agogelogs | all this energy calling me

all this energy calling me

WHO? Everybody!
WHAT? Welcome home, nerds.
WHEN? Outside time and space, in the aether between dimensions.
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.

TOUCH BASE;

backfill armed services echelon
COST re-appropriated vehicle 854A-5.2

read the base setting infopage

DEPARTING FRANCE

The order comes out the second day after the Tuileries is sacked:

PACK UP, 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, and it starts like a vibrating heat on the collar bone, not painful, not to start with. Just a hum of sensation. But the vibration spreads. Veteran COST soldiers often refer to this phenomena as 'the buzz'. The sensation builds, feeling not unlike standing near a great engine, or the wind rattling the branches of a great tree. There is long a moment of motion sickness, and one cannot always be sure if it is you that is shaking from the inside out, or the world that is shaking you from the outside in. It may just 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. Some swear they feel a touch of the divine; the eyes of the eternal look down upon you. Ancient bones rattle just out of earshot, cold and brittle. Or maybe it's an illusion brought on by powerful technology grafted into your skin.

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

Nausea is commonly accompanied by this shift. One moment, you're in the cold of France. The next, you're in a temperature regulated hallway, looking not unlike 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. Crows sit on high ledges, looking down, watching.

(For those of you who just apped in and didn't participate in the TDM, you'll appear alongside your comrades now, standing in this long hallway filled with droids and crows and men and women in clothing from 18th century France. Of course, you'll be wearing the minimal COST athletic issued underwear, and holding whatever one item you were allowed to bring. Surprise!)

At the end of the hall is a long table with heaps of used clothing on it. The sizes and styles vary, along with color and detail (AKA none look exactly like the linked pics, they're just a baseline, use your ~imagination~). One thing's for certain, all the clothing has been used before, with holes darned and worn edges. They're all clean, though, and each bears a single patch with the words 'KNOW YOUR RIGHTS, THE FUTURE IS UNWRITTEN' and 'COST sewn into the side.

They're not exactly high fashion, but they might be more comfortable than the late 18th century digs you're still wearing, if you showed up in France. Or, you know, the underwear.

Meet the Drill Sergeant

There is the echoing sound of hooves, and a strange creature emerges from a nearby room: a centaur. He smiles kindly, happy to see you've arrived. He has a significant limp in his back left leg, causing his hoof-beats to pitch an irregular rhythm as he walks slowly through the hall.

"Hello, all!" His voice is kind, but it's pitched to carry. "You may know me as Sergeant-- I am in technicality a drill sergeant. You may call me Chiron, if you wish, though I'm to understand some may know others with the same name." He laughs, amused. "In any case, welcome home. It is not much, but we have tried to make it hospitable for you in your time here. Your room assignments have been uploaded onto your BCEs, along with some technological upgrades we've been testing out. There are a few prototypes and experiments you may find in your rooms as well. Our agents are..." He looks up at the crows. "We are a curious people."

He looks over to the table stacked with clothing. "Please pick out what suits you, and make adjustments as needed. If you have any complaints, and wish to change your rooming situation, your username, anything of that nature, please send me a request. I am also known in some capacity as a trainer-"

One of the crows caws, and it sounds almost sarcastic.

Sergeant Chiron ignores it. "Hm. If you wish for me to make a training regiment for you, to better your skill in this organization, please let me know. But for now: I am to understand your last mission was... tumultuous. Please, rest and acclimate yourself to BASE."

He turns to leave, before stopping-- "And please be kind to the crows. They remember slights."

The crows' cawing sounds like laughter.

HOTSPOTS

There's been some technical difficulty since the prognosticators had their little meltdown. Coolant is in short supply, and some of the corridors of BASE are a little warmer than others. Pleasantly warm. Comfortably so, like walking through a sunbeam. In these hotspots, it feels comfortable and snug.

Characters walking through them will feel the urge to lie down and rest, maybe take a quick little nap.

Sleeping in these spots will cause unsettling or confusing dreams, but not nightmares. Dreams in these hotspots-- and sleeping in these hotspots will never be dreamless-- will be hard to remember upon waking, but they seemed very... strange. Almost as though you were intruding on something important but private.

Yet you can't quite remember it when you wake.

If you're clever and watchful, you'll notice the crows avoid these areas, so you can avoid them as well before you're seized by the urge to lie down and nap.

Particularly watchful characters may notice the hotspots are growing in size and number as the days wear on.

