A few days after the Raid on the Buchenwald, Grunt has been finally let alone to pursue his own endeavors.  The laptop has been returned to Smoker and the data painstakingly copied into a proper sandbox.  Then the laptop was shot out of a cannon and blasted by essence cannons for good measure.

So, in essence, Grunt is free.  However he has a video call as soon as he wakes up from some well-deserved sleep.  It's his friend in Pandora Bay, Peter Renkden, nowadays just a minor-league physicist slaving away at power converters.

"Hey Grunt," His face appears haggard and bereft of sleep, "I'm in need of a guinea pig.  Sorry if that sounds blunt.  But I figured you'd appreciate the chance to step into some of that old-school scifi armor, you know, big walkers with a guy in the cockpit?  I finished the power source and thought of you.  Gimme a call if you want in on the ground floor.  Night man."

With friends like Grunt's...

Ah well. He needed something no one would mind being damaged to shake the rust off. Burning Feather's last cocktail had largely obliterated most of thirty six hours from memory. Something about a dog - maybe a pug? - barking in time to a song nagged for a moment.

The odds of Peter being asleep were nil. Still, easiest to just show up in person. Less time for hiding whatever was likely to go wrong before the guinea pig arrived.

So Grunt cleaned up slightly, mostly just cleaner clothes and some water splashed on his face, before heading for the tiny, rickety spot in engineering Renkden had laid claim to.

The time spent to get to Pandora Bay is long enough to work out the mental cobwebs.  Not like there are many left, in that regard- Burning Feather's drink was probably part acid and ate away the cobwebs and left behind their shadows like bodies caught in the blast of a nuclear airburst.

Renkden's private workshop is the worst of the worst, a dingy metal room that was once used to store the waste of the old nuclear reactors.  Geiger counters left in the room would be reduced to a sentient whimpering mess.  Renkden's hair has long fallen out but cancer is much less of an issue with Sanctuary's modern medicine.

"Oh, uh, hey,"  Renkden says as Grunt arrives, staggering under the weight of a glowing blue and green orb with numerous hoses sprouting from it like a dead octopus.  "You could've given me a call?"

"And you would have tried to clean up the mess that told the story of what this project's stumbling block is," Grunt agreed as he helped the radiation poisoned mortal with the object, "Resulting in extra surprises and work for both of us."

"Umm, well, you're kinda touching it," Renkden points out as Grunt helps heave up the orb onto a rolling cart.  "This baby's going into the new power suit.  Buuuuuut there's a problem.  You know how all our power sources are Essence-Wyld Motonic Fusion, right?  Well, almost all of them, Reactor's a unique case.  This baby,"

He slaps the orb and then winces at the action- he probably shouldn't have done that-

"--- thisss baby works on Elemental essence.  Old-style Aristotlian five-element system, Earth, Fire, Air, Water, Aether.  So you know what that means."

Which is, well, in all ways, totally wrong.  Namely because it cuts out Wood and uses Aether instead of Essence.  Either this core won't work or it'll explode spectacularly.

But more importantly, it's not the EWMF-model espoused by the School of Infinite Space, meaning Shun Xiao may be at play.  Meaning he's doing all of this under the radar, hoping they don't notice.
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:53, Mon 07 Nov 2016.

"Peter," Grunt said in the tone only long suffering friendship could provide as he settled the orb onto the cart, "I won't yell at you over the politics of it all but please tell me you at least have a properly shielded room for this test. We both know that you can't exactly cover up a hole in the bulkheads without Core at the very least finding out. To say nothing of Our Lady of Research."

"Wellllllllllllllllllll, yes, of course I do.  I managed to get the skunkworks lab for ten minutes, probably because someone fell asleep before they could put in the request ten months ago.  I knew that'd come in handy."  He sighs as they settle it onto the cart, "It helps that my power loader prototype is stilllllll in storage nearby,  I paid a few Marottes to move it.  Come on now, time's a-wasting!    You'll be happy to know that this core is aligned towards Water.  I mean Air!"

Renkden stretches as they start to maneuver the cart into the hall.  The fact that he managed to wrest ten minutes from the School of Infinite Space makes him visibly happy.

"Soooooooo yes!  It doesn't fit the normal framework but that's why it works!  I talked to the God of Autism a year ago, know what he told me?  For a few years he had to give it to babies with a syringe, a vaccination syringe for Sol's sake.  Belief- sparks- results!"

"Flawed premise," Grunt said as he helped push the damned thing, "You've got everything set to record when it kicks off? Even if it works you know they'll be at the door the instant those six hundred seconds are up."

He raised an eyebrow at Renkden.

"Please tell me it is at least calibrated along the right element derivation before asking me to run essence through it."

"Flawed premise my asssss.  Look, Sol Invictus himself was a gestalt of everyone's soul.  Same with the rest of the Incarnae.  Enough people believed in the old Aristotlian elemental theory it has to have some kind of juice left.  If I play that against standard physics, throw in a bit of the right real essence, you end up with two diametrically opposed forces rotating.  And whaaaaaaat do you get when you have rotating energy sources?  Power!"

The cart is heavy and Grunt does most of the work to get it rolling again.

"Yes yes, I have fifteen cameras set up.  And if it works right, then Skunkworks Rules come in- you don't terminate the experiment until it terminates itself or it goes through the right battery of tests, which I've already registered.  In theory if this thing works right, I could own the Skunkworks for days."

He looks at the globe critically, "I'm... preeeeeeeetty sure it's Air?  I mean, it's a good thing you're not Wood, or else you'd definitely be fucked."
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:03, Tue 08 Nov 2016.

"Okay, what the shit did you use to 'calibrate' this thing?" Grunt asked mildly, too strained physically moving the mess to spare energy for sarcasm. For the moment. "And is the input going to require attunement and contact throughout?"

"Ummm, I blew a fan over it for ten days, might've... kind've... called in a favor from an Air Dragon, and then subjected it to vacuum for a day and a half."  Renkden admits, "There was also reading it Aristotle for a few hours every night.  But using it should be a breeze!  Once it's put into the power loader, you'll only need to step into the loader, plug in the tubes, and attunement should be quick and snappy."

...

......

"Which Air Dragon?" Grunt asked in resignation, "And you owe me big if this fizzles, bigger if it explodes, and I get full credit if it actually works."

"His name's Ingradosa, he fought in the Scandinavian campaign, and his breath is minty fresh, okay?"

Indragosa- Renkden's mispronounced his name- is very famous for being quite pompous about his supposed Pre-Exodite status.  He's willing to do just about anything if someone sucks up to him well enough.  It probably didn't take too much flattery to get him to give Renkden a 'favor'.

"Well, what would you like?  I mean, I don't know about you maaaan.  I've got enough pull in the Underdecks for most sorts of things."

"The death trap shuttle they've decided to transport boarding forces in needs drastic repairs and warding," Grunt told him.

"You mean the Odysseus?  I WISH I could touch that,"  Renkden mutters as they heave the cart down the way, "That thing was as top secret as it could get until that raid.  It's not a boarding shuttle, it's the smallest jump-capable ship in existence.  And it's got stealth capabilities."

"Which would be great if I could handle hard vacuum," Grunt replied, "But someone has to finish the non-theoretical systems. Fine, I'll call the marker in later."

"Wait, you can't?  Ohhhhh... thaaaaaaaaaat might be a problem,"  Renkden comments grimly, "Welllllllllll, I suppose I could give you access to a power loader early.  If it works you may be the only person who can attune for a long while!"

"Briefly but anima flux can only be sustained so long," Grunt conceded, "I think your reward to me is that I keep being the test subject. Fine. You get the living quarters situation settled?"

"Well, eventually tests become reality, right?  So it'd be like Red Queen getting the first Artemis-class interceptor.  I mean, that can be awesome.  Grunt, the Power Man."

They finally reach an elevator.  The people inside take one look at Renkden and the cart and wisely decide to vacate.

"Not really.  I found a new place but was kicked out in three days.  Appaaaaaarently I bring down the tone.  Of the slum."

"You don't get to decide on any new monikers for me," Grunt said as he leaned against the shudder elevator's wall when it began to descend, "What happened at this one?"

"I wasn't even there for it.  Best I can tell?  Guesssssss who figured out where I was staying.  I sleep in the lab now.  It's not so bad,"  He remarks.

Ding.  Ding.  Ding. DINGDINGDING- there, Renkden turns a key and they rocket up towards the skin.

"I do miss having my own bathroom, though.  Dragging the pail to the reclaimer shoots is pretty harrowing."

"You know she'd leave you alone if you just went back and were a good lab monkey for a year or two," Grunt pointed out as he braced the device to make sure it didn't shift off the cart when they accelerated, "Not saying you're wrong or that uniformity is a virtue but on a personal level you've let this get out of hand."

"Yeah, but I perform a vital function!  VIIIIIIIITAL." He grins manically at Grunt, "Look, we all know she needs a target, right?  It gives her students someone to fight against.  And, believe it or not, it has its rewards.  Thiisssss baby wouldn't have happened if I wasn't dealing with her."

He resist the urge to slap the core again.

"See, she's made some enemies too.  And sometimes, with the right words, you get access to some crazy grant resources that you can't get anywhere else.  Some people are just itching for her to get hers.  I just reap the benefits."

"Man, being a professional punching bag for the reigning pugilist champion is vital but one of those careers with a short span," Grunt retorted, "Eventually she'll need a scapegoat for real and you've not got many bridges to retreat across."

"Well, there's always-"

Renkden's voice fades out as Grunt's vision wavers.  He recovers just as the doors open open to a hallway of fire, Renkden's corpse sprawled out on the elevator floor next to him.  At the end of the hallway Grunt sees three men dressed in what he recognizes as Gunzosha armor of bone and soulsteel, raising Giger-esque firearms in his direction.  The rifles buck and huge spikes made from human thighbones rocket down the hallway at him!

((Attack:
9, 6, 5, 5, 3, 3 & 3
*33 + Strike 10 + AB 10 = 53))
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:06, Thu 17 Nov 2016.

"Fucking-" Grunt yelled as he dropped down and tumbled forward out of the elevator at the thing. No gun, his knife was tucked in a boot. That'd have to do, dammit.

9, 5, 3, 3, 3, 2 & 2
Float: 2-2
Defense: 53 - 33 - 15 - 10 = miss

His vision swims and then he finds himself in the middle of the perfectly fine hallway, knife out, a terrified young scientist pressing herself against a wall.  "Hey, Grunt!  Grunt!  Are you okay?!"  Renkden asks.

It'd be more touching if he hadn't bothered to push the core out of the elevator first.  Priorities, after all.

Grunt's anima began to flux, not enough to cause the tears and wounds of a Terrestrial drawing on all their reserves but certainly enough to dishevel his already tired appearance. To say nothing of the female researcher's composure. Even before the fact that he had a knife a third of the way towards killing her.

He snapped his knife hand away from her, clipping it in the sheathe as he stepped back, bringing the winds further under control with an effort of will. The scientist got a nod as he stepped around her and moved down the hall.

The scientist drops her clipboard at the nod and takes off for the elevator, banging on the buttons to get it to close as quickly as possible.

"She an ex or something of yours?" Renkden asks, looking back at the panicked girl as the doors shut. "Cute but not your type, I think.  Why the knife, man?"

"Multiple sensory hallucinations since leaving the Spoils of War. Slight delusional element that keeps me from immediately recognizing the impossibility of what my senses report," Grunt told him, "Was hoping it was simply psychological stress and trauma but Burning Feather's concoctions haven't burned out the response."

"Wait, you took a drink from Burning Feather?  You sure that isn't the problem?" He asks as he starts the cart rolling again, "Serious question man, why haven't you headed to Sanctuary yet?"

"First time was so brief that I didn't have a chance to respond. Freshly off being in close confines with that thing inside its ship? Just chalked it up to the fact that everyone on the line has some cognitive scars," Grunt replied as he pushed the experiment along, "Thus, the only truly reliable method for handling such stress. This was the second, and it lasted considerably longer. Fairly sure she'll have that reported and I'll be under quarantine shortly."

The Skunkworks is just ahead.  Renkden grunts as he keeps pushing it, "OK, so, how about a deal Grunt.  Once we're done with this, you get checked out?  I don't want to get the same thing you've got.  No offense.  Far as she goes, she's originally Underforge, she's not the type to squeal about a little old hallucination."

"If they think I cracked then we both know what the next few weeks will be. On the other hand, if I admit to cracking then it'll catch me coming and going," Grunt retorted as they reached the skunkworks, "Ah well, no more flirting awkwardly with that nurse I suppose. Managed to keep from having any real medical record as long as could be hoped."

"Wait, what's her name again?  Is it the one with the red hair or is it the goddess?  Or is it the other?  I can never keep track.  I don't like going to the doctor."

The Skunkworks is, strangely, abandoned.  Normally Grunt would almost expect there to be one of Shun Xiao's lackeys there just to take advantage of Renkden not showing up, or perhaps to try to pressure him out of it.

In the center of the skunkworks- complete with an entire open hole leading to space, protected by an Essence shield- is a 9 foot metal monstrosity, steel and cables jutting out of it at odd directions.  It may be a piece of powered armor, but it certainly resembles a junk pile.

