WHERE ARE YOU GOING?

[agogemod]

WHO? Everybody!
WHAT? Agoge's fifth TDM.
WHEN? January 1916, Gallipoli.
ANYTHING ELSE? Violence, as always. Please warn in subject lines for anything beyond physical violence, and move to a personal journal if things go beyond PG-13.

And you know what they say;

Nobody deserves to die.

READ THE SETTING INFOPAGE.

arrival for new recruits

You wake up to the sound of bombardment, shells exploding in the distance, the smell of mud and rot and...mustard? You're in a tent and the cold wind rips right through it. You have none of your clothing, just black military-issued underwear, and none of your previous possessions beyond the one you chose (if you remember choosing) to bring with you. It's not a lot to go on, but the enemy isn't going to care very much if you remember why you're here on not. If you want to survive the next few hours, you'll all have to fight - and fight hard.

There's a man nearby in a corner, wearing an ANZAC uniform and sitting on a stool that's seen better days. When he sees you're awake, he answers any questions you may have and provides a quick briefing: you are a member of COST, a paramilitary organization of time travellers fighting against the Regency, a tyrannous kingdom of the future who are trying to stamp out freedom and individuality in the name of peace. And you are now in World War I on the planet Earth, in the doomed Gallipoli campaign on the coasts of Turkey. These specific trenches are known as Lone Pine.

He provides you with the clothing necessary to fit in and shows you how to use your BCE implant to look up information on this dimension, including its social and political mores. He won't let you leave until you're properly dressed, but once you are, he'll wish you luck. We could all use a little luck, here.


FOR VETERANS

It's been some long, long weeks since the veteran COST soldiers arrived in Gallipoli.

Despite the Regency's best efforts and the horror of the World War itself, it seems that the overwhelming majority of the ANZAC soldiers left behind have been saved. The men and few nurses still alive are looking forward to getting out and going home, and that's finally possible due to the work of dedicated COST veterans.

Congratulations everyone, there's a chance of getting out of here alive.

Groups 1 and 2 successfully established contact with a French ship, the Marie Antoinette. The French were in the middle of pulling out of Cape Helles and the Captain agreed to take on the stranded forces and bring them to Egypt - the training base for all Australia and New Zealand troops in this corner of the world, from where they'll be returned home. If all goes according to plan, COST's agents will slip out somewhere in the middle and back to BASE to regroup.

Which leaves getting there, made exceptionally easier by the work of Group 3's diplomats. They struck a deal with Ataturk - who, true to the tone between the ground soldiers of this war, greatly respects his enemy and recognizes no need to further pointless bloodshed.


LONE PINE

The situation at Lone Pine is dire. Food has run short and ammo even shorter. The fight with the Regency - disguised as German troops - has tainted morale. Their movement has been limited and, cut off as they are, the defense group has had little hope since the others left. The ANZAC troops are nervous and restless with the waiting. After all, they don't have the reassurances that COST members do through the use of their BCEs to keep in touch. They don't know what's coming or if the other groups have been captured or killed. They look for whatever cheer they can find in this truly desperate situation.

But they have some relief: the extensive tunnels in Lone Pine that cut into No Man's Land are still mostly intact. They offer some insulation against the cold snows that turn the ground to sludge and somewhere to sit where a sniper's bullet can't reach. It's in this space that meals are cooked and the wounded are kept out of harm's way.

...And then, in the early hours of the day before evacuation, the Matron Mary Smythe disappears. There's the sound of someone screaming and maybe you're awake in time to see Mary Smythe walk out of the medical tent, covered in blood up to her elbows. She disappears into the morning fog and, inside the makeshift medical tent, you'll find bewildered nurses and a few dead soldiers. They were recuperating, but the Matron did her best to slit their throats.

However, the Matron left in a hurry. Some of the bleeding men may still be saved, their injuries grave but salvageable. Act quickly.


FOR VETERAN RECRUITS RETURNING TO LONE PINE

Recruits who return with Group 3 have an easier return, with something of an unofficial escort through the Ottoman Turk lines. Though they have to keep their heads down, they are safe mostly if they stick together. The last thing Ataturk wants is for them to be shot down after he personally organised their safe passage. Nor does he want anything to tarnish what should be his flawless victory over the Allied Forces. They are brought to the edge of the Turkish Lines and make the rest of their way back alone to Lone Pine. Ultimately, Group 3 arrives back with a day to spare on their organised retreat.

Those still with Groups 1 & 2 make it back and in one piece, but they don't have the luxury of an escort. Nor is it easy going - they'll have to dodge gunfire the whole run down from the Nek and the French Dugout - but ultimately they make it. They arrive an hour later than Group 3.


UPON REGROUPING

The return and good news is met with raucous cheers from every soldier present - they clap members of the returning groups on the back, whistling with excited cheers of "You bastards did it! You bastards really did it!" It's an all-around hero's welcome, some of it shamefully tearful. They've assuaged fears that the surviving ANZAC troopers wouldn't see their homes or their loved ones again and the mood is palpable. "I'm going to tell my Darling to thank her stars for you every night!" These men have lived through hell for many months now and have had their hopes of going home shot already; many of them believed they'd never get out alive. But as the plans come together, there is a second where it dissolves into painful relief where they grip any other soldiers or nurses tight. "We might just make it." It's been a long while since anyone has even dared to think it.

The disorder from excitement only lasts a little while, before the order comes then from Captain Lewis - "Alright, settle down, we're not there yet." But even he looks relieved; the last few weeks and days of pointless waiting have turned him grey at every edge.

The terrain is now their biggest enemy. It's easy enough for COST recruits to communicate via their BCEs, but the ANZACs have their own communication system to circumvent the difficult, hilly country that often makes it impossible to track fellow soldiers. It's old - far older than the white colonists who have come to inhabit Australia - but it's a very simple cry of the word "Cooee". Adopted from the Dharug language of the Australian Aboriginal people who inhabited what is now Sydney, it has been used for years by everyone, from city folk to bush workers for a simple purpose. It's a loud resonating cry to let other people know where you are.

It may come in handy, when there are wounded men to transport down the heights of Lone Pine. Stretcher bearers are needed, to dodge anyone and anything that might mean them harm. Maps need to be studied to come up with the best routes and diversify the lines, to ensure they don't get funneled together at any point. This requires planning; it's vital everyone know their respective roles and shifts come the evacuation in the morning. Many COST recruits have an easier time of this than the average ANZAC, so maybe its the time to stretch some middle management skills or a hidden talent in deciphering turn of the century cartography. Sitting down and going over this with the local soldiers is important; some of them can't read very well, so it might be slow going. Others are just overeager and likely to do something stupid. Do what you can to get the words into the heads.

Meanwhile, for the long-standing COST recruits, there is another pressing matter: the six of their number kidnapped by the Regency. Just what might have become of them?


escape from bullshit mountain

Veteran recruits have heard plenty of explosions since they arrived in Gallipoli, but this one is different. It sounds nothing like a shell or grenade. There's a shock-wave quality to it, echoing across the trenches, but the epicenter can't quite be found. It seems to come from nowhere.

There's a moment of confused silence, but those with BCEs (those with COST), will notice a momentary glitch, a split second where their holographic technical interfaces blur.

Six captives have managed to escape and destroy this Regency cell's base of operations. The captives are ejected back into No Man's Land and must make a run for it back to Lone Pine. If they're fast, dodging bullets and slipping through mud and barbed wire, they can return to the closest approximation of safety in war-torn Gallipoli: the trenches most familiar to them.

Which shaves this affair down to the truth of what it always was: COST vs. the Regency. Until this point, it looked as though the Regency had the upper hand - they cut off supplies, launched surprise attacks on the defenders of Lone Pine, and captured a number of COST recruits - and were happy to goad everyone with their position. But the tide quickly turns.

For the escapees, it comes down to the same point: regroup to Lone Pine, gather up what remains of the soldiers, and get ready. There is only limited time to get everyone out with their lives intact. And COST has invoked a more resolute ire of the Regency, now without a home base. While most of them are too disorganized and disoriented to engage the escapees directly, others still in disguises of the era line up in the trenches and open fire.

The former captives will not make it by themselves. The Captain, while confused, yells the same order he's been giving for his last six months here: "Cover them!" Which is simple, really. Grab the nearest gun that looks like it might have a single bullet left and haul it up to the trench wall to fire over the top of it.

Do try not to hit the escapees though, will you?


THE CEASEFIRE

Ataturk, the one-day future founder of the Republic of Turkey, has earned the accolades of victory. They will position him upon the fall of the Ottoman Empire to free his homeland.

But, at the moment, he isn't able to give a direct order for everyone to stand down. Today, he is still at the instruction of the Ottoman Empire, allied with the Germans in this war and unwilling to let so many of Prisoners of War go. But due to his own opinions about the Ottoman Empire, Ataturk instead orders his soldiers to involve themselves in activities elsewhere. Namely, no matter what they see and hear on the front lines, with only Ataturk to oversee them, they will not move on other soldiers unless attacked. There are many other things they could be doing and he heartily encourages this.

It will last one full day, as agreed upon: from the dawn of the chosen day to midnight. No Turkish soldier will attack unless it becomes unavoidable for them to do so - and, as they are the main forces in the peninsula, this massively cuts the numbers they might have been facing.

This means that now the only enemy they are truly fighting are Regency soldiers disguised as Germans. Those who remain disguised are imperfect actors of the era and look rough around the edges; they may be better at fitting in than COST soldiers, but only on average.


THE DESCENT

In the morning, it snows.

But the evacuation can't wait and begins with the break of dawn. The process is fairly simple: one or two soldiers, armed and ready, break up the slower moving force of stretcher bearers and the wounded. The plotted paths send them on a winding trek through three alternative routes. Sometimes they overlap. In all cases, it makes clear the real obstacle to the ANZACS and the greatest aid to the Regency is, again, the terrain.

The Regency agents take potshots, snipe from safe positions, and ignore the ceasefire that does not, truly, apply to them. The ANZACs know that the order might not have gotten around, but when the first shot goes off, the soldiers swear something furious. "Haven't they already won?" The ANZAC soldiers can't know that the soldiers ignoring the ceasefire are Regency operatives in disguise.

But not all members of the Regency like these acts of subtlety; the jackal-masked soldiers are difficult to fight and harder to kill. They use the terrain and increasingly snowy weather to target any COST operative sloppy enough to expose themselves. Still, these soldiers are off their game. They're disorganized and reckless; if you kill one successfully - and it is possible, if difficult - the body will disintegrate.

Do what you can to stop them.

It's going to take teamwork to distract and keep them off their true marks, the ANZACs. When the Regency soldiers strike, it's clear they're not wasting any time. Every move is, if not kill, to incapacitate, to slow down the procession reaching the beaches and off the coast. They've got ample places and opportunities to ambush and attack unsuspecting groups of soldiers. One moment, the path is empty; the next, a Regency agent bears down on your position.

But ammo is low on COST's side and it might be better to scrounge around when you can.

Luckily, the trenches were abandoned in a hurry when the call for evacuation came. While the soldiers took as much as they could and removed bodies when and where possible, only so much could be taken. There are still quarter full boxes of ammo left behind, half covered in snow, and canteens still full of water drape off the knives stuck into the walls. If it's a piece of munitions, there's a chance of finding it on the way down.

There is something more, though. Left on tables and desks, in drawers and in cupboards, are fond farewells. There are notes, left in a myriad of chicken scratch handwriting to proper curving letters, that say: To Johnny Turk or To an honest Turk. And, occasionally, you may find gifts left behind as well: a bottle of wine, a fine cigar. Gifts of a fight so hardly meant.

In those little pockets of calm, when even the Regency needs to regroup, do you take it? Or, between a shift of ferrying people down the lines, do you just look at it and leave it be?


THE BEACHES

For those who remember coming to Gallipoli and landing on the beach weeks ago, the change is striking. When they arrived, it was a 300,000 strong teaming force of people, moving like its own city; ships pulled to the shore and the might of the British Navy sat just off the coast.

Now, it's a ghost town of half dismantled tents, holes from shelling in the earth like craters. The smaller docking vessels used for transport are riddled with machine gun bullets. And there are bodies too - always more bodies - with the ever-present stench. But the smell of the sea is, for once, stronger than the damp and death. After a war of so much sound and fury, the world muffled by an already thick blanket of snow, the emptiness and silence is striking.

But there, in the snowy distance (but thankfully not too distant), is a singular warship. And it's flying, much to everyone's relief, French colours. The rescue boat is there.

The cheer that goes up travels all the way down the line.


david vs. goliath: final round

Still, as you hit the beaches, the air crackles and more Regency soldiers appear in a desperate last attempt to stop COST. There is little cover and the Regency soldiers hit hard, all interest in subtlety gone. They aim to kill, not caring who they hit or what cover is lost in the process.

But, hey, if they're going to fight dirty, so can you.

Protect as many ANZAC soldiers as you can. There's no point in maintaining your cover at this stage; hit them with everything you've got. The Regency will target escape vessels and the wounded first, going for soft targets in their final offensive. Fight for your life and the lives of the men and women you want to survive, the people you don't want to die on this stinking beach, so close to escape and so far from home.

When the smoke clears, you'll have to deal with the fact that some ANZAC soldiers did see what you did. However, you'll find anything beyond the comprehension of the average 1916 soldier is often written off as a miracle, a touch of the divine, a legend. They don't think it was you. They think it was a greater luck and magic than can be fully comprehended.

Also, after weeks and weeks in the trenches, sometimes spending days living underground completely and low on food rations, they're all a little delirious.


meanwhile, a message from our sponsors

As soon as the fighting breaks out, Grothia issues a high priority, cell-wide bulletin.

@CMDR. ATTN: ALL.

Get to that beach. The ship won't wait and neither can we.

Some of you may have noticed we called in for extra reinforcements to ensure victory at all possible costs. I do mean all possible. Until these soldiers - every last ANZAC whose lives you have preserved up until this point - has survived this fight. Their lives must come first or all of this, everything you have been through up until now, counts for nothing.

