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

[verumdicit]

We survived. I'm thankful enough for that, I have far too many things to do yet. Dying would be counterproductive.

[ Meliorn invites himself to sit, mostly since the other has set aside the pipe. That's usually an indicator of friendly conversation, and if Meliorn is being honest with himself (he has no choice), he's enjoying the other's company far too much from what little interaction they have. Perhaps it's the sticky-sweet, heady smell of the drugs, or just the fact that neither of them seem quite human. ]

I admit, I'm not as observational as I would have liked. I've never seen you before.

[reillumination]

[ It's invitation enough. Ryo's posture tucks into itself in part, hands settling themselves in his lap, flask and all. It gives hint to his frame somehow, taller and lither than most his age. Up close, Ryo's youth is evident despite the curve of his jaw and the shuttered looks he casts. The apples of his cheeks are still rounded, the pinch of his brow not yet set. Ryo's gaze flickers down to study what he's been given, a touch of bitterness catching the corners of his lips. ]

Dying usually is, [ he says, dry and thoughtless. He knows the threat of it too well. It leans into him, haunts his every step.

He lifts the flask and studies it for a moment. It seems fine from what he can discern of it. He takes a swig, before extending it back with remarkable evenness. ]

I've never seen any of you. [ That's most he can admit. It's true, after all. He's dreadfully new. Even if he avoids giving his name for the moment, perhaps the other man will be inclined to give Ryo his. ]

[verumdicit]

I've been told my name is Melvin. [ Because Seelie's can't lie, and Melvin is a terrible name, but Armitage Hux is right in not divulging his real one until they're safely away from any normal soldier. Even if he wishes it wasn't Melvin. Meliorn is not an egotistical man, but this is more a matter of pride.

Melvin. Ugh. He lifts his hand to grab the flask and take a swig, as if that will wash the disgusting taste of the name from his mouth. It almost works. ]

Do you die often, then?

[reillumination]

[ Told is an odd way to put it. It implied many things, some more likely than the rest. Ryo contemplates the dry taste of wine in his mouth, the burn that still lives in the back of his throat as a result of his smoking. "Melvin" is a bit of a character, it seems like. His name doesn't suit him, Ryo decides, as he lets his eyes scan the man's face for the first time. Then again, it was difficult to say what really fit anyone. ]

That's an uncommon name. [ A small remark. He'd seen the name before in various texts and it is one he's come to associate with old, wrinkled scholars. His gaze flits away again, takes in the crowd around them and the open sea. His thumb rubs at the curve of his wrist. ]

Not at all, if I can help it. [ It sounds like it was meant to be a light joke, but the odd, short laugh he gives sits in stark contrast. ] I don't have any spare chances lying around. [ But, now.. ] Neither should anyone else.

[ Considering what he'd seen on the field, he isn't so certain of anyone else. ]

[verumdicit]

Not for here, apparently. [ The disdain is practically dripping for his quiet, slightly musical voice. He'd gone with Melvin because it was common and hates every minute of it. ]

I avoid dying if I can, yes. [ There's another upturn of a smile, though, soft but there, and he hands the flask back to the blond. ]

The problem with war is that it will always be here in some format. [ A glance over. ] And so will humans wanting to fight.

[reillumination]

[ Around here. Gallipoli, he reminds himself. Before now, it had barely been brushed upon in his education. In Japan, history and WWI had a different sphere of focus. He thinks about how he and Akira had often discussed such topics, before they were parted – pulled back together like fate. Now, he finds himself without again and the absence leaves a raw ache in his chest, something that weeps and bleeds. He thinks of how Akira would have found scenario back before he ever joined in Ryo's silent war. He drags his thoughts back from the bitterness that wells up in response. ]

That's true. Humans beings will always fight to become stronger and more armed than their neighbors. [ Ryo's voice comes low, quiet. Ryo always had a habit of othering himself – of removing himself from humanity's terror until it came spilling out. Ryo's accepting the flask back is almost like an admittance that he walks among them, is one of them. Ryo Asuka is a young man, left to use his own mind and his own tools in absence of anything to make him more able than he already is. Death is permanent to him. ] And so, people will always die for that wish. [ He lifts the flask to his lips, take a longer drink. When he's finished, his words come rasped and almost light enough that it could have been a jest once. Once, when these sorts of jokes rarely had to be made. ] That I've cheated death for now is lucky.