"Huh.  They put it together better than I thought."

"I don't go for divinities. They're a bit too like Casius in the old play," Grunt retorted, "And I have no idea what her real hair color is, nature doesn't make that shade of blonde."

He looked at the prototype.

"Is that finger servo taken from an exhaust fan?"

"You know I don't go to plays.  Or read them.  Waiiiiiiiiiiit, are we talking the yellow the color of a canary dipped in paint, or the one with three different shades?"

He stops,

"Wellll, no, it's actually an intake fan.  Close though, you're getting better at this.  You sure you don't want to take up crafting?" He looks at the hunk of junk and pulls down on a lever, "Alright, we'll have to put you in before we put in the core or else the whole thing will burn out."

"What makes you think I only awkwardly flirt with one of them?" Grunt asked as he moved towards the dignity free metal coffin, "Please, it wasn't that hard to spot."

"Allllllright!"  The suit springs open as the lever clicks down, revealing a surprisingly comfortable looking- wait, Grunt knows that chair.  He's ripped it from a luxury shuttle.  There's also several levers inside, pedals, and tactile gloves.  Ah, there it is, an old scavenged Oculus Rift to top it all off.

"Hey, I won't say a word if you won't.  And there's always the Florence Nightingale effect."

"I've not been a patient but now I'll be a psych case at best," Grunt grumbled as he climbed in, "What's the feedback delay expectation?"

"Wellllllll, the first test had a feedback delay of 10 seconds.  That caused.... problems.  On the bright side, nobody got sent to the hospital!  But now that you're going to align with the core, I'm hoping it'll be instantaneous."

He slaps the back of the power suit.

"Downside is there won't be any pain, you know.  Alright, let me know when you're ready to synergize."

Grunt started strapping the various....controls gave them too much dignity but peripherals might work into place. When most of that was situated he closed the latch and let the tiniest whisper of the whirlwind that existed roughly parallel to his spirit move into the cold metal and plastic.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaallright, here goes nothing-"

Renkden pushes in the power core.  Grunt doesn't move his power into the metal, but instead to the core, which is warm like a soft blanket and twice as comfortable.  His power belongs there, belongs with it, and he can feel his power flowing out into the suit.

Of course, that's when he notices the Navarino interceptor floating silently just outside of the Essence shield separating them from space.  He can see the Imperator's black-green eyes glinting, watching.

(What's the roll to not freak out and difficulty?)

((Confidence, difficulty 30))

(Failed, floating the 7-7)

Grunt can't go for a knife, or a gun, under these circumstances. Instead he guides the heap towards the edge of the shield, trying to at least take visibility cover from the void seeker. The damn thing's probably not ready to move as fast as a Chosen of Air in a hurry, attunement or no.

The Navarino turns its nose towards the essence shield as Grunt nimbly skips the hulking mass of metal towards the edge of the wall.  It will grant significant cover.  The Navarino opens fire, gatling guns peppering the shield- breaking through- ripping Renkden to wet red rags- pushing vacuum-

"It's working!  HAHAHA, IT'SSSSSSS WORKING!" The hallucination shatters as Renkden's shouting carries over the hangar, "Oh man, you moved that thing like it was a ballet dancer!  Grunt, I knew it!"

"You knew what?" The door opens up to reveal a statuesque woman, stylish and flanked by a dozen researchers and armed guards.  The raven-haired woman bundles up her overcoat as she steps in, high heels clicking on metal. "Renkden, just what are you doing here?"

"Hey.  This is my space today,"  Renkden points a finger at Shun Xiao.

"Yes it is.  That doesn't mean I can't visit."
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:42, Fri 09 Dec 2016.

Grunt is capable of long, intricate, almost poetical profanity. A fact which is immediately obvious as he swears the entire time he pulls back his attunement and strips off the suit's gear.

He looks at the Queen of the Engineering Hive, then over to his friend.

"Your project worked, it's your allotted time, and that means you can tell them to take a piss into hard vacuum," he said flatly, "But I'm not going to be able to spare much more time here. Might want to play nice to see how other Chosen handle that thing."
This message was last edited by the player at 06:13, Sat 10 Dec 2016.

"Other Chosen can't handle it," Renkden tells Grunt, "C'mon, don't get out, we still need to test the weapons!"

"I think you're misunderstanding things," The Engineer says to Grunt, "I'm not here to watch him play with piddling pieces of scrap.  I'm here to speak with you."

"I'm not testing weapons on the first trial. Get approval for a second run," Grunt told Renkden before looking to the Engineer, "That seems unlikely. Our circles don't form a Venn Diagram except at the outer edges."

He kept steadily removing the controls.

She waits until he finishes while Renkden sputters out protests about how the flamethrower is totally safe.

"Don't they?"  She remarks, "I can think of an awfully big intersection.  You and I need to speak about the war spoils.  Come on," She gives him a smirk, "You're the only living person who's operated an Abyssal ship.  And you're one of two people who've seen the inside of one of their flagships.  Of course I'm interested."

"The guest seems a richer vein for such information," Grunt observed, "But you're the sort to keep at it. The debriefing will have to take place on the way to Sanctuary."

"The- guest- is being kept prisoner, and completely quarantined from everyone, including me.  That means either you or Endings, and nobody's seen Endings in a while."

She beckons him over, "Sanctuary?  Not a problem.  Come, come, let's talk."

"C'moooooon, Grunt, I still have some time..."

"I damn near shot you, the short answer to the lady's question is that my head hasn't been right since we got back," Grunt told Renkden, "Sorry man, but it worked and I don't want to break it if I go crazy again."

He moved towards the Engineer.

"Ask, but if I get twitchy best make sure your people aren't in arm's reach."

Renkden mutters and starts to pull his core out of the power suit.

Xiao giggles a little and takes him by the arm, leading him out of the skunkworks. "Alright, alright- so, let's talk.  I haven't been allowed inside the captured ship, and in fact they're not allowing anyone to even see images of the inside.  So I'd like a brief description of what you saw."

She glances in his direction, "As far as your head- please describe that too.  I have wondered if there's some sort of issue with psychological booby-traps installed, and that's why I'm being kept out."

"With respect, ma'am, you don't know me well enough or outrank me in any explicit capacity for this kind of social power move," Grunt said as he extracted his arm while they walked, "There's rather little to the interior of the ship. At least in terms of space or differentiation. Aside from a handful of what I assume to be maintenance corridors, and the suite of the Guest, it seemed purely dedicated to combat systems."

He mulled over his words for a moment. Half to order the thoughts, half to rebuke her trying to grab the upper hand. Social games were a weak suit but he at least recognized when a pretty, ambitious woman was trying one on him.

"Assume a crew that doesn't need all the drudgery ours do, no air, food, or water. Safety measures are equally discarded. Fill the available space with nothing but systems for power, offense, and defense including some manufacturing facilities to generate disposable tools for the same. Add in a trivial in the overall context living suite for the only marginally living being. The core is a pair of massively powerful but slow and unsustainable systems; one to kill things and one to prevent destruction until the targets are killed. The rest wraps around those in layers to minimize their vulnerability, effective in their own right but almost ablative armor in intent."

Gabriel shook his head.

"In terms of layout or aesthetics, the bulk of the ship just doesn't have either. If they needed a way to go from one part to another they made the straightest possible corridor, even if that meant half of it was exposed to something that'd destroy almost anything living or dead that touched it."

"The Guest's quarters were a mix of fairly old computer design and much older furnishings. You could control most of the main systems but the support stuff, such as the power distribution, seemed to have been walled off. They gave him a nice gun but don't seem to have trusted him to be able to disassemble it."

He sighed.

"Hallucinations of various threats. Location stays consistent, people and current environment do not. Things appearing on fire, corpses, enemies, and the accompanying sensations. I've had three episodes since our return. Duration appears to be rising from less than a second to roughly two, and most recently seven or so. My assumption was pure psychological stress but that was apparently too optimistic."

She takes the rebuke with grace.  She follows along with him, arms folded under breasts as she listens.

"Explain to me more about this unsustainable system.  How and why is it unsustainable?"  She asks, tapping her arm; "And explain to me about the manufacturing capabilities.  Did you get to see these manufactoriums?  Because the low quality of the computer system, and the low complexity of the rest of the ship, says to me that it's to minimize power draw."

She then listens to the problems of his hallucinations.

"Also, please explain the content of your hallucinations.  We've had similar problems around Reactor and Overflow that can't be explained by simple Wyld energy.""

"That canon and the field generator both take four or five subsystems lining up just right. Usually they do but when I was using them there were moments of... slippage. Small things over all but enough that by themselves they'd be quickly destroyed. All the secondary systems seem designed to give them a chance to spin up to full function," Grunt replied, "Saw very little of it. We were in a hurry going through and my focus wasn't on the swarm of tertiary vessels being disgorged."

"The hangar in flames, dead pilots, ruined equipment and the deceased fighting everywhere. A warghost in necromantic enhancement armor in a battle scarred corridor. An enemy vessel just outside the skunk works."

"That's much worse design than we'd expect from Thanatos and Yama,"  She says  as they walk, "Which says to me that they're either working with inelegant components or there's more than one shipbuilder in the Abyssal fleet.  So my next question, of course, would be this- the hallucinations, if they were sparked by the ship?  Would you be willing to return to the ship?"

She looks at him seriously.

"Lower the number of people exposed, of course.  If you'd like a hand in the clean-up and rehabilitation I think I can make it happen."

"It's efficient before anything else. At least that was my read, well outside any expertise in my possession," Grunt told her before he let out a low groan, "Yes, I'd return. We need to know the effects of that things before someone turns into a timed charge."

He shook his head.

"I didn't think your experiments ran in that direction."

"Mine don't, but I'm doing my due diligence here.  I'm not even allowed onto the ship right now, remember?  But they do value my advice, and I can make sure the right people hear- and also make sure the wrong people don't hear." She keeps moving down the hallway until they reach an elevator, "Security seems a decent prospect."

"A soldier likely to flip out and kill allies is one of those things best not kept secret, I think," Grunt told her, "Even if being put on an inactive roster grates."

They reach the elevator and she steps in, one of her bodyguards entering with her and Grunt as she presses the button to Sanctuary.

"Not secret, managed.  Honestly." She suppresses an eye roll, "Grunt, when you have an engine coil that's going to blow and you need to direct the energy somewhere, would you rather direct it out at the engineering section or into the void?"  She looks at him, "You'll have two options.  Serious surveillance at Sanctuary, a sure career suicide.  Or you can step onto the war spoil and be at least active.  Any damage you do in there will be, on the whole, more acceptable than wigging out in a Sanctuary padded cell."

She shakes her head.

"As a side note I'm honestly, personally worried about this.  There's only so much work you can do in motonics before it starts skirting a bit too close to entropy deregulation.  If your hallucinations were caused by the war spoil reactor, our fleet will end up having a problem.  I'd rather not turn this ship into the Event Horizon."
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:58, Sat 31 Dec 2016.

"As I recall my career is suicide," Grunt noted, "But fine. I'll go onto the damned haunted ship and do the recording, measuring, and testing."

"I was always under the impression your job was to die if you must but live if you could."  She says to him, "But since you're going to be doing especially hazardous duty, it's your right and my own duty to inform you about the special benefits.  Since this counts as especially integral and dangerous work, you're due perks.  If you forward me a list of quality of life improvements for both now and later, I'll see what I can bash through the resulting committee."

"There's a very solid uptick in survival rates after the fourth mission survived but there's no avoiding the roulette aspect of it," Grunt replied, "It'll be a short list. Endings won't be returning I assume."

"If I could tell you what any one of Command was up to or had on their plate, I'd be much higher up in the hierarchy.  I don't know what Endings is up to, but it's unlikely he'll be employed on the war spoil full-time." She raises a hand and her thug hands her a business card, "Here, this is my personal email.  If you think of anything you need, shoot me a letter."

The elevator dings.  He's on Sanctuary's entrance level.

Grunt took the card.

"I'll let you know. It'd be wise to assemble a checklist of things you want me to report on. My first impression has been spent. Time for a more nuanced looks."

"I'll make certain to send you a detailed checklist,"  She tells him.  Her thug holds open the door to the elevator.  "Please convalesce quickly, Mr. Grunt."

"If you're going to use 'Mr' then it's Hockenberry," Grunt replied as he stepped out, "Have a pleasant evening."

There was a temptation to linger in the elevator, see how well the thugs took the display of making their boss wait.

But wiser thoughts prevailed and he needed to be checked out soonish. With luck, maybe it was just a tumor.

He stopped by registration first.

The form is depressingly familiar and long.  Remembering one's service ID is easy, but the H-SIN (Hazardous Situation Insurance Number)?  Who the hell remembers that?  Why should he even fill out forms?!

Maybe, just maybe, Sanctuary is a tool of the Neverborn...

But eventually he's let in and led to a quiet, white room that looks unsettlingly sterile.  A doctor approaches, flame-red curly hair cascading down her back.  She clears her throat.