If death comes for them, it is you who will take their place. You, we can revive. As such, you are to treat yourselves as expendable from this point forward. If you find a downed COST member, do not stop for them, we can bring them back.

Lastly - and most importantly. We give no quarter to the Regency.

I will see you on the ship.

She means it; the ship cannot afford to wait, exposed as it is in enemy waters. Successful completion of this mission rests less on a complete defeat of the Regency and more on getting everyone aboard the French ship as quickly as possible. Fight and fight hard, but don't become so consumed by it that you miss the last call to the boats.


anchors aweigh

The boats taking the soldiers to the Marie Antoinette seat around twenty, tightly packed. The wounded go first, then ANZACs. In the interest of being able to protect the convoys as long as possible, COST recruits are told to wait last, so you're liable to be stacked with a lot of your fellow recruits when you do get aboard. Try not to look too relieved. The water is bitter cold and the wind whips snow into your face.

But once you board the ship, you may be in for a strange sight: celebration. No one expected to make it this far, but they have and their joy is effusive; cheers bubble in the crowd. Men hug and laugh, shaking the hands of their saviors and slapping the backs of their comrades.

French wine rations are handed out in celebration; it's not the good stuff, low quality and recently bottled. But after the horrible rum rations given to ANZAC soldiers, it likely tastes like the holy grail. Soldiers sing and drink, cheering with tears in their eyes, glad to be alive. French soldiers ask what happened and ANZACs answer with outlandish and outrageous stories, angels and devils, fairies and goblins, soldiers accomplishing impossible feats.

Those COST soldiers who secured diplomatic ceasefire, repaired the radios and contacted the French, or protected both groups: all are cheered on, wine almost forced into their hands. And, hey, if you're a good enough liar, you can probably convince someone that's exactly what you are, even if you weren't around for it. It's not like everyone's sober for this leg of the trip.

Only fifty ANZAC soldiers died, largely of wounds sustained in transfer, and their funerals are short and solemn; a priest speaks their last rites, reads their names and ranks, and they are buried at sea. Among them are both the Long brothers and Captain Morangey shows his first emotion other than frustration and annoyance.

The funerals are over quickly and more wine is passed out as the ship is gently rocked by the sea. The mood shifts between solemn and joyful depending on the group, or even the moment. The people here have made it out, they're alive, and it's not unusual to hear their shock at this, repeated over and over, grateful despite it all.

READ THE SETTING INFOPAGE.

NAV. NETWORK LOGS OOC MEMES PLURK

Comments

midnighter | dc (rebirth) | ota.

[thingpuncher]

a. HELL'S DITCH | lone pine.

Honestly, he was on guard duty when the screaming started.

Midnighter wasn't really expecting everyone to get all slasher film in the medical tent. He misses the (literally) bloody matron putter out, launching himself inside to find screaming, crying nurses and wounded soldiers with stitches ripped open and blood pooling out of fresh cuts and stabs.

The computer tells Midnighter how to kill people, not to save them. He grabs the nearest soldier, a teenage boy twitching through his death throes, and tries to stop the bleeding coming from a punctured artery. "Jesus. Gauze or something- shit! Somebody get me some fucking gauze!"

b. DIRTY OLD TOWN | ceasefire.

The ceasefire is... eerie. After days of bombardment, weeks of explosions and shells serving as the backtrack to his every movement, the silence is odd and new. He doesn't trust it, but then, he wasn't made to trust things.

When an undercover soldier makes a potshot at someone he's walking with, he snatches the tin hat off his head and catches the bullet in it. The metal hitting metal rings out, giving their position away further. Fuck. He wasn't made for trench warfare, either.

He ducks low behind a small knoll they were maneuvering supplies around. "Take cover," he mutters under his breath, and his voice is harsh and rough. "I think they're trying to pin us down."

c. DOWN IN THE GROUND WHERE THE DEAD MEN GO | the descent.

Coming to the abandoned trenches, Midnighter finally understands what 'ghost town' means. He'd seen it on TV shows and in casual conversations, but he gets it, now. This is the place where someone used to inhabit, and the sense of their absence is almost palpable. It sticks in your throat, waters your eyes, and you keep expecting to see them round the corner.

Midnighter wishes there was a simple word for the shadows of missing people he's never met.

As he moves along, he spots a bottle of rum holding down a piece of paper, a note on a nearby cart. He picks up the rum, holding it to the side, his attention caught far more by the words hidden beneath it.

"To Johnny Turk-- You had a better aim than anyone in our company, but you shot wide when it was for me. God bless you, bastard." Midnighter chuckles under his breath, and slips the letter into his pocket.

d. BOYS FROM THE COUNTY HELL | david v goliath.

Midnighter notices the crackle in the air just as the masked soldier appears. He yells about taking cover, or trying to-- it all happens so fast, even he can barely keep up.

The sand sprays around them as a jackal-masked asshole appears out of nowhere with some kind of energy gun. It shoots hot red light and singes Midnighter's shoulder, burning into the skin, and he swears, grabbing for some kind of weapon. "Stay fucking here," Midnighter says, and grabs a bayonet. He wrenches the metal blade from the end, cheap steel twisting easily in his palm, and hears a nearby ANZAC gasp at his own strength. That'd be flattering, normally. It's not, now. Since this whole mess started, everything feels duller, dumber, his own emotions and reactions muted. Now's no different, it seems.

With incredible accuracy, he tosses the blade into the air, and it lands in the chest of a Regency soldier. Blood bubbles up. The Regency soldier wrenches it out of their chest without a second thought.

"Crap," Midnighter sneers, before holding the gun like a bat ready to swing, and rushing forward.

e1. IN SOUTH AUSTRALIA I WAS BORN | heave away, haul away.

And then he's finally, fucking finally on the ship, and everyone's safe, right? Right.

So excuse Midnighter if he seems like he's personally checking through the crowd for familiar faces. If you've seen him before, only met up with him once, or know him intimately; it doesn't matter. He sees you, and his eyes light with joy. He rushes forward, his hands on your shoulders. He doesn't even smell like wine.

"Shit!" He sounds elated. "You made it!"

e2. IN SOUTH AUSTRALIA ROUND CAPE HORN | bound for south australia.

Or maybe he doesn't know you. It doesn't matter. As the voyage drags on, Midnighter lets himself get lost in the joy of it. He even drinks the shitty wine, trying to fit in and fly under the radar. His hair's finally grown out, and that makes it a hell of a lot easier.

He's listening to a story an ANZAC is telling, of an angel battling a demon in the middle of a fight, some utter miracle that might just have been a hallucination. The ANZAC soldier is drunk and doesn't care. Everyone's happy just for being alive. As far as Midnighter's concerned, this is the best humanity has to offer.

"The angel was me, by the way." He cuts in. "Don't I look angelic?" If he's talking to a man, he might throw in a flirtatious wink.

CLOSED TO OPERATION SHITSTORM | you know who you are.

[thingpuncher]

[DLC content downloading...]

Daenerys Targaryen | GoT | veteran

[dorzalta]

1. ESCAPE FROM BULLSHIT MOUNTAIN (for captives and her horse)
It seems near impossible that this is real. The explosion occurs and life in the Regency's realm is suddenly over. She doesn't know how much time's passed since their kidnapping, nor how long she'd been trapped in that space with Kebechet, enduring the murmurings of a dead father. Even the plan, loosely made with Mordred, seems surreal as she stumbles to her hands and knees, the Regency lion mask set firmly atop her head. Pale silver hair slips past her shoulders with the motion, and her sharp breaths are muffled by the mask.

Chiron? she tries, shouting his name in her mind. The attempt at communication comes near moments after the explosion will rock the lands. Can you hear me?

Gunfire has her looking up, through the strange lens. The head piece remains intact, her entire goal whilst placing it atop her head during the escape. She turns to whoever is nearest--for there are others, she hears their breaths, their movements--and says: "We must move. We're vulnerable without weapons, out in the open like this."

Or maybe you travel further with her, through the war-torn lands as you both are suddenly seized by fire. Lone Pine is within sight, but bullets rain down. With the first shots ringing, she's quick to crouch whilst still moving, trying to become less of a target. But the stray bullets coming from their side? One buzzes dangerously close to her, and she ducks down, taking you with her if you're close enough to be grabbed. "Why are they shooting at us!?" she manages to ask, before allies poke up from the protections of the trenches to rain bullets upon the forces behind you both.


2. ESCAPE FROM BULLSHIT MOUNTAIN (for everyone else)
Return to the trenches is surprisingly welcomed. Lone Pine, so cursed in her mind for the length of time they'd resided there, is also a sight of relief. Dodging bullets and surviving the trek from where they'd been ejected is exhausting enough. By the time she reaches familiar territory, her nerves are frayed and she's exhausted. Escaping the Regency was not an easy thing, no matter how lucky she and Mordred were in destroying their base.

Beware, COST members: a small woman donning a lion mask approaches; but what is notable is the woman's long, silver hair, which streams out behind her. Some of it is smeared with mud, there's dust darkening some chunks, and there is also some crimson streaked within it, as well. Most notable (if the pale hair color is not), is that there are braids interwoven throughout as well--though they are not nearly as neat as they typically are when she's time to tend to her hair.

Any guns pointed in her direction will have her lifting her hands. "My name is Danielle, I was separated from the group when we were attacked and fled to the tunnels." Please don't shoot Daenerys.

Once she's past the initial welcoming squad, she'll be stalking through the trenches, head turning every which way as she searches for her allies--for Jon. Many give her space, glancing at the strange mask she dons with open distrust. It's salt pressed into an open wound, walking as a lion and not a dragon.


3. THE DESCENT
She cannot sleep. Restless, shaken, and entirely frustrated in knowing she cannot remove this damned mask, Dany stalks the trenches for most of the eve. She is exhausted; their time in the prison cell ensured no restful slumber was to be had. Nevertheless, there is also a part to her that is not so riled. You might even hear her murmuring soothingly in another language and brushing her palm along her chest. Come closer, and you're to hear an all-too-familiar clicking noise that speaks to Irriella's reunion with her mother. You might even hear the soft, dulcet tones of French as the Day-One refers to Dany as her lady mother. "You did well, tala."

When the snows begin to fall is when her pacing ceases. The Dragon Queen, currently disguised as a lion, becomes nearly a statue, her head tilted upwards as she considers the skies. "I've never seen snow in person before," she'll tell you, if you step close enough.

Trailing down the hill, you may be her armed partner between stretchers of the injured. Her outraged noise upon sighting jackal-masked soldiers is pronounced, and were you able to see her face, you might think she ready to roar. "Couldn't be content to hide and lick their wounds, could they?"


4. THE BEACH
She's her flamethrower back. Having donned it down from Lone Pine, the liquid fuel inside the tankards sloshing all the while, she finally finds use for it fully here. On the roughened terrain, she was wary in releasing its flames with so many near. The Regency seems particularly interested in targeting the lion-masked target, exposed as she is alongside the rest of you. It makes her far more agitated and ready to gun those foolish enough to expose themselves. Do you help her, or do you try to calm her?

You might have to chase after her. She's ignoring common sense and urging those stumbling along the beach to move faster. Grothia's message about saving them if they fall is enough encouragement to trudge on. She is understandably wary of death, but if they're to be revived, she will do what she must.

"Gather anything flammable," she tells you, pulling the nozzle to her weapon free. "They will be met with Fire and Blood."


5. THE SHIP
It's cold. The flamethrower is abandoned at first sign that they're to board the boats embarking for the Marie Antoinette. When she first heard the ship's name, she snorted in amusement, all whilst her heart ached for the woman and her family. What became of the children, she'd often wondered. But there's no time for such musings when you're both huddled close on a boat. "I don't think I like snow very much."

(Unfortunately, she's not experienced the true reason to dislike the snow just yet.)

The celebrations on the ship include even she, with that stupid lion mask. She cannot drink the wine, alas, but nurses her own serving of it when those reach out to include her. Blindingly sober, she's near delirious from exhaustion, thirst, and hunger. And it shows in the way she sways at times. Others laugh it off as her being drunk, but as she weaves through the clusters of men, it's noticeable if you watch her. You might even be the lucky recipient of her gripping your arm for balance, if you're not moving. "Do you think we'll leave soon?" she asks by way of silent apology for disturbing you.


( ooc: MILLIONS OF PROMPTS but if you want something else, please let me know on disco or plurk and we can plot something out! :> )

a horse is a horse of course.

[horsepowered]

Over the past....gods. How many days has it been? Too many and too few. Chiron drew into himself for the most part, manifesting only if he must and even then for the briefest amounts of time. It was enough to drive anyone to madness, as he could not communicate without taking form.

Endurance was always a strength though, and Chiron knew he could manage. He would force himself to manage, or be dust. And so when he heard the link forged between himself and Daenerys flicker to life, felt the sudden surge of mana in his veins, it was all he could do to not cry out in relief.

Yes. Stay where you are, I will be by your side in a moment.

Rose Hathaway || VA/Bloodlines || New Recruit - OTA

[littledhampir]

[Rose had been sure that no amount of hair braiding, chest binding or smudging of dirt to disguise her features would hide the fact that she was a woman and she was probably right. Upon emerging from the tent however, she was quick to realize that it didn’t much matter. Nobody was going to be looking too hard at her, not in this godforsaken place.

She could feel the press of death all around her, the mental guard that kept the lingering spirits of those who had died at bay, strained in a place that had seen as much bloodshed as this one. It was like feeling a migraine coming on, threatening to explode inside her head and she had to grit her teeth and focus hard to keep the guard up. A battlefield such as this one, was clearly no place for somebody who was ‘Kissed by Shadows’, but there was no backing out now.

