agogelogs | THE AMAZING BASE.

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THE AMAZING BASE.

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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Rickon's pup. Didn't get as much training as the others, but he must have stayed with Rickon the whole time. Bolton threw his head on the ground during the parlay."

He feels her shudder, feels her clinging, and it's obvious that there isn't much left in her. Washing off the worst of the grime will have to do for now; something more extensive can wait until they've both slept. He bends his head to kiss her, but the kiss, while tender, doesn't linger.

"I'd be the same if it was you... and in such a place. Castle Black was better. We didn't make a Wall of the dead. But I told her everything I could, and she wouldn't listen. She'll grow used to the idea in the coming days... she must."

It would be so easy to cry under the spray of the water. Tears would mix with water, washed and banished before they could ever give her away. To cry takes effort, though, and she's beyond exhausted. Tension is soothed away from her muscles the longer she stands. He soothes away most of it, by merely existing.

"Oh," her voice wobbles, and that leaves her feeling far sadder than she might normally be. So much they've both experienced... but to lose one's direwolf. One's childhood companion. The thought of losing Viserion is difficult enough to fathom. "Bolton is dead."

He kisses her sweetly, the sort that wishes he did linger. She wants to chase after his mouth to kiss him again, because she'd wanted to kiss him so terribly with that mask on.

She reaches for the soap, determined to at least scrub the worst of the dirt and blood away. She starts on him, his beard and cheeks, down his neck, swiping her palms, fingers pressing into hard muscle. She doesn't touch him to seduce, but to clean and relax. She's got that much more in her.

"I kept thinking about you in the cell. How I had to get back to you."

"Dead," he mutters, agreeing. Some men should be dead, obliterated. Jon tries to keep as many alive as possible, doesn't especially enjoy killing people. and yet he doesn't have a moment of regret or remorse for his part in Bolton's demise.

He closes his eyes as she begins to wash his face. Her hands are soothing, especially when she presses harder with her fingertips, finding and dispelling aches that little else seems to touch. He runs his hands down her back, then up into her hair, holding it into the spray of water.

"You were taken before we reached Ataturk. All I wanted was to get back to Lone Pine to try to find you. I didn't even know whether to hope that you were still alive." After a beat of silence, he adds, "I'll always try to find you. You know that." Don't you?

As it should be, There was no place in the world she wants for someone like Bolton. Not when they happily caused such harm to others.

Her palms sweep across scars and intact skin alike, never hesitating, though her touch does seem to gentle somewhat over the puckered skin. If it'd been months ago, she'd likely have been too wary of touching those scars, for worry of them bothering him. Now, in her eyes, at least, they're like any other part of him.

"They attacked me with miniature arrows that put me to sleep." Her eyes momentarily close as his hands sweep along her back. Then she's looking up at him again. The water patters around them, the steam like a warm hug. Soft, gentle, she says: "I know."

She might not've thought it before, until he said it. But now that he has, she knows.

The problem with being brought back from the dead after being fatally wounded is that it doesn't necessarily heal the wounds: they'd been open when he woke up, not bleeding but hurting like blazes, and continuing to hurt even after they were stitched up. Milk of the poppy had barely touched the pain. After that, they'd been tender for months, even still tender sometimes by the time she saw them, or itching like all seven hells at once.

They're still angry, puckered things now, but he welcomes her touch on them.

What she tells him is strange, though. The Regency seems so advanced in comparison to anything they've known before, with their strange helms and their rooms with shifting walls and bright lights to keep their captives from sleeping, but... "Miniature arrows? Poisoned arrows?"

It sounds like something out of a story about the Children of the Forest.

The water's quick to rinse away the soap used on him, leaving warm and pinkened flesh. Instead of admiring, she's gathering more soap and starting on herself. That energy is dwindling under the heat of the water, in this space with him, and she's ready to curl under a blanket to finally, finally try and sleep. There wouldn't be lights shining in her eyes this time. No voices taunting her about how disappointed they were in her.

"Poisoned with something that overtook me quickly. Small little things." She pauses just long enough to stretch her finger and thumb, then she's back to work, intent on scrubbing herself as clean as she could. When she'd first stepped in the spray, the water had turned muddied and coppery. Now, at least, it runs clear... even if she doesn't feel clean.

"I could hear Chiron, and then I couldn't."

He tries to help her wash, gathering soap himself and trying to hit areas she hasn't yet -- something that the extremely cramped space of the shower stall makes difficult. Two people who aren't lovers would have a hard time of it together with the door closed.

At least the water is beginning to run clear now.

"He told me he lost contact with you when your BCE was removed from the network."

That's not, in fact, exactly what Chiron said, but it's how Jon had interpreted it.

Difficult, but not impossible, and she appreciates his help. More than appreciates it. He's protected her, fought for her, treated her so carefully... before she realizes she's reaching for him, she is, soapy hands cupping his cheeks to tilt him closer. Closer to kiss.

And kiss.

And kiss.

Nothing deep or heated, but something which speaks to how she's missed him and needed him--even if she can never quite voice how much she has needed him. He's become as essential to her as her dragons are.