(More information about these and the forthcoming December plot will be coming in an infopost on the 12th, but if you have any questions now, feel free to ask here!)

read the base setting infopage

NAV. NETWORK LOGS OOC PLURK DISCORD

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

[downloading dlc content . . .]

Sergeant Chiron can be found easily around BASE, if you want to catch him for any reason at all. Most commonly, you'll find him arguing with the crows, only to give up and give them whatever food or toy he's holding. He can also be seen inspecting the various problems, sparking wires and blinking lights, around the station. Whatever he's doing, he doesn't seem to mind being interrupted at all, and turns to you with a warm smile.

"Yes, child?"

It doesn't matter if you're eighty and white-haired; that's what he'll call you.

[There are crows all over BASE: flying down the cramped hallways, fluttering outside doorways, following you into rooms (and maybe reading over your shoulder), and—perhaps most importantly—staking out the mess hall. Many of them keep to rafters wherever they are, content to watch, but others spring on unattended items and people, curious. They'll even spring on the unattended plate.

Sorry if you were eating that.

Others are more polite, coming to stand on a table while you eat and giving you an expectant eye. Sometimes, you might even see a crow with a plate of its own, cawing instructions at the nearest droids. It's difficult to pick things up when you don't have hands, after all.

In any case, they're impossible to miss and they are watching. And, uh, prone to yanking on tails (sorry, Mordred's cat).]

Edited 2017-12-09 21:53 (UTC)

Of all the actual possibilities of who he might have run into with all of this nonsense, Chiron would never have anticipated a variation of himself. In retrospect, it explained an awful lot of the conversation that he had had over the communications network, but there was still something strangely delightful about it. The word impossible didn't occur to him because it wasn't. Heroic Spirits were the sum total of all mythologies after all. This was just one specific version.

It also felt like it was a fair assumption that this Chiron still had living family, in that respect, Chiron had some of the same questions any man might have when asking about another's family.

The question gets a laugh out of him, soft and fleeting.

"I do have to ask if you've been aware of my identity since day one, but that comes off as overly self-centered, doesn't it?"

[Look, all of this is new to Siegfried, so obviously he's curiously checking out rooms all over the station. Being a Servant at least allows him to adjust to the situation relatively easy. So now he's mostly wandering and seeing what all there is.

Which means he's made his way into the mess hall, and. Oh. That's a bunch of crows. Ah. Hmm. Siegfried stares into the rafters for a good long moment before grabbing a plate with food and sitting.

Sure enough, one of those crows is gonna stand at that table, staring rather expectantly. The Servant blinks, tilting his head.]

...are you hungry?

[Yes, he is asking a fucking bird if they want some of his food. Siegfried, please. You're going to end up spoiling them.]

Edited (lord if I could remember my html) 2017-12-09 22:13 (UTC)

(he's sick and has felt it since their abrupt arrival, so his appetite's gone — but he needs to get his energy back up to snuff. so hei's taken up a spot alone, sitting at an uneaten plate of food, watching the crows out of the corner of his eye. a meal that's unattended and vulnerable? absolutely.

doesn't mean he isn't going to take a violent swing at one of the birds who tries to pick at it, aiming for a hard smack.)

Tch—

Edited 2017-12-09 22:26 (UTC)

I. Clothes
[While there is relief in being free of his clothes from France (laundry, it needs to get done), Chiron can't say that going through the current selection is the most favorite thing that he's done. It's less the selection, and more the damage that's been accumulated over the years.

There is no joy in wearing what are most likely the clothes of the dead. It's a reminder of what the actual situation is, something that leaping from time to time doesn't always allow.

As Chiron sorts through, hoping to find something broad enough for his shoulders, he takes care to fold what he was examining for the next person.]

--Could you pass the shirt that's over by your elbow, please?

Immediately after meeting the drill sergeant
That...was unexpected. With the crows call, Chiron just walked out. There was no anger on his face. Rather, his expression was one of absolute amusement, that this is where the situation has gone.

"These fates," he said, shaking his head slowly. "Are something else."

Wildcard
Whatever you like

Edited 2017-12-10 00:15 (UTC)

I am.

[The voice that comes from the crow is unnatural, almost digital, but with remarkable enunciation.]

Are you going to share?

[The bird sounds so hopeful. Please share the food.]

Hey—

[The bird caws, flapping and retreating when Hei tries to cuff it (he's so close, the birds will remember this one has reflexes above the norm). The commotion immediately perks the interest of several more crows who fly closer to the table, surrounding it but only watching.]