"Well, Grunt, it's finally come to this.  You've gone cuckoo."

Dr. Kelleigh Connolly, a member of the Plague Doctors, a Wood-Aspect Dragon-Blooded, and apparently an old compatriot of Jess.  Grunt and most other Dragon-Blooded have met her before.  She's normally big on genetic testing, so all of them have had their blood drawn and analyzed.

"In which way? Anything exotic or just old fashioned living in a tin can, staring at the entropic death of everything?" Grunt asked Kelleigh, "You know, something about female Chosen in the sciences really seems to bring out a sadistic streak lately."

"We're not all like that.  Just the best ones,"  She says as she looks over the chart, "Well, we haven't really scanned you yet, but I think that-"

Her voice fades off to silence as she goes through all the rules, records, procedures, treatment options; it's all a haze.

Then the door blows open (a directed explosive charge- Grunt's trained enough with them) that blows one of his eardrums.  A tall, statuesque woman with long black hair, a brown trench coat, and circular sunglasses raises a sawed-off shotgun and blasts off the top of Kelleigh's head before regarding Grunt.

Grunt knows who she is.  He's had plenty of training in that, too.  Agent Orange isn't someone he's likely to misidentify.

(28 + 10 Wu Wei + 5 bonus [Pavlov] = 43, good enough to keep calm?)

((Quite))

"So, Agent Orange appears to be here and you're dead, I know it's probably going to pass but trying to avoid getting shot even in the hallucination. Sorry," Grunt told the empty air as he rolled behind the exam table for some cover from the perennial problem.

"A hallucination?  Is that what you think this is?"  Agent Orange follows him, gun at ready but still nonchalant.  "Very interesting.  And who are you?" She taps the shotgun on the table.  "I didn't think this was possible."

"As a general rule the party having the hallucination is the one experiencing an addition to their perceptions. Plus this would be the fourth or fifth in the last two days," Grunt replied, missing the weaponry he'd left in Sanctuary's care, "Intermittent, brief, and witnesses see me responding to stimuli that isn't there. This conversation alone is going to have them breaking out the trepaning drill."

"Oh, I don't think that'll be necessary,"  Agent Orange says as she taps the side of his head with her shotgun barrel, "I have good news and bad news.  The good news is you're not hallucinating.  The bad news is that you're not hallucinating."

She smiles at him with teeth a bit too white.  It's a very sharklike look.

"You're kind of treading on my territory."

"A hospital room with no doctor?" Grunt asked, keeping his eyes unfocused as he started to gather the essence he'd need to move quickly out of the way and maybe out of the room.

Talking was good, talking ran down whatever duration these episodes had, but getting shot while talking was a bigger bet than he wanted to take.

On the other hand, nothing was stopping a hallucination from saying it was real and he could cause all kinds of crap if he really was in normal Sanctuary debating phantoms and suddenly threw air essence around.

"I want you to think very carefully about what I'm about to ask you,"  Agent Orange leans over him, smelling like old cut flowers and blood.  "How would you like a job?"

"Your approach to human resources is novel," Grunt replied, still keeping his body as still as he could manage, "But that always depends on the job."

"Pruning possibilities," She replies to him, "Snipping off those outliers on the big bell curve.  Keeping things tidy.  Like that." She points at the corpse of the Plague Doctor lying on the floor.

She taps the side of his head again with the shotgun,  "You're still learning the ropes, so this episode won't last long.  The password is 'auxin' if you see me again.  I can get you safe passage and anything your heart desires.  You're special, whats-your-name, touched by Emperor Nox.  Don't throw away this chance.  Hold out your hand."

"It's Grunt," Gabriel told her as he held out his hand, "And how many of these outliers are we looking at?"

"Well, everything might as well be an outlier if you mess with the data enough, Grunt."

She drives a long, thin needle through Grunt's hand, pain and blood fountaining in one stark moment.  When he comes to there are alarms buzzing in Sanctuary and Dr. Connolly has been joined by three Sanctuary guards.  They brandish stunguns in his direction.

And his right hand has a neat, circular hole that's dripping blood on the floor.

"Grunt, hands in the air and get on your knees.  We're going to have to transfer you to Quarantine."

Grunt looks at his hand, then the guards.

"Stun guns? On an Air Aspect?" he asked, sounding indignant, "Seriously, soft shotgun rounds are the minimum force here."

His hands went up, cupping the back of his head as he shifted down onto his knees.

"So, do I at least get the fun sedatives? Because the bad news is that it seems less likely I'm crazy than I thought."

"Sorry, they don't look like the fun ones," Kelleigh tells him with a shake of her head.  His hand rapidly gets the back of his head bloody.  They cuff him first; a third rushes into the room flicking a needle.

"We'll discuss this at a later date, Grunt-"

He's been jabbed a few too many times with needles today.

When he wakes up, his hand is bandaged and he's in a nice, stark-white, padded room.  As a child of the Dragon, he instinctively knows that a day has passed since he's been sedated and thrown into the almost-mythical Sanctuary Quarantine.  Some say people go mad here; others that nobody ever leaves.

Well, they must expect him to leave eventually since they've left him a newspaper.  Actual recycled-paper newspaper.  Nice and harmless except in the hands of a Fire aspect, and even then the Fire guys don't need kindling to be dangerous.

His vision swims when he reads the headline:

"LUCIFER UNDER INVESTIIIIIIIIIIIIIII~~~IL THE NEW FLESH"

A second look:

"HAIL THE NEW FLESH
The dead lead us to the promised land"

"I don't even get to take a decent shit first?" Grunt bitched as he sat up and checked the door. Odds were he couldn't escape if the systems were still running but, well, that wasn't how these episodes went.

The door has a single window to the outside world- in this case, an antiseptic hallway.  His door is unlocked, and doesn't require any work to open.

Of course, beyond that- he sees the hallway leads to a set of double doors that psychically stink of rotten meat, flame, and just plain death.  There's no other physical sensation that he's aware of that should tell him this.  The doors are otherwise innocuous.  He just knows that the moment he steps outside he will be thrust back into these... alternatives.

Still, there are two other rooms on this block.  One is empty.  The other is occupied.  Someone inside is playing a light, mellow jazz.

Grunt went to check on the jazz. If there was another patient or staff back here, he needed to know. If there was a homicidal maniac? Also good information to have. He knocked on the door with two quick taps.

"Yes, yes, I'm coming!"  There's light footsteps- bare feet on linoleum- and then the door swings open.  Grunt hasn't ever met Nidhi Kapoor, but he knows her from his flash cards-  Chosen of Oramus and Sacheverell.  Also, rumors say she's crazier than an asteroid miner on triple-dihydro-benzos.

"OH.  I'm sorry.  I wasn't expecting visitors."

It shows.  The room is a bathroom covered floor to ceiling with mirrors; in the center is a giant claw-footed tub.  There's a bubble bath going and a pad is playing the music on a little end stand.  For her part, Nidhi is in an extremely fluffy bathrobe.

"Come on in, please, and shut the door behind you."

"Wasn't expecting to visit. I suppose the rooms outside that door are as bad as usual?" Grunt asked as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him, "You're Miss Kapoor, right? Gabriel."

He had a stray thought as the music caught his attention but kept it between his teeth.

"Isn't it supposed to be Grunt?"  She asks as she steps aside to let him in, "And yes, but what is usual?  I know lots of usuals.  The usual can be unusual.  But yes, right now it is bad."

She walks back to her bubble bath and steps in, fluffy bathrobe and all.  She lies back so only her face sticks out of the bubbles.  "Please call me Nidhi."

"All when I'm trying to be abrasive. Which is often," Grunt conceded, "Is our acquaintance in orange out there, Nidhi?"

"Sand can be abrasive or soft, it all depends on how fast it's going and how tightly it's packed," She mentions.  "I miss the beach."

She closes her eyes.

"Oh yes, but please, I have a name for her too.  'Vulture' when I really want to annoy her.  She is secretly vain about her looks." Nidhi opens up an eye to look at Gabriel, "I have caught her posing once.  Even heard her say 'just like Lara Croft'.  Isn't that amusing?"

She closes her eyes.

"But in here, in some of Sanctuary, you're always safe.  A little bubble of mine, all to myself, that she can't touch.  Sanctuary is more than a name, Gabriel.  It's more than a place.  It was built here by Core for me.  Isn't it terrible?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:15, Tue 31 Jan 2017.

"How many are dragged into this mess? You're the third who seems to be here and there that I've met," Grunt asked curiously, "And who is Lara Croft?"

"I had to look her up.  Apparently a woman adventurer famed for her enormous lips," Nidhi laughs- "Wait, a third?  Who is the third?  You should be the third."

She sits up from her bathtub, "Before you, there was only Vulture and I.  You are the third.  Who's the fourth?"

"I have been introduced to myself. With you and Agent Orange that brings the total to three," Grunt told her, "Ah, that would explain my unfamiliarity. She has tried to recruit me. At gunpoint, admittedly."

"She wants to break through here, that is why." She explains, turning in the tub so that she rests her chin on the back of her hands on the side of the tub. "The Vulture has gotten a bit frustrated!  I can't fight her but I can make her run around in circles.  But with two of you, well, that makes things a bit more difficult for me.  It's hard to shift a world around two people at once."

Nidhi raises an eyebrow. "And who's your patron?"

"I'm a soldier. My patron is the Last Refuge," Grunt answered, "So she figures you can only keep one rabbit busy and might decide I'm the more important hare."

"Well, that assumes that I'm the predator in this little game, which I'm definitely not.  More like me watching my back against one fox while the other sneaks into my chicken pen,"  She replies, "Which, well, has a certain merit.  I doubt she's a good recruiter but you'd have a very good shot at living your life darkly magnificent if you took me right now.  I'm quite defenseless, but I trust you anyway."

"I have trouble seeing darkly magnificent in my cards. Particularly in worlds where things are worse than at home," Grunt responded with a shrug, "And besides, once she has what she wants, why follow through on the bargain?"

"Well, for starters, I still have an Exaltation that can run rampant.  It's not like killing me here kills my little parasite."  She lets out a puff of air that sends a dozen bubbles Grunt's way, "And my patron's hold is just a bit better than hers, so it would be troublesome to keep trying to exterminate my successors.  She could offer you a lot.  There's an infinite amount of things available to you here, in a way, Gabe."

The bubbles spin slightly as they approach Grunt, shifting ever so slightly to move around him.

"It's that 'in a way' bit that makes me suspicious. Well, that and, you know, Agent Orange," Gabriel replied, "I don't suppose you can explain exactly what I've stumbled into without going any deeper into the math than basic shipboard mandatory education?"

"Hmm.  I am not a fan of math.  Math lies in a most unsatisfactory way," She says to him.  "In essence, there are two major patrons right now.  There is Nox and Sacheverell.  Sacheverell is He Who Knows the Shape of Things to Come, a Yozi of Destiny.  He sleeps, and when he wakes he will be the ultimate observer, finally collapsing all possibilities at once.

Meanwhile, Nox is the... brother... of the Maidens of Destiny, the Brother of Contingencies.  If the Maidens handle Destiny, he handles the 'discards'.  All the frayed knots and pieces and remains of Destiny are bundled into one giant rag bag and tossed in his lap- or at least that was the case when Humanity was still trying to figure out what fire was.  Somewhere along the line Nox got angry with his chosen duty, which happens occasionally, and he tried to turn to the Yozi's side.  But he refused to serve under Sacheverell so he was cast out.  Long story short, he put in a job application with the 'winning' side.

What we're in now is part of the pieces that go into that rag bag.  Little spinoff parallels, each of them lasting for a little while and ruthlessly culled by Nox and Agent Orange, to get stuffed into the bag and used at a later date.  Sacheverell prefers to preserve those parallels, so that when he finally wakes up he can collapse them properly.  Nox's culling essentially is a neutering of Sacheverell's power; and once the last one of these is destroyed, and they finally break my sanctum, they'll kill Sacheverell.  Questions?"

"You save up the probabilities for a rainy day, one in which what may be the last remaining Yozi suddenly takes up its mantle," Grunt rephrased to test his understanding, "She burns them for fuel now."

"Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm."

She gives him a long appraising look.

"Noooooooooot quite?  If you need to bake a cake and you need a cup of sugar, can you still make the cake if you have only a single grain of sugar left?  Every grain up to a cup is important!  It's hard, metaphors.  Because Nox certainly is eating sugar, mmm mm."

She stares at Grunt a bit longer.

"Sacheverell cannot fold the universe-destinies together into a sword-cake any more.  Now He can only survive and hope to reach another universe, where he can merge with his parallel-brother."

"So one side has decided to use them like candy and the other wants them as rations?" Grunt asked.

"That's a better way of looking at it," She finally affirms, "But starvation rations are still starvation.  You need the calories.  Well, you do.  I don't.  It's hard work keeping in shape."

She shrugs a bit under the bubbles.

"So that's the long and short of it.  The big question now is- why are you here?  Who is your patron?"  She asks, "There's never been one of the Blooded here, not in all Sacheverell's memory."

"They haven't introduced themselves. I hope," Grunt answered, one hand running through the thin fuzz of his hair, "Started after we took the war spoils."

