Franco

IC: Gavarm chortled. "'May' bein' th' operative word, ol' sport. This man's got some nifty tricks for keepin' clean." He patted the spotless hilt of his sword. "Anyway, unless y'all wanna stay around fer some oration-cum-philosophy," Gavarm offered jocundly, "I can take it from here." ****** I table the offer. This development needs to be discussed. The more resources, the better; the more people we can trust, the better. "Agreed," I second Onepu.

[NPC] IC: The guard retreated behind a stoic expression. He passed Tjuran a small satchel. "The Wise Man's Archive is at the village center, big building on the right."

IC: She or he--the Exo-Matoran brought to mind gender, but not one specifically--was painted like untouched snow. The suit was gracefully constructed given its building period, ever-so-slightly more curved and lean than others of the same generation, and seeming in form to be much more lissome. The weapons of the suit seemed places where the dream met the reality, smooth transitions from sloping sides to clawed extremities; notably, the two standard shoulder launchers were replaced by a broad artillery launcher where the head would be, and a scatter-launcher at the base of the "neck." Gavarm turned to Wiremu, hauled in the inventor and pecked him on the cheek. "Man, that's easy on th' eyes." Gavarm rose into a grin. "Let's call 'er 'Immaculate.'" [NPC] IC: "You're clear, Tjuran," the Onu-Toa declared, scope zooming back out as he finished his scan. He stepped aside as the gates lifted, leaving an open path to the Koro. He tossed Tjuran a tablet, adding, "The Mata Nui Daily. It should help you catch up. Now get into the village; healers should be here for you soon." OOC: It's a newspaper, so you can assume it has Mata Nui's recent events as found in Chapter III of the BZPRPG Starter Topic.

IC: Cero nodded thoughtfully. There were two of them, but there were three trucks. What if his Pokémon could help? Piedra's mini-noses were too limited to be useful at this distance. Viajero could track scents, but his legs were too stubby for it to be done quickly. Buitre's virtues--sight, and a great nose for corpses--did not apply. Both the Tympole and Aridez had no sensory abilities. And he had no idea what the Trapinch could do, let alone if it would obey him. He stroked his chin. If we go to the right truck, he conjectured, Viajero knows Kyle from the fight. He can confirm. But there's only one Viajero. In the end, he decided he would have to be content with it. "I have a Lillipup who knows Kyle's scent," he offered hesitantly. "It wouldn't take long for him to find if Kyle's in one or not. If we can get close to each subsequently, we can solve this quickly.

IC: Silence as we think about it. "Korero could help." Yes. If we could talk to him. I have a location, I don't have communication. He comes to us or we don't know jack. Gali might... I feel the hunch easing in and breathe it out, sit straight. I can't offer much to this. This group can deal with specifics. Best now: move the plan. I take out a tablet and give it to Onepu. It says, Is the offer still valid? [NPC] IC: From their various positions atop, inside, and before the walls, fingers on Patero and steam cannon, the guards peered warily at Tjuran. An escapee could be a valuable ally, but the last batch had arrived days ago. Their professional masks concealed hope and suspicion. At least their scans had revealed that the being was only armed with a visible spear and shield, and that he was injured. Whoever he was, the guards felt the small comfort that he was not a physical threat. They could keep an eye on him to prevent anything potentially negative. The Matoran operating the post's communications quietly sent for healers and one such eye. "Name?," an Akaku-wearing Onu-Toa asked the visitor by the gate.

IC: Gavarm frowned slightly at Wiremu's trouble, but his enthusiasm proved inexorable. "Good ta hear." He gave Wiremu a benevolent clap on the back. "Speakin' of hearin', I heard y'all're done with those suits. Sorry ta not help earlier--ya know how work is, never as planned--but would ya mind showin' me and my friend here," he spoke brightly, indicating Rynekk, "my baby?" *** He seems put off, but that was all I had to say. I think. I wish I had Leah. No. I don't want anything until I do what I need to do here. I need to maintain my energy and not expend it. Return myself to confidence not by adding more but by passively taking in. Saying is tiring, so sensing is reviving. I open myself to the world. I smell pungent grease and metal; see polished, ebon mask against dull room; feel smooth table beneath my finger; taste bland interior of mouth; hear Nuparu's muted u-and-e-modulation, "Onepu, how do you see the Ussalry's state of readiness..." I know the organs called "Korero," "Leah," "Oreius," "Reordin" and "Stannis" in their jostling. Beneath this lies the truest sense. The Earth, which is supine so it can discern the weight of what sits on it, and is insensate so it can reflect the sensations of others. Soil underfoot. Ceramic tools in my cloak. Dust heaped in corners. These things are always with me. I am content.

Also, there's a conference on Ko-Koro in Onu-Koro, which so far includes representatives of Onu-Koro (Nuparu and Onepu), Le-Koro (Kongu) and the Maru (Sulov).

