(no subject)

[initiates]

Date: July 1st
Location: The Initiative Hold & Courtyard.
Characters: Everyone.
Summary: New Transports arrive and are shuffled into the Courtyard after their initial briefings. Now with 200% more People-Seeking lists!
Warnings: None.

You've just been hustled and bustled through mazes of information and literal, wide corridors of the Initiative Hold and you've been equipped with your weapon—be it a gun, a sword, or even your existing powers. They've handed you this light netbook and a small pouch of coins (or a debit card, if you're more inclined), and there are several Transports before and after you going through the very same motions. You can hear the Greeter's voice as she walks alongside large groups, telling them all about the history of this place and sharing with you your purpose here in a hurried and urgent tone. "You're in luck that we have enough rooms for all of you; the housing building is getting awfully full. Please, let me show you into the courtyard."

You pass what looks like huge gymnasiums, all with dummies and targets strewn and splayed around the room. Training areas. There are even classrooms, and a few small offices. You're rushed past a large library while the Greeter informs you that you can find almost all your information there, if you've got the time to look—and trust her, you'll have time. You don't spend a lot of time in the bank, and it's a bit of a blur of exchanges with more and more of these strangely-accented and oddly polite-seeming members of the Initiative.

Soon enough, you're in a massive courtyard bustling with all the other Transports. It's not exactly what you'd expect, and it looks more like barracks than anything—huge walls of concrete and stone, separating you from all of the hallways you'd just passed through. It's raining heavily, and dark clouds loom in the air, though it hasn't turned to snow. It's a chill cold, and there are shelters—long cloth hangings that extend from the walls of concrete to house you from the rain, but not enough. Most notably, the courtyard is filled with a marketplace. Even in the cold and the rain, there are several citizens seated at their covered booths and tables, bundled up against the weather. They're selling all manner of their own handmade goods and foods, and citizens and Transports alike are traveling from one small covered shop to another in search of all manner of necessities. Now and then around you you might spot paper fluttering in the faint wind from somewhere relatively dry. It looks like a list.

The Greeter's voice has become so faint now, but you swear you can make it out in the back of the crowds as she tells you, "Good luck. Be safe!"

Her voice is drowned out by the busy marketplace, though even the transactions taking place are somewhat subdued. Nobody is overly happy, really, though most citizens can be found with smiles on their faces. It doesn't seem like they're that shocked to see you, either; even if you're not bound in tattered rags and wrapped in heavy shawls as they are. You're welcome to walk up to a shop, and find yourself something to eat—hey, maybe you'll even find something akin to a raincoat. Or, you can join the others under the coverings against the walls. Where am I? What war? She was talking so fast, and it didn't all make very much sense… did anyone else catch it all?

Welcome to the courtyard. Welcome to the Initiative Hold—and most importantly, welcome to Exsilium.

Comments

[overclocking]

[The moment is gone as quickly as it comes; he deliberately returns a polite amount of attention to her (and, alternately, the crowd pressing in around them); not quite making eye contact, as if he assumes some measure of discomfort and would rather not tread upon it.

Truth be told, he hasn't felt this on-edge since he was a wanted demon moving into a convent of Exorcists with very large holy weapons.]

Not really... or if they did, I somehow managed to miss it entirely. [He shakes his head a bit, as if he could send the excess information spinning off his mind like the unwelcome raindrops in his hair.] They gave us a few minutes to memorize what's basically an encyclopedia of information...

[anklets]

[Exorcists and holy weapons, you say—]

They bring too many in at once to devote any proper time to it.

[She's laced with acid, can't help it, this distaste towards another organisation which would cage her loved ones and continue pulling in more.]

There should be some information on the device they've given you under "Introduction to Exsilium", something like that. [ as though their lives are the preface of some educational book ] I'd recommend looking it over when you've the chance.

[overclocking]

[He doesn't blame her for any vitriol, and finds himself commiserating. They have a mission to do at home, and they're on a time limit--in more ways than one. The clock hasn't stopped ticking on them, even if these kidnappers deposit them back at the exact moment they stole them from.]

[He makes a face at the reminder of the tablet.] Yeah, they mentioned it. It might... take me a while to figure out how to get to it, though.

[How do you even use a device like that when you're not biologically hooked up to it? Not that it particularly matters, because he's terrible at the ones you're biologically hooked up to, too.]

They might have at least selected better targets to help them fight in a high-tech war. [If the Initiative's victory is dependent on the technical efficiency of the like of him, things aren't boding well for the cause. He mops wet hair out of his face, seized by a new irritability to go with all of his other unpleasant emotions.] Or at least provided umbrellas.

[anklets]

[They tout advancement and futurisms, but this war is still artillery and cutting corners on your morals. She's been in the dirt and the death and tasted poison gas seeping into the air and it's all close enough to what she'd come from that the tablets don't matter much.]

Not always high-tech. Thank goodness.

[Smiles, and this time it's honest enough, because they've hit familiar ground.]

They sell umbrellas at most of these stalls. Look for a jacket, too. It never stops raining.

[overclocking]

[He wonders whether he should take that news as good news or not. He's seen enough primitive warfare to know that's not exactly preferable, either. For the sake of optimism, though, he decides not to worry about that just yet.

He's not oblivious to her shift in demeanor, and since weather is a much nicer--if cliche--topic than involuntary wars, he opts to pursue that instead. ... Even if it's with a certain amount of creeping horror.]

Never?

... Literally ever?

[anklets]

[Manages to look lighthearted, at a wonderful juxtaposition with the weather, and she feels she must surely be pale enough by now that her skin has clearly forgotten the little thing called 'sunlight'.]

