: no one really goes to war in winter. Everyone is to maintain a verbal and physical presence, but the time to confuse the Turks has really become paramount. At times, whole sections are ordered to be perfectly quiet until the last possible second and then spring out before the Turks can get too close.

Which is just how it is supposed to be. In fact, for COST recruits, there's a real sense that this might just go according to plan.

Around this time, the Rear Guard signup starts. COST recruits are met with some surprise by Captain Lewis; he will blink in surprise at a group so new wanting to volunteer so readily, but he's glad and gives everyone who joins a big warm handshake.

Each day gets closer and the mood of the soldiers becomes more jubilant and tenser; the erratic sense of relief that they might be leaving what has become the graveyard of so many friends and, often times, family, combines with the frustration of not being able to do anything but wait. This leads to more than a few fights breaking out, often over nothing important. Just the edge of temporary relief.

Then, before dawn on Jan 7th, the evacuation begins in earnest. It's possible to see it from the top of some sections: a bustling populace until it trickles down to the ghost of the Trenches, where there is nothing left but the rear guard. It's a smooth, efficient evacuation.

The Rear Guard

This is a skeleton army, just enough to make it seem no one has left. Everyone is encouraged to come up with ways to make it seem like there are more men than there actually are.

The local soldiers have come up with a particularly sneaky one - a rope is wrapped around the trigger of a rifle, just loose enough not to pull it, and from the end of it hangs a bucket. Another container slowly drips water into the bucket until it fills and drops, pulling the rope around the trigger and firing the gun. Soldiers are tasked with emptying the water, refilling the cannister, or checking the gun if it looks like it has jammed.

Outside of that, if someone has a sneaky idea to keep up the ruse - even if it's lighting small fires or singing loudly in a chorus to give the notion of people still around - it's all encouraged.

THE THUNDER OF GUNS

Everything is going well. It's not even that worrying when a thick mist comes up, heavy and difficult to see through. But, for those with powers, it prickles oddly on bare skin, followed by a pressure that builds in the back of the mind. It seems to dull any extra powers or senses; magic and its ilk are still usable, but require more concentration to reach now.

In the stillness of the night, however, there is no breeze to move the fog on and it settles like oil through the trench.

It's 1am when the first shell drops. It falls to the east of the recruits' position at Lone Pine. It's a shell that comes down and splits apart the night air in an explosion of shrapnel, dirt and heat. Then a second, then a third, now starting from both sides.

All the soldiers' clamour out of the way and Captain Lewis can be heard shouting over the din: "Into the Tunnels!"

But not everyone can make it. The shells are coming steadily now and one step in the wrong direction is the difference between life and death in such a small space. It's chaos - some soldiers are killed outright. Others get buried under the debris and dirt. Others catch shrapnel that, if not fatal, is enough to throw them and make it hard to get up. But COST's mission is the same as it always is: save as many of these men's lives as possible.

There are four direct entries into the tunnels, all about four or five meters apart, and they're all interconnected within the tunnels themselves.

One by one, however, shells fall and destroy the entrances to the tunnels.

WARTIME ARCHEOLOGY

It takes another three hours for the bombardment to stop and, once the tunnel entrances collapse, it becomes very dark in there. Might be time to fish out a match and strike up a torch.

While Officers previously told soldiers to keep out of the tunnels and otherwise left them ignored, these tunnels are huge. Not like the ones in other sections of the coast; here, they seem to go far into No Man's Land. They're crudely constructed and only some sections are reenforced with heavy beams of wood. But once journeying into them, there are all sorts of things to be found. There are old gas lamps that can be used to light your way or hung on a secure nook or cranny. The stone has been worn smooth in some sections, and other parts have been carved with graffiti of the soldiers who cut them out.

Some locations go down a few steps, while others go up and small holes seem to have been dug through the roof of the tunnels.

It's definitely best to get away from the front of the tunnels, where the bombing is still going on. There are wounded to be seen to and secured from bleeding out, people to find to make sure everyone is still alive. Maybe you want to go farther into the interweaving tunnels to see what else can be recovered. Or maybe you're being stubbornly sensible and looking for a way to dig your way out again, once the bombs stop firing.