You weren't eating it!

[Its enunciation, if unnatural, is remarkably good. And it sounds incredibly offended.]

[WELL THAT SURE AS FUCK WASN'T WHAT HE WAS EXPECTING.

Siegfried startles just a little, blinking back at his small companion, before headtilting for a very, very long moment. Then, a hand lifts his fork with some food and he raises a brow, looking incredibly interested as he offers a bit of his plate to the bird.]

Is there anything you don't like to eat?

[Go on, have at it. Just don't eat his entire plate, pls, or he'll be sad.]

[Somewhere in the room he'd been assigned, Yoshitsugu had found mochi. Three packs, in fact, plenty to be going on with for now. He's walked back out and into the mess hall, taking a seat and getting himself comfortable.]

[It had taken some effort but he's split one of the sweet treats into small portions.]

...have you tried this kind of food before?

[He's looking up, directly addressing the crows. That might be fond amusement in his eyes; his mouth his hidden, so it's impossible to know for sure if he's smiling, but one might bet on it.]

My dear Takatora reminds me of your kind and it's his favourite, so perhaps it will appeal to you too.

[ This is actually starting to climb his list of craziest weeks and that's a steep list to surmount, especially recently. When the message comes about their imminent deployment he's unsure of what to expect, any conjured ideas dashed by the reality of that full-body humming and universal shift. Maybe at least something better would be waiting on the other side... ]

[A. - Hemming]

[ No, something better wasn't waiting. He decides that not even when he gets a chance to look around and instead when he sees what exactly he's meant to wear. Pre-worn. Ratty. Not very stylish...

That's why he can be found sitting sidewise, straddling one of the benches in the mess hall as he literally works to cut through the material of the pair of pants he was given, trying to shorten them to something he considers cooler. No puns intended. He is a disaster. ]

[B. - Goodnight Moon]

[ Hotspots around base, meant to lure passersby into self-indulgent naps?

Noctis absolutely didn't require any further motivation to catch up on his beauty sleep but the second he steps into any of those corridors, unavoided every time because he simply doesn't learn, it'll be a good thirty seconds before he's curled up on the floor, sprawled out, or otherwise just generally incapacitated by his ever-growing need to not be conscious.

He will be anywhere and everywhere, godspeed. ]

[C. - Network]

@ALL

Guess I should start by thanking the people that helped me out earlier, before we got here. You know who you are (and I know who you are too if you’re gonna complain about me using @all again, just keep scrolling).

But I wanted to ask if anybody knows if there’s more people here who aren’t on the username list. I can pm names if you want specifics.

Also is the oven temperature in Fahrenheit or Celsius? What’s “broil” mean? I’ll trade some fabric for some potato chips if anyone has any.

[ one hour later, another @all message ]

How much soap do you use for the laundry machine? Does hand soap work?

[ five minutes later, same deal ]

What are delicates?

[D. - OPEN]

[ wildcard option! ]

(what the fuck?)

...

(why is a talking animal more familiar and comforting than a plate of food?)

I will. Unless you taste better.

[YESSSSSS.

The bird immediately darts forward, eagerly taking the offering and snapping it down.]

I like everything. [Said almost like it's confiding to him.] But I like meat the most. Especially steak... Steak is very good, but you don't see much of it here.

[It's a tragedy.]

I taste horrible. You can ask the spiders.

[It sounds so miffed.]

More importantly— [the bird gives Hei's plate what passes as a forlorn look...for a bird] —if you leave it like that, it'll get cold.

i.
[After the sun-blasted heat of Jerusalem, the sodden war-camps on the French front, and the crawling sprawl of pre-industrial Paris, Ashitaka had wondered many times if the overwhelming sense of culture shock would at some point wear off. Even the buzzing feeling of temporal displacement that occurred when COST set the device embedded at his collarbone to set them in another given point in space-time was beginning to feel at least like something he could prepare for, though not quite yet something he could weather without wear (the nausea still persisted for a few minutes before he could feel hale again). But leaving Earth itself for something so completely removed, an iron vessel in the middle of a sea of undetermined time, was something he was not prepared for. The hollow sound of metal beneath his feet as he walked about was deeply unsettling, as was the harsh, unnatural lighting, the strange patterns of heat and cold throughout.