Not ever.

[overclocking]

[This news is mildly distressing, from the standpoint of never being able to see the sun again. Or, worse, the stars. He actually feels a swoop of dismay at that, deep in his stomach. It's funny the things you take for granted until it's too late.

He has to take a moment to pull his expression out of something almost comically despondent. The first words that come to mind fall out of his mouth, though, unbidden.]

--How do you stand it?

[anklets]

I'm from England. [ she takes pity on this poor child and keeps her smile facetious ] It's rather a common theme.

[overclocking]

... I'm sorry.

[He sounds honestly, genuinely apologetic about her plight.

Still, having confronted the overwhelming reality of England's weather, he decides to accept his fate and begin troubleshooting instead.]

I guess this money should go towards a coat and umbrella, then...

1/2

[anklets]

Mm. It will be worth it, in the long run.

[anklets]

[But the smile lasts only as long as it takes to deliver those words with gentle cheer.]

Something neutral, all right? [ with a look to his hair, eyes, ears ] You don't want to stand out. Not right now.

[overclocking]

[He follows the direction of her gaze well enough, and he feels another shiver of unease crawl its way up his spine.

He does his best not to let it show.

A warning like that could mean a lot of things--in his own world, he's used to it. "Your very existence is illegal, so don't get caught. Or else." Here, though, there are plenty of other possibilities... some that might be worse.]

That seems... ominous.

[anklets]

Exsilium had been willing, before, to abide with the Initiative for much of what happened in the name of this war, but not any longer.

[ her voice has become uncharacteristically soft, but Lenalee's poise is surprisingly militant, now; taut, straight-backed, aware of every merchant whose face is turned their way ]

The "United Earth" shipped the virus to this island and placed it under quarantine hardly two weeks ago. They wished to keep us knotted up, so that they might easier drop their bombs; it is because of the Initiative's presence here that this destruction has happened to them, and they dislike us for it.

[Lenalee cannot face the reality head-on for the misery and yet the words themselves are easy to deliver. She has crafted herself a certain half-detachment with which to talk about war as it affects strangers— in wearing a Rose Cross bulls-eye on her breast all her life, she wonders if some part of her still considers all these faces around her only to be likely human.]

[overclocking]

[He takes all of this information in quietly, expression oddly blank. In one fell swoop is answers his questions about the illness and the haunted looks in the eyes of those who are obviously not new arrivals.

He knows that look. He's sick and tired of that look.

He looks down at his hand--infused and enhanced by the Initiative's technology--flexing it a few times. He's only been here for an hour and he already feels like an accomplice. Like he has even more blood on his hands.]

... Yeah, that makes sense. I can't say I really blame them for any hostility.

[anklets]

[Lenalee's resigned herself to the role of the harbinger of bad news, because the good is a commodity, here; victories are small and have personal-importance, which mean little to the monthly throng. And looking down at him, she feels massively unprepared.

He's a child.]

What's your name?

[overclocking]

Oh-

[He drops his hand and looks up, some of the gloom clearing from his expression. He's really bad at this introductions, thing, isn't he...?]

I'm sorry, that was rude of me. It's Chrono.

[anklets]

[To his credit, she too has given neither name nor pleasantries. When he holds out her hand for him, Lenalee has gathered in a smile the way Exsilium has gathered in its clouds, as though it had always been there and would continue to be.]

Lenalee.

[overclocking]

[He hesitates a moment, then reaches out to take it. His hand is small, but there's a perhaps surprising amount of warmth and strength in his grip, despite the temperature and his size.

The answering smile is a genuine one.]

It's nice to meet you. I wish the circumstances were better.

[anklets]

[ has never made introductions under anything save for unpleasant circumstances (this she fails to mention, as it is not a topic to be discussed in polite (and, more than that, new) company)— her handshake, at least, is steady

simply: ] It's fine if they aren't.

[overclocking]

[A small hint of humor works its way in, and it's a relief; he's having one of those days where he just wants an excuse to laugh. To laugh away the tension and fear and uncertainty, until he's breathless.

He can't, of course, so he'll just opt for self-deprecating humor.]

That's a relief. I'd hate to have a bad introduction.

[anklets]

I've had worse.

[No, how old is he, really? Humour like that doesn't belong on someone his age— not someone happily-raised, not delivering comments so wry, like he's filed them to a subtle point which only adults and the very keen might take pause at. She's curious— politely—, but decides she has more reasons not to ask than otherwise.]

Now hurry and find yourself a jacket.

[overclocking]

A-ahh...

[He looks down at himself and realizes he must look like a pathetic, soaked mouse. Granted, he'd rather people take away that impression over a few choice others, so he doesn't actually have any complaints. It's a small wound to his perpetually-sore dignity, though.

He reaches around and wrings his braid out some. That might be some kind of resigned, sheepish agreement.]

Yes, I was looking for something when I ran into you.

[anklets]

[What a coincidence. Smiles faintly, as though coming back to herself, and tries not to look too commiserating when he wrings out his hair. It's so effortlessly long, she's almost envious, and what a stupid thing to think about— of a stranger, no less! Honestly, Lenalee.]

Someone already living here?

[overclocking]

[There is nothing to envy about a purple mullet, Lenalee. Nothing. He drops it with a sigh, conceding defeat, and shakes his head.]

No, nothing like that, it's just... [He only barely resists the urge to tug at the foolish cuffs on this foolish shirt. He fidgets regardless, embarrassed.]

We were brought here wearing clothing that isn't... what we normally wear...

[anklets]

[ she can envy whatever she pleases! ]

You were brought- together?