AND THE ANZAC LEGENDS DIDN'T MENTION...

[agogemod]

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

Comments

[chariotry]

[ NO YOU'RE A LITTLE LIONESS, MISSY. ]

Music?

Why rely on a radio when we can make our own? [ Changing the subject... ]

[garbagepilot]

[Watch as that flies right over her head. She was in the middle of a war before she even got here and now there's just more, just death and loss, so forgive her for not picking up on all that flirtan.]

What are you going to do, sing?

[chariotry]

I can sing. I can whistle a melody. I can even play the lyre, if we had one here.

[ He's being serious. He's actually pretty musically inclined. Though, if she caught the double-meaning of what he said, he wouldn't deny it either. ]

Would you care to join me?

[garbagepilot]

I doubt I can sing.

[This is a lie. A definite lie.]

If you're not going to read anything else from that, give me the book. I'll read it to them.

[chariotry]

I could sing it. [ He'll hold the book away from her. ]

Where I'm from, that's how we shared poetry and stories, through song. [ He won't mention that his story was largely shared through poems and songs up until the Iliad was written. ]

That would incorporate both of our ideas. [ He also wants to impress her and see her smile. He's so weak to a pretty girl's smile. I hate Achilles. ]

[garbagepilot]

Oh. [She says it like she's catching on now, like she's figured out the secret to his refusal.] You're shy. Alright, then.

[She's not quite smiling, but she does look amused as she bends herself back over her task. A man that's too embarrassed to read from a book he didn't even write isn't enough to keep her distracted from mechanical parts for very long. Even if the soldiers weren't looking forward to the music she might be able to coax from it, it's a relief to do something that's familiar, something that makes sense, after weeks now of struggling to understand the new power inside her.]

[chariotry]

Shy? You think I'm being shy? [ He is not shy. He's so offended by the idea that this girl would assume such a thing, that he, Achilles, would back down from a challenge just because he was a little embarrassed.

But... she's smiling, isn't she? Even if it's not quite reaching her lips, he can hear that playful lilt in her voice.

He sighs. Opens the book. ]

But oh, I suppose she was ugly; she wasn't elegant;
I hadn't yearned for her often in my prayers.
Yet holding her I was limp, and nothing happened at all:
I just lay there, a disgraceful load for her bed.
I wanted it, she did too; and yet no pleasure came
from the part of my sluggish loins that should bring joy.

[ Looking over at her... Is she satisfied. ]

[garbagepilot]

[She's looking right back at him, eyebrows raised as the soldiers on his other side burst into laughter with their appreciation of that poem.]

Out of everything in there you could choose to show me you aren't shy, you pick one about a man who can't perform?

[Now she's smiling. It's very small and she has the look to her of someone who doesn't actually make that face often, it still feels alien to her, but it's hard not to laugh at him a little now.]

[chariotry]

[ The men are laughing now, but Achilles seems more fixated on Rey's reaction more than anything. He isn't fazed by the insinuation she's trying to make, since when it comes to performing he has no problem at all. ]

Does it matter? It seems I picked the right one anyway, because I've got you smiling now.

[garbagepilot]

[Oh no, caught. She goes just a little pink, just enough that it's obvious even in the dim light of their caves, and turns her face quickly back to her radio.]

I don't know what you're talking about.

[chariotry]

[ If only there was better lighting here. He'd probably be smitten with her smile. ]

Well, it's gone now. Something tells me it's a rare and brief sight usually. [ He's going to move closer to her, ignoring the men who are currently salvaging what few smokes they've brought with them into the tunnels. ]

Like a shooting star.

[garbagepilot]

[And the ones around Rey are losing interest in her progress with the radio, moving on to new things to keep them entertained, so it means she's running out of reasons to insist Achilles remembers she's supposed to be a boy here.

The closer she comes the more she hunches over her work, clearly getting embarrassed the more he talks.]

There's not much to smile about right now.