"He'd contacted me when he felt--" Her brows furrow. He doesn't know. "I am Chiron's master."

She doesn't very much like that term of phrase, and she'd told Chiron as much when they'd came to their agreement.

They kiss for a while, under the stream of warm water, in spite of the soap, and the heat, and the relative lack of privacy... but it's an exhausted sort of affection, a need to connect, for each of them to remind the other of their presence.

What she tells him next leaves him confused, though, and he pulls his face back from hers to give her a questioning look.

"His master?"

That's a strange turn of phrase. He would have understood "his queen," but not that.

"It's strange, I know. I still don't fully understand how the contract works myself." Her tongue darts out to moisten already wet lips. "Chiron is--"

Now her brows furrow. Is it her right to speak of what he's confided in her? It seems a betrayal to him. But not telling Jon would be a betrayal as well, she thinks, for this is a bond which goes beyond mind ravens.

"He relies on magic to survive. In his world, there are those like him and they form...a sort of contract with someone who has magic. It allows the--he calls himself and those like him servants. I don't like that, masters and servants." A sigh. "He was not doing well in the tunnels, and though the magic in my veins is meager, it was enough to help him survive Gallipoli."

Frankly, she'd not believed herself capable of having magic at all.

"It also allows for a sort of connection similar and independent to the mind ravens. That's how he knew. He'd contacted me through that link, but the poison had already affected me."

He doesn't say much at first, trying to master the flare of confusion and jealousy. The sound of the water splashing on their bodies and to the ground is the only sound in the room, apart from the few crows playing in the puddles.

Finally, when he speaks, it's halting, uncertain.

"He told me he was a spirit, once. In a dream. That he had died before... I think I told him I had died too. It was my old dream, in the Winterfell crypts, when there were so many troubles with the Shapers.

"I can't begrudge his survival, but... for others to be able to talk to you that way--" The look he gives her is at least partly reproachful.

She meets that look, unflinching. Patient. It would be much the same--her feelings, knowing that Jon shared a bond with another that she could not. Oh, she understands all too well what he means, and she accepts any and every reaction of his to this news.

"I didn't think of him whilst Kebechet interrogated me. I don't think of him now, when I stand with the man who is my husband in all but name."

She lifts her chin, somewhat defiant.

"I told him you are my intended. I asked him to keep you safe."

"And he needed that power not just to live, but also to try to keep me safe."

It's not a question. He'd like to say that he can keep himself safe, but Sansa's words come back to him when it comes to Gallipoli: can anyone really protect anyone? Anyone in the world, when it's so easy to kill someone as far as a mile away? You can't be sure that an arrow will find its target at that distance, but the things they were throwing were more like wildfire.

"What sort of magic did he find in you? The dragons?" He asks out of genuine curiosity. But his embrace isn't tight around her again yet; his hands don't move over her again yet.

"He did. But he is my friend as well, and I will do what I can to protect those under my care. He tried to save me from the Rhinemaidens."

This would be a point of contention--asking another to protect someone she loves, for it suggests she has little faith in Jon's ability, which is so very far from the truth. To do so with Drogo would be unthinkable, but she hadn't loved him like she does Jon. Daario, though her lover once so long ago, would likely lash out at the thought of her asking another to protect him.

"Fire." She doesn't look happy about any of this. "You're strong, I've never doubted that. But a war's not meant to be fought alone."

"No, it isn't."

Something in him capitulates, gruff as he still is, and his hand smooths along her back more firmly, wet strands of her hair sticking to it.

"You needed protecting." Not him -- he was fine. Men were injured badly -- men like Dorian and Sebastian, men who have magic of one kind or another -- getting him and the others in to Mal Tepe. Daenerys is the one who was abducted. "But it all came out well enough in the end.

"Dany, we have to tell each other these things. I don't know what I would have done differently if I'd known, but it might have been that I would have done something."

She lifts her brows at him, the only show of a hint of disagreement to her. "When could I have told you? Moments before you left on a diplomatic mission?"

That would have proven a distraction, one they could not afford. Her abduction was a distraction. She couldn't help that.

"This has been a point of contention with those in my inner circle long before you and I met. I will not be coddled. I will not allow others to fight in my stead. I am in this war, be it in Westeros or with COST, much like you are. The two of you traveled together. You were going to be distracted, watching Jeyne. You needed an ally."

He stares at her for a long moment, narrow-eyed with mild displeasure.

"Fine. But I would still have rather that you'd told me. Should I assume in the future that if I'm with Chiron and away from you, he's watching my back? I would assume that anyway." He hesitates, then adds, "Wish I could talk to you with my mind."

That's really all this is about, isn't it? Who's sharing thoughts with whom.

"Did it weaken you?"

"I would hope you would watch each other's backs, honestly." With a quiet huff, she makes a face at him: a wrinkling of her nose, a pursing of her lips. "I do not command either of you. This agreement was strictly for his survival and nothing more."

That expression softens, and she's soon looping her arms around his neck and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

We've the mind ravens, my love. Every morning, every night, and all the moments in between.

"I've not felt a thing. He says this is the servant's responsibility, to protect their master, even with how much mana is utilized."

"We did."