Either way, it's a long, exhausting wait in the dark as the ground shakes, showering dust and rocks over everyone.

INTO THE DAWN

The sun has risen when the firing stops - and it's time to search for a way out of here.

Stepping into the light reveals utter destruction. The concentrated bombing has done its work; everything is strewn or buried in dirt and rubble. Machine guns are overturned and parts of the Trench have collapsed; going over the top would be disastrous, given that the Turks have no idea what is happening and will pick off anyone who sticks their head up.

There also isn't...anyone else around. All that's left is this one segment of the rear guard, just 500 men and the COST soldiers. It isn't possible to discern if the other groups have been evacuated or killed at this point.

It's time to consolidate, count their losses, see who is alive and who isn't, and salvage what supplies are left after some digging clean up is done. Work out who needs to stand watch. For now, Captain Lewis' orders are to use the tunnels as a new base of operations.

SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES

They appear first as a shimmer of off-light, no more than a haze against the resettling mist. A faint shape against the grey - the long lines of a dog's face, almost Jackal-like, in a clean black uniform that gives more to the appearance of shadows - moves closer, but not too close. They could almost be a trick of the light, out of the corner of your eye. Almost intangible.

They're not moving closer, however, choosing to hang back in the rubble of the Trenches. The ANZAC soldiers don't seem to notice them at all.

Ten minutes after they're first spotted, Commander Grothia issues a priority message:

Contact. Regency soldiers. Do not engage.

If a shot does get fired that way, whether it's from Turkish or ANZAC soldiers unknowingly or from COST operatives: it's quick but, as the bullet seems to come into contact with them, the air around them shimmers blue, like it's hitting a field of light. This effect seems to be stronger when they're standing close together and, as of now, they remain unhurt.

Moving closer to them increases that feeling of mind fog on powered characters; for the unmagical, a sense of unease prickles up. It's a feeling not unlike the beginnings of the time-step, the hum of sensation that marks a transfer through time. Veteran recruits will easily recognize the buzz that dances through their bones before it stills as they move away; rookies might recall it from their initial arrival from BASE.

READ THE OOC INFOPAGE.

NAV. NETWORK LOGS OOC MEMES PLURK

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[The uniform tightens below his arm, the seams that go around his shoulder pulling, collar moving askew - he feels the air hit the base of his neck, cooling the skin down.

He feels the pull growing tighter, but the sound of Hei’s voice doesn’t seem to match to the strength in his fingers. Even if he’s giving him such a vehement earful, it’s that that makes Mamoru turn to him, even if not giving him much of a step. Narrowed sightless eyes behind the lenses behind the mask, Mamoru searches for what makes it so.] And be sitting ducks? What tells you that they haven’t already spotted us?

Edited 2018-01-31 22:00 (UTC)

(immediately measures up to him despite the weakness he feels in his limbs, chin raising as he stands close enough to growl his whispers. hei falls short — literally — at five-foot-nine, but he doesn't seem to mind, dark look aimed into mamoru's mask.)

It's already happening, this is no ordinary fog. (rasped at him, keeping his voice at a level any man would have difficulty hearing — but not mamoru.) We have to lie low. Our Commander ordered us to standby, not to engage. We don't know what they can do yet.

[Mamoru doesn't even need to strain his hearing to catch on what Hei is saying. He does catch the words, but also the fatigue in his tone, no matter how vicious and pent-up anger and exhaustion it holds. Was he injured?

The mask turns to the masked - soldiers? spotters? he couldn't really tell - but he is not quite taking them in.

He focuses on the grid, the layout the sunglasses provide him. He turns again to look at Hei's hand, the outline of his face, then moves his eyes to the tunnel around them.

The grid shifts. Stays uneven for a glimpse. Goes back to normal.

A mutter, a test.] Magnify.

[Nothing happens.]

They're messing with us. [It's a hiss. To him, something like this is fair play, but for the rest of the soldiers... it flared a tension in his gut, fingers clenching. And yet.

It changes the rules of the game, sure, but so have the players. And Mamoru quickly learned to be adaptable. He takes in a breath through his nose, willing clarity back into another part of his mind.