[chariotry]

[ Achilles will shoo any eavesdroppers away if he has to. ]

Yeah. There isn't. [ Softly, in agreement. ]

That's why it's important to salvage what little reason there is left to smile. [ He closes his eyes, remembering the advice he'd given Siegfried. You should smile before you die, or else you won't be able to when you reach the afterlife. ]

If you give into despair, your will to fight will weaken. And soon you'll forget how to feel joy.

[garbagepilot]

That's just a little condescending, don't you think?

[She certainly looks like she doesn't appreciate being painted with such broad strokes.]

You don't know anything about me or my will to fight. Just because I'm not smiling doesn't mean I've given up.

[chariotry]

And I didn't say that, did I? [ No??? ]

[garbagepilot]

[This sounds fake.]

What were you trying to say, then?

[chariotry]

[ Touchy, isn't she?

He should really be reminded of a certain someone (himself), but he's pretty deluded. ]

It isn't clear? Well, for starters, I was generally speaking.

Did you think I was singling you out? Look around. All these soldiers aren't smiling either right now.

Morale is low and that can be a dangerous thing. That feeling of hopelessness is infectious, and that's exactly why we should fight it. [ This has nothing to do with smiling necessarily. He'd said that they just need to find reasons to smile. ]

[garbagepilot]

[Maybe a little, shut up.

But... that seems to temper her bad mood a little, has her looking at him with a less open annoyance. He's got a point, even if it did take spelling it out.]

That's what the radio is for. And- your book, I guess.

[chariotry]

[ He's got to watch out for this one. As cute as she is, she's got a temper that rivals even Atalanta's.

He places the book on the table, next to all the spare parts she has spread out. Above, the ceiling rattles as another shell drops over the tunnels, sending dust raining down over their heads. Achilles reaches out to hold a hand over her head, shielding her eyes. ]

I'd like to help you, if there's anything I can do. [ His fingers aren't slender like hers, he'd have a harder time repairing a radio, even if someone was there to tell him what to do. ]

[garbagepilot]

[She glances up when the explosion rumbles overhead, just in time to see that he's blocked the dirt from getting all over her and the radio she's been so carefully working on. That and what he says, the way he seems to mean it, soften her up just a little bit.

She's still wary, but that doesn't have anything to do with him personally.]

The time I come from is more advanced than any of this. Does it look like anything you've ever seen before?

[chariotry]

[ He shakes his head, causing dust and debris to fall off, along with some glitter. Luckily, the glitter is hard to spot in the dim light of the lantern. ]

I come from a time long before this kind of technology. [ So he's basically useless. ] I was hoping you could give me some direction.

[garbagepilot]

[The jokes on him, though, because there's a good chance she's already seen that glitter in the form of one of his ghost pals. Her eyes catch on it, but when she closes her eyes for a second and feels for Chiron in the immediate vicinity she comes up short.

Frowning faintly, she glances off to the side before dismissing the dust as a trick of the light.]

It's called a radio. [She already said that.] They were hoping it'd play music once I fixed it, but they can use it to communicate between these too, depending on the model. We have something more advanced where I come from, but the premise is the same. If I can just-

[She's saying it while she's twisting two wires together and somehow, it results in a shower of sparks.]

[chariotry]

[ The glitter comes from his hair dye. ]

Careful.

[ The sparks light up a fair bit of the area. His eyes flicker up to meet hers. ]

Don't burn your beautiful hands.

[garbagepilot]

[That's like... ten times less cool. Wow.

And then he goes and says that and she glances up from him, eyebrows.]

You're about ten years too late to save beautiful hands.

[She holds one of his out to him, lets him see the little white scars in thin lines across her knuckles, the back of her hand, a few on her palm. They're the hands of someone who has spent her entire life reaching past sharp, hot metal to reach ship parts she could sell later for food.

They're not beautiful. They're working hands, rough and callused, and he needs to calm down.]

[chariotry]

[ He'll lean over, taking one of her hands in his.

Ah. ]

You work with your hands. Is this something you normally do, then?

Or perhaps you're a skilled warrior.