The mud she’d smeared across the back of her neck, barely conceals the cluster of tattoos inked there and with the constant touching brought on by irritation, it was doubtful they’d stay hidden long. While all of this should have marked her as out of place, it was the eyes that were truly telling. She saw the ghosts of war in the faces of every man and woman she passed and while she’d seen enough in her life to recognize it? The stench of blood and death that permeated the very air that she breathed was a reminder that the war she’d been waging back home, hardly deserved to be called one. She wasn’t hardened or haunted enough to look like she belonged here but she wasn’t scared or shocked enough to look like she didn’t.]

a ][ Lone Pine [Medical Tent]

[Trying to sleep with the overwhelming stench of death in the air was about as easy for Rose as trying to stomach the rations that were supposed to pass as food, her bully beef and hard tack left untouched until hunger could fully take hold. Desperation had a way of making a person less fussy, but Rose wasn’t quite there yet.

She was therefore awake when the bloodcurdling scream pierced the air, any weariness stripped away in an instant as she got to her feet with alarming quickness. The sight of a woman who looked more like a nun than a murderer gives her a moments pause, the arcs of arterial spray that paints her pinafore, burning into her brain before she can make her feet move.

It never occurs to her that the danger was making her escape into the fog, Rose rushing past the Matron and into the tent where the metallic scent of blood slammed into her. Death, while never easy went hand in hand with war, she understood that reality better than the average person but like this; Men who against all odds, survived this long just to be slaughtered where they lay?

Off to her right, there's a gurgle, a wet, bubbling cough and the anger that had started to rise inside of her, is overpowered by a surge of hope. She moves without thought, the point of the weapon she conceals in her boot stabbing into her foot as she drops to the side of the soldier still clinging to life.

Warm blood slips between her fingers as she struggles to cover the wound, the pulse of it growing weaker as he continues to bleed out in front of her. Streaks of crimson smear across her forehead as she wipes the sweat that’s formed on her brow, Rose frantically looking for anything she can use stem the flow.]

A little help here! [Her accent too American. Her voice too feminine but under the circumstances, she doesn’t have time to care.]

b ][ The Beaches [David VS Goliath]

Incoming!

[The cry that rings out across the beach is followed by a crash of limbs, Rose hurling herself directly at a Regency Soldier as he goes to launch a bomb at the retreating backs of the ANZACs. There’s no time to see if her warning is enough to be of any help, if the collision managed to knock the bomb off course. Her hand is already reaching for the silver stake concealed in her boot because while she was never one for guns? Hand to hand combat against an enemy who is bigger, stronger and faster than she is, is very much her forte.

Don’t hesitate. Those two words as much a mantra as a silent taunt as Rose strikes out with the blade, looking to damage the dominant arm of her opponent, to at least make it harder for him to launch any more of those attacks. The uniform restricts her ease of movement, the dancer-like grace that would normally accompany her fights, hindered by the shifting sand beneath her feet.

White hot pain shoots through her shoulder as she manages to connect, Rose, slow to notice the knife that has been buried in her body. She drops down to allow it to slip free before it can do any serious damage to sinew and muscle, her fingers closing around a fistful of sand that she sprays in the face of her opponent.

The split second of blindness allows her to aim a shot at his knee, the crunch of gristle and bone quickly bringing the man crashing down but she can’t pull her stake free fast enough to roll clear of his hulking form, the weight of his body momentarily pinning her as they both scramble to be the first to land another blow.]

c ][ Anchors Aweigh

[In the wake of the fight against the Regency soldiers, Rose’s attempt to pass as male is failing now more than ever. The slouch hat she’d been using to hide her hair had been knocked off in battle, while long, blood matted pieces of it, create a ghoulish frame around her face. The binding, now too loose to hide her bustline has begun to unravel and pool around her waist, Rose’s only real hope of going unnoticed left in trying to tuck herself away once they board the ship

The blood that spreads across the shoulder of her uniform, looks almost black against the khaki material, the only hint that it belongs to her, the dull ache that slowly intensifies. Shock and adrenaline would work as a pain reliever until they could get back to B.A.S.E and the wind that bites at every inch of exposed skin, distracts her as much as it leaves her numb.

She doesn’t recognize any of the faces cramped into the boat headed to the ship, but as one of the last to leave she’s at least sure that most, if not all are COST.]

I’ve never wanted a hamburger with the works, more than I do right now.

d ][ Wildcard

[I’ll roll with any scenario you want to throw my way! Action or Prose is fine. I only went with an action format cause it disguises how ridiculously TLDR this post is.]

b;

[familybusiness]

[Sam is living proof that her straightforward approach most definitely helped. The bomb careens off course, exploding a couple of yards away from its intended target, and so when he and the others near him duck and cover their heads, they're recovering from shell shock instead of a loss of limbs or, worse, not recovering at all.

His vision clears in time to see his comrade sinks her....knife(???) into the Regency soldier's leg, followed quickly by the latter's body crashing on top of hers.

He's moving before he even thinks twice, his finger already on the trigger of his hand gun. He closes the distance quickly, and before either of them can entirely recover, he's placing a palm against the attacker's head, forcing it down face first into the ground next to the person pinned beneath him, and fires directly into the back of his head.]

mordred | fate | veteran, come at me

[bloodings]

a | no man's land; open to other captives.

[ Mordred's laughing when she's ejected out of the Regency base. How could she not be? They didn't just escape; they destroyed the entire thing. After the torture, all the time in that blank cell, even the dirt under her feet and the wind in her face is something to celebrate. She grins, and it's all teeth. ]

Hahaha! That was awesome! [ Her joy is short-lived, though, when a bullet whizzes by her head. She flinches, even knowing it wouldn't kill her; those by her side might not be so lucky. ] —The hell? Hey, they're shooting at us!

[ The war isn't over yet, she realizes very quickly. With how time flows here, they could have been captured for weeks or just minutes — so when she sees men on the ANZAC side firing back, her relief is almost palpable. Still, there's no time to lose, and she grabs whoever's closest to her — actually grabs; lifting them into her arms bridal style, seemingly without effort. Servant strength is a wonderful thing to have again. ]

It's faster this way. [ And her back, small as it is, will be a bigger target than anyone else. ]

b | the aftermath; closed to ryuji.

Master! [ Mordred knows he's alive, because so is their connection. Beyond that? She has no idea, and it's not just the physical side of things she's worried about. ] Everyone's okay. I'm coming to find you.

[ It doesn't matter where he is. She dematerializes, and starts honing in on his presence, passing straight through anything in her way. ]

c | knight vs goliath; open to all.

[ With her strength back, there's nothing she wants more than to fight. She wishes desperately that she had her sword, her armour, if only to fight even harder... but the lives of the men are even more important. Even if it got through the nullifiers, her Noble Phantasm could cause a rockslide, no matter how carefully aimed.

So she fights with what she has instead — a bayonet, and her own hands, feet, and teeth. It's not easy, but the Knights of the Round Table don't do easy; and, in the end, every minute the Regency spends fighting her is a minute for everyone else to keep evacuating. Which is why she's prepared to admit when she needs help, if only for the sake of those around her. ]

Screw this. [ She spits blood on the ground, and looks for the nearest COST agent. ] Come with me. I'm not normally the type to team up with people, but we don't have a choice.

d | a quiet moment; open to all.

[ On the boat, she takes the wine offered to her — even though she looks far too young to be drinking — and downs it like it's second nature. As a Servant, it's not like she can really get drunk, but she can sure as hell try. ]

Dammit... we blew it up, but I don't know if we killed that bastard. [ Kebechet. She has a feeling she'll be hearing that name again. ] Well, whatever. [ To whoever's closest to her: ] Hey, get me some more wine, will you? I'm still thirsty.

[ Can't she just get it herself? ]

e | wildcard.

[ the obligatory wildcard option! hmu with basically anything, i'm available at palkia or via pm to hash stuff out. ]

D

[horsepowered]

[When Siegfried had informed Chiron that somehow Mordred had been among those taken, Chiron had felt the true weight of the Regency's threat come home. It wasn't even that Mordred was a servant, it was that Mordred was Mordred.

Not that he'd ever say that to Mordred's face. What he will say is far simpler as he approaches her, offering her his portion of wine.]

By all means, have mine.

vax'ildan | critical role | new recruit.

[duskmeadow]

ESCAPE FROM BULLSHIT MOUNTAIN—

[ What the fuck?

The refrain has been bouncing through Vax's mind on a loop since he woke up in that tent. The only familiar thing he has is one of his daggers. Every single thing about this place is alien to him, and he'd be more resentful of it all if he hadn't so clearly been plunged into a battle.

Where is everyone? ghosts along beneath his more immediate objections, but Vax carefully sets that aside. If he starts worrying about where Vex'ahlia and the rest of Vox Machina has gotten off to, he'll get himself killed.

After all, the bigger issue here for Vax is how ill-suited he is to this kind of combat. One dagger (and a weapon better suited for Percy) against an opposing army? The gun is awkward in his hands as he looks up in disbelief before eyeing the top of the trench. ]

Give me a boost!

[ He'll figure out what to do with it when he gets up there and assess the incoming danger. ]

THE DESCENT—

[ Retreating doesn't sit well with Vax. The urge to stand and fight even in an impossible situation with terrible odds is ingrained in him, no matter how many times he's found himself overwhelmed. If he could stop and just listen for a moment, maybe he could pick a few of their opposition off with his dagger, but he's lacking his Belt of Returning. It would be more involved than just aiming true at whatever enemies are perched in those trees. ]

This fucking—

[ Whatever objection he'd been intending to make cuts off as gunfire cracks through the air again. His face is pinched and irritated as he starts pulling knives out of the wall. They aren't anything like the weaponry he's missing (left behind?) but they'll do. ]

What's that?

[ From here, the note isn't visible. And Vax, who has never seen a cigar before, can't tell if it's useful or not. ]

ANCHORS AWEIGH—

[ The celebration takes Vax aback. It makes sense, but after his slapdash arrival he's barely acclimated to their mission. His relief feels unearned. Compared to the others here, Vax had barely done anything at all to ensure they made it to this boat and he's still prickling over the idea that they'd left a job half-finished behind them.

And he feels worse upon skimming the crowd and not finding any of the faces he'd been instinctively looking for. No Keyleth. No Percy. No Grog or Scanlan.

No Vex'ahlia.

Here, in the first moment of relative peace, Vax has time to process what that really means. He looks down into the cup that had been pushed into his hands and throws it back. He's going to need another. ]

Is this everyone?

[ He asks the first person whose attention he can draw from the merriment. None of the dead had been familiar to him. Maybe there was another place aboard this boat. Maybe there was another group. It was a stupid hope, but he can't stop himself from asking. He can't be alone here, can he? ]

WILDCARD—

[ Hit me with your best shot. ]

The Descent

[horsepowered]

--Ignore it.

[Chiron notes where Vax's eyeline has gone, and he sees the cigar plainly. It's a distraction, one not needed at the moment. Chiron's own face is tense, focusing on the matter at hand if only to keep himself from doing anything more emotionally charged.

He knows the Regency is just shit stirring right now, and he hates it.]

Just keep moving.

Chiron || Fate/ nonsense || vet

[horsepowered]

Regrouping
For all of the success the group has managed with regards to diplomacy (and it is a thing to be proud of, to look back on and say that it was a well executed plan, a well argued truce), Chiron cannot take any joy in being back with the others. The issue of the Regency still holding onto other comrades weighs heavy on his mind.

His life, in it's way, depends on their return.

So when the group does reunite with the others, Chiron manifests after the inital celebration is gone. The only reason he is doing so is to make it clear that so far, he is alive.

Familiar faces are given a small smile, but there's little movement from Chiron otherwise. He is lost in thought, and exhausted from even doing that much.

The Descent.
"There are two on the left."

Chiron's voice is soft and firm, his attention drawn off to the side. There are two sets of ears peaking out from behind what should be full cover, and there's nothing natural about them.

"I believe they can be taken out. We should get the men who are several steps behind us out of the area first though."

Chiron's not about to do something stupid without support, but he does make for his own firearm.

Anchors Aweigh
Chiron's own interest is the ocean itself. Not the celebration, not the wine, none of it. He rests his forearms on edge of the ship, putting the full of his weight there and enjoying the splash of seaspray that smacks lightly against his face every so often. Beyond him he can hear all of the merry making, and in that, he feels too many echoes of such scenes that existing in the past. This land's past.

There has never been irony lost on him that this was where Troy once stood, where an endless war birthed so many legends. The reverberation is almost painful.

Should anyone join him in such an aside, they're greeted with a soft nod of the head and a quiet, "Καλημέρα."

It is a new dawn, of a sorts. The greeting feels appropriate.

anchors

[prizeneck]

He steps into the cold sea air with his sleeves rolled up, his mask still on, using the skin of his forearms to dampen with the spray that rose every time the ship cut through a bigger swell. He aims for the sharp cold to seep into him, soothe the hypervigilance installed in his body - he was going to be riding that for the next couple of days, still.

He almost mistakes this person as a commander, for some reason, until there's something nagging at the back of his mind, telling him differently. It's what makes him stop at the greeting. It sounds foreign to his ears, nothing he had heard before. "What's that?"

percival fredrickstein von musel klossowski de rolo iii / critical role / new recruit

[decisions]

( ooc note: if you prefer prose, feel free! i always default to action brackets, but will match. )

ESCAPE FROM BULLSHIT MOUNTAIN

[ this.

now this is something percy can do.

waking up with a sharp gasp in the tent, having a strange uniform shoved into his hands and a mission between his ears, he wonders if this is what the afterlife is like: work, work, work, no different from the land of the living, really. he barely has time to breathe between all the belt buckles and cloth, the sound of explosions echoing from outside. he's in the middle of getting up to speed with a new rifle supplied to him, when an enormous roar gets him urged outside the tent, scrambling but snatching up bad news and slinging the other rifle over his shoulder (you never know when you need a back up, right?)

in the back of his mind, he's trying to scan his surroundings for anyone - anything, a half panic thinking well if i'm dead, no doubt everyone else has come to join me. a shock of keyleth's red hair, grog's unmistakable form, the silhouette of vex'ahlia sailing through the air or a shadow that looks too uncanny to be anyone but vax. a wafting of purple magic or scanlan's sharp, pitched voice. but as far as he knows, they aren't here. and there's no time as someone barks out the order: "cover them!"

bad news comes up immediately, miraculously unjammed and ready to go. he loads a shot, and he gets into a good position up against cover, seeing the frantic silhouettes of people running towards them - rabbits in a field of mud and gore, what look to be curled rows of metallic thorned vines snaking together.

percy is methodical in his shots, well-practiced, and his hits land with every high-risk roll he makes. if someone looks completely unfamiliar with a rifle, he offers to help without so much as a beat, sliding into position beside them and doing his best to teach on the fly. the only point he stops is to reach out when someone is close enough to the edge trench. if allowed, grabbing them by the forearm, easing them down. ]

Here, here we go... easy does it now...

