THE AMAZING BASE.

[agogemod]

WHO? Everybody!
WHAT? Welcome home, nerds.
WHEN? Outside time and space, in the aether between dimensions.
ANYTHING ELSE? There is also a fish. Please warn in subject lines for anything beyond physical violence and move to a personal journal if things go beyond PG-13.

MYSTERY FISH;

question the mystery fish

DEPARTING GALLIPOLI

The order comes the day after the Marie Antoinette sets sail:

PACK UP AND GET READY TO MOVE OUT. WE'VE DONE ALL WE CAN HERE.

DEPLOYMENT: BASE.

WE NEED TO RESTOCK. BE PREPARED FOR MORE TRANSFERS ON ARRIVAL.

STAY SAFE. TIME-STEP EXPECTED TO BEGIN WITHIN THE HOUR.

FOR THOSE OF YOU NEW TO COST: FIND A SECLUDED SPOT AND TRY NOT TO EAT ANYTHING BEFORE THE JUMP.

The Time-Step

The transfer begins like a vibrating heat on the collar bone, just a hum of sensation.

But the vibration spreads. Veteran COST soldiers often refer to this phenomenon as "the buzz". The feeling builds, not unlike standing near a great engine or the wind-rattled branches of a massive tree. There is a long moment of motion sickness and you can't be sure if the world is shaking you from the inside out or the outside in. It may be better to close your eyes against the growing nausea, as the world blurs out of focus.

A star shines in the distance. You may hear the faint rustling of leaves. Some swear they hear voices in this moment, indistinct words echoing off nothingness. Others say they feel a touch of the divine, that the eyes of the eternal look down upon you. Ancient bones rattle just out of earshot, cold and brittle and nothing more than the suggestion of sound. Or maybe it's only an illusion, brought on by the powerful technology grafted into your skin.

One thing is for sure: One moment you are here and the next you are not.

The shift takes you from whatever solitude you could find aboard the Marie Antoinette to the temperature-regulated hallway of what looks like a very poorly put together space station. Droids rush up and down the long hallway, fixing broken bits of machinery or just chattering with each other. A few crows sit on high ledges, looking down and watching. Someone mutters something about a centaur around the corner.

And you might just notice, provided you were in Gallipoli long enough to acquire stowaways, that the parasites lurking on your skin are mercifully gone.

For new arrivals who didn't experience Gallipoli: You, too, will appear in this long hallway, filled with droids and crows and humans (still filthy and clad in ANZAC uniforms, carrying battered equipment from the first World War). And you'll be wearing the minimal COST-issued athletic underwear and holding whatever one item you were allowed to bring. Surprise!

READ THE BASE INFOPAGE.

home away from home

Those who have been to BASE before may find a strangeness to it all: BASE seems...still. The windows show a verdant world instead of the usual aether (though with the typical paranoia), and the halls are bereft of all but a few crows. A man stands at the end of the long hallway you arrived in, waiting for you to get your bearings before he speaks.

Except, you know, he's not a man. He's a centaur.

"It's been barely a week since you left, by my reckoning. But for you, I'm sure, it's been much longer. Still, much has changed. You may have noticed we are...becalmed. This is due, it seems, to an error in our ways. We kept something that does not belong to us, several wild creatures that are meant to be free. They seem to have psychically called out to their home, and their home responded; we are now somewhat stranded.

"But let me explain—the Aether is the nexus between worlds and times, but it is not a dead thing. Creatures live in it. We have crashed onto the back of one such creature, a mighty beast, as large as a small country and entirely undiscovered. We have found why the creature has intercepted us: we have accidentally taken captive some of its children. Shapers, the wild creatures I mentioned, it seems they form a symbiotic bond with the creature, and live happily within its stomach."

He frowns, considering this.

"Shapers, I should mention, are creatures that briefly infested our fair BASE. The issue was dealt with, though we kept some for experimentation. The coelacanth took issue with this, it seems. It can speak, of course; we are stranded very near its head, and if you wish to ask it a question, I implore you to do so. The creature is older than creation—older than me—and only speaks once to any creature it encounters. It's said its wisdom brings kings to their knees."