"If they introduced themselves, you would know it.  Things are different after you meet them.  Maybe you won't even be whole." She runs her own hand through long silky black hair, "It started after the war spoils, you say.  Interesting, however, I think it coincidental.  The Neverborn would never select you, nor can they as far as I can tell.  Have you had much contact with the opponents before this?  Was it your first real engagement?  I'm sure it was not the war spoil itself, but the- presence.  Um.  Things could have gone differently aboard, I think?"

"If you mean the things that could have went wrong much more numerous than paths to success, yes. There were a great many 'ifs'," Gabriel replied before hs shook his head, "No, not my first. Although the first since I took the Second Breath."

"Then I don't know.  I can't tell you." She puffs some more bubbles at him, then laughs as they blow over and around the Dragon-Blooded.  "If you're looking for answers, you've come to someone who's fallen in love with the idea of absurd questions.  If you want, I could always create a bathtub for you in the meantime.  Though I've always really more been a fan of those showers with a fireplace nearby."

She splashes some water up into the air, "You could always try your luck outside, too."

"I think that having a bathtub of that sort would be the last bit of surreality I could endure. Besides, hiding in your shadow isn't a very good long-term solution," Grunt told her, "Although I suppose it's too much to hope that there's a weapon locker in your domain?"

"Hold on."  She dives back under the bubbles.  There's a few minutes wait.  Then a beautiful sword with a jeweled hilt thrusts itself up out of the bubbles, held by Nidhi's dusky hand.  She waves it around a bit.  After some thought her other hand raises up out of the bubbles, this with a Desert Eagle, also jewel-encrusted.

"Thank you," Grunt said as he took the weapons. It took him a minute to check that they appeared functional. No holster or scabbard but he wasn't letting them out of his hands anyway.

"Anything you need while I'm out there?"

The blade is razor-sharp; the gun is already loaded.  Checking the magazine shows bullets stretching off almost to infinity.

"Out there?  No,"  She says distantly, "I can make anything I need in here.  Almost anything.  Gabriel?  When you're out there, do keep an eye out for White Arcing Lightning?  I try to help her when I can, but she doesn't seem to understand or care about the consequences."

Grunt cocked his head. Curious. He gave his...host a nod to the affirmative.

"Not sure she's any more likely to listen to me," he observed, "Oh, and if I get killed here will you make sure my data terminal gets fried?"

He went back to the shared hallway and made his way towards the exit from this part of Sanctuary.

"Only after I look through it first.  I get the rights,"  She waves at him.  "Good luck at there.  You'll at least have the advantage this time."

He exits to the smell of burnt human flesh, and something a bit more alien.  It smells like someone took bleach and threw a bunch of organic chemicals in it, then heated the mixture and poured it over the floor.  The few bodies he comes across are melted across the floor and furniture.

Well, that is, except for the rotting zombie sloshing around Sanctuary's lobby.  He was once one of their security detail, a submachine gun belted to his hip untouched.  He turns to look at Grunt blearily, moaning and raising two dripping hands.

(Shadow Catching, the blade count as sword or saber? I'm assuming this is a lesser legend at most, if not a minion.)

((Flat-out sword.  This is actually closer to a minion.))

(Shadow Catching w/ Sword
Init: 10, 9, 8, 5, 5, 4 & 2
Float: 5-5
Minions/Lesser Legends go Last, dump the 9 here if init matters

Attack: 9, 9, 8, 8, 3, 2 & 1
Strike: 29 + 10 = 39
Knock Back : Might : 28 + 5 = 33 + 5 = 38)

Grunt darted in close, the ornate blade leading for just a moment before his shoulder slammed into the thing for a hard tackle meant to knock it out of immediate reach while he took a moment to assess the rest of the area.

((Defense:
9, 8, 8, 8, 7 & 2
*Defense vs Strike 38 - Footwork 5 = 33, a Ripple
*Takes Knockback))

The creature takes the sword to its chest, moaning insensately before taking the shoulder barge.  It's bowled backwards through the lobby, falling into the hallway he'd walked through only a short while earlier.  This wasn't enough to totally dispatch it, of course.  The puppets of the Neverborn are made of stronger stuff.

That hallway was once antiseptic white, now it is covered with rotting blackened flesh that oozes and bubbles.  There are two other doors leading from the main lobby, one of which he knows will take him to the normal cells.  The other leads deep into Sanctuary's research labs.

No immediate threats, didn't look like he was going to get swarmed. Grunt decided he had the time to play this carefully, conserve his essence and ammunition for the moment. So he closed with the zombie again, knocking a rank of the bland waiting room chairs into it's legs with a shove to keep the thing more or less in place. A walker along one wall gets snapped closed on its arm, the springs holding the thin metal in place.

His sword went for the neck, hopefully this thing wouldn't keep going after decapitation but the dead could be strange.

Init: 9, 9, 9, 8, 7, 3 & 3
Cover Ground: 39, close with zombia orderly
FoB: 23

Attack: 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 1 & 1
Strike: 23 + 10 = 33
Disrupt Footwork (Might) = 22 + 10 = 32
Disrupt Strike (Might) = 21 + 10 = 31

Defense:
10, 10, 9, 6, 3 & 3
*Defense vs Strike 23 - Footwork 5 = 18 vs 33, a Ripple
*Takes Disrupts

The zombie crawls back up onto its feet, but Gabriel closes with it.  A quick advance and he has it effectively pinned.  It can't really fight back in any real capacity; this gives him all the time in the world to chop off the neck.

Huh.  Once he does so he notes the bone has turned black and is no longer bonelike but is instead weirdly gelatinous, yet still firm.  The wrongness about it is overpowering.  He can smell rotten Wood essence hissing out of the flesh; a normal human incapable of altering the airflows around them would probably get horrifically poisoned by the gaseous cloud.

Fortunately it seems to have stopped, leaving him alone.  Huh.  The sword in Gabriel's hands feels right, feels strong; holy essence travels from sword to hand.  Gabriel's sure it should cut a Creature of Darkness to ribbons, but that zombie apparently didn't qualify for the sword's attention.

Now, at least, Gabriel is alone.

Gabriel thought for a moment. He needed a wider view of things but the Refuge didn't really lend itself to panoramic views. That meant his best bet would be finding a security hub and checking their feeds. He reached down to yank any ID cards on the proto-zombie free before making his way deeper into Sanctuary.

There's a few ID cards, smudged with unmistakably foul fluids and yellowed by exposure to the thing's gaseous exudations.  Thankfully he knows Sanctuary Security is fairly close to the entrance- the better to barricade the section of the ship, one way or the other.

BLIP.  He's let in.  There's a dozen corpses there, all skeletonized down to bare dry bone.  Whatever happened in here wasn't natural; they'd have to have been dead for centuries to look this fossilized.  Only one of them has any marking, a gunshot wound to the temple.  There's a few guns lying on the ground around them, pieces of plastic, but nothing that's markedly organic.

The computers look fine, though.  Logging in with the keycard gives him access to the main login page.  Anything more needs a password.

((Some options for you to bypass security- searching for the password written down somewhere is likely a difficulty 30 Awareness or Survival; hacking is 40 Learning; guessing the password is a 50 Wu Wei))

(10, 6, 6, 4, 2, 2 & 1
Float: 2-2
Password Search: 26 + 10 + 5 (assuming Sight Specialty Applies) = 41)

Gabriel looked at the seats, then the walls, trying to gauge where the sweet spot was. Easy to find if you know what you were looking for, discrete enough that the administrative team wouldn't immediately see it and bust your ass for security protocol. Usually he kept his hidden inside a drawer but too many people through Sanctuary for that. Hm....

Grunt has sharp eyes, and he spots a piece of tape on the underside of a stapler.  That's unusual.  A post-it note is taped to the underside of the stapler, telling them to follow different codebook entries (in this case, the last non-crossed out item is A5-INIT).  That's basically useless to anyone without someone's initials and birthdate.  A5-INIT gives a string of letters and numbers.  Normally this sort of code would be changed on a weekly basis; it should have been changed a while back but it doesn't seem to be automated.  He's in.

Sanctuary's video logs first show signs of trouble a few weeks ago.  In this case, someone is admitted with a severe cough and an ugly pallor.  He ends up splitting in half a day and a half later, flooding the halls with a neurotoxin.  Whatever the toxin touches it kills; whatever is killed rises back up again.

But the Last Refuge is already under attack by this point.  Nothing comes to save Sanctuary.  The last group of survivors stay in this room, when Agent Orange approaches and pipes in some sort of gas that eats the flesh from their bones in seconds.

"So, we never got the war spoils in this one? Interesting," Grunt said aloud, he frowned at the appearance of Agent Orange, "There's a certain lack of something in her methods."

He scavenged the area briefly. Doubtful he'd come up with much but necessity and invention dictacted.

Time to see if he could slip out of Sanctuary. By now there weren't likely to be any survivors here and information was out in the wider Refuge.

Looking around finds him very little things of value.  It's likely that Nidhi's already scavenged her way through here or the Undead, knowing Nidhi's nearby, took away anything she might use?

... No, that doesn't make sense.  The door was pretty well locked and had no signs of entry before him.

Stepping back outside shows little has changed, though he's sure he feels the air pulse a bit.  The lights flicker along the hallway to the elevator.  Where does he head?

Decisions, decisions. He could go examine the rest of the Last Refuge. That was where he instincts were pulling. On the other hand, his one known ally of a sort was here and if he didn't have full grasp of Sanctuary's status he might find something unpleasant on his heels soon.

Gabriel decides better slow and slightly safer. Although he does skip the elevators in favor of the stairwell as he moved to another floor.

The stairway requires a sharp swing of the sword to open; the door was chained from the inside of Sanctuary.  Not like it helped them anyway...

Moving down the stairwell brings him to a subsection of the Great Railway, here called the Grand Trunk.  This station is Mercy Station, so of course the undead have gone for irony.  The place is an abattoir, full of torture devices and sticky with blood.  A few people are actually here, alive.  If you can call it that, at any rate.  They've been fused together, forming a portion of the rail station's wall.  Chunks of them are missing, torn out by clawed hands.  It wouldn't be an unreasonable guess that they're being used as a larder.

Their heads are still intact and some look at Grunt with insane, bovine eyes.   The train sits at the tracks idle.  The inside is relatively clean, although bloodstains enver seem to wash out.

Grunt started a series of very blunt mercy-killings. The Infernal gave him plenty of ammunition, but habit forced him to restrain himself to a single round between each set of bovine eyes. He knew the racket was likely to draw attention but using the sword for this would have taken too long.

The shots obliterate the heads, but it's plain the wall of flesh is still alive.  At least it's no longer sapient nor is it spewing vile fumes at him.

His vision flickers.  For a few moments he sees the padded cell in Sanctuary.  He feels like he's been tied down... but that means there's disjunction.  He's not in the same place in both world-tracks.  He snaps back into this horrible place.

Crap.  He gets the sense that he's stuck here, unless he's in the same place where his other world-track self is.

Actually killing something that was still vital in that state was always unlikely, but Grunt owed what mercy he could provide.

So he couldn't stray terribly far without losing the presumable escape that had kept him alive in those early flashes.

To Malfeas with it, he knew there was at least one other person alive in this mess. He haunted around the station for the public announcement system.

Every station has a station booth, run by dedicated operators.  Now Core could probably handle all of this himself with a few subroutines and an ounce of focus but it was decided to leave it up to people in an attempt to give them, well, jobs.

He finds the station master's public booth.  It's got a skeleton inside, curled up in a chair.  Little toothmarks on bone show the mortal was gnawed to death.

Gabriel removed the body and checked the PA system.

"Agent Orange to Sanctuary, your party is waiting for you," he announced as widely as possible.

Grunt has to patch himself into every station control in order to do this; as far as he knows, only Core and Command has the ability to contact the entire Last Refuge at once.

But that'll certainly get her coming.  Unless she's right there, he's got a minimum of 15 minutes if she arrives by rail.

Hm. That actually raised a pair of questions.

Hell, Gabriel had a little time. He tried to find a terminal and sent off an email to an address that was so heavily filtered it was practically an schoolroom rumor.

To: Core
Subject: Still Alive?
Just curious because we still have air and that doesn't seem like a Neverborn thing to keep around.

Yes. Current models anticipate my survival for several more days. At present I will be the last living thing not existing as part of their larders.

You were removed from that list sixty-three hours ago.

Came the eventual reply. There was a time lag of several minutes.

Seven minutes left, by Grunt's estimation.  Enough time to possibly get one last email back from Core based on that last exchange.

He can hear a howling down the line of the tracks.  It could be wind or it could be worse.

RE:RE:Still Alive?

Long story and I won't be here long. Can you condense what went wrong recently?

Sanctuary Falls.txt

The lights flicker.  Grunt has just enough time to save the document to a flash drive before the lightbulbs begin to shatter, one by one.  The computer fizzles out and smoke erupts from the system.

Grunt tucks the drive away and makes his way back towards the exit to Sanctuary. He doesn't leave the station just yet, Orange might be on her way, but he wants to make sure there's a clear line to withdraw along if things go south.