[ the smell of gunpowder is hot in the air, bad news snaking heat from its barrel. ]

THE DESCENT

[ the snow falls and percy feels an intense jag of yearning pitch inside of him. it yawns wide and cavernous for whitestone, for his sister, for the isle of glintshore, for the overwhelming heaviness of orthax striking him down.

he's got both hands around bad news, regulation rifle strapped to his back as he walks among the stretches, eyes up at every vantage point he, as a gunman, can imagine, ready at a moment's notice to fire. he may be accompanying you as a stretcher bearer or even as a weak and tired patient on said stretcher, or he may be taking a moment's rest to count out what ammunition he has left in a pouch at his hip. regardless, he stalks, and as strangely bookish as he might look with his glasses perched on his nose and the mud in his fine, white hair under his hat, he looks as though he very much means business.

those who may be lining up to shoot at a regency solider peering up over their ledge of cover to get in an attack of opportunity, percy will aid in other ways. not with his gun, but with a hand and a soft plume of almost unsettlingly alive smoke climbing up over his collar. while the injured parade behind him, he casts hex silently on the target ahead, a soft mutter coming from him. ]

Strike now while the advantage is yours.

THE BEACH (DAVID VS. GOLIATH)

[ the black smoke flaring up from percy's coat is easy to blame on delirium. there's no time to waste as enough time has passed from the descent to the beach. a respite allows percy to cast hex on one regency soldier and fire off a shot, smash ribs with the gun stock. he's not a melee fighter, but what had the message said?

expendability?

hadn't he already caused enough trouble as it were? this would be... some sort of repentance, perhaps. it doesn't fix the self loathing, but does it provide a balm for it? maybe. he lets the stronger of their forces finish off a hexed target quickly, the black smoke fluttering from one soldier to another of percy's choosing as the spell's yet to complete and his concentration is precision focused, best that it can be. of course, all good things wear down in time, and percy - a little breathless, eyebrows screwed tightly, waves off one last withering tendril of smoke. ]

I can't -

[ as someone smashes straight into his face with an elbow, glass of his spectacles cracking and sending him down.

(how he makes it to the boats headed for the marie antoinette is anyone's guess.) ]

ANCHORS AWEIGH

[ someone come fix his fucking glasses please, he's doing his best!!!!!

aka a wildcard where percy is pretty fucking blind rip. ]

anchors!!!!!!!!!

[duskmeadow]

Let me see them.

[ It occurs to Vax, belatedly, that Percy probably woke up with nothing the same as he did. Whatever equipment he'd stockpiled to repair glasses or gun were lost to him. The least Vax can do is try to give him a hand.

Though whether or not he can manage to fix the almost comical bend in the frame without snapping them in half is a real gamble. ]

I can try. At least I'll be able to see what I'm doing.

[ So tactful, that Vax. ]

henry cooldown | no more heroes | ota

[handsomefoil]

1 ★ THE BEACHES

Even as a member of COST, someone who doesn't have to deal with the aftermath of this war and can leave this all behind with no consequences, he feels the same elation as the other soldiers when the French flag waves in the distance. Even if the relief is short-lived, he doesn't care. It's almost done with and he almost welcomes the reckless way the Regency comes at them with no consideration for hiding themselves.

Not interested in being at a great disadvantage (even if the challenge is appealing to him), he's also tired and his stamina is running low. It's only the burst of adrenaline and the relief of being able to fight as he likes that moves his feet. The sand absorbs the thundering sound of boots, and he shrugs off anything that hinders his movements too much as he dives into the fight. Where an ANZAC soldier is being attacked, he kicks off the ground and catapults himself shoulder-first into the Regency fighter like a bullet. In Henry's hand is a metal handle, obscured by the motions and his grip, and he jams it into his target's chest. Light bursts out from the other side of the body, which is kicked off and thrown onto the ground in a heap, steam floating from the ugly wound punched clean through them. The saber had been kept under wraps, the metal handle easy enough to clip to his person beneath his jacket or shirt.

He doesn't downplay his movements anymore, leaping at anyone trying to attack him and using whatever guns that fall to the ground as well. His muscles scream at him, threatening to fall apart from fatigue and lack of proper sustenance, so what would normally be fatal attacks are relatively normal strikes. Frustrating, but he'll take that over dying.

"Watch your head!" And a Regency solider attacking you from behind loses his Jackal-mask adorned head, as a bright flash of light cuts through his neck. God, it feels so good to have his weapon of choice back in his hands.

2 ★ ANCHORS AWEIGH

The message from Grothia was loud and clear. Not like he was willing to stay behind for any reason anyway. As the remaining COST members pile onto the boat after their objective was secured, he tucks the still-warm handle of his cross saber into his pocket.

Whether he knows you or not, once the wine is broken out and shoved into their hands with soldiers chattering and celebrating away, he succumbs to the atmosphere. With drink in hand, he knocks it against yours like he would with a glass.

"Cheers."

2

[raisedbybirds]

The ship feels like a fever dream. Samus wanted nothing more than to secure the safety of the ANZAC and COST soldiers and put an end to this pointless fighting, and had been fighting that fight for so long she almost doesn't know what to do with herself now that it was all over. Her sense of time was skewed. Not having to carry around a body or ammunition or guns or weapons was a literal and figurative weight lifted off her shoulders, she just needed a few moments to figure how to go about embracing that. Part of her wants to walk around in a flurry and do another head-count, really make sure everyone is here who can be here... another part of her just wants to indulge in something that will burn her throat and bring some peace of mind.

One of the Australian soldiers recognizes her and guffaws at how long "Justin's" hair has grown on the battle field (shoot... it was trailing out the back of her hat in a matted braid now, wasn't it? Better question: did she care? The other soldiers certainly didn't, and don't remark much on how she doesn't sound as male as she once did either--or blame it on their own drinks). They shove a drink in her hand and off they go, leaving her to figure out what to do with it.

She knocks it back of course, all in one go. It's not long before she gets a second drink in her hand and it's tapped in cheers by Henry's.

"You're not dead." Of course he's not, but she's glad to see him regardless.

Jon Snow ✥ Game of Thrones/ASOIAF ✥ Veteran

[northerndragon]

NETWORK - OTA - JUST AFTER "ESCAPE FROM BULLSHIT MOUNTAIN"

[northerndragon]

The small person in the lion mask who was caught out is one of ours — STORMBORN. Don't attack her.

genji shimada | overwatch | new recruit

[doublejumps]

i. arrival

Genji wakes, without a clear recollection of when he slept, to the sound of distant explosions. His eyes blink open once, twice, and he finds himself staring at the top of a tent. The moment that he begins to move, he registers that there's something wrong. Not only with his surroundings, but with him. Something isn't right, a stifling feeling that only fully registers when he sits up suddenly and finds that both of his arms look like they're flesh and blood.

He's had dreams like this before, of course. Who wouldn't, after losing a good portion of their body? He still remembers clearly those days when he hadn't been missing so much of his original self, and his subconscious all too often forgets what's happened since. At first waking up from such a dream had been crushing. These days, he's used to it.

A stranger greets him, and Genji is on his feet in an instant, grabbing for the wakizashi he hadn't fully registered was laying at his side, instinct alone driving him. The man in the old-fashioned uniform talks him down, though, imploring that he hear him out.

Genji already knows that the illusion of being fully organic again is just that, but the man explains further. The artificial skin is necessary to blend in, as they've traveled back to the time of World War I to carry out a mission. All of this is something Genji supposedly signed up for, but he has no memory of doing so, which makes the entire situation overwhelming, to say the least. While the stranger is patient enough in answering his questions, there's still so much that Genji doesn't understand, and eventually he's encouraged to put on a uniform and go take a look for himself.

So that's what he does, taking in Lone Pine for himself. He's read about World War I in history books, but seeing it like this is something completely different. It feels a little like walking onto a movie set, and Genji is still struggling to accept that any of it is real. Either way, he'll be making his way through the trenches, places that he's told are relatively safe, and looking somewhat dazed. He's definitely got that fresh, uninitiated look about him, and as a Japanese man in his thirties, he likely stands out for other reasons.

He might need some help getting settled.

ii. the descent

Genji has only just started to accept his situation when the orders come through, and they need to get on the move. He's got a grasp of the stakes now, at the least. They need to get these remaining soldiers down from the hills and to the shoreline to safely board a rescuing ship, and then this mission will be considered complete. It's strange to have been brought in on the tail end of things, despite what he's been told about apparently having enlisted some time ago. (How long is still unclear.)

All the same, he's been on enough missions over his life to find this fairly straight-forward. Blackwatch had often been more about taking life than saving it, but Genji doesn't mind the shift at all. He's been thrown into this mess with little warning, but now that he's here he may as well make use of his skillset.

He's found a small group to go down with, some of them legitimate ANZAC soldiers. It's possible that some of them are members of COST as well; he doesn't know enough of them yet to easily tell the difference, and some blend in better than others.

Not that it matters much, once the shooting starts. Genji becomes aware of the sniper when he spots a glint off of his scope, and races to the back of the small caravan, unsheathing his wakizashi. He waits a few seconds and then lifts the blade, swiping it back and forth at breakneck speed. It might seem bizarre, but soon enough what he's doing becomes clear, as a bullet aimed at their group gets deflected back at the shooter, downing him instantly.

"There might be more," he says over his shoulder. "I'll keep watch." Why does this guy have a sword on a World War I battlefield? What kind of ninja nonsense was that? Feel free to ask.

iii. david vs. goliath

Instead of just scattered attacks, it seems that in a last-ditch effort the Regency has decided to throw every last operative at them, and when battle erupts on the beach, Genji knows he has no choice but to join in. Running around with a sword when everyone else has guns might seem like suicide, but this is hardly new for him. He uses his supposedly antiquated weapons in the year 2076, he isn't going to be deterred here in 1916.

As bullets sail across the battlefield, Genji ducks and weaves, his agility beyond anything that could be considered normal human levels. He jumps and darts, flips and slides, cutting through their enemies with a precision that's years in the making.

The message they received said to give no quarter, and while it has been some time since Genji has engaged in murder like this, he is no stranger to it. With everything that's on the line (even if it's the lives of people he barely knows), and with the simple need to defend himself, he isn't going to hold back.

Whether he's jumping in to save a group of wounded, assisting another fighter, or in need of some backup himself, he'll be a consistent presence in the battle.

iv. anchors aweigh

They've made it, and most everyone is celebrating.

Genji removes himself from all of the ruckus. It's not as if he doesn't enjoy a good party, but it's difficult to be in the mood for it right now. He got tossed into this mess so suddenly that he hasn't had much time to reflect on it. While he isn't completely alone (he's run into one familiar faces, by now, and been told of another), this is still a bizarre situation to be in, and so far from home.

He's been recruited into a fight he doesn't remember agreeing to, and while they should be returning to some sort of home base soon, this is not the easiest adjustment to make with no prior warning. So here he is, standing at the railing above-deck and looking out over the quiet ocean, shrouded in darkness with only a few clouds and stars overhead.

He reaches out his right arm and stares at it, wiggling his fingers and then turning his wrist to look at the palm of his hand. He understands that someone can't run around looking like a cyborg in 1916 without causing a huge amount of confusion and possibly even disturbing the timeline, but he'd found peace with himself. Now he's bits of skin, covered in metal, covered in more (fake) skin, and it doesn't sit right with him.

It isn't as bad as it would have been before he communed with the Shambali. He doesn't have the urge to rip it all off. All the same, it seems like he can't get a break when it comes to how he presents himself to the world, or how he's perceived by it.

It's a lonely, solemn sort of moment, and some company wouldn't go amiss.

v. wildcard/ooc note

Want to do something not covered here? That's totally fine! Feel free to PM me and we can plot something out. Also, Genji will look like this, plus about ten years. Sorry for the lack of appropriate icons!

( wildcard | @BRUNNHILDE )

[heilt]

A friend told me that you'd arrived. Are you alright?
- Mercy

ignis scientia | ffxv | new recruit-ish

[cookeries]

(ooc: I originally posted over on the previous TDM, so he's just been warped from there directly into Gallipoli. What fun! )

regrouping;

[ Leaping from Vorspiel to this war zone hadn't been an easy transition. While the creatures of that strange place were dangerous, they weren't altogether unfamiliar territory. Ignis is used to creepy things that come out in the night, especially ones that are difficult to kill.

This, however, is different. He's spent too much time isolated in the trenches, too much time fighting with weaponry he's completely unsuited for. But with the fighting well and over, he's happy to take up an advisory role. Bent over a water-damaged map, detailing places he's never heard of before, he attempts to make sense of the possible routes they may take to evacuate the wounded. ]

We'll need to mark the paths destroyed in the fighting: the dead ends, the uneven terrain, enemy lines. The battlefield may be quiet now, but I do not trust the follies of war. The faster we can make our retreat the better.

[ He's grabbed anyone that might have a BCE around him, regardless of skill or knowledge. ] We'll need to secure rations for those making the journey down. Sustaining the injured person and those transporting cannot be regarded lightly. It's quite the journey to make.

[ Securing supplies won't be easy, either. ]

the descent;

[ The snow erases the footpaths of the soldiers ahead of them, and make the terrain slick and treacherous. The climb down was never going to be simple, but the snow only makes things worse.