Turning to Hei, this time fully, he rolls his shoulder again, this time as a signal that he can let go.] How's it affecting you?

You don't know what they're doing, you don't know anything. Neither do we.

(he speaks to him roughly, because it's how he'd want to be spoken to. if he were in a defensive state like this, he'd want someone to talk some sense into him, to keep him from making rash decisions.

they have orders.)

It's— I'm not sure how, exactly, but my power's waning. It feels like something's... (a twist of a tightening grip, fists together like he's wringing out a cloth,) got me from within. I can't speak for the others, but it's bad if it's affecting technology as well. We need to regroup.

[Hm. There it is.

That Hei is also affected by this, even in the distance, makes, somehow, perfect sense. Finally, he can pinpoint whatever is underlying in that tone, in the haste of his breath as Hei almost snarls in his face. It's not just the fatigue, the frustration, the restlessness that this set up has carved into everyone's face, no matter how at ease they felt and how well they were prepared. It's not even the alcoholic scent that somehow slips between the cover of the mask.

It's everything at once, plus the lack of ownership of something in your grasp ripped from under your feet. He knows that. All too well.] Where are you briefing?

There's no organized station for it.

(all he knows is that they have to either go about their duties like it doesn't affect them, try to blend in as much as possible, or take to the beach where the air might be clearer.)

They can't cover this entire place in fog, not with the wind on the beaches. I'm going there. I strongly suggest you follow me.

You think it's the fog that is doing it?

[It could be, but it could also be just a coincidence, or a by-product of whatever these guys are doing - powers, he heard someone mention somewhere on the network before he muted everything. But for Mamoru, it's always good to consider everything - even other people's opinions. If he's right, and considering that the wind can actually gush it away, then it's something to keep in mind. Only way to find out is to actually go there.

He jerks his chin to tell him to lead the way, with no words.]

What else could it be? This freak weather— the air isn't nearly warm enough to lift such a heavy fog from the sea.

(at the nod, hei quickly turns away and readjusts their path to accommodate mamoru.

it's a long walk through the trenches and he moves slowly — not in any deference to is comrade, but because it's far less suspicious. it's a leisurely sort of walk that's far, far removed from his own quiet slink, making damn sure he makes a ruckus with his boots and no glances over at the regency agents who've scattered themselves all over the hills.)

Fuck this fog, did we need that on top of everything? (an uncharacteristic conversation, only a fraction louder, keen to blend in even if it's unnecessary... he's surprisingly believable.) Wanna light a fire, when we get to the beach?

[Mamoru doesn't reply, only nods. Hei does a good job at blending in as a normal soldier, but Mamoru has been weaving - or rather, dropping a seed and letting it grow and tangle in itself - rumors about a scarred face, why he doesn't speak much. So far he had heard something how the mustard gas went to his lungs, how it affected his vocal chords, and how the disfigurement on his face probably doesn't help him move his mouth much.

To suddenly start chatting with him would go against all that work, so he merely lets the soldiers know that he is listening to what Hei is saying - uhuh, agreeing so much, fuck the fog, sure - but doesn't really vocalize it much.]

Is there wood for that?

(keeps on keeping on, trudging down the steep hill to the beach. only checks back on mamoru to check on the man's progress. if he needs a hand down the slope... well. he'll watch him struggle.)

Worst case scenario, I'd say there's unused supply crates to break down. Driftwood we can dry out, maybe.

[he's fine with the path they're taking, Hei, the gridwork does wonders to capture surfaces. He's not the kind of guy who normally asks for help, either, and doesn't expect it.]

With the dampness in the air, it's going to be difficult, but sure, let's give it a shot.

(satisfied with mamoru's pace, he turns away and continues on. falls silent until the ground goes soft and his heels sink into sand, catching the chatter of nurses assessing them for injuries at a distance and murmuring to shaking patients.

pushes at a tent flap freed by the wind and marches towards an empty fire pit.)

We can meet back at this one. If we can't find flint, I can manage something.