The train that arrives is only barely running, and it has more of the... larder... affixed to the sides.  That'd be the screaming.  Agent Orange steps out of the train, beautiful and horrible all at once, two smoking pistols at her hip.

"Ah, you've given things more thought." She gives him a cocky smile, "Ready to leave this husk?"

"Call it a preliminary trial. I've still got to see the rules of these things before I can accept. Fortunately, I need to know them before I'd be of much use to you anyway so little loss on your part," Grunt replied as he looked at the train, "They're dragging things out."

"Not really.  This is an end-game, yes, but think of it as an experiment."  Agent Orange looks back at the train as well, "An unfortunate one- but necessary.  Not all of the world-tracks are like this."  She looks back at him, "Most of them I work a bit farther back.  They are, for all intents and purposes, Infinite Minus 1, so there's plenty of chances to enjoy the finer things in life.  If it were up to me you wouldn't have ended up here."

"And you work your way through all of them?" Gabriel asked as he pushed off from the wall, "What hypothesis are they testing?"

"Well, for the most part they handle themselves.  Some need a finer touch."  She looks about, "We figured out what the Last Refuge was trying to do a long time ago.  It's very simple, of course.  Why not figure out if we can do the same thing?"

She gestures at the train, "Board up.  I think you should have a talk with Yama.  He'll explain everything.  Including the perks."

"You know, the last time I touched something he made it knocked me out of fixed reality. Actually meeting him seems likely to be at least as drastic in consequences. Besides, I thought you were mostly an isolated agent in these tangents," Gabriel replied, "And I'm reluctant to change my geographic location too far past the other me's."

"Mostly.  I occasionally approach him with oddities."  She shrugs, "Well, you'll be perfectly safe alongside me while we check this out- the alternative is we can call Yama here, though he won't be in a good mood.  I think you'd best meet with him one way or another, Dragon-Blooded."

Not exactly the subtlest of threats.

"Fine, but if I get killed then the next one is likely to be even more obstinate," Gabriel said as he approached the train, "He the one working on a way out for the other side?"

"Of course.  He handles the theoretical; Thanatos handles the practical; I handle the contingencies.  If you'd ask for a general breakdown." They enter the meat-train and it starts chugging off with the sighing of doomed souls.  She's quiet for a few moments until the train really starts going. "There are others of course.  I can provide for you a perfect list to hand to your superiors when you get back."

She stares at him and takes a seat on a groaning mass of flesh.
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:34, Sat 10 June 2017.

Gabriel remains standing. Being in the belly of this thing was bad enough. Sitting on the intestines was outside his willingness.

"I'm not sure how one reports these things. Or even who to report them to," he admitted, "My training isn't in observation and  investigation after all."

"Well, if you could hand it to Core I'd be very appreciative." She looks him over, "I'd be more appreciative if you'd kill Core, but I doubt that'll happen.  And I doubt you'll buy in to all of this."

She waves her hand at the train around them.

"I'm not fooled at all, Dragon-Blooded, to tell you the truth."  It might occur at this moment that she seemed VERY fooled earlier.  In this case, it's more likely she's barking mad. "But you've made things a bit more interesting.  You know, for the death of me, I can't quite figure out who's sponsoring you."

"Both sides want out. I see no conflict in mutual exits," Gabriel replied without blinking, "Besides, if you honestly think I'm hedonistic enough for that opening bid to move me then you've not paid much attention."

"Oh, I've paid attention.  Just not to you.  You're not in most world tracks."  She says to him, "Mutual exits.  You really think our sides can coexist?  Seriously?  How naive."

"Coexist? Certainly, in the sense that they can part ways so completely they never encounter each other again," Gabriel replied, "Proximity and shared resources to fight over prevent peace."

"You think this is about shared resources?  And space?"  She shakes her head, "No, it is about inevitability.  And... sanitation.  One must always win, the other must always cede way to the end of all things.  And you bring us wherever you go, one way or another."

"Yes, yes. Metaphysical and ontological reasons abound," Gabriel said without looking at her, "But, at the end of the day, we can't get rid of those and we want to survive."

"What you want and what will happen are two different things." She crosses a pair of beautiful legs, "We're here.  What will be your plan from here on out, Dragon-Blooded?  Do you think Yama will be fooled?  Do you think the Neverborn will just... stand aside and let you fuck around all day?"

The train pulls to a stop.  She stands up and kicks open the door.

Grunt knows this area well.  This was once the Pavilion, a wide-open space the size of ten St. Peter's Squares.  This was a place for people to wander through the Upperdecks, stare at the vast carbuncles of the Neomah warrens, and take picnics in the small park.   Now it's worse than an abattoir.  At least then it would make one think this place used to be important.  No, it's just... destroyed; the parks are gone, pieces of Neomah warrens litter the grounds, and here and there he can see shadows of people.

A nuke was set off in here, or something equivalent to it.

"There's only survival through quantum immortality, Dragon-Blooded."

"Why not? I'm willing to work with or for them under certain conditions," Gabriel replied, not bothering to pretend not to notice when she crossed her legs, "Why should they care about my intentions if they're as certain as you that they will come to naught?"

"Don't ever think you can understand the Neverborn.  Lord Yama comes close, but..."  She cocks her head, "Enlighten me.  What are the conditions.  And are you coming, or are you going to gawk all day?"

"They're the most pleasant part of my immediate environment. You make a demonstration, your audience notes it," Gabriel replied as he followed her out, "And that's a fallacy. At no point is understanding needed. My conditions are simple enough, they hardly need me to do the things their current acolytes are so good at."

"Then let me thank you." She sounds pleased as she leads him through the shattered streets, "So what are the conditions?"

He can hear chanting in the distance.  A scream of agony.  Silence.  A body falls, far in the distance, discharging fire essence before it's swallowed whole by a black singularity that blots out the background.  No doubt hundreds of little last stands are occurring throughout the ship as they speak.

"I'm not an assassin or terrorist. Prosecuting direct violence against the living is off the table. On the other hand, dealing with the various problems and challenges that accompany near victory is acceptable," Gabriel told her as they walked, "Which certainly means I am not their tool of choice for the major push of their agenda but the scale is large enough for use at the margins."

"Near victory.  An interesting way to put it.  There's only one victory that they'll settle for."

They move through the plaza until they eventually reach an open area.  Gabriel knows this place well enough, though he never really visited.  The Martial Library is a logical place for a last stand, given the owner's obsession for ancient military tactics.  A few undead monstrosities, mostly huge hulking... things... stitched together into war-creatures, slam at the locked front doors.

And there, standing in front of it, a pale figure in a severe black outfit standing with his arms behind his back.  He turns to face Agent Orange and gives her a look of misplaced serenity.  The rogue pauses midstep, then gestures to Gabriel to move forward.

"Your name."  Yama speaks to him, his voice quiet and controlled.

"Gabriel, call sign of 'Grunt'," Gabriel answered as he took the Abyssal in. He still wasn't used to seeing them in person, "A stowaway."

"Dragon-Blooded.  Air courses through you."  Yama says to him.  Oddly he doesn't give off an aura of dread.  The architect of Humanity's death is no more viscerally frightening to Grunt than a dairy cow slowly chewing the cud.

"He's like me."

"I didn't ask you to speak, Michelle." Yama responds to her, "And I can tell that.  What else would gather your attention?" His eyes never leave Grunt, "The Incarnae are dead.  Nox can only empower the one.  Gaia is a broken, steaming corpse.  The Yozi- hmm- no, the only one remaining wouldn't even notice you at his feet.  When did you first start to experience disjunction?"

"Dealing with one of your creations and predecessor, the one with the alarming overdone mustache," Grunt answered, "Buchenwald class we took when the pilot defected."

"Holmes..."  He sighs, "Defection.  Courage was never his forte.  But we never needed it to be.  Here, the Buchenwald was never captured.  We used it to board your mothership."  He looks around, "Lucifer died at my hand, a duel aboard the prow.  I had the advantage.  He depended too much upon his wings.  It's an interesting concept to swallow.  My victory, once thought so great, is functionally meaningless.  All of us here except for you and Michelle are little more than holograms."
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:59, Mon 14 May 2018.

"I thought you would assert the other direction," Grunt noted, looking around the area, "There's a third one of us, but I think she's in all of them."

"Perhaps.  Everything here, regardless, is close to meaningless." He takes a deep sigh, "Ah, yes.  Her.  A conversation with her is out of the question.  And you.  I take it you remain with the Living."

"Got a pulse. Plan to keep it," Grunt shrugged, "And I don't know about that. Our Lucifer hasn't got wings. Curious to see how far back we went our ways."

"Michelle?"

"Further back than you'd think.  Here you failed to kill Sylvia Murray before she reached Chicago, which lead to the Last Refuge's construction speeding up- but I assassinated her and wounded Florentine.  There's a wide variety of further changes from there on out."

Yama gestures at Agent Orange in a sort of 'there you have it' gesture.  "Interesting how a failure on our part leads to a greater failure on yours.  Chaos and entropy know no master."  He reaches a hand out towards Gabriel, palm up. "I could say that the only meaningful thing I could do, in this fake world, would be to kill someone who isn't.  Affect the true world-line from mine!  But I don't think it is ultimately a wise use of my time.  Or, indeed, useful as anything more than an assuaging my own ego."

"One philosophy, I suppose. Still, there must be some reason she decided we should talk," Grunt told Yama, head nodding towards Agent Orange, "Unless of course, she was worried about not being able to handle me alone. Which would be absurd given the vagaries of power between us."

"She is- continuously looking for camaraderie.  No doubt she thought you could be convinced, swayed to her side.  It would be a slim chance, but still a chance.  I am not nearly so... idealistic.  Of course, you could be her consort, if she wished, but, well.  What would be the point.  I would, in fact, prefer you a hostile force.  If only to keep her blade sharp."

"I doubt we'd find ourselves compatible, given circumstances. So, I take it your version of Core has decided not to jettison the Refuge and take WAL in a mad dash?" Grunt replied before he looked at Agent Orange, "We leave soon, I expect. One way or another."

"He never does."

"So I am told. No, Core is in the midst of disconnecting himself for one last moment, which I will grant him."  Yama looks up at the warrens, "The Fae is already becoming dissolute.  They never handle entropy well." Then he looks over at Grunt, "In exchange for your life, I must ask you to be a courier."

"I'm surprised he even can anymore. Figured by now there wasn't a lot of the doc left," Grunt mused with a shake of his head, "What and to who?"

"There's enough to detach, though life will not follow for long." Yama shrugs.  "I have a series of letters.  They are to be presented to certain parties.  I wrote them intending for Michelle to deliver most of them upon my victory, but she is less expendable than you."

He reaches into his spare black vest pockets, pulling out a small stack of sealed envelopes no larger than a credit card.  There's got to be about two dozen.  He rifles through them and hands just over half to Agent Orange, the other half going to Grunt.  The very top one is labeled 'DANIEL MATTHEWS'.

"Go through them if you'd like on your own time." Yama tells him, "You must leave now if there's any chance of you returning."  He then looks in an odd direction, muttering something in the air.
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:41, Wed 23 May 2018.

Grunt took the parcel, tucking them away into a shirt pocket.

"Which brings up a salient point. How do I return? So far the process has been a matter of waiting for the relapse."

"Go back to where you arrived here first," Agent Orange tells him, "It's the quickest way.  That or... pain."

"We can assist with either."  Yama says dryly, "Whichever you feel would be faster."

"A walk it is. The second remains open if there is no longer a path," Grunt said as he set to backtracking.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:56, Wed 30 May 2018.

Grunt is left unmolested.  It must take him hours to get back to where he started.  The Last Refuge crumbles around him.  It's not quick or catastrophic, just rot, accelerated, the last throes of the living world crumbling to dust.

He returns to find the doors to Sanctuary waiting, ominously cheery-looking.  He has not been followed.

Through the doors he goes, eyes peeled for further surprises.

He finds himself presented with three doors.

The door on the left should be his exit.  Nidhi's is straight in front of him.  The third door... he doesn't remember there being a third one.  Nor does he remember chains.

Grunt inspected the door and chains, testing them for a moment, before he headed towards Nihdi's door.

The chains are tight and intact, holding the door solidly shut.  As he touches them they let off a faint glow, like the rise of a sun in the early morning.

Nidhi's door is still there, intact.  He can hear music on the other side, some kind of hindi music he's not familiar with.

Gabriel almost knocks on her door, but decides against it. His questions for her could be asked somewhere that brighter minds could work on the answers. Back into the depths of Sanctuary he'd emerged from.

Before he can decide against it, Nidhi opens up the door and squints at him with glowing eyes.  "Were you about to knock?  It is very rude to almost-knock and ding-dong-ditch.  Very rude."

She seems to be wearing a traditional Indian sari, though she's also wearing a lot more beads and jewelry than it looks like she can reasonably carry.

"I have a guest, you know.  Terrible manners to ditch."

"I think you can complain about what I do, not what I decide not to do. Otherwise my headache is going to grow exponentially," Gabriel replied, "Besides, it seemed best to have this conversation in a more social area. Who's the guest?"