The low, intermittent pop of shots overhead does nothing to calm the nerves of the soldiers. Ignis keeps as low as possible, using the craggy, icy landscape as a buffer between him and the snipers. He's heard the fighting, the screaming up ahead but the ice prevents them from moving too quickly to the aid of others. There's whispers of jackal-masked soldiers, and the tell-tale body lying leftover, bloody in the snow.

He hears someone crunching and slick footed steps in the snow and without second thought, grabs the person nearest him and drags them down below the ridge line just as one of the jackal-masked soldiers throws themselves over it and down into the footpath. ]

Up. [ The masked soldier seems stunned (maybe shot by mistake by one of the Regency snipers), but they don't have much time before he realizes they're there. ] Quickly.

anchors aweigh;

[ Victory is hard won and bittersweet. Though most seem to remain in communal areas, sharing in the wine and the celebrations, Ignis has taken to wandering. The ship isn't any more comforting than the battlefield, and he treats it as though it's an enemy itself. He takes to mapping it out, not relying on the BCE and all that it might offer. He knows better. Technology can fail, especially when crafted by those he's yet to trust.

Anyone seeking some quiet away from the commotion might find a tired, ruffled bespectacled man in the galley. He's tutting over the rudimentary supplies and technology. It's sparse at best, and he's already pulling what few food items he can find. Even if he can only make a lukewarm broth, it would be better than the detritus they called food back on the battlefield. ] Astonishing... you'd think there were no living, breathing human begins aboard, with stock like this.

anchors aweigh

[handsomefoil]

[ Henry didn't take to wandering for solitude for a while, content to just stand in one place and enjoy his drinks while his energy allowed him and letting the more energetic soldiers peter away of their own accord before he slipped away. The galley is the place to be to find something to chew on, as his stomach gurgled and threatened to eat itself after being doused in wine. Seems it didn't realize just how empty it was until something tried to fill it.

He hears a low muttering not to far from him as he ducks into the space, wondering what sort of provisions the French were able to bring aboard. ]

Heh, well, you'll have to forgive them; war is unkind on all fronts.

[ Were Henry in this man's position, he'd probably feel the same. Being in Gallipoli certainly changed him for the moment, it seems, even if his preferred taste for the finer things in life hasn't quite subsided. Though let's be real, it never will. ]

ryo asuka | devilman (ova/manga) | new recruit.

[reillumination]

a. | the descent

[ the scent of death is a clinger. it seeps into the bone and the marrow and it stays there for months. Ryo's been drenched in human blood – in demon ichor more times than he can count in the previous weeks. no amount of scrubbing ever rids a human skin of it. it just shoves it down deeper into the grain, becomes one with the one it marked in the first place.

Ryo thinks it looks a bit like his part of town these days – human remains and odd shapes, impossibly powerful and just as tenacious. as human, he couldn't hope to possibly bring whatever those soldiers were alone. even with his impeccable aim and his quick reloads – his confidence with a shotgun – it wasn't enough. pumping more lead into the things only seemed to make them angrier. more resilient. more than once, Ryo's thoughts spiral out into the idea that this is all just futile anyway, that humans were always meant to screw things up for themselves. that, in the end – it doesn't matter. even if he doesn't think much of the story that's been relayed to him, it isn't a good enough excuse for him to fuck around anyway. he'd like to live another day. he'd like himself – humanity – to live free or die trying.

and if he's kicking it tonight, he's gonna make use of the trinkets they've left down in this dusty hellhole to make Death play hardball.

coming across more slugs for him is easy. he shoves them all in his pocket as he goes, disregarding notes that he can't quite seem to read or maybe isn't quite compelled to. about ten minutes into his search, it looks like he's gotten a handle on something he likes. ]

It's a piece of shit, but it'll do. [ it isn't clear if he's aware someone else is with him, but what "it" is becomes obvious quick as he yanks it hard out of the table someone jammed it into: a serrated hunting knife. it cuts a thin line of light in the dim as he turns it this way and that, feeling out its balance and heft. he does this for a long moment, but then – ]

If you want something, hurry up and take it. [ maybe he'd known you were there after all. either way, he's shoving the hunting knife into his boot before he's straightening himself out, dusting off his uniform. he doesn't quite look at you, but the dirt and grime smeared across what skin is exposed does nothing to disguise his age – he's young. ] I'm not going to stop you.

b. | anchors aweigh (cw: drug use).

[ jubilation is thick and so is whatever wine they've stuffed into his hands the moment he stepped aboard. the soldiers clapping him on the back and telling him that he'd never seen such aim and an absolute lack of consideration for one's own fatigue comes as a discomfort more than a pride to him. they tell him it was a sort of viciousness seen only in fairy tales – his pale eyes bright and his pitched laughter brighter. at the end, they tell him, even the flash of his teeth had been painted with blood.

but, one can't account for the human spirit and the will to live. his quick reloads and his persistence despite injury that should have been enough to incapacitate a mortal man was remarkable. even if he feels it now, tucked into a corner far and away from the celebrating crowds. everything is bustling, raucous – and Ryo feels the blooming of a pissy ache behind his eyes as his body tries to knit itself back together (there's a good gouge he'd collected along his right shoulder) into some semblance of a whole.

it's probably a foolish idea, but it's that arm he's using to smoke something out of a pipe he's lifted off one of the soldiers on board with a particular relaxed poise and... idleness as he stares overboard at the rolling sea beneath. he's made himself a comfortable enough looking seat, having pushed some crates into position so he could kick up his feet. if you'd seen him earlier, he looks like a completely different person – raw, human adrenaline now cast in tentative repose. ]

I took the last of what that guy had, [ he says suddenly. thick, white smoke billows out from between his fingertips and dissipates against the salt air. his mouth climbs into a sneer, tired, but knife sharp. ] You figure in a situation like this, they'd bother to keep more.

[ his pale eyes flicker over to under dark lashes in bare, swift acknowledgement. there's an unnatural glassiness to them – but, there's no doubt that he's paying attention to you. ]

c. | pick your own?

[ shot through the heart and you're to blame / you give love a bad name. jam with this 80s punk. ]

b, ie it's laced with drugs

[lonelywar]

[The feeling of celebration that hangs in the air like streaming banners on the Marie Antoinette is somewhat abrasive to Ashitaka as he finally makes his way aboard. His primary feeling is one of profound exhaustion. Even before his abduction Gallipoli had been wearing away at him, carving him away piece by piece like he was being eroded over time. Then the Regency - what Kebechet had told him... That had been less wear and tear and more of a fracture, sending a spiderweb of cracks through what was already a shaky conviction for what they were doing. Preserving the free will of a people who would endlessly choose war over peace, consumption over preservation, greed over generosity. Yes, Ashitaka is tired, tired from this and from having to dodge hails of bullets, face distant enemies he could not fight, then finally taking a stand on the beach in a way he finally could.

He had left behind whatever firearms he could've found in Lone Pine, not because of the lack of ammunition but because they were still useless to him. In a way, the Regency's prison had been a haven: one from the pain of his curse that had been a chronic ache, a medley of twinges and pains from the sound of gunfire and the miasma of human savagery. Back here, it was back in force, and it was always worse when he held a gun.

What he would have done to simply have his bow. Instead he had wielded pieces of debris from the camp, keen eyes being able to catch a blueish aura around his arm as the demon mark compensated for strength he would have otherwise lacked.

If such a strange sight had been seen and commented upon, he had brushed it aside, not wishing to dwell on such things. They could formulate whichever explanations they wished. For now, he wished to move away from all of the people, the cloud of noise and relief and excitement, of cheap wine and hands clapping on shoulders and backs.

When Ashitaka wanders past Ryo he actually does have a cup of wine in hand, thinking dully that someone must have pressed it into his possession when he had been weaving his way through the crowd. He has a relatively low intention to drink it. He pauses, considering tossing it overboard, when he's addressed. The person he sees speaking to him is not one he recognizes, and also not particularly in-line with the look that the ANZAC soldiers seemed to have. One of the backup team, then? He remembers the commander's message clearly enough.

If he'd run across him on the battle on the beach a moment before, it's something that will take a little more time to register.

For now:] If they need more, they will find it. Such a desperate situation has made them close; they seem willing enough to share.

[There's a faint edge to Ashitaka's otherwise calm tone: if he reads what the stranger means correctly, he is only faintly disapproving, thinking he could have just as easily asked. Ashitaka hadn't even asked for the cup of wine he holds a bit awkwardly in one hand.]

siegfried | fate | veteran

[gerechtigkeit]

[descent.]

Keep your head down.

[It's an order offered in the quietest way possible, firm but not hostile. Siegfried feels as if he's had a long, long time spent in this war, and he wants to help everyone get out as soon as possible. As patient of a man as he is, his patience has been worn incredibly thin by two idiots within their group- and so he keeps his frustration to a minimum as he listens for the call to move forward.

"Cooee! Cooee!" That's their cue. Siegfried nods, motioning to the other soldiers in the group.]

Let's go.

[david vs. goliath.

Consider yourselves expendable. You must not let them win.

These words are nothing new to a man who already gives so much of himself, that to be told he must defend others with his life and die in order to save them (if necessary) is something he gladly echoes. The closest Regency agent finds himself being grabbed by the throat from a man who shouldn't have that kind of speed, even with the nullifiers in place. Siegfried hurls the enemy into the ground, gravel and dirt flying as the body goes slamming into the earth and drags against the soil.

To any COST members nearby, he's going to be shouting in the few seconds of reprieve.] Keep them moving!

[He doesn't bother to ask for help- but he won't object to it if given any. That agent is getting right back up; he doesn't have much time to argue.

anchors aweigh.

He looks like hell, and that's putting it mildly. But the drink is shoved in his hand all the same, and Siegfried blinks at whoever gives it to him. More than anything else, he's just glad they're all alive, and that the mission was a success. After the mess that was Paris, this is a much more acceptable outcome, and he doesn't doubt that the Regency is not fond of their own failure. He'll take whatever they can get- it's a war, and it's turning out to be quite different from what he expected.

Siegfried's rifle rests beside him, but it jostles easily enough to touch whoever manages to sit next to him. A hand grabs it in an instant, trying to prevent it from falling onto the floor of the ship with a clatter.]

Ah, sorry. [He's tired, but the smile he gives is a gentle one.] I'll keep a better eye on this so it doesn't move, next time.

[wildcard.

got an idea? hmu, I can roll with whatever you've got.]

david vs. goliath

[horsepowered]

[Of course there's a Regecy agent. Chiron doesn't know what else he expected. They're without strategy, and so this is all scrambling and making last ditch efforts. It isn't impressive, but it is worrying.

When he sees Siegfried slam a Regency agent into the ground though, Chiron can only call out one thing:]

Let me help!

Jeyne Westerling | ASOIAF | Veteran

[widow_of_the_crag]

I. Lone Pine

The cheers and applause of those remaining at camp had given way to screams as Jeyne neared the medical tent. Whatever goodwill and optimism that had come from the successful mission for an armistice died in the air as Matron Mary emerged. Blood wasn't an uncommon sight on her, as they had to try and rescue a number of men from the brink of death. But it was the queer look in her eyes that made Jeyne freeze in her steps. She felt stuck, mired in a moment that threatened to be both horrific and tragic, but her mind and body feared to approach.

She watched as the woman she had worked alongside disappeared into the fog, the sounds of others screaming and yelling disappearing, drowned out by her heart beat. It was only when the last of Mary's form disappeared into the abyss that Jeyne found the will to move again, already running into the tents.

She turned to shout at a nearby guard, "Quick! Go after and catch her! We can't lose sight of her!" Then her attention shifted to the men garbling against the blood pooling about their throats. There were others in the tent, those in shock and staring at the scene in horror. "I need wet cloth, a compress and a needle and thread! Don't stand there, get them for me before this man dies!"

II. The Descent

Her primary concern was overseeing the transportation of the wounded, watching as others carried the stretchers down towards the beach. Some of the men were still fragile and the jostling threatened to reopen wounds. She would pause in her movements, quickly issuing instructions or halting some of the men to quickly check that the bandages had held. It slowed their estimated time of arrival, but these delays would at least save lives rather than quickly end them.

But those numbers threatened to dwindle as the Regency took shots at them. While Jeyne had avoided posing as a soldier in the trenches, she remembered her training at base. There were others with weapons, firing back. Somewhere among the throng of men, she had managed to find a sniper rifle and worked to set it up.

Glancing at the figure next to her, she quickly asked, "Cover me while I finish this. I might be able to take down a few of them." So long as she remembered everything she was taught.

III. The Beach

The waves were normally cathartic for her, a reminder of happier days at the Crag. When it was safe enough, she had come to the beach to stand and stare across the glimmering horizon. There were foreign lands over those waters, places she could never have imagined or believed she might see. Somehow, that had given her comfort against the backdrop of war and death.

Now, she feared leaving. Even as the last men were being loaded onto the barge, she hesitated, staring back towards the direction of camp. How could she leave? Her husband was lost out there, taken or worse. There were no answers, no signs of him and she was supposed to leave any chance of finding him behind.

She pulled her red cape tighter, battling between the urge to run back and search herself or to follow orders. Wasn't that what soldiers were supposed to do? Follow orders? "He's out there. I know he is. There has to be some sign of him."

II

[ergosphere]

The snow was almost as bad as the fog, hindering line of sight and making everything slippery in way that mud didn't. It was an improvement, at least, considering the snow didn't mute his powers. Despite this small silver lining, when he crossed paths with Jeyne, he still looked far worse off than when they'd first met. Endless hours of sleep deprivation and being faced with his father's corpse, his own handiwork, had not done him any favors. Had she been a complete stranger he would have kept on his path and ignored her request. Against his better judgement, he stopped, intending to assist.

"Give it to me if you don't know what you're doing," Kylo snapped. He reached out to grab the rifle from her hands, but rather than leave her empty handed, he also held out his own rifle for her to take. It was already loaded, which would save them both time so long as she was a halfway decent shot.

It probably didn't matter. The Regency likely wouldn't duck out of the way, or the bullets would just be deflected. He could deflect bullets, too -- and anyone standing near him could be thankful for that.