At least in other lands and other times, he could feel the earth beneath his feet; it was a single constant he could depend on as everything around him shifted and changed. Ashitaka was not claustrophobic, but the constrained nature of every aspect of his ship began to wear on him. He tries to keep himself moving, memorizing the layout, trying to learn through observation.

Which leads him to following some of the dactyl droids around. He doesn't address them to give them orders, instead finding a small group of TechDact droids and following them for a short while through some corridors, watching as they repaired small leaks in pipes and planes and otherwise performed menial maintenance.

It's in a corridor leading to the main foyer that he comes to a realization, watching the small group of automatons finish with another repair before chirping at one another, scurrying to the next.] They are like the kodama... [The thought is so sudden he can't help but voice it, stunned into simply watching as the droids disappeared from sight.

Those ignorant of the forest, or merely superstitious of it, had been fearful of the helpful spirits, but they had merely been indicators and caretakers of a healthy forest. He feels as though it's somewhat reversed here, as this ship seemed to be held together purely by the hard work of the droids, but — the thought helps ease the feeling of alienation, allowing Ashitaka to see the ship as a living entity, a forest unto itself.]

ii.
[Finding that COST had seen it fit to get him his own sword had been a nice surprise, but the absence of his other preferred weapon had him wandering to the armory. He realizes that his own point in history had been a relatively early one; he had seen the very beginnings of firearms in the rifles that Eboshi had had the lepers under her protection creating, inventions which would allow any person regardless of strength or training to take the life of nearly any assailant. It took only a few minutes of consideration of what COST had at their disposal to see that those firearms had been remarkably primitive, and he is sobered by the evolution of such destructive weapons.

Soon he has to stop thinking about it. The last remaining impression of Nago's essence tangled with his soul pained him enough in memory of what those weapons had done to him, and he didn't even need that reminder to remember himself how it felt to be shot through the chest.

In the end he has found himself a bow, as familiar to the one he had left his village with as he could find, and is practicing shooting a round target down a fairly long range. His first few arrows went wide—something commented upon by a gathered peanut gallery of crows perched on rafters and shelves. He gives them an eye, briefly thinking them lucky he wouldn't use them as targets. He was out of practice, however, having not held a bow for nearly two months. He improves, however, eventually able to hit the target towards its center seemingly without too much issue.

A crow flies over to rest on top of the target, looking down at the arrows stuck in the surface and then looking up to him. He can barely hear its call over the distance.

Ashitaka lowers the bow, frowning.] Move, [he calls, unwilling to shoot with it in range.

The crow does not oblige, simply calling,] No! [back.

Ashitaka goes still, staring at the bird in shock.]

iii.
[He still owed funeral rights to Xici.

When he had arrived in Paris and agreed to work as a guard and keep an eye out for Regency spies, there had never seemed to be a proper time. That, and he was somewhat stumped on how to deliver them to the Watcher. Ashitaka was not an artistic young man. Art was the product of a society with some stability, and as the Emishi people had fallen into decline and began to struggle more and more for survival, he had never been allowed that luxury. As their prince, he had been most emblematic of that, fashioned as a warrior and hunter, someone who could lend them the aid they needed to continue to carve out a life for themselves. He was no longer that person, however, and he found himself devoid of most of the things the commander had said he could dedicate. He knew a few songs from his youth, but it didn't feel right to dedicate them, for they were songs of a people to which he no longer belonged. And he didn't dance. Well—not as one might typically think.

Which actually brought him to the thought of something that he could dedicate.

It's very late in the make-shift day-night cycle that they had established aboard the ship when Ashitaka walks into what stood to be their gym, his own sword buckled at his side. He makes for the small corner set aside for sparring. It's quiet and empty when he arrives; he wastes no time walking to the center of the empty area, drawing his sword and taking a deep breath.

When learning to fight, they had had to improvise. Many of the men of his people had grown old enough that training with swords was more dangerous than beneficial. There had always been few of them, and the thinning of their bloodline meant that there were fewer children to raise and train. In result, they had had to formulate ways for Ashitaka to train himself. One method he had found, along with his elders, was a practice which incorporated both swordplay and huge dependence upon one's surroundings. Learning and practicing a single routine that was the same each and every time would be a disservice—it called one to rely upon their inner memories, closing themselves off to what happened around them, which was the true lifeblood of combat.

This sequence had no choreography. It had to do with opening your senses and reacting towards what you noticed. The wind causing the trees to bend, a distant call of a bird, an insect passing nearby—anything that came to your notice was an enemy or attack to respond to.