His eyes crinkle in humor.

"My name is Chiron and I am the caretaker of this place, for those of you whom I have not had the pleasure of meeting. More importantly, I am a trainer and a teacher of some experience; if you wish training or schooling of any sort, do summon me. I will be happy to assist."

He's easy to contact, often found in the library, the training area, his capsule, or elsewhere in the station, attempting to fix what he understands and arguing with crows.

"We intended to spend this time exploring, for this is a rare opportunity to discover more of an entirely uncharted world. I hasten you to see if anything on the coelacanth can be of use, but be careful. Take only what you need, not what you may want. I intend to learn my lessons well; these creatures are not pets. Takes food, water, and any materials of use to us for our survival and perseverance, but no more. We task you with this: explore the coelacanth, and see what of it can be understood. Bring us back samples, but do try to interrupt the natural habitat as little as possible. We are guests here."

He bows and the action shows a slight limp in one of his back legs.

"I would join you, but I am far too old for such activities. Still, do pepper me with any questions you should encounter. I am always available on the network, or in person, within this hulking mass we call home."

And then he leaves you to find your capsules and rest.

CAPSULE ASSIGNMENTS

Once you've found your room and settled in—perhaps taken a shower, collected clothes, and eaten—a droid will approach you with camping equipment and give you a brief explanation of how to access and use the database. It's time to get your gear and go.

Of course, you can decline. You can stay and tend to the fort, maybe try and clean up this patchwork jumble of metal and machinery. But seeing the sights on the back of a giant fish flying through non-space? Who can say no to that?


the undiscovered country.

BASE's airlocks open into a lush valley, vibrant with color and rustling with life that has thrived on the coelacanth's back for millennia. It's a striking shift from the rot and gunfire of Gallipoli, unmarked by shrapnel, bombshells, and never-fresh air.

No, the air here is clean in a way that can leave you breathless, untouched by pollutants and stirred into a gentle breeze. It's a marked departure for anyone used to a more modern Earth or rough equivalent; letting the air sit on your tongue leaves a crisp, unsullied taste behind. And the whole forest feels alive, in a way that reminds you of how small you really are.

A white crow perches in a tree near BASE's exit, too high up to properly engage but a stark contrast to the bright leaves around her. She merely watches recruits come and go with a shrewd eye, feathers fluffed against the light chill. There are other crows scattered throughout the wilderness, some easier to find than others as they flit through the trees, sit on camping equipment, or hitch rides on the hoverbikes.

Besides those brief flashes of black feathers, however, you're left unsupervised.

Try not to fuck up anything too badly.

EXPLORE:INFOPAGE|DATABASE
talk to a fish | destruction report

NAV. NETWORK LOGS OOC MEMES PLURK

Comments

no worries, no worries!

[reillumination]

[ Ryo looks like he wants to add something midway through the man's admittance, but he stops himself on the next thread of thought. Does he have somewhere to be? Of course he does, but getting from here to there is so far an impossibility.

He's slow to follow the request to look, but when he does there's something about the way he pays him mind that's heavy and unrelenting. He narrows his eyes minutely, a small give that the man had struck some kind of nerve, but — ]

Don't we all? [ he says after a moment, taking the cigarette from his lips with his other hand. The question has an light edge, like one adjusting the handle of a knife in their grip. Still, Ryo offers with a sudden shift into sobriety: ] But, I can find them.

[ Ryo follows the turn of his shoulder, takes even and quiet steps to join him. He crosses into the man's space with some expectation that he'll nudge aside to let him look through the system for the song he's thinking of, his eyes flitting back to him occasionally. They're more alert than they should be in a person his age, twice as calculating. It's an easy read that Ryo doesn't put trust in anyone.