Yoshitsugu Ootani | Samurai Warriors | Veteran

[hakanai]

1. On the beaches || CURSE OF HIS FACE
There are spirits here, for sure; Yoshitsugu's plentiful experiences with the 'other side' over the past few months have him feeling certain that is literally true. Of course he cannot see them, hear them or truly know their presence, but a part of feels that he can sense them here nonetheless. Torn from life in such violent circumstances and lingering in this snowy war-zone, they were surely at risk of becoming the kind of enraged, desperate ghosts spoken of in the folklore of his home.

Unless, perhaps, they were given one final gift: the safety of their still-living comrades.

It is cold, and his overly-pale skin almost the same colour of the snow, but Yoshitsugu has bared his face when it would actually be practical to hide it. 'Ghostly' wouldn't be a bad description for him, but the multiple almost-new cuts on mark him as very much amongst the living. That might not be the case for too long, of course, because the members of COST are currently 'disposable.' If they die, they can be revived, so Yoshitsugu is throwing himself into this battle with even less care than usual (which anyone who knows him will know is quite an achievement).

You might come past him during a stand-off with a particularly stubborn or resilient Regency agent, who is responsible for using up a lot of the samurai's remaining ammo. Neither can move without getting shot at right now, but it's keeping the enemy from aiming at the ANZAC soldiers instead. Lend a hand? It'd be really useful of you.

Or you might do so when a different Regency agent runs through a pile of detritus, someone takes a shot and... the detritus bursts into flame. Ever the strategist, Yoshitsugu has no problem taking advantage of the desperation in their opponents and setting simple traps for them to run into. Why would you notice the smell of alcohol when in pursuit, after all? He emerges from his hiding spot once the agent throws himself out of the fire and runs over, sword-baton in hand; with no ammo left it falls to the tried and true method to finish this off.

"Your nullifiers aren't very useful against my curses..."

The agent rolls out of the way of the first strike, aware even as the fire burns their body of the incoming attack. Lend a hand here, perhaps? Yoshitsugu looks rather bloody and unsteady on his feet now (perhaps to be expected), even though his smile is serene and unworried, and might still die on these cold sands if left to his own devices.



2. Anchors Aweigh || KANGINSHU
Yoshitusugu does not, generally, enjoy parties, or being stuck amongst such thrumming, excited, living crowds. But there are always exceptions to be made. Always reasons to discard usual habits and throw himself into the noisier kind of flow. This is most definitely one of those occasions.

This mission, above all others he's known in COST so far, has been educational.. especially in the lesson of appreciating the life you have.

Though usually a heavyweight drinker, the sheer amount of wine that's been pressed upon him for being one of those who helped secure the retreat combined with the intoxicating feeling of simply being alive means that he's acting at least rather tipsy. Wine stains join the mud and blood patches on his clothes as he does something that might very well seem out of character for him.

He's leading a group of soldiers along in a sing-along.

The song is a Japanese one he taught them in the past half hour, and the words therefore don't necessarily come out very well from their mouths, but it doesn't really matter, does it? They've been given a general idea of the meaning and that's enough for them. The BCE (probably) manages to translate it for any COST members nearby, though, the first lines being:

'Who is this, you naughty boy? That hugs me tight and bites me, a married woman?'

...which makes the entire event a lot more in character for him. Catch his eye or disturb him and he will turn and smile with obvious amusement.

"Don't you like my song? If you prefer, I can share a different one."

Kylo Ren | Star Wars | Veteran

[ergosphere]

a. ESCAPE FROM BULLSHIT MOUNTAIN
Like much of his time spent in this prison, there was no opportunity to consider a change in scenery until it happened. Unlike the shifting of the cell walls or flashes of light that had come before, though, this one ended with an explosion and his sudden impact into cold mud. Kylo pushed himself upright immediately, disoriented and aching, trying to determine if this was another trick, or --

They were back. One quick glance told him all the other prisoners were here, back in Gallipolli, back in the middle of No Man’s Land. Not the worst place to be, but definitely not ideal. Kylo was up on his feet and running for the trenches before the first shot rang out, making him duck his shoulders. The power nullification of those cells was gone now, and he instinctively reached out with the Force, deflecting or avoiding bullets. Anyone running close enough to him might benefit from that protection as well.

The mud didn’t make it easy to run, nor did the rest of the hellish obstacles through No Man’s Land. Kylo practically slid over the edge of the trench, uncaring of how filthy he was and how much colder he’d be later. Once under the relative safety of the trench and friendly gunfire, he turned to find his nearest fellow escapee. “What happened?”

b. THE DESCENT
Kylo hadn’t kept track of the hours, or the days, when in that cell. It had been pointless, he thought, and they’d been forced to run on so little sleep the concept of time would have just been infuriating. Worse still when he’d been dumped into solitary once or twice, left alone with his own thoughts and -- memories. Things he’d seen with his own eyes and things Kebechet had thrust in front of him as a test.

Now there was plenty of activity to keep him occupied. No Regency agent was going to pull their punch if he crossed their path, so he was in as much real danger as everyone else here. There was hardly anything in the way of supplies, which kept him hungrier and nastier to anyone that approached him. They had to organize an actual escape, they had to enact it, they had to fulfill their mission parameters -- and he had to find Hux. As much as it pained him to admit they both had orders from higher up, it was true. Freedom from Snoke had lasted a laughably short amount of time, and now he and Hux had to stand shoulder to shoulder and grovel for favor. Again.

Kylo didn’t spent a lot of time approaching anyone else, or looking approachable in general. He’d seek someone out when his thoughts got too far mired in his own head, and he needed a reprieve. Once the evacuation actually started, Kylo carried as much as he could in way of supplies, stopping to pick up whatever looked useful along the way. They’d move a lot faster without the wounded, he knew, but that wasn’t the point, and he wasn’t in charge.

He slowed when something caught his eye, among the scattered notes or bottles of wine. It made no sense to him that someone could still have wine, all these weeks later, and then just decide to leave it behind for the enemy. It wasn’t wine or notes that he wanted to inspect, though, but instead a coat. It was brown, even under the mud, and for a half a second it looked like -- he closed his eyes, trying to banish the thought only to make it worse. Of course it wasn’t any coat Han had worn, it was hardly even close. Kebechet had managed to not only reopen that wound, but seemed to have crippled his ability to seal it again. He needed to get back into the procession, find something to occupy his mind again before it could wander off down this road again.

Kylo snatched up the coat, intent on throwing it out of sight, only to stop when he felt something solid in one of the pockets. Turning it out, a pair of dice fell into his open palm. His blood ran cold, and he dropped both the coat and dice as if they’d scalded his hands. Turning away, Kylo stomped back to his place in line, snapping: “What?” at anyone who watched him.

c. DAVID VS GOLIATH: THE FINAL ROUND
By now they’d spent so much time running Kylo considered it was a relief when he felt the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck rise, signaling the inevitable approach of the Regency. This time it was no holding back, and while he was missing his lightsaber, he could still lash out with the full force of his powers. Which, admittedly, was diminished -- but no less effective.

Kylo did as much damage as he could from a distance, which was not his preferred style. Once his rifle was out of ammo, he just threw it to the sand and abandoned it. He wasn’t going to need it once they left this beach, anyways. The agents, he already knew, would not be affected by anything he did with the Force against them directly. So he used whatever else was available, lifting it with the Force and launching it at them as hard as he was capable. He’d been stronger back home, but throwing an empty tent at a pair of them had worked fantastically as the cloth momentarily blinded and constrained them.

Retaliation finally came, considering he wasn’t doing much to mask his movements. He was used to being seen on the battlefield, as that had always been the point. The sense that an attack was imminent made him tense, and he threw his arm to stop the bolt in midair, which would give him time to back away out of range.

Except the bolt didn’t stop. Shock and pain lanced through his hip, one hand clamping down over it as he staggered backwards before falling onto the sand. Gritting his teeth, he lay flat, making himself as small as possible while cursing over the fact that his powers hadn’t stopped the bolt. The bullets had been easy, so why not these, too? His hand came back bloody when he pulled it away, but the shot wasn’t deep, and had mostly just grazed through his clothes and skin. He’d manage.

Struggling upright, Kylo retreated, heart pounding and teeth bared.

d. WILDCARD: DO WHAT U WANT

d;

[verumdicit]

Meliorn had gotten lucky as well - there had been a flask of what he swore was whiskey among the trouble, and at first he'd been wary it was poison before a sniff and a brief taste confirmed it wasn't. He'd take what he could, morals be damned - it wasn't like anyone noticed. People hardly notice Meliorn in general, the Seelie preferring to stay quiet and follow orders instead of run around recklessly. It suits him just fine.

It doesn't take long to see that a familiar face. THe other is cacophonous, though not in volume. It's his very presence that's proud and demanding. It's hard, Meliorn thinks, to not notice or recognize that.

"You seem to be quite affected by whatever they left behind." Just an observation, his tone neutral, and he glances over to see if anyone's watching. They aren't. He offers the flask to Ren silently.

Joe Kavalier | The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay | New Recruit

[ausbrecher]

a. fightin around the world | the descent

[ Joe has his orders: grip his end of the stretcher and don't let go. Be quick about it. It's difficult to deny the cold, hard logic—he hasn't trained, as these men have, with the rifles. The very quiet boy whose fingers twitch whenever Joe and his partner stumble or falter–he needs to live.

But all this is remote, next to his anger. He would like to kill just one German. That this is the wrong war, that he arrived here through some gyroscopic whirl of time, that these soldiers they're facing look nothing like soldiers—it doesn't matter. If he kills one, he will, at least, have done something.

The snow goes on falling, the ground growing muddier and more treacherous. There's a cry, up ahead, sounding strangely subdued, and the line of stretchers starts shuffling faster. Bullets and curses fly through the air.

It happens, as the saying goes, so fast: the forward part of the line obscured by some dip in the path, Joe shifting his grip. He looks up and a man with the leering head of a jackal is advancing on them. Clubbing the legs out from under one of their soldiers. No time to grapple with the unreality—the surrealism—of it, Joe drops his end of the stretcher and hoists the rifle slung across his back. ]


b. boatmad | anchors aweigh

[ It feels like a taunt, one of those cruel tricks that bear fate's hallmark—to be packed into a boat like this days after the sinking of the Ark of Miriam. To hear the shout go up, raucous and exuberant, and for the second before reality intercedes imagine a teenage boy's voice among them. Joe's one of the last to leave the beach, staring with vacant fixity at the receding shoreline. Aboard the Marie Antoinette, he deftly slips from the crowds of celebrating soldiers—even dodging a sloppy, drunken embrace—to some lonely (and perhaps figurative) corner.

From his hip pocket he draws an envelope, pale blue. His slender fingers play along its edges. The moment someone else comes upon him his posture shifts, he half-turns to address them. ] When is the next battle, do you know? [ His accent's European, vowels veering like narrow, spindly streets. There's an imploring note in his voice and his features, as he asks the question, sharpen as with hunger. ] And where?

[ Look again: the envelope has vanished. ]

c. pick a card, any card

b, welcome!

[fessus]

[ Exhaustion's been playing tricks on him for a few days now at best, a few weeks now at worst. He's ready to combat it at long last with what will hopefully be a deep sleep -- aided by a few sips of wine or not -- but he's thwarted in his efforts by the address of a man nearby.

The disappearance of that envelope will just have to be written off as one more trick, for now.

Noctis inclines his head slightly, one hand lifting to squeeze at the back of his neck as he casts another glance down the hall in obvious deliberation. Answer, or keep moving? ]

... that depends on where you're from, I guess. [ A COST member? Or a soldier who actually belongs here in this time? ]

Mamoru Hijikata [until death do us part] vet;ota

[prizeneck]

1. Recognize the poison in my heart aka REGROUPING

[He's thankful for the Captain's bark, even if he can hear the relief in his voice. The kid that had started toward him was the same he had helped on his first week in Gallipolli, the one with the stubborn rifle. The teenager looked aged beyond his ears, and stopped, nodded solemnly at his captain, dirty face determined. Mamoru is, at the very least, pleasantly surprised the kid had managed to live this far, so he gives him a silent nod back. He did want the kid to keep on going, at least at this last stretch. He still thinks he can feel the warmth of Regency blood caked under his fingernails. The last thing he wants is to have another person stepping closer to him [his path, his life, his mission].

He can't really help with map reading - hello, blind person who can only see surfaces with the help of his hidden sunglasses. But he had been scouting movements and terrain for the groups before, so he pitches in an idea or two to advise on the best routes, translates into layman's terms why a track was safer than the other when a soldier asks. He volunteers to stay at the back, organize and help stragglers if need be. But that's all he can do.

In a corner somewhere, a couple of feet far away from the group of soldiers who search for warmth, he drops the rifle on his shoulders unceremoniously - it's bent, but he doesn't seem to care. It's free of gunpowder, but sprayed with dry blood, flaking off the wood, the blade of the bayonet worn out to silver scratches on the edge. He sits on the ground, rests his back and his head on a sandbag behind him. Someone in the back comments that that had been the most they've heard from the bloke in the gas mask - where was he from, again? But under that same mask, motionless, he rests his eyes, evens his breath, releases tension. Sleep comes to him quickly, even if light as a feather.

Be a doll and wake him up -- wait, no, that's the other way around. But hey, tickle this sleeping dragon a little bit, see what happens. ]

2. I saw a savior, a savior come my way aka DAVID VS. GOLIATH

[Dodging sniper rifle fire isn't easy, but it's something Mamoru can do by himself.

To make sure the bullet doesn't hit its target when it's aimed at someone else, and that someone else is moving, that is a little harder, but he can manage.

He can identify two shooters. One is sharpshooting out of an old rifle, the other is trying to lead them to a place where they get a better vantage point, spraying shots to the floor, grazing an arm and a leg. It's haphazard, a makeshift strategy out of not many cards left to play. Still, Fuckers know their stuff.

They are a group of five soldiers whose backs Mamoru has been guarding.

The first shot was aimed straight at the crux of his neck: where it met his head. He felt the care for precision more than the intent to kill straight into the space behind his mouth.