To a typical outside observer, it might seem like some sort of practice or warm-up routine, a complicated series of strikes and blocks and movements with the sword which all seemed to fluidly move one to the next, but someone with keen eyes and a penchant for patterns might notice something about it. One of the lights around the room flickers and he turns towards it, all until a pipe hisses with a sudden bout of leaked steam, causing him to turn into that direction. Whether or not the crows notice or not, they are another common component to this, directing him several times.

It lasts a few minutes, as he was trained—then he slows to a halt, returning the sword into its sheath with a dry hiss of metal, lowering himself to kneel to the floor.] This is an elegy for Tamomarr Xici of Little Hama Street. [His words not necessarily loud but he makes sure they are clear. He is unused to gods invisible, always watching; he was assured that the one he speaks to now was, though he still finds it odd.] I hope that it is sufficient. [For it was all he, as a warrior with no name left to him, felt he could offer.]

iv. wildcard!
[Anything and everything else! Feel free to go wild with something we have previously discussed or anything else you might think up. If you want to contact me with questions or considerations or anything else, catch me at

novaphase or sharisper#7460 on Disco. (: ]

[The first time Midnighter wanders into a hotspot (a place free of birds, thank fuck), he feels sleepy, which is weird. Midnighter almost never needs to sleep, and he rarely feels tired unless the shit's just been kicked out of him. Which it hasn't, so. Note to self, avoid.]

[He also notices a kid snoring in a corner, but that's his problem.]

[The second time, he needs to go through a hotspot to get to something on the other side (is that a gym? He's gonna beat somebody's ass in ping pong, he can just taste it), so he runs through quickly. And he notices that same kid, now in a different hotspot.]

[Fucking weird.]

[The third time... this is ridiculous. He stops just long enough to grab the kid's ankle, and begin to drag him bodily out of the radius of cloying warmth. Fucking idiot, but the kid's clearly young, and whatever this warm sleepy crap is, it makes Midnighter's bullshit senses tingle. Doing him a favor, here.]

(three messages in the span of— how long? not long enough, apparently, his bce giving him a push notification that blips at the corner of his vision. has to firmly pinch at the bridge of his nose until it aches in order to tear himself away from a porthole enough to answer at least one.

all from the same idiot.)

Stop.

[Chiron's clothing quest is almost at an end, as he's found trousers that fit, a shirt with broad enough shoulders, and boots that have seen little wear and tear. The only issue that he takes is the tears in the pants, as the torn up style does not suit him.

At seeing Noctis working, he asks:]

Where did you find the sewing supplies?

[There's immediately a rustle of feathers as the crows look between each other, intrigued. A few of them flutter down.]

Oh, it does. Your Takatora has an excellent sense of taste.

[The crow that speaks has a voice that almost sounds like there's a filter over it, distorted but still easily understood. It and the others cluster around Yoshitsugu, intent and curious.]

I've had it, but it's been a long time.

(well, now he'll be on the lookout for spiders.

pulls the plate closer and drops an arm behind it, shielding it from crows with his whole body in a defensive lean. stink-eyes the birds closest to him, jaw set in a sick irritation.)

Find me something useful; I'll trade. Isn't that what your species does? Scavenge?

[ Every nap meets its end with the nagging feeling that he's somewhere he definitely shouldn't be, but that's something Noctis can write off for three reasons. One, weird dreams are the norm for him and thus waking up mildly uncomfortable is too. Two, he is somewhere he shouldn't be, so fair enough. And three...

He really fuckin' loves naps.

He's dedicated to his craft, honestly, which is why when he's bodily dragged out of the hallway with the full-on effect of his seemingly lifeless self squeaking against the metal flooring he still doesn't wake. No. He just stays sprawled on the ground, undignified. ]

[The crow gives him its equivalent of a dirty look.]

I was scavenging. You're the one who made your plate easy pickings, until the sudden change of heart.

[ ............. ]

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 110

all this energy calling me

PLACEHOLDER.

SURPRISE: HE'S A FUCKING HORSE.

NOT A SURPRISE: THERE ARE FUCKING BIRDS.

2 horses 1 base

BIRBS

PUBLIC ENEMY #1

no subject

no subject

HEI, HOW DARE

no subject

HI BIRDS

god this is sad

1/2 CRYING...

2/2

no subject

no subject

ashitaka | ota!!!

b.

@BURGERKING

A

HI SAMURAI HI

no subject

let him die, m

no subject

1/2