[verumdicit]

[ It's not just humans, he thinks. Downworlders versus Shaodwhunters, and hell - Downworlders themselves. Vampires don't trust werewolves, Warlocks are seen as unnatural and dangerous among even themselves, and hell, no one trusts a Seelie.

No one should, but that's not the point. Meliorn listens intently, nodding in agreement. There's always that small part of him that wonders if war is the only thing races and species will have in common.

Probably. ]

Then you're a brave warrior? Or perhaps you've been a soldier more than just here?

[ You can't fault him for prying, it's what he does. ]

[reillumination]

[ Humans were always belligerent, in their own way. But, much of that nature stemmed from a desire to survive. And who could blame them? No matter how much reason they all possessed, everything on Earth was terrified.

However, some things – other things, they craved it. They lusted after war, beings of base and shameless instinct. All they knew was the battle – the desire to rend and feed and breed. Unlike humans who could guide themselves by law and moral, these creatures had no such social grooming.

But, at the suggestion of him being a "brave warrior," Ryo almost laughs. Almost. It shows up in the odd tremble of his shoulders, the way the corners of his eyes crinkle in some kind of dark humor as he hands back the flask. ]

War doesn't make anyone brave, [ he says, a tad embittered to the idea. War was an ugly thing, but wholly necessary. His war was for the survival of mankind and so – ] It only proves you're willing to survive or fight for what you know is right.

[ It didn't matter what stood in your way. For Ryo, it was all for the greater good. He swings his feet down to the deck idly, stretching his legs out. He's a bit taller than the loose uniform and coat would suggest. ] My war hasn't truly started yet, [ he says, after a long moment. It hasn't. What he had experienced between he and Akira was only the opening act. But, that's as much as he felt was right to give. He's not foolish enough to say more. He casts a brief look to the man beside him. ] What about you?

[verumdicit]

[ 'Your war.' That sparks something in Meliorn - not quite curiousity, no, but the need to push. The need to ask, and pry, because that is what he does. A Seelie Knight, yes, but also the Queen's Envoy, twisting words and gathering information when he can. It's both second nature and a constant reminder of just who he is, like the jagged scar along his face that he's hidden under glamour like the rest of his unearthly appearance.

But he knows, even under the influence of sticky-sweet smoke, that it will be suspicious if he asks. A question for a question, then. ]

What about? [ There's no harm in telling the truth. Not that he can do anything otherwise. ] I am a knight, whether or not war is brewing or has reached our doorstep.

[reillumination]

[ Ryo mulls over the man's answer, more with the subtle tilt of his head than in spoken language. There wasn't much room for knights in his world. It was more the stuff of history, cast up in tapestries on museum walls or presented as titles for posterity. Nothing more. But, considering all the oddities he's come across today—it's hardly the strangest thing he's heard.

He picks up his pipe again, more to occupy his hands in absence of the flask than anything else, the meat of his thumb tapping idly against the wood as he rests it in his lap. He hums, eyes still on the man beside him, considering. There's a certain weight behind the full of his attention, but it seems to be there naturally. It seems to answer the first part of the question for him without answering at all. Conversation, after all, was just an exchange of information. ]

Is that in profession or in name? [ It's a loaded question, considering the philosophy behind the title without the details that made it what it was. ]

[verumdicit]

Both. [ The answer is immediate, because it's quite true, and there's no need to lie about it. Not that Meliorn can, but he doubts he would. ] I suppose the closest way of putting it would be it's somewhat of a caste.

[ And, quickly, with a glance over to the other as he hands the wine back: ] Where you come from, is there something similar?

[reillumination]

Both, huh. [ It isn't a question, as much as it is a consideration as he glances back at him to accept the flask. He seemed like he could pass for one, at least in stature and appearance. And, if they were all here in WWI, then he supposed the man could be just as he said he was.

He pauses, takes a slow draw of the wine. Under the haze of his high, the tannin on his tongue blurs its edges like ink to paper. It's almost pleasant. ]

They were more of a European concept, [ he says, after a moment. Despite the substances in his system, his eyes are still surprisingly clear beneath the dark sweep of his lashes. He passes the wine back again. ] My culture didn't have them. They weren't a caste system either. [ Japan had their own swords for hire, sure, but the idea was very differentiated from start to finish. Ryo idly stretches his legs. But, that calls to question — ] How does that work?