It takes him a moment's worth of tinkering, but he manages. The song is low in quality, but the beat is still clear. Satisfied enough, he'll move on back out of the man's space again and maintain a respectable distance. His posture as he leans back against the neighboring hoverbike is more of a suggestion of comfort than it actually is. ] They were popular in the 60s and 70s, [ he adds, like an after thought. ]

[inconstantly]

[The low quality of the sound only serves to enhance the experience. John is reminded of nights back in Newcastle before everything turned to shit. He and Gary and Ritchie would lie on their backs, smoking a cigarette or something stronger as they stared at the ceiling and allowed the music to wash over them. Sometimes they'd forget to relax, legs kicking in the air or arms punching an invisible foe. It was a time both long gone and ever present.

As he listens John closes his eyes for the full experience, allowing the speakers to blast the sound against him at top volume. He doesn't flinch, but a slow smile creeps across his face. It was good to feel a new discovery, and something so raw at that.]

I like the congas. Wouldn't have expected something like that.

[His friends aren't here, and neither are the copious supplies of drugs in which they used to partake, but he does have plenty of alcohol. When the song ends John rises to unpack something secured in the hoverbike. He remains standing to match height with present company, holding the bottle between them.]

It's gin. Not that synthetic shit from around here. But men of taste should stick together, yeah?

[reillumination]

[ Men of good taste? Ryo almost laughs, the sound catching itself in his throat. It comes up like a breath instead, clipped and almost cold. Ryo's got lots of questions about who would consider him to have anything approaching taste that's even socially acceptable, but he's learning that there's plenty like him here. For better or for worse. Men like Ryo only considered justice and the small pocket of the universe he could hold in his palms. The way to get there was only a means to an end. It didn't matter what it took.

But, still, the stiffness in Ryo's shoulders starts to thaw. There's a momentary pause, where he seems to make a decision as he ashes what remains of his cigarette. He pulls a classic drop and ground, the sole of his borrowed boot scraping out the last embers of the cherry in a way both casual and satisfying. ]

I'm not sure who has good taste anymore, [ Ryo says, something small and unnameable rounding out the prior edge. It isn't as though Ryo cared too much about others as a singular unit most of the time, but there's something about being so far from home that makes the humanity in him drag its greedy fingers through each and every interaction, hungry for scraps of something that resembled dark hair and dark eyes, a familiar pair of sneakers smudging gore all over his late father's dashboard. He reaches out to accept the bottle, a glimmer of a "thanks" caught at the softened corners of his mouth. It isn't vocalized, but it's there in the way he inclines his head, eyes settling on John in a way that seems more approachable than a few minutes ago. ]

It was a period of revolution and revolt, [ he picks up after a moment, filling in a little more once the gin is securely in his grip. His fingers blindly pull out the stop, a testament to how many times he's done this. ] They weren't the first to be angry about it, but this one wasn't allowed to sit on the shelves for long. [ It's been a long time since Ryo's bothered with much outside plain vodka and wine. It was easy stuff, quicker to grab and consider later. Both gave him a different low and the complaints weren't as prominent when he decided to share it. He takes a slow swig, palming the cork in his opposite hand. His voice comes up raspy and raw on the other side of it, but not as much as one would expect from someone who looks like him: ] The government banned it.

[ He extends both the stopper and the bottle back to John with no preamble, figuring it better he keep the bit instead of him pocketing it. ] It's your turn to pick, [ he half-hums. ]

[ Give him another song, John. ]

[inconstantly]

[Where Ryo's laugh is cut short, John allows for something more full, if quiet. There's a why shake of the head, fully accepting his his place in life as a dingy bottom feeder.]

Now I never said good taste. Just taste. You can't deny that you certainly have an opinion.

[He returns the nod, replying in kind with a silent "you're welcome." As Ryo speaks John watches him carefully, taking in what information he can about his present company as well as the information he chooses to tell. The kid is definitely a drinker and makes no effort to hide his habits as such. It's a trait John himself had already picked up by that age and it's nice to see someone not bothering to put on airs about themselves when it comes to a frowned upon habit. He takes the bottle and removes the cork, holding it in the same hand as the cigar.]