He spliced the bullet with a new bayonet he had removed from a leftover rifle, halves digging into the snow.
Before he turns to the shooters, he yells out an order.] Keep your route!

[Rushing forward, leaving the soldiers behind, he waits for the sunglasses to pinpoint the shooters, standing ready. It's as if he can feel their anger grow. His is not any different. Not with the reminder dictated into his head over his heavy breath.

If death comes for them, it is you who will take their place.

He's been dying every morning since he turned 8 years old, run over by a BMW. How unprepared were the people he was fighting with that the captain had to remind them? He yells out when he slices yet another bullet, jumping into the line of fire.] C'mon, I'm your target!

3. Frozen to myself I got nobody on my side aka ANCHORS AWEIGH

[The revolution will not be celebrated.

He doesn't blame those who indulge in french cigarettes, teach each other insults and slang in different languages over sloshed wine. He knows the rush of being alive, the adrenaline and the relief, more than anyone. He's no different, he just learned to channel it into contemplation, assessment and a lesson here and there. Mamoru dodges the drinks with expert footwork despite his towering size, the ask for tales, but the rumors had proven good enough even at the last minute. Mate! a soldier beside him reaches for the French one asking him for stories. He don't talk much, but let me tell ya-- he goes on as Mamoru retreats to a more secluded spot.

And he leaves Gallipoli the same way he arrived. Sitting down, elbows on knees, head hanging low. Not resting. Merely preparing.

Or that had been what he planned on doing. Until you came along.]

4. WILDCARD me, baby

3

[handsomefoil]

[ He won't recognize Mamoru as one of the COST recruits that asked him all those questions regarding COST's ways and how he felt about it, at least not right away. The man is sitting, for now, keeping to himself and seeming a bit intense. His original plan was to just pass him by, but something about him seemed familiar enough and he generally trusts his hunches. At least his BCE tells him there's a BCE attached to this guy, too.

So, sorry guy, he's gonna stand next to you. He leans against whatever wall or ledge is available to him, and he breathes out heavily. He's had a couple of drinks and already feeling a little better, but still a little worse for wear like the rest. ]

You look like you're waiting for another war.

Thor | MCU | New Recruit

[thunders]

[ A funny thing happened on the way through Muspelheim.

There he was in a bleak realm of lava and dragons and such, on his way to get captured by Surtur and execute a truly brilliant plan with just the right amount of dramatic last-minute heroics, when a stranger came before him bearing urgent news. It was strange enough to see another person in Muspelheim that Thor had let himself be waylaid to hear her tale. (It wasn't as if Surtur was going anywhere, after all. What did Surtur even do these days? Did he have hobbies? Thor would have to ask him.)

The strange woman went on about time traveling renegades and the fate of the entire universe which, if the she wasn't insane, was really entirely up his alley. Thor had agreed to help, of course, but he was already sort of in the middle of saving the universe. Did the time travel aspect make this more, or less urgent, he had to wonder.

If she answered that question, he doesn't remember. He wakes up cold, in his underwear, in a place that smells like excrement and rot. The man nearby is rather forthcoming when he asks questions, which is refreshing enough that Thor complies with his request to get dressed in the meantime.

The names of places and wars mean little to him, but he soon understands that he is on midgard and his help is needed here. ]

1. LONE PINE

No no, you look great. You're going to be fine. Just - stay awake. [ His reassurances are wide-eyed and unconvincing.

Thor is up this wrists in blood, applying pressure to a wound that seems to want nothing more than to expel every drop of blood in the poor soldier's body. The man is shivering, clearly on the edge of death, and Thor knows with utter certainty that saving him isn't within his power. It may not be within anyone's power. He is no stranger to death or despair, but such a grim and needless waste of life doesn't leave him unaffected.

The nurses are all busy with the dead or the dying. He yells at the first person to step through the door, regardless of how willing or capable they might be. ]

Hey! I need your - can you do anything to help?

2. THE DESCENT

[ Thor understands that what he sees of the war is only a fraction, just the tail end of a grueling campaign. He's never seen such hopelessness and defeat in such a short time, and the relief of being allowed to go home seems to be the only thing on the soldiers' minds. None speak of it as a dishonorable surrender. None of them wish to return to the glory of battle. Battle isn't always glorious, Thor thought he knew that well, and yet... Sometimes he's still surprised by his own ignorance.

When the first shots go off, Thor does his best to orient himself toward the source. He leaves the group without a word, trudging through the snow and half-frozen ground with his hammer in his hand. The terrain isn't the easiest to navigate, even when he thinks he knows what he's doing, and he soon finds himself confronted by two men in unusual masks.

He doesn't bother with subtlety. Thor tosses Mjolnir in his hand, adjusting his grip. ] I suppose you're responsible for these cowardly attacks? I would have words with you. Down. Bad dog, perhaps.

[ One of the soldiers raises his gun, and Thor whips Mjolnir from his hand. The soldier dodges out of the way and, instead of arching around as he calls it, Mjolnir simply continues flying into the distance.

Thor only has a moment to stare after it, stupefied, before a shot whizzes past his temple.

Well, alright. Thanks for nothing, hammer. The other soldier has has also raised his gun by now, and rather than doing anything so logical as ducking for cover, Thor charges towards them. Another bullet slices open his shoulder, but Thor barely seems to notice.

He's going to need a hand, and soon, even if he doesn't know it yet. ]

3. DAVID VS. GOLIATH

[ The beach is awash with chaos, and for the first time some of the other COST agents become completely obvious to him. Thor has positioned himself near a cluster of soldiers, his hammer spinning in his hand, picking up speed until it forms a kind of circular shield to deflect bullets away from the procession. When he catches it in his grip again, lightening sparks across the surface of the weapon and seems to arch along his arm.

As a Regency soldier nears, the lightening disappears, but Thor charges for him with his hammer in hand. He's got a mean swing, as they say. When he hits a soldier, they go flying several feet, even with the power dampeners in place. He's currently engaged in a brawl with two Regency soldiers, each of them a foot taller than he is. However, getting caught up in the fight means he's distracted from his little group of ANZAC soldiers, and soon more of the Regency soldiers spot the undefended targets. ]

Stop them! [ Thor yells to his nearest ally and throws his hammer. Though it sends a Regency soldier flying back several feet, it stays where it lands and doesn't return to his hand. Mjolnir can't defy gravity to fly of its own accord, not with so many of the Regency soldiers nearby, but it will stay where it landed - it can only be wielded by those who are worthy. ]

4. ANCHORS AWEIGH

[ The ship is packed, but with the soldiers clustered in little groups Thor still manages to find a place to lean against the railing and tilt his face up to the sky. He's bleeding from the temple and clearly favoring his left side, but he's more or less as intact as he ever is. ]

Heimdall? [ His voice is loud enough to carry, but the soldiers all have better things to do than worry about some him yelling at the sky. Some of them speak to their own gods, if more quietly. ] Heimdall, do you hear me? Heimdall.

[ Only silence greets him. ]

5. Wildcard

[ Feel free to PM me or just hit me up! ]

4

[horsepowered]

[There's plenty of noise around, and Chiron's deep desire is to be free of it sooner rather than later. It has been a hell of a mission, and the part of him that has been worn thin just wants to rest for a week.

So he's not thrilled with yelling. He makes a note to ignore it, up until he realizes that this man is yelling at the sky, and whoever he's yelling for, it seems the name has a capital letter in the way a god's would.

Quietly, Chiron makes his way over to where Thor is, and stands beside him. He covers his right ear, just to make it easier to block out some of the yelling.]

If you're seeking someone, it is likely you won't get a response at present.

76 | vet | ota

[mylawn]

i. regrouping

[They aren’t returning with the amount of supplies he would have liked, but something is better than nothing. What’s important is that they got the signal out, and that the Marie Antoinette is coming for them. 76 will think about the implications of a ship being named that, later. For now, there’s regrouping—taking stock of what they did manage to bring back,

Suffice to say, he seems a little uncomfortable being welcomed back with any kind of fanfare, such as it is. He tries not to be hostile, but it’s easy to see him shrugging off physical contact from other soldiers, too occupied with what comes next to celebrate.

So it’s easier to focus on business. If he has to interact with the other soldiers, it’s huddled around a map explaining the plan to them. He’s too old to be here, really, but all that means is that the ANZAC boys defer to him, thinking he’s some kind of authority.

Even on the way out, however, he doesn’t want to get caught in that lie. He’s quick to wave over the first COST recruit he sees (that’s you), and his facial expression indicates that you do not have a choice. You get to hear about the plan now, whether you like it or not.]

Any questions?

ii. the beach/final round

[All the missions 76 has been on so far have taken place on his Earth—or some version of it, anyway. It has him treading carefully, not wanting to give himself away as a COST member or change something that might alter things down the road. He doesn’t know much about time travel, but he imagines that even the slightest interference can spread out like ripples on a pond.

Here on this beach, however, the gloves seem to be off. If the Regency is going to fight in the open, then so will he.

The problem is that he’s still equipped with the technology of the time—but at least this means he can be less cautious about his enhancements. It’s not hard to find him hauling two or three injured with substantially less effort than it should take someone of his age. Then, he’ll head back onto the beach and do it again. He’s already taken down one agent, and he’s almost as strong and fast as they are. Almost.

He is not, however, so proud that he doesn’t take advantage of potential backup in the chaos, nor does he miss a chance to arm someone who looks like they could use a gun (scrounging one up isn’t difficult, given the circumstances), even if he’s in the middle of trying not to get shot himself.]

Catch!

[Hopefully you know what to do with it.]

iii. anchors aweigh

[76 has been on this mission from the very start, since they landed on the beach they just escaped from. To say it’s a relief to leave would be an understatement, but there are still too many unknowns. The very fact that some of their number were taken by the Regency doesn’t bode well at all if they want to keep their identities a secret, and their cell can’t even be sure that the particular soldiers they set out to save made it. Even one casualty is too many. It always is.

What is a relief is that the funerals are over quickly. This isn’t his war, no matter how much time he’s spent here, but he’s silent and respectful as the rites go on. He owes everyone here that much.

This time, when offered a drink, he doesn’t refuse, though it’s clear he’s not sure what to do with the attention on him. He tries his best to stay on the fringes of activity, but he knows a quiet moment to himself won’t be found for some time. 76 offers a shrug to whoever might be next to him, as if trying to downplay the fact that it’s hard not to be shaken by the last few weeks.]

It’s better than the rum.

[But that’s not saying much. He sounds tired, more than anything.]

iv. wildcard

[I will do whatever you want. Hit me up on plurk at whitticus.]

iii.

[thunders]

[ Thor has heard only rumors of what came before his arrival, but he was here for the rancorous welcome to which some of the soldiers had returned. The ANZAC soldiers spoke of nothing but the good news and the heroes who had brought it to them. Even if Thor hadn't remembered the man's face - and he knows that it is only one of many - it's clear that the soldiers treat him with difference and admiration.

But Thor does remember his face. It seems like the least he can do.

He nods as the man comes to stand beside him; it seems that they both crave what little solitude there is to be found on this ship. ]

Aye. I got shot a couple of times, and I think even that was more pleasant than the rum. [ A pause, and Thor turns to him. ] I hear that we have you to thank for this daring escape.

[ There's no wide-eyed admiration there. Thor's tone is frank and respectful. ]

Frank Castle | mcu | new recruit

[triggerworn]

1. ARRIVAL

[He's been here before. Not here, and not in this place, but a person never forgets the taste of war. The smell of gunpowder in his nose and the distant sounds of explosions and screams at once pull Frank back into memory while also snapping his mind to the present.

Falling in is almost easy. Yes, sir! The orders are an uphill battle, a next to impossible mission. Understood, sir! He has no weapons, no resources save for himself and his dog. And like hell was either one of them going to die today. Weapons could be picked up from the ground no matter who was the unlucky bastard to drop it. There was no time to be precious about belongings. The next bullet certainly wouldn't care.

Upon exiting the tent he sees another new recruit for COST. Same uniform, same lack of resources. Frank gives the soldier a solid pat on the arm as the pit bull beside him gives a sharp bark, making himself known.]

We're sticking through this together, alright? You and me.

2. THE DESCENT

[This is where Frank truly feels in his element. Track that which doesn't want to be found, the quick and the dangerous. He ventures alone, knowing the risks of being exposed in the elements. The terrain is his best cover and Frank uses the trenches, trees, and hills to him hidden as best as possible.

Telltale signs of a perch alert the former Marine to a sniper up the ridge. Leaves rustle far too often and every now and again a cloud reminiscent of human breath forms against the wind. Maybe he doesn't know enough to eat the snow. Must be a kid.

Frank forces himself to push that last thought out of his mind.

With no weaponry to speak of, Frank steps through the snow as quickly as possible and ambushes the sniper from behind. He grips the Regency soldier in a familiar hold by the head when an unexpected sight gives him pause — a fellow COST operative with a tracker of their own close behind them. In a split second he makes the decision to dispatch the immediate threat first, snapping the neck with a sound of guttural satisfaction and yelling the warning before the body hits the ground.]

Behind you!

[Frank bellows the warning at full volume, with no attempt made to hide his New York accent. It didn't much matter now anyway.]

3. ANCHORS AWEIGH

[There's a celebration going on around him, but noticeably absent from Frank's hands are any form of alcohol. It's not that he doesn't drink, he absolutely does, but after being thrust so suddenly back into a war zone it's difficult to come down from that sense of heightened alertness.

Arms hang rigidly at his sides as index finger twitches involuntarily. He's itching to leave, to go back to the battlefield. If not here then the next. If not here then home. Though he does his best to remain in the background and low key, a person not participating in the revelry still manages to stand out regardless of intent.]

4. WILDCARD

[Do you have another idea? Go for it! Or PM this journal if you'd like to talk it out.]

1

[omniavincit]

[ All you do is make choices, she'd said when he arrived at the park, and it had stuck with him—an instruction, and then a promise. That this comes with an orientation, a mission brief—well, it's honestly a little disorienting. The cold has William scrambling into his uniform as the man in the corner wearily shakes his head: he doesn't know of any Dolores, any Logan. The implant's in your collarbone.