"Myself,"  She tells him, "And White Arcing Lightning, or at least a version of her anyway.  You can come on in if you'd like.  Or we can arrange it for you on the other side of Sanctuary."

"It would be rude to impose my schedule on you for no reason. Now is as good as later," Gabriel answered with a nod, "My apologies for not contributing to the social milieu."

Nidhi's head swivels as she seems to hear something from beyond Grunt's perception.  "Is that a no or a yes?  I can't rightly understand.  White Arcing Lightning seems to think you have canapes.  Or that you're boring.  She can pack a lot of disinformation in one sentence."

"It means I'm coming in. Any packages to deliver? The other two have me playing courier," Gabriel told her.

"... They have you what?" Nidhi asks, incredulously. "They gave you things, and you took them?  They let you go?"

For a moment it looks like she's gonna slam the door in her face, but then she brightens up, "OK, well, come on in then!"

The door swings open.  He smells incense and cotton candy.  The inside of Nidhi's room now looks like a seraglio of some sort, all huge brightly covered pillows and silks, pearls hanging from the ceiling, and a very distinctive woman floating in a bubble at the center.  He's heard that White Arcing Lightning occasionally prefers pointed ears, but these are ludicrously long, curling back almost like horns.  Her legs are digitigrade, her hair the color of fresh blood in the sun.  Her eyes are square, her lips green.  When she smiles, it's like being struck in the back of the head with a poleaxe.

"Oh, hey, it's a Dragon-Blooded.  What up holmes?"

Well, there goes THAT.  The spell momentarily broken, Grunt can see another Nidhi- also dressed as a belly dancer, though her eyes are a subtly different shade of blue.  Other!Nidhi waves at Grunt.

"Gabriel," Grunt told the fae, "And I seem to be caught up in a rather different sort of conflict than I had thought."

Grunt was, not exactly afraid, but quite unnerved to see WAL. Demons, gods, and elementals were one thing. There were plenty of them around and a lot of them tended to resemble other members of their species to near mimicry, from the perspective of an outside observer.

The same couldn't be said for Fair Folk Nobility. That was a breed entirely outside his experience.

"Is this the first meeting for you as well, or has there been a series of me?"

"Nah.  You're the first and last.  It's just you Dragon-Blooded just always act the same." WAL  conjures up a vine of grapes, made of glass and sugar, and bites one off of the vine with a loud crunch.  "You know, you guys worry me.  If we're gonna make it out of this hellverse alive, I keep thinking, maybe all you Dragon-Blooded are gonna be a problem.  You've heard the old stories, right?  What are us Fae scared of the most?"

"Salt."

"Boredom."

The two Nidhis chip in, both tittering, both totally aware the answers are wrong.
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:17, Mon 02 July 2018.

"You survive Core, you'll be fine," Grunt replied before addressing Nidhi's earlier question, "Yes, letters. It seemed the most pragmatic way to see how this variant frames scenario works. Besides, I need some physical proof if I don't want locked in Sanctuary for weeks."

"I'm unsure if they'll even survive the- remerging.  Resynchronization?"

"Oh, they will, if I take them."  White Arcing Lightning extends a languid rosy-pink hand for them, "No, see, Mr. Grunt, this shouldn't be possible for you at all.  You and your kind are far, far too solid.  You fall for our wiles easily enough but your powerset is of a completely different manner, tied to Earth and solidity and your chosen reality.  I've been places where the Dragon-Blooded are tied to totally different elements!  So you being here is, well, delightfully impossible, but it means you're cheating somehow."

"Or you don't know all the rules," Grunt replied as he handed over the parcels, "I will expect those back so I can deliver them personally. Those two seem the sort to be sticklers for other people following their instructions."

"Which is another term for cheating."  She sniffs as she looks at the letters, "Well, this is interesting.  None of them are trapped."  She then giggles with delight and holds one up in the air, "Oh hey, this is for me!"

She opens it up and starts reading.  Her brow furrows.  "Well, that isn't very nice."

"She always this surprised by people behaving consistently?" Grunt asked the one he thought was Nidhi, "And the rules say I need to get back to where I was when this option sucked me in? How long will it seem like to them?"

WAL folds up the envelope and sits on it.

"Well, I have actually met quite polite ghosts, thank you very much." She says primly, "Sometimes it's all they have.  I mean, I kill them anyway but it's the thought that counts."

"Well... more or less, yes,"  Nidhi responds to Grunt, "It's a bit difficult to say how long time can be.  Sometimes it's instant.  Sometimes you've been in a coma for a week!"

"Were any of those polite ghosts Yama in life?" Grunt asked WAL. He cocked an eyebrow and Nihdi, "So are you awake over there or does being a bit less prosaic mean the others are used to it?"

"Well, you tell me.  You met Yama, was he polite?"  She snipes back.

"Oh, I'm awake.  And I'm here.  And I'm here." The Nidhis respond in tandem, "It's a great benefit of having a split mind about things.  You're probably asleep, under a lot- a LOT- of sedatives."

"Not particularly. Besides, you wanted the letters," Grunt told the fae without blinking, "So, if I tell the Core about this you'll at least try to keep them from going with some pharmacological version of ECT?"

"Well, here you go." WAL tosses them in the air with an exasperated eye roll.  The letters fly in a cloud past Grunt, flapping like a flock of birds.

"Uhhh.... Core doesn't know about this.  And I'd rather you didn't tell him about this.  I mean, he's all scientific and all, but this doesn't really fall under his whole order thing?"

"So a conspiracy of three, when all of us are in a panopticon a good chunk of the time?" Grunt sounds, actually more amused than anything, "Sure, why not. But can you at least help me convince them that the coma isn't me cracking under the stress?"

"Well, they have me committed.  I mean, for all we know, we ARE cracking under the stress!  Isn't it grand?" Nidhi smiles at him, "I mean, your presence here is- well- insane!  And that's me saying that.  But I do have an idea about how to figure it out."

"He's hardly a pandecepticon,"  WAL says to Grunt, "He's not quite the all-powerful all-seeing Sauron-eye just yet.  After all, he just sees you in a coma or something right now!  Honestly I'm in your cell." She pauses, "Kind of.  It's really hard to tell.  My goblins are just so small!  It's hard to see past the tardigrades."

"Sauron?" Grunt asked with a shake of his head, "No, nevermind. I just don't think he needs to be to keep me from having many secrets. Not the area of training they selected."

He shrugged.

"Doesn't matter I suppose, no one is particularly worried about the canon fodder's state of mind if he charges in the right direction."

A look to Nidhi, then WAL, "And it clearly isn't impossible, however odd the process. I thought you were all tied up in whatever the weird effect keeping a chunk of metal acting like a world was."

"Well, I am."  WAL seems on easier ground here, preening as she stands up.  "What you see before you isn't the true White Arcing Lightning, Goddess of Life Itself, the Greatest Thing In The Universe.  I'm one of her goblins, I guess you might say.  A portion of her will made flesh and thrown out to romp with Nidhi here. And when we're done, I'll romp right back, absorb myself, and tada!  It'll be like I was always here.  Same with a lot of my goblins.  You've probably met a few of them before and never even knew it."

"We might all be one of her goblins,"  Nidhi says dreamily.

"No. She and I might each be many things but we're not each other," Grunt told Nidhi with desperate conviction as he busied himself reclaiming the packages Yama had charged him to deliver, "No way to bring supplies over. Seems almost wasteful."

He blinked before looking back at WAL.

"Didn't all the old stories claim you could only take form with a host?"

"Those are VERY old stories.  Who told you those?" White Arcing Lightning narrows her eyes.  "But yes, long ago.  I actually was bonded to a demon, who'd then take over hosts for me.  Then Lucifer almost killed me and I bonded to him instead.  I took a nuke for Lucifer and then he brought me to a wyld location in New Jersey, where I took on a new, more... independent form."

"Are you surprised all the note worthy pre-Exodites have legends?" Grunt asked with a snort, "Fine, I won't pry. So you haven't been amusing yourself, the rest of us just can't see when you sneak off to other playgrounds. I suppose that's a relief."

"Well, I CAN amuse myself, I do all the time... remember that one night at the bar?  The blond one?  When all you words were spun gold?"  WAL leers in his direction, "Could've been one of my goblins!  That's fun, isn't it?"

"Now now, don't tease."  Nidhi tells the fae.

"Look this is all I have right now, don't judge me."

"Actually I don't. Must not have been a very remarkable encounter," Grunt said with a straight face, "But maybe it'll ruin my fun going forward."

He looked to Nidhi.

"I really should be going, I think. We'll be seeing enough of each other as it progress anyway."

"Yes we will."  Nidhi stands up and holds out her hand to Grunt, "Please be on your way with peace.  And remember that opium makes you constipated.  But we've got a lot of it!"

WAL harumphs.  "Dragon-Blooded are no fun, Nidhi."

"The two of you are lovely, but I have to beg off being interesting in light of a headache," Grunt told them both, giving a small nod as he moved towards the door. He hoped proximity would work, the other path probably wouldn't be reassuring in terms of psychological stability.

When Grunt awakes, he finds himself in a nice padded cell.  He's weighed down with thick steel chains, his face is muzzled with a mask, and there's a disturbing amount of bloodstains on the canvas of the padded floor in front of him.  There's a camera at each corner of the ceiling watching him.

He feels cool, smooth paper in his hands.

Grunt took in his surroundings, at least as well as the restricted mobility allowed. He slipped the paper in his hands around a bit, trying to keep it out of direct line of sight.

"Okay, I seem to be coherent but have some missing time. Could you help me address that?"

There's a crackle of a speaker.

"This is Doctor Hobbs." The voice announces, "How are you doing today, Gabriel?  Do you feel faint?  Short of breath?  You had quite the seizure there a few hours ago."

"Cut the crap, a bite mask is hardly seizure protocol," Grunt replied, amiable in tone if not words, "No anima flux, I hope. Eight hours?"

"It is part of quarantine protocol.  We've had zombies here and they tend to get a bit nippy,"  Doctor Hobbs answers him. "No, no anima flux.  We saw no essence use out of you at all, another reason why you're in Quarantine.  Roughly 6 hours, actually; give or take a period where you were quiet in your other room.  We thought you were sleeping."

"Odd. Not to sound peevish but what's the procedure for getting out of quarantine? I assume there's more than promising I'm not just a particularly loquacious eater of minds," Grunt asked as he settled back into his restraints, "So no injuries during the episode? Good."

"If you don't count blood jetting out of your leg, mouth, and eyes all at the same time, then there's been no injuries.  But we're of course going to be careful."  Hobbs tells him, "Did you have any particular friends who can vouch for your state of mind?  That can ask you specific questions?  It's not a 100% get out of jail free card, but it'll let us check off a few extra parameters from Quarantine Protocol."

"Best bet there is going up my chain of command until you find one you trust who isn't so far above me in the chart that I'd be a stranger," Grunt replied, "Or get a hold of Secrets but that's always a tall order in my experience."

"Secrets?  A capital idea." Hobbs voice sounds jovial. "I don't know the Dragon-Blooded chain of command so perhaps that's our fastest way!  You know Secrets well enough for her to vouch for you?  Then again Secrets probably knows all of us like that, ho ho!"

"She gives me enough orders that I'm sure she has some exortion grade material I think no one else knows about," Grunt replied, "Knowing her is a different beast entirely."

"I'll put on the call.  Sit tight.  If you'd like we can switch on a movie or something for you while we wait?"  Doctor Hobbs asks him, "Do you have any preferences?"

"Never really had a taste for movies. Waiting is fine," Grunt told the doctor, leaning back into his restraints and closing his eyes.

A few hours later there's a small cough on the end of the line.

"Hello, Gabriel Hockenberry." The voice on the line is small, sweet, "This is Juno.  How are you feeling?"

"Bored. Slightly thirsty. How has your day gone?" Grunt replied, waking from a light doze.

"That's confidential," Juno's voice carries though a small whisper, "To be frank, boring.  Your seizure is the most interesting thing.  That and the paper you're hiding from the cameras."

Her sigh is disrupted by static.

"One has my name on it."

"Yeah. I think the operational code words are IVORY MACHINE and GRASS REMOVAL, but I haven't been read in on either," Grunt agreed with a somewhat restrained shrug, "No promises they aren't trapped, I'm just the courier."

"Then it's probably time we get you involved." Juno answers him, "I'll be coming to speak with you very shortly.  I'll be reviewing my personal letter in front of you.  If I die, it'll be your responsibility to burn the letters and then kill yourself, do you understand?"

"While I can appreciate contingency planning, that's not the kind of request you make over speaker," Grunt replied, "But I'm usually in breaching squads for a reason. Hesitation and undue attachment aren't hallmarks of the job."

"On my way."

It seems like forever, but eventually the door opens.

Juno- nobody's seen her before.  Nobody knows what she looks like, what she really sounds like, if anything that's her is really her.  She's a whisper, an enigma, a... relatively plain looking woman, red hair, green eyes, glasses, with the fashion sense of a reclusive computer programmer.