His first reaction to her kiss is mild sulkiness -- no reaction at all -- but half a second later, he turns his head and kisses her mouth.

Not when you're being held. I saw everything we've ever planned or discussed turning to ashes while I was trying to barter for those men's lives. It's good to see your face again.

"You know I can't tell you no -- or yes. You'll do as you will.

"We have to trust each other."

When I was held, none could communicate with me. I'd tried the BCE, I'd tried Chiron. Nothing worked. The contract was as useless as this stupid thing was.

A hand slips to his cheek; she keeps them close as she lengthens the duration of the kiss. Light little nips interspersed with affection, still so innocent, when usually, she'd have done something to intensify it.

You missed my face, did you?

When she pulls back, she bats her lashes at him. It's so silly and ridiculous, but she thinks he needs that.

"I trust you with my heart and my life, Jon. The contract is meant to be a temporary thing; if you'd rather me break the tie with him, I will."

If they weren't so exhausted, both of them, it would be easy to fall into those kisses, and when she pulls back and makes the simple gesture of fluttering her eyelashes at him, it strikes at his heart in a way he wouldn't have expected. He feels it low in his stomach.

In all, he thinks that their alliance may save everyone, but their love still sometimes frightens him, casts him adrift in something much bigger than he's used to. Even if it were a smaller thing, he still wouldn't be used to jealousy. Very little of the envy he'd ever felt before meeting her was related to a woman.

"I missed your face," he murmurs, not bothering with the mind ravens. "I missed you."

But the next thing she says drags him back to being thoughtful, and reluctant. He may not like another man being in her head, but he thinks of Chiron as more of a friend than not... a friend who'd needed help. A friend who had protected her in battle... but isn't holding her up now, and won't be sharing a bed with her. One who Irriella doesn't refer to as Lord Father.

"No. Do what you want." He sounds a little begrudging, but it's a conclusive statement on his part nonetheless. "Do what you think is right. If we can help each other... all of us... it's not too much to ask. Any more than that might be."

Her laugh is delighted, a girlish giggle over what he says. He missed her face. It's so ridiculous, and maybe she finds it funnier because she's so tired and it's so silly. But it's also sweet, and he's always been sweet. It's what she finds charming about him. It's what has her hugging him close, murmuring against his ear, "I missed you too."

She tucks her nose against the juncture of neck and shoulder, exhaling and closing her eyes. And with each passing moment, she relaxes further against him, until she forgets that her fingers are getting wrinkled, and that there is anything outside the two of them.

"He's a good man. I would like to help him with this, even if the magic I have is meager. He reminds me of ser Barristan, in some ways." She sounds sleepy now, mumbling against his skin. A span of time passes, one filled with steady breaths and heavy limbs. "I don't know if I'll be able to sleep, Jon."

There's another reason he's capitulated, and it's that he remembers what she said to him in the Dragonpit, something she herself can't possibly remember: A dragon is not a slave. Some people must follow orders as they're given, sometimes lives depend on it, but she isn't one of them outside of COST, and this isn't one of those situations. It would be wrong to try to assert himself here, under the circumstances. And given who each of them is, they'll never quite have all of each other. She'll always share him with the North. For as long as they're both alive, he'll share her with her people.

Still, some things are for them alone -- like this. She tucks herself against him, whispers sweet words into his ear, rests and breathes. She seems to be falling asleep, something that sounds possible here, where the walls of the stall are so close that they could almost hold the two of them up, then says she doesn't know if she'll be able to sleep.

"You sound as if you're half asleep now, love." He leans down to kiss her once, twice, then reaches over and shuts the water off.

Did she? "I think it's you.

"I keep expecting the light," she admits, after his kisses. It's not something she wishes to speak of--any of it, really, these weren't things to re-live or reimagine by giving voice to them. Yet he was truthful with her, and he's correct in saying they need to be honest with each other.

She doesn't always have to be strong around him, does she?

The water shuts off and she's left standing in the stall with him, still pressed close, unwilling to step those meager inches back. The steam or her exhaustion--she's not sure which, maybe both, maybe none--lends itself to a dreamlike quality in the space. Even as water drips from the ends of her hair and her lashes, even as droplets slide down his chest.

She chases one of the droplets with her thumb, then brushes the uppermost scar with surer fingers. It's like the peaks and valleys of his muscle, but more textured. She traces each rise and dip of his abdomen, as if she's seeing him for the first time. And maybe she is, in some ways. There hasn't ever truly been a moment where she's merely touched him for the sake of it, to learn more of him. Most of those moments have melted into heavier touches and heated kisses. But right now, she maps his torso out until the first chill of the room invades the stall.

"The light won't be coming tonight. We'll keep it dark. We'll keep Ghost there to guard us. You can sleep for as long as you want to. I'll get you your coffee in the morning."

His tiredness is not the same as her exhaustion, but the cadence of his phrases lends his words the same dreamlike quality. He watches her as she traces the lines of his abdomen, the muscles hard-won from training and fighting; the line of his mouth sets, briefly, when she touches the scar over his heart. His hands rest on her upper arms.

He doesn't know what to say to her now. Maybe she's not fully convinced that he's real.

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