This isn't an experiment; you made a choice.

William emerges from the tent and promptly fires up his BCE, skipping the background info in favor of the network. Scrolling through IDs. This guarantees he has a stupid, glazed-over look on his face when someone else bumps into him. ] Sorry. [ The apology's automatic; it takes him a second to register the contact as deliberate, to focus on what was said.

The gaze he turns on Frank is, at least, sharper. ] Sure. [ He says, a touch guarded. Then: ] They, uh— [ his eyes fall to the pit bull ] they gave you a dog?

Armitage Hux | Veteran | OTA [will match whatever style]

[neutronium]

Lone Pine

Medical Tents

[The screaming woke him. Hux frowned, and while he did not see anyone leaving the Medical Tent, he did move into it, interested to see what had caused the commotion. People were scrambling to save the dying, to try and determine if there were any among the dead.

Hux, for his part, simply strode along the isles, looking less than disturbed by the scene before him. He isn't offering any assistance, either.

Instead, he notices someone trying to save a bleeding soldier and frowns, waving a hand.]

Leave him. All the effort given to these men is energy wasted. It should be saved for other people--less futile cases.

The Descent

Hux has very little ammo left. And at this point, really, he's just tired of fighting for people he thinks haven't proven worthy of being saved. These ANZAC Soldiers they are saving--why? Why should they be saved, if they can't save themselves? So much of all of this seems like the Resistance, the Rebellion--things Hux disagrees with on a core level. But still, he has to keep up appearances, to try and do what he has signed up for. At least Ren has returned, (relatively) unharmed. The man is a liability in many ways, but the only person from his world that understood their side. Rey, for all he may have fooled her into believing him to be someone else--can't be trusted.

So as the snow falls (he hasn't seen such snow since Starkiller--his beloved, retched, lost creation), Hux takes his shots across the lines, not trying to kill any Regency members, but at least throw them off their marks. He has few bullets left for his rifle, but he makes them count. In the lulls, he puts a bottle of wine into his satchel, a few packets of half-finished cigarettes.

He seems hallow-cheeked and sallow, tired and annoyed. Still, hazard speaking to him. It might prove interesting.

Anchors

Hux doesn't look comfortable with all the celebration. Not because he is guilty, or any of that--but simply this sort of joyous celebration is not in his nature. He has been taught to be a stoic; even when in his most triumphant moments, he rarely has been effervescent. He has never begrudged his officers that, or even the stormtroopers that emotion, in the moments of true victory--but he has never been able to allow himself to feel it.

So he sits awkwardly pressed into a corner of the ship, giving a slight smile, giving a nod of his head as he accepts the bad wine, and the clap on the shoulder. He may even fake a smile to some of the ANZAC soldiers, pretending to remember them, to care about them, in ways that he cared about his real soldiers back in the stars somewhere.

Once there was some space, he turned to a fellow COST member, shaking his head. "They are dead anyways. Now, or later--they are ghosts to us. Should we really care?"

Anchors

[horsepowered]

"Is that how your culture views the dead?"

Chiron's question comes in earnest, although there is a whiff of mild disapproval in the words as well. Death was something to have respect for, the dead individuals to treat with some level of respect. It is fair to say that degree of closeness is always a factor but there's something in the question that feels callous that sits strangely with Chiron.

lena oxton • overwatch • new recruit

[desynched]

lone pine

The ANZAC soldier told her that, if she decides to masquerade as a soldier, she has to sell it. With her short hair and baggy coat, she could pass for a slightly-too-young male soldier. Lena has been in battle before, but a drawn-out battle like this looks more like something out of the Crisis.

She's doing her best to blend in, though her British accent while wearing an Australian uniform is drawing a little attention, but she managed to quell any suspicion by cheerfully telling them that she moved there with her folks when she was young. The pitch of her voice is hardest to maintain, but it tends to make the other soldier suspicious that she's underage, not that she's well... a she.

The celebration goes over her head a little, but she picks up on enough. A ceasefire. Lena sticks to the fringes, not sure that she can blend in perfectly just yet.

escape from bullshit mountain

Lena had picked up enough to know that the people running across the field are part of COST. And they just royally pissed off a bunch of people with more ammo than they have. Lena's more adept with pistols, but she grabs her rifle and hopes she can give the COST agents a chance to make it back alive.

Anyone with a keen eye might notice that she's taking non-lethal shots.

david vs gollaith

Lena's relieved when she can finally (metaphorically) take the gloves off. She casts off the heavy coat that she's worn constantly since she arrived. Without it, she's clearly a young woman. And, without it, everyone can see a large, strange device strapped to her chest. It's not there just for show. Lena doesn't bother hiding her powers anymore. She sticks to distracting the Regency agents, jumping in and out of their line of fire. Hopefully, her allies can follow up because Lena ran out of bullets a long time ago.

anchors aweigh

Going from the chaos of the battlefield to the (relative) safety of the ship is a bit of an emotional whiplash. By this point, Lena looks tired but the energy aboard the ship has her smiling almost immediately. They made it. These men and women will go home to their families. They pull her into their celebration, and she can't help but grin, caught up in it all. Her coat is back in place, her superpowers and femininity completely forgotten.

BEACH EPISODE

[mylawn]

The last time he'd gone toe-to-toe with a Regency agent, he'd had help and time to plan--obvious not the case out on the beach. The outright assault they're met with has him wondering if they even care about preserving history, or if COST has made them angry enough to drop all pretense and subtlety. There isn't really any time to think about it, however, not while they're in the home stretch and not while the Regency is trying to stop them however they can.

It turns the beach into a bloodbath, and all 76 can really do is buckle down and fight, no matter how bad the odds--no matter how difficult it is to go hand-to-hand against a fight that was difficult when he had two other people on his side.

Difficult, but not impossible. He holds his own, and as luck would have it finishes putting a Regency agent down when he sees the blue streak across the beach. For a moment, he thinks he's imagining things, or that the Regency has pulled out some kind of secret weapon, but when it blinks again, and again, he realizes what he's looking at. It has to be impossible--or not, because COST is bringing in reinforcements, aren't they?

Without much time to really look, 76 finds himself chasing after it, some part of him knowing exactly what it is. Where Lena jumps in and out of time around the Regency, 76 barrels through them, trying to clear a path, incapacitating agents before they can train their gun on her.

John Constantine | dctv | new recruit

[inconstantly]

1. LONE PINE

[The only war John knows is the one between heaven and hell. And even then he wouldn't call himself any kind of exemplary warrior. He's more of someone swept up in a draft who has managed to survive through a combination of scrapping and luck.

And now that's he's here this war is terrifying. The very earth shakes underneath him, and not in a way he can control. The world feels at once so much bigger than he had ever imagined while at the same time more immediate. There's no high stakes cosmic battles with most people blissfully unaware. This is the battle, and the only way to save a soul was to keep them alive one more day.

As the war rages John discovers some use for himself within the medical tent. For the soldiers who need rest he eases their minds with a gentle hypnosis, sending them into a sleep spell free of nightmares. When John too falls into sleep his own nightmares don't leave, but he welcomes the rest.

The rest is short lived and he awakes to screaming. Having not strayed too far from the tent, John rushes toward it and feels immediately sick.

Fuck he's cocked it all up again, fuck.

This could have been prevented. Better watch, better protection, including something he should have done at the onset. He hastily works to scratch protection runes around the tent with a knife scavenged from the battlefield. It won't stop what had already happened, but it may give those still inside a chance to fight for their lives. From out here he can see all passersby, and he yells at every one of them as he works.

You! [His voice, unmistakably English and Liverpudlian in origin, has a roughened quality from a smoker's habit only now made all the more rough through his desperation.] If you have working arms and legs, make yourself useful and get in that tent!

2. THE DESCENT

[John is a scavenger and the abandoned trenches are ripe for the picking. The lack of resources were exceedingly apparent, and if he's going to survive through all this COST shit, he's not going to let himself be completely empty-handed again.

He fills as much as he can in a pack he's managed to scrounge. Favoring the gifts of alcohol and tobacco above everything, that's what gets shoved into the backpack first. Upon the faintest hint of another person approaching, John grabs the neck of the nearest wine bottle. Holding it aloft, he wields it like a club which he'd rather not break.]

Who's there?

3. ANCHORS AWEIGH

[Drinking. Finally something John Constantine understands. He easily swoops in to take what's offered, and if someone doesn't want their wine he'll take that too.

But a party of any sort is only as good as the company it provides. John maneuvers from the center of the gathering to the fringes. That's where the more interesting people typically lurked. If one could get them talking, a good story could usually be gleaned from it. And if the story lead to something a little more exciting, well, that would be the whole point then wouldn't it?

With his own drink in one hand (after having more than a few), John slings an arm loosely around the back of the neck of a fellow COST recruit, offering them the wine in his other hand. He leans in probably a little too close, and whether he's flirting or just drunk is hard to say.]

Looks like you needed one of these.

4. WILDCARD

[Do you have another idea? Go for it! Or PM this journal if you'd like to talk it out.]

3.

[excelsus]

[There's a fine line between drunkenness and flirting in Dorian's lofty experience, he tends to assume it's the former instead of the latter, until or unless he's proven to have gravely misstepped in judgment. It's a tip he's picked up given his own spectacular affinity for drinking and flirting, though these activities don't have to be synonymous with one another. Still, he gets the drunken revelry which is why he's only mildly surprised by the arm around his shoulder, not in a prudish sort of way, but in a sense that he's just not used to people being so damn friendly and touchy.

Fortunately the arm around his shoulder comes complete with a hand bearing gifts of wine, or more wine, Dorian's a bottle up himself and between the two of them a brewery wouldn't stand a chance. As for why he's standing on the fringes, it has less to do with not having a wish to mingle...of course he doesn't at the moment, and more to do with being in the right spot when he's finally succumbs to seasickness in the presents of too much open water.]

One more never hurts. [As if he'll turn it down, he accepts the drink, wearily, but it's to be expected given the gargantuan pile of shit he's been through and of course everyone else in COST.] To what do I owe the pleasure?

kel cheris / machineries of empire / new recruit

[bivariant]

( ooc. i [action] tag by default, but will match prose styles! )

I.
[ We could all use a little luck, here. No matter the intent behind the words, it only serves to remind her that Kel luck was notably poor.

( A. ) In Lone Pine, she settles in for the next step. The whiplash stop-go beat of the battlefield isn't new to her; in fact, she seems noticeably attuned to the encampment's pace and falls into an even step with the ANZAC troops. Far swifter than some might think appropriate for a new recruit?

As everyone regroups it's as though someone lit a fire and held her feet to it. She moves like a woman aflame, darting through the encampment with a map, a compass and a pair of binoculars. She nearly collides with others, COST and ANZAC alike, never fumbling -- her expression grim and focused on the task at hand. There are routes to map, and there is no fieldgrid for her to functionally access -- only the maps, her math, and her battlefield skills. Well, not just her battlefield skills, but no COST member would naturally know that. ]

I need your back, turn around.

[ She circles with her fingers, urging whomever she's found to turn about and present the flat of their shoulders.

( B. ) Later on, she can be found going over her cartography and route-planning with some of the soldiers. Seems she has a talent for battlefield strategy? And she gestures, to anyone who steps by, a sharp motion beckoning them to come over as she spreads her maps out alongside the fire: ] Listen up, and pass this along: this swath of land here isn't the least of difficult terrain, but it offers cover on one side. We escort the injured in this formation -- it's a variation of the Hawk's Longmarch...

[ What the hell is she on about. ]

II.
[ ( A. ) She runs almost endlessly - back and forth along the routes she'd charted for some of the wounded, keeping an eye on them. Urging them to move along. Muttering something about the lack of access to a "fieldgrid", a lamentation about "formations". Maybe some members of COST were roped into her plans, and she checks on them alike. There's no delineating one group from the other, not right now. ] Mind where you place your feet.

[ ( B. ) Foot placement isn't the least concerning thing she calls for. All at once, there is a Regency soldier arriving low and silent for a brutal hit, and the next minute -- she's there, dropping her weight onto the masked one with all the grace of an assassin... if not for the way her legs work unevenly, and her head snaps back as she collides with a low-hanging branch - dragging it, herself and the Regency soldier down the embankment and momentarily out of view. For a moment, all is quiet. And then: ] -- whenever you're ready to join me!

[ She seems to be calling to you, in particular. ]

III.
[ ( A. ) ( The command from COST's leadership is both a relief and a sour thing, to her. ) The Regency lays siege to the beach, and Cheris unleashes hell upon them in return. She seems heedless of her own safety, as though she's ready to burn herself to ashes to fulfill her orders and defend the ANZAC soldiers as they retreat. In one moment, she moves in perfect synchronicity with another soldiers -- and then the moment is gone, leaving her blindly staggering in her shoes, at the mercy of whatever Regency soldier is bearing down on her position. YIKES.

( B. ) ( She nearly misses the last call, she's that intent on making sure everyone else boards before her. Double-yikes. )

( C. ) Aboard the ship, she can be found nursing what wounds she sustained with the stoicism of a career soldier -- and attending the funerals of those who did not survive their injuries. Silent, reflective, murmuring their names and ranks and ages like like a litany. ]

IV.
[ Obligatory wildcard!! HMU at forzare with questions. ]

ia. kicks this

[decisions]

[ sharply: ]

Excuse me?

[ because that's the first thing you learn these days - never turn your back to someone you definitely do not know. percy clearing out the residual black powder from bad news' chamber, the hulking thing being worked at with clever fingers, braced on his thigh as he keeps low from the edge of the trench. he's already halfway there to her, body stopped a bit, perfectly so really.

he squints past slightly cocked glasses, smudges of dirt on his face, hair most definitely not the stark white it might be in another time and place, rather smeared dark and tucked away. the momentary stillness of the field has his eyes darting between her and then to the ledge of the trench before he turns around, back at bad news while rolling a shoulder a bit. ]

What is it? Make it quick.