She holds up a key, "Time to unlock you, Grunt,"  and undoes the handcuffs.  "Thank you for being patient."

"I imagine I won't remember much of the wait, later," Gabriel answered calmly, "Thank you."

He rubbed his wrists for a moment. They hadn't really chafed but it bought a few moments to think.

"You are aware of my role in the boarding and defection of the Abyssal ship. Most of this started there."

The soldier gave the woman the envelope with her name on it.

"Although this is the first time something followed me home."

"Perhaps not."  Juno says with a nod, "But things aren't the way they used to be."

She listens, nodding.

"I was worried about this.  But it makes quite a bit of sense.  Tell me more.  I take it you're not able to translocate?"

She takes the envelope and opens it.  She looks at it.  Frowns.  "Well.  That's rude.  Congratulations, Grunt."

"Not so far. Time seems to stay one to one when it happens, and wherever my body ended up has been where I returned. A bit troublesome, that," Gabriel answered before an eyebrow rose, "Do remember that, like all good couriers, I didn't look at any of these missives myself."

"That's fine.  It's just my real name, the name of my parents, and a description of what's happened to them." She taps the card in her hand, "And, of course, an offer to put them out of their misery if I ask."

She sighs.

"That's encouraging, actually.  If there was translocation, I'd worry about security holes."

"I can't, not sure about the others," Gabriel told her, skipping over the subject of her parents. It wasn't the response closest to tact he had readily available. "That I return to my body is fine, that apparently the body misbehaves while I am out is troubling."

He leaned against the restraints with a frown as he put his thoughts together.

"So far I haven't been dragged anywhere that everything was over, but they've all been headed down the steep slope in that direction."

"That's to be expected.  If I'm understanding things right, they're paring off possibilities, and the possibilities have been rarer as time goes on.  I'm inclined to let them." She remarks, "Well, at least Agent Orange.  Every moment she spends somewhere else is a moment she's not spending dealing directly with us.  In fact, the moment we deal with her directly here might mean we've headed down the wrong path to begin with."

She paces back and forth, "This wasn't possible before.  It was theorized, but not possible.  The weight of the millions of possibilities compressed them.  Acted like a black hole, I suppose you might say, but one the Fair Folk could somewhat exploit.  Even then they supposedly jumped between larger world-lines, not the thick braid of possibilities.  This still isn't explaining you, of course."

"Going to be insuborinate, in the interest of being the subject of discussion. Point the first, is this going to cause my demise in a more spectacular manner than just the usual avenues of combat and travel? Is there a priority to what I pursue when shifted? And," Grunt added with a scratch of neatly shaved hair, "Are you up for an actual drink before we discuss whatever far ranging and nightmare inducing problems this poses to our existence?"

"Well,... yes, most likely, this is going to cause you some problems." She admits, "Your priority should honestly be to kill Agent Orange whenever possible but I realize this isn't exactly likely."

She tilts her head, "An actual drink.  Hmm.  I mean, I could.  But I can't vouch for our security once we leave here.  I assume Command is bugged at all times."

"Given who I keep bumping into over there, my assumption is that our enemies are already aware. Besides, every so often one should use the privileges of rank to reward subordinates who have had a long day," Gabriel returned, "To say nothing of the other parcels I'm supposed to drop off."

"Fine, I can handle that.  Do you have a preference?" She asks, "I'm not really much of a barhopper.  For a big reason.  I'm not a big fan of crowds."

She unfolds her arms and crumples up the note, tucking it into a pocket.

"There's a military dive I know. Best place on the Refuge to be alone in a crowd. As for the drink, well, nothing's really had time to age so it's mostly pick your flavor of vodka or gin," Gabriel told Juno as he walked towards the door, "Sorry for the demands but I need both kinds of buzz right now."

"Name of the place?"  She asks, "I don't know too many of the military dives- outside of the Callsign, but I've never gone there."

She starts to walk behind him, arms folded.

"Honestly if it has real vodka or gin it's a bit of a treasure.  Most stuff nowadays is heavily synthesized."

"Breach," Gabriel answered as opened the door and led her out, "A bit less rarified in clientele than Callsign."

He smiled slightly.

"I suspect it is neither, just ethanol they managed to find various infusions for. Then again, I've had the real stuff so rarely there's no reason to trust my pallet."

"Alright, let's give it a shot."

Breach:  there are more wretched hives of scum and villainy on the Last Refuge, but few of them are as heavily populated by the highly trained, loudly boisterous, and fully expendable boarding troops of the Living.  Most of them, like Grunt, are Dragon-Blooded.  A key feature of Breach is the complete lack of care that goes into the place.  Brawls are common and it's rare that a glass remains unbroken.  But just like any bar, it has its areas of surliness and dark corners for people of Grunt's temperament.

They enter the bar to find it sparsely inhabited, which is common for this time of day.  Though in theory there's Dragon-Blooded active around the clock, at certain times there are natural peaks and lows.  The three bartenders are still finding themselves worked hard by the heavy-drink crowd, one of whom he recognizes immediately.

Farrah is a Fire Aspect, leader of a very specialized zero-grav squad that specializes in high-speed maneuvers with cables and airjets.  She's one of the older combat-capable Dragon-Blooded on the Last Refuge, pushing her late 30s and with a hundred engagements.  She's one of the few confirmed Dragon-Blooded Exodites, and played a strong role in protecting the skin of the Last Refuge during the final escape from Earth.

"Well well well, if it isn't Grunt,"  She says as she leans against the bar, a drink in hand.  Judging by the slight slur she's had three bottles already.  "Finally joining us for a drink, huh?"

Juno stays quiet.

"Farrah, I'm shocked. You're having fun? In gravity?" Gabriel said archly, "And don't give me that crap. The last two times I drank here ended up costing me five drinks that were never more than sipped."

The problem with veterans is that they get a little crazy about adding more notches, he thought to himself.

"Look, day I've had, if you want to fornicate or fight? Get on with it but skip the prelude."
This message was last edited by the player at 22:32, Tue 25 Sept 2018.

"Can't have a proper climax without the buildup." Farrah sighs, "Not cutting to the chase Grunt, not until I get a few words out of your hallpounding ass."  She points at him, "Word has it you're moving in exalted circles.  That's what.  Two missions now with the big boomers?  What makes you so fucking special?"

She holds up a glass of something terrible.
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:46, Thu 27 Sept 2018.

"Read my callsign and then ask why I get sent to the biggest piles of shit," Grunt told Farrah, "You don't send special assets on suicide missions as a rule."

He moved to the bar, far enough away that if she did want to start anything it'd take openly instigating it.

"Don't care about the flavor," he told the barkeeper.

"They don't send Solars on suicide missions either." Farrah shoots back, rocking back and forth on the barstool, "I haven't even met any of them, you know that?  Rubbing elbows with the big boys, you think you're too good for us now?"

The barkeeper pours out a big cup and puts it in front of Grunt.  Interesting.  This stuff smells like a rotten still but that's better than the usual well beverage.  The barkeep winks at him and taps three times.  Aha, three bottles, just like he thought; Farrah's in belligerent mode, edging away from screw-mode and towards blackout.

"Does it look like I'm drinking at the Callsign and hanging out in the upper decks?" Grunt asked with a sigh at the bartender's message, "You want to feel inferior because you don't burn yellow, go take it up with them. The self-pity should be beneath you."

"They told Peregrine here to retire and get to training,"  Another Dragon-Blooded interrupts just as Farrah starts turning red and gets ready to throw a bottle.  He grabs it out of her hand.  "Hey, Grunt."

Colm "Scimitar" Vanderbilt is a water-aspect, as calm and collected as expected for someone of his pedigree.  A scion of the old rich famous family, he'd taken the Breath aboard the Last Refuge and specialized in manning turrets.  He's not a particularly big name in the community but the two had been part of the same training squadron, and he's slowly developed a rep for being the peacemaker type.

"Scimitar," Grunt said neutrally with a nod, "So someone's thinking we're going to last long enough to need another crop of troops?"

In two senses. One, in that a new cohort would need to be trained. And, because Peregine was a female Blooded. Celestials weren't a very renewable resource but the Dragons could be.

"That someone is a pisshead!"  Farrah shouts and tries to motion the bartender over.

"Yeah, that's right." Scimitar nods soberly, "They think we're in this for the long haul.  I'm hearing some bad stuff about the b/d ratios too.  I personally think if we're not out before our current cohort ages out, we're screwed anyway." He hands the bottle over to him, "The mortals just aren't going to cut it but maybe they'll be useful enough to delay for a bit longer.  But you know how it is.  Expecting this one-" He nods towards Peregrine, "- to teach a bunch of malnourished teenagers from the Lowerdecks how to snap-maneuver in zero G?  Regardless. Peregrine here has just been promoted to a desk job.  No more combat for her.  She is an Important Asset."

"Then she can do it badly enough to be moved," Grunt replied, "Unless this is a lead up to asking me to talk to the big shots I've been stuck with lately."

"Do it too badly and I'm on birthing duty," Farrah slurs.

"I'm thinking she wants to ask that, yes, but she's a bit pissed drunk at the moment, aren't you." Farrah starts to say something and Scimitar pushes her shoulder gently, and she flops against the side of the bar.  "I'd say you shouldn't, though.  The Celestials would bleed for everyone but it's our blood that needs spilling, one way or another."

"It matters who decides. We can't afford fatalism," Grunt told Scimitar, "She let you get her home or we need to call someone?"

He blinked after a moment.

"And her protest has been noted. All I can promise."

"But we bank on realism."  He looks at Farrah, "No, I think I have her.  I might need to sock her in the face if she acts but it'll be best." He gives Grunt a nod, "Appreciate it.  Question for you.  You free anytime next week?"

"Nothing planned. Most I can say for sure these days," Grunt answered with a nod as he sipped his drink. His sip immediately led to him gesturing for another. "Somewhere I need to be?"

The bartender starts to work on the next.

"Yeah.  We're going to discuss a few new weaponry options and some were from the Asset.  There's some interest in you from some younger Blooded and we want to give them a look at a true professional."  Scimitar tells him, "Food and drinks after.  Good stuff, not bar stuff."

"Someone trying to get me put on posters?" Grunt asked skeptically before shaking his head, "No, I'll find out soon enough. Get our little booze bird friend somewhere her hungover anima won't destroy. I'll send a message tomorrow for the details."

"Nah, nothing that bad, but we want them to focus more on their duties and less on their hormones."  He gives him a little wave as Farrah continues to deep throat a bottle, "Alright, Peregrine, let's get you home.  Pleasure as always Grunt."

The bartender puts another bottle by Grunt's hand.

Grunt nodded to Scimitar as he led the Fire Aspect out. Well, less led and more hauled but still. He took a small swig of the new drink and moved towards one of the many cluttered, somewhat obscured, corners. After a moment's thought he wiped a bit of debris off the seat opposite him.

"For the record, I consider my agreement with them fulfilled," he told Juno.

"Yes, it's quite fulfilled."  Juno takes a seat across from him.  He almost forgot she was there- almost.  But not quite. Something kept the thought in his mind that Juno was there.

"Very unusual you're recalling I'm here." She says as she slides the seat forward, "I'm no Night caste, but I'm very good at being noticed.  Anyhow.  What do you think about Farrah's predicament?"

"I didn't, for a minute, until I thought I should clean her seat off and tried to remember which 'her' it was," Grunt admitted, he took another sip of his drink and was quiet for nearly a full minute before he answered, "I think something in her recent behavior threw a red flag. Command seems unlikely to be planning very far ahead at this point."

"Unfortunately you're incorrect.  That's all about what we can do nowadays.  We're not in a good position, Grunt, and at this point we're having to balance long term and short term.  It wouldn't surprise me if Serenity actually did have the order passed down.  Farrah is quite strong and we could use a continuation of the bloodline." She sips her drink.  "Of course, that's a problem too.  Inability to plan for the short term..."

"That seems rather backwards for a breeding program," Grunt replied, placing his drink on the table, "Given that even an ideal rate of production would be lower with Farrah than, say, Scimitar."

"What is your poison?"

Juno holds up a glass of something pale green, a spoon atop it, a sugar cube atop the spoon.

She doesn't respond.  But she does raise an eyebrow as she starts to drip water across the cube.

The silence says volumes.

Namely, that they've already taken the first steps to head down that road.

"Setting up a breeding program for the Blooded is like about as hard as getting," Grunt trailed off, "Well, about as hard as getting a drunk to drink I suppose."

He took another sip.

"Alright, I'm lubricated enough. You want to pilot the oral report or should I?"

"Yes, but the right kind of drunk."  Juno says, "The creative drunk, or the angry drunk, or the happy one.  There's a rhyme or reason to all of it.  And all of you are expected to do your part.  Scimitar will do his soon enough as well."

She swirls her spoon in the absinthe.

"Go ahead with the oral report."

Grunt nodded and began the report. It was very much in the flavor of when he filed after action reports, if a bit heavier on subjective impressions. Explosives and bullets were straight forward, several Chosen and a Fae existing in multiple worlds at once were not. Still, he tries to avoid particular embellishment.

It is, in short, rather dry despite how well lubricated he is towards the end.