[Hei is met with a nod, Mamoru's hand moving to shield himself from the same tent flap. He can't really register the mist fading, but he feels the wind pick up and the sound of the sand hitting his clothes.

He spots a crate some feet away.] There.

(immediately circling 'round to the crate mamoru indicates, taking no time to find it and slap his hands on either side of it. peers inside to ascertain it's unused junk that's filling it, a few supplies for the medical tents that he can dump at the corner of their setups. it's the flask of rum that's discreetly tucked into his jacket before the rattle of gauze pads and meal rations tumble out onto the edge of a tarp.)

Hungry? (plucking cans of things from the sand, MREs unused by dying soldiers: bully; tack; tea.

pulling the crate up, carrying it with a hook of fingers under one side, he totes it to their fire pit and lays it down on the sand. before raising a boot with a vicious kick-down, aiming for the thin nails keeping the wood slats together, splintering the entire array.) Let's get this started. I can cook something.

[While light-footed - and Hei is very light-footed - it's the sound of the cadence switch of his feet in the sand that makes Mamoru frown, from kss kss kss to ksskssksskss. Still, he knows that some people are really hungry and, in situations like these, there are still those who search for anything novel in every corner to escape from what's really happening. From where he stands, he can't really see him picking up the flask, so he focuses on the cans that he displays.

He's not really hungry, but Mamoru knows that's his own thing. In a place like this,
a situation that's dire, a moment that's unpredictable, his own body seems to shut off to its natural proceedings, his focus, already aimed at it normally, narrowing down to the one thing, now snapped in place into the muzzle of his rifle.

He feels like having no sleep, no food, no nothing. It began the first time he stepped into Chechnya, spending nights listening to the surroundings of his tent, very little appetite and still managing to get some sort of energy but a dullness in his mind. It's counterproductive and he's aware of it - that he has to force himself into sleeping, into eating, too much effort so he can have the energy to make an effort again - because who knows when he'd have the chance to do it again.

It doesn't escape him that his footwork, the way Hei lands his kicks, that while he's able with his coordination he's not someone who strikes often with them.

--and there it is again. So he nods, picks up one of the boxes, turning it in his hand and feeling the weight.] Yeah. This is tea, right?

(on the contrary, hand-to-hand combat and kicks are staples in his repertoire. using them over the course of this long battle for gallipoli, guns and bombs and mounted weapons have been the switch he's made — not that he minds. a weapon is a weapon. his bayonet attachment's seen the most use.

a nod at mamoru's question.) Yeah, black tea. Earl grey, I think.

(sets about assembling the smaller splinters of wood in the fire pit. once they get this kindled, there'll be something to look forward to. heat, dryness, maybe a blink or two of sleep.)

Can't tell if it's any better down here. The fog's thick.

[It won't be the first time Mamoru will be surprised, when they do fight. It's not the first time he assesses someone incorrectly, either.

He frowns at the comment, straightens his back. The system in his specs doesn't give him any idea of mist or fog. Sometimes only the rain, when it's strong enough to move foliage or the pitter-patter against a surface sends him points of impact. He only knew that the mist had crawled over the terrain when he heard a couple of soldiers commenting on it. Hei's mention of a connection between its existence, the pressure on his hackles, the glitches on the grid, the thickness of what seemed like too much ozone in the air, were his only confirmations.

So he tilts his head, lets the sea breeze salt the patch of neck exposed underneath his gas mask and above his collar. The gap lets the scent of dry seaweed slip into the leather, in between the heady stale gunpowder in the air. The humidity doesn't cling to his already clammy skin, but weighs in between his bones, as if the spray was made to highlight previous injuries in the depth of his body.] How are you feeling?

[It's such a question that could be misplaced - Mamoru doesn't really care and isn't really aiming at psychoanalyzing Hei - god forbid. But it falls alright onto the ears of a shrewd nurse who comes to swipe a roll of bandages from the crate they brought closer and leaves with a cheeky wink. Hei had referred he had been particularly affected - at the moment, Mamoru's system seems to be unwavering.]

Magnify. [A mutter, zooming on the surface of the tea.] It's working for me.

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AND THE ANZAC LEGENDS DIDN'T MENTION...

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