Well. As long as we're dealing with banned songs.

[He turns back to the hoverbike, fussing a little before another Sex Pistols song erupts through the air.]

If you knew the last one you likely know this one too. [a lazy shrug before a quick swig that burns down the throat] But it seemed like an obvious choice considering.

[He considers Ryo for a moment as the sound blasts around them and filters through the trees.]

You got a name?

[reillumination]

[ As John goes on, there's a twitch at the corner of his lips, a small give. There's almost too much armor to pierce through, but the blunt edge of John's admission is like a spear between loose plates. It grazes at the flesh of something that was once warm, brings with it the bloom of something vulnerable — human. ]

Asuka, [ he says. It rolls of his tongue in a curious way, a cushioned pause before he gives it. For so long, he'd only been called "Ryo," that to give his family name feels artificial, foreign. But, in the end, it is not so much for propriety as it is for distance. Ryo, after all, had lost any concerns about manners long ago. Against the end of the world, little things began to matter less and less. Where once he would have left his shoes at the door, he drags now all the mud and ghosts in. ] If you're going to group yourself in with strong tastes, I might as well knows yours too.

[ Questionable taste, taste that makes the blood run. Just that side of ethical, Ryo considers the inferno before the sparks. The Devil's in the details, they say, but details are only considered where they're of immediate benefit these days. Ryo's gaze drifts, scans the expanse of treeline as the song plays. It reminds him briefly of the passages he'd been pulled from, the dawn cast up bright against white feathers frozen in ecstasy. He thinks that if most knew what he knew now, there'd be more push to use those hydrogen bombs — more reason for those to pray to their Gods for something. ]

Yep, I know it. [ He's heard it played once or twice in his time back home. It isn't something he touched on often, but the lyrics seem more relevant now as he focuses. No future was always a concern, wasn't it? People always feared there wasn't anything left for them. There might not be, if he was honest. ] I can't say I know the whole story behind it, but the song gives me a good guess.

[ He means the whole of why it was banned, of course. ]

[inconstantly]

John Constantine.

[Though whether Ryo chooses to address him by surname or not is his choice. John answers to both names an equal amount it seems, though the latter is typically infused with anger.]

Or arsehole, if you really feel like calling me by my nature.

[a long drink]

I mean, it's obviously about disillusionment, right? Specifically with the monarchy. Then when the single is released to coincide with Her Majesty's [there's a definite sarcastic tone in the title] silver jubilee in the 70s, well, it was almost seen as a declaration of war. [puff, drink] But banning the song and the album only made it sell faster.

[When John looks to Ryo he is definitely grouping him with the bad taste bunch.]

Never tell us stubborn fucks what we can and can't do.

[reillumination]

[ There's a beat of quiet as he considers what John says, his eyes eventually returning to him only briefly as the song continues to spool out around them. It is easy to get lost in music, but Ryo cannot lose himself to much these days. In the end, all vices he partakes in only serves to take the edge off. ]

Constantine, [ he hums. The syllables run easy off his tongue, a testament to bilingualism without the merest blip of a pause. Even with the BCEs, there was no way to cover hesitancy — a natural consideration before one speaks. ] You'll have to get on my good side for me to call you an asshole.

[ It is difficult to say if he's joking or not, but there's a little curl to his lips that wasn't there before. There's something in the dynamic here that plays at familiar, but Ryo doesn't bridge to people as much as he runs from them. It's easier and safer to stand across the metaphorical shore — cup his hands about his mouth and call across some surface similarities. It helps to keep from harm. It helps when all others seem to him potential enemies — a fabrication of humanity, just wearing muscle and skin. ]

But, I got that. [ He lifts a hand to adjust a lapel on his trench coat, bringing it down a little from the cut of his cheekbone. ] That's pointed timing on their parts. I guess not everyone likes a crafted criticisms.

[ It's almost a joke. Maybe. ] Drawing attention to something like that only makes it more appealing.