"And then I was back negotiating for my release from the restraints," he wrapped up eventually.

"I'm cautious.  On one hand, I'm happy one of the Big Three is wasting her time 'paring down' the inconsequential world-lines.  They're basically discarded strands of the Loom of Fate, essentially junk, the loss of which doesn't burden us down at all.  On the other hand, Agent Orange is likely learning all sorts of interesting things about us, and we have little way to stop it.  The letters they've sent us practically glory in that.

To make matters worse, no offense, but I don't think you're up for the challenge of dealing with your opponents as you are.  If you want, I can have Serenity take a look at it.  The only way you can be doing this is if you have a particularly powerful patron, and I have an idea about whom.  If it can be granted, perhaps it can be taken away."

"Or it's just another one of those things breaking down. No reason the metaphysical should be entirely exempt," Grunt agreed before raising an eyebrow, "A secret patron? Seems a bit whimsical in approach if that's true."

He rested spread his hands with a wide shrug.

"On the one hand, I am absolutely not up to a fight on those terms. On the other, we need information and the point of a minor piece is that it can be readily risked."

"Yes, it can, but the question is how much can you learn when they're already aware of you."  She says, taking a sip of her glowing green drink.  "And yes.  A patron.  I don't think they're even fully aware of the nature of power.  The Neverborn certainly are but since they're so confused, I think the Neverborn are keeping secrets from their own pawns."

"They are far too loquacious to warrant subtle spying," Grunt told her, "And they're all mad. So, who decided to drag my humble hide into this?"

"Well, for lack of a better term, the Unconquered Sun."  She says, "In a fashion.  Or rather, one of his inheritors.  The Golden Lord or Ahlat, or several of the thousands of his godlings."  She twitches her mouth, "All also mostly dead, might I add."

"Never liked that term. Mostly dead means still alive, it seems an important distinction," Grunt told her before he groaned, "So, it's back to the old argument about Ahlat again. I suppose things had been too quiet on that front lately."

The second bottle was finished, and so was he. Any more and, well, best to know one's limits.

"So, how does one proceed with such a patron?"

""Yes, that old argument.  Mostly dead is being used in two meanings:  the vast majority of the Sun's heirs are dead.  And the strongest ones are 'mostly dead' as in 'still alive'.  Ahlat is possibly one of them." 

She taps her fingers on the table, "First you have to find out who it is, but your ties to the Ilmorijo are a solid step in that direction.  I'll confess I thought if Ahlat was reaching out with what was left of his power he'd have found a Solar."

"He's never been particularly associated with my ilk," Grunt agreed, "But, then again, very few have. The idea is a bit schismatic among my fellows. One reason I don't drink with them the way I used to."

He shook his head for a moment.

"So, do we bother the commander at this hour? I don't think she actually even pretends to sleep any more."

"It's a bit schismatic for just about anyone.  But with Gaia dead, your Dragon-Blooded are without representatives just like the rest."  She blinks a few times, "Come to think of it, it's entirely possible we might see some abnormal behavior from you and your kind in the time to come..."  She puts down her drink, "... Sunipa may not be the best to talk to at the moment.  She's under review."

"Not many other spirits who take my calls," Grunt told her, "But we're playing your game. We did see a few of my relatives going felt maker mad recently as I recall."

"No, we're playing someone else's game and trying to catch up.  Almost all of the old Celestial bureaucracy is under investigation, Core's orders, and we're not even sure of the whole picture.  Core is holding his cards close." She says, "Extrapolate on that bit.  Who's been chugging the mercury?"

"The isolated. That cult on the base," Grunt trailed off, "Some of the little souvenirs are outright disturbing and that's no small estimate from me. I think we're all mad some times, but madmen keep each other in line. The problem is when a madboy gets a little too free."

"Ah, I barely thought they even counted."  She says with a pair of blinks, "That's just human nature.  Someone might say that they're acting rather rationally.  They're powerful and the Neverborn would never kill them, they'd keep them to the very end of the line until victory was assured.  So, to them, they might very well have a longer life expectancy than any of us.  Though the religion bit, hmm."

"If it's all meaningless and you know you can't win, just eat a bullet. The theater of such nihilism is more depressing than the philosophy," Grunt replied, "And, honestly. You don't rat out comrades to officers."

"Usually it's not necessary.  Most people rat themselves out, one way or another." The way that Juno looks at him is slightly unsettling- weighing him, measuring him, going through hundreds of hours of camera footage about him... "Regardless I see the Dragon Blooded increasing to prominence.  And we have to assume that the Neverborn have instituted a breeding program of their own.  As a matter of fact I'd like you to confirm it."

"I think you need to elaborate your thoughts a bit. Remember, my field craft is infiltration, not intrigue or stealth. Nidhi has a better idea what they're up to than me one hopes," Grunt told her, "And don't ask me to give up all token gestures. At times they're all that keep us sane."

He leaned back.

"This is going to turn into me get certified for a lot of skills and toys I've been avoiding, isn't it?"

"Infiltration IS intrigue, it IS stealth, if done correctly.  Nidhi has some idea of what's going on but she's more than half the time clinically insane, and ultimately she is not disposable- as you're so fond of saying.  So yes, what you're saying is true.  Your goal is going to be to get information on the Dead from themselves, without risking the main timeline.  In short I need you to get in there as unnoticed as possible, get the information we need from the Dead, and get back.  Abduct, interrogate, the like."  She finishes her drink.  "And bug out if targeted by the Big Three.  Think more commando, less James Bond."

"James who?" Grunt asked before he shook his head, "Just saying, I'm more shaped charge than lockpick by inclination. Where do we start?"

"Yes. Commandos are the shaped charge.  Bond is the lockpick type."  She shakes her head, "Forgot you're all kids... sometime I need to send you some of the old videos.  You're not spying.  You're snatching, grabbing, interrogating, escaping.  Shaped charge it is.

But in order for that to work you're going to need more firepower.  I don't think we can train you to the point that you can throw down with an enemy Exalt, but the right Imperators or Immaculates, absolutely.  So that means we head technological."

"I'm not the most popular person with some of the titans of tech. In as much as a den of bears has opinions on a rather irritating cat," Grunt told her, "But understood."

"When you cross over, do you possess anything on you?  Knives, guns, clothing?"  Juno asks the Terrestrial, "If so, it's possible there's some sort of arcane tie we can exploit.  'Guns, lots of guns', for instance, or perhaps a nuclear device."

"Whatever I have on me. During a combat mission that's fine. When I was visiting Haven, not so much," Grunt answered.

"I see.  So the option is to keep you armed at all times."  Juno says, "And I think you'd best start to make your way to the Martial Library in the near future.  Training, training.  Is there anything that Command can do for you in the meantime?"

"Pain producing devices. It's one of the triggers that can snap me back," Grunt told her, "And I suppose I need to study how the two of them operate. Wish we could risk me taking a set of encryption keys with me, pull down as much data as time allowed."

"Core will be able to help you with it, so long as- well, if you get caught your first priority will be to destroy the keys, the second to kill yourself.  The only way we can guarantee a key will work is if it's a master key, and I know he has one.  Getting you the clearance for it will be a harder matter."

"No idea how we could be sure it was secure enough. Or that destructive measures were sufficient," Grunt told her, "But yes, I'm going to have to start sleeping in full kit. It'll be like training all over again."

"A microUSB with a macro ought to do the job; explode it with a grenade and not even the Neverborn can put it back together again.  But that's not my bailiwick." She stands up, "I'm going to get more from the bar.  Would you like anything?"

"No. This would be one of those 'the more I drank, the more I drink' nights and lucidity seems fairly important. Besides, if we're here much longer someone is going to be drunk enough to spot you," Grunt told her, "And we've been lucky not brawls kicked off already."

"Luck has nothing to do with that."  Juno tells him, "I'll be back in a bit.  With some equipment for you.  If I were you I'd spend the time to think long and hard and start developing a support network, start thinking about what to take... you know.  Preparing for your life."

"All right," Grunt agreed, "And, for the sake of politeness even though I doubt you'd lose track of me if I tried, I'm headed to my berth for now. If nothing else there's the personal arms to carry for now."

"If you'd like I'll leave you be and drop a package off for you."  Juno says to him.  "I understand you've had a rough 24 hours."

"I don't mind your company but being drunk, maudlin, and armed in public areas is problematic," Grunt told her, "And tying up part of Command for much longer would be silly of me."

"Command does not get tied up.  Command does what it needs to do," She admonishes him, "It'll be in your bunk when you wake up.  Take care of yourself, Grunt.  I'll speak with you later."

Then she's gone.

A few minutes later a fight breaks out further in the bar, anima fluxes burning and twisting, forming an elemental tornado before the heavies jump in.  Right around that time another one of Grunt's compatriots, a Wood-Aspect, Renee Lefebvre, swings on by to his booth.

"Hey Gabe,"  She waves, "Drinking alone again?"

"Evening Renee," Grunt said companionably, "I wasn't, but now I seem to be sobering up that way. Was headed to the berth in a few minutes but no real rush. Scimitar and Peregrine were in earlier, he had to help her home."

"Yeah, I'm surprised she didn't try to fight or fuck anyone,"  Renee sounds amused, her French accent timbering off into a light buzz, "Then again they'd prefer her to do one and not the other, hohn hohn?  Between you and me has Scimitar spoken to you yet?"

Ah.  Renee is VERY amused.  There's nothing Renee likes more than to act matchmaker and by now she's as transparent as the finest fiberoptic quartz.

"Hope you don't expect much to come of it, she was at the break out the mop point, not the head over waste disposal one," Grunt told Renee as he cleared a spot on the table for her drink. There was a collection of the fallen covering things. He gave a nod. "I'm supposed to blow rainbows up some new recruits' asses."

"Hahahahah... rainbows..."  Renee chuckles to herself, "Oh, no need, I'll be circulating around.  All over,"  She waves a hand at the bar.  "I'm not the type to sit around and sulk... but if you insist!"

She takes a seat and leans back on her chair, green eyes dancing in the booth's light.

"Haven't seen you around much, lowering the tone of places like usual."

"I've gotten popular the last week or so. Never a good sign," Grunt agreed with her, "So, what in the vacuum has been happening? Feel like the rest of the Blooded are playing a new game and I missed the rules."

"Well, we've hit a quiet spot.  The taking of the Asset definitely helped.  Things have been relatively quiet with the Dead recently.  You've seen more action than everyone else combined this past month."  She says, "It's causing a bit of social churn.  This new baby-making directive isn't exactly helping.  That's partly... well... one of the reasons why Scimitar was approaching you first.  We're moving less from spearhead to more of a fine point of the spear."

"Fewer massed battle. Or at least fewer where the hordes mean much," Grunt shrugged uncomfortably, "And they're a bit obsessive about quantity, not quality, of life in some regards."

He snorted slightly.

"And we may be just slightly more courageous, or suicidally stubborn, than the remaining Celestials."

"So yeah, there's a feeling that Gap has been attained." Roarke's Gap, named after a Dragon-Blooded who'd seen the coming war and theorized it would be worse than ever; Roarke had not survived to make it to the Last Refuge.  It was the point that the power difference between the Abyssals and Dragon-Blooded would be too strong to justify sending them out except in large numbers for very, very specific goals.  In short, it'd be using them as Reserves first.

"And they're going for blood purity, like the old days, but the Spreaders are in action again."

The spreaders- the Dragon-Blooded who believed humanity's survival meant passing the Gift to all humans.

"So a lot of us are pretty much lost right now.  And it's happened so quick!"

"It's less that they're so much innately stronger than the fact that they get to spend all their time getting better at killing us. No civilians to protect, no air purifiers to maintain, crops to grow, they don't even need coitus to increase their numbers. Gotta be a boring ass existence but great for task focus," Grunt opined dead pan, snorting at the Spreaders, "They just want an excuse for what they wanted to do anyway. A population of nothing but us? Eugh."

He mused for a moment, in that state of approaching but not yet arrived sobriety.

"Might be time we had a project."

"A project?  Do tell.  I love projects," She purrs, "I'm not the only one with that either if my judgment of Scimitar is correct.  So go on.  Do tell."

"I turned up a few souvenirs during a recent mission. Maybe I can guilt Command into handing them over. Only twenty percent are in my bailiwick but that just means people will have to stop complaining about my privileged status," Grunt told her as he stood, "Time for me to head home. Don't push any crack ships."

"Souvenirs?  Come on, don't do this to me,"  She says as she stands alongside him, reaching out to grab his arm, "Don't tease me like that, you know I gotta know this kind of stuff..."

One of the dancing Dragon-Blooded on the floor perks up and looks over, "Oh hey!  Renee!"

"HEyyyYYyyyY!"  Renee turns and waves.

Grunt took full advantage of the moment of distraction to try and slip away.

Stealth 100, success!

He manages to escape the club without being accosted by any of his incredibly annoying brethren!

It wasn't a disdain for his brethern, so much as he still wasn't armed and it had been a rough stretch. Grunt would feel better when he was properly attired for a dead universe.

He made his way towards his berth.

((Good time to end this thread; we'll have another one for you soon))