IC: I look at Onu-Koro's Akiri. "They are aware. Reordin is in Ta-Koro." We all should be there. Or here. The front line was everything with Makuta. We must remember that. *** Gavarm led Rynekk back through the building until they came to a new door adjoining the stables. Waving them both through, Gavarm entered its room: a shrine to machinery. Imposing sets of armor were arranged before the way to the streets. Each suit stood adjacent to magazines of ammunition and tools of adjustment and repair. Gavarm's renewed anticipation led his scan through the maze to what he sought. "Wiremu!," he called jocosely, approaching the inventor with one hand out for a shake. Gavarm's desire to hug did not outweigh his sensitivity to social needs like avoidance of the awkward. Though his profession was far from mechanics, he had worked with Wiremu--particularly in the case to be conversation--and his innate curiosity, especially his interest in anatomy, gave him a sense of kinship with the other man of science. "How do ya do?"

IC: Cero did not hesitate. He had a job, rescuing Kyle, and he had been given a gift to do so, the help of an intelligent and awesome Noivern. He calmly sat straight and nudged the creature into flight forward.

That was another interesting one, given Lyichir's luckless leaving the revelation of Reznas' return to resolute righteousness, the serendipitous sand-surfing sequence, and-- Though I'll concede Cyrix the most awesome new form, this is neat. It just means that with great power comes great responsibility. Admittedly, the responsibility of beating a mutant Mana-Ko is not fun to have, but it doesn't get worse than that. The one complaint I have is with a spelling error: "Clade" is a noun. I think you mean "clad." P.S. I'll vote A and the moto-hub.

Nothing, really.

He did. That being said, jail is really no fun. Perhaps we need more probation.

IC: Anger wasn't much, but it was better than sleep, and it was better than sick. Coming from Esen, Cero would gladly take it. But Kyle kidnapped? That, he would not. Incapable as he knew he was, him and his companions certainly lacking the training necessary to handle such a circumstance, he supposed they would all have to be improved as they went. It was just important to move now. He had a mission. He considered sending Buitre to tail the truck--she'd spot it with her eyes--but doubtless Esen had already sent one of hers after the targets, to ensure they wouldn't escape-- Wait, what? Cero had never heard the word 'tail' used as a verb, and he had never known its espionage definition, but now he was acquainted with both. And the cloud of association around the word was a fair bit more cold than he had thought he was. He squirmed at whoever had been in his brain before him. Then, searching for a diversion, he latched onto Esen's question and followed her gaze until he found something he could help with. He crouched in front of the Dragon-type. Though he did not look into his eyes, knowing some Pokémon found that a sign of aggression or dominance, he angled himself toward it calmly. His fear and indignation had melted away. He was dealing with Pokémon now. "You must be a Noivern, and that," he murmured, jerking his head toward the littler version of the creature, "your young. Let me go out on a limb: you don't want Esen to leave, and that's because you don't like those poachers. You've probably lost someone to them as well. You might think they'll come back for you, you might think we might not beat them, that we could lose." He grew into a low, rapid voice. "But Esen's worked with Kyle, and I helped beat a giant Golurk. We're qualified as Kyle was. And I'm sure he gave them trouble when it was two on one. We can take on one leader each and beat them. We will win this, Noivern. You can count on it, and let go." He smiled.

IC: Gavarm frowned. Rynekk had died to a painful reality, and he needed reanimation before his ghost did something destructive. What would Tarnok or Sulov say? "Listen, old sport," Gavarm began gently. "Ah can't undo what happened, an' as someone workin' on settin' things raht, Ah can sure as karz tell ya givin' everyone what they deserve is gonna take a lot. This ain't a trumped-up dark god who gets beat by a couple o' Toa. Y'all're justifahd ta feel mis'rable." He leaned forward, entering a conspiratorial whisper, and as the idea his body had sensed coalesced, he willed his accent depart. "But I can give you hope, if you're willing to hear it."

IC: "Old sport," eh? The guy was picking up his lingo. Well, at least Gavarm could teach one son. "Come an' see," he bade succinctly, and the pair strode off down the adjoining hall. A few moments later, he unlocked and opened the door labeled "Colonel Gavarm," and the fetor of cigarettes slammed into the two. The cause was evident: on the right corner of the desk in the middle of the room was an overflowing ashtray. Facing the ashes, an engraving of Ga-Koronan docks hung on the wall. The opposite side of the room featured a diagram of Rahkshi anatomy that looked down on today's Mata Nui Daily in the desk's left corner. The wall that joined these elements was almost invisible, swamped by a band of humongous filing cabinets and shelves; from the top of one particularly tall cabinet, however, a fresh bust of Stannis Maru--granite-eyed and stern-jawed--sat, unsmiling gaze presiding over the room. The multifarious chairs of the office had already bent the knee to their new overlord, arranged so that one seat was reserved for him behind the desk and the others were in military formation on the doorway's wall. But the most supreme disarray was not found in the general mélange. It was the contents of the desk: dozens of writings on everything from the aural security of Ko-Koro to the relationships between the Piraka. "Sorry 'bout th' smell," Gavarm apologized quickly, weaving between the furniture and past the Rahkshi's serpentine stare. He slipped into Stannis' chair and examined the muddle with a sober stare. "Th' 'Mangaia Pact,' th' Brotherhood of Ak'Rei'Ahn and th' Legacy, caught them Ko-Koronans with their greaves down." He tossed Rynekk his dossiers on both. "Th' pact won with some mighty fine tricks up their sleeve from th' Piraka." Another pair of files came Rynekk's way, notes on the Vault's "gifts" and the Piraka. "We'd be gettin' th' village back if there weren't hostages." He passed Rynekk an analysis of the captive situation. "Anything else y'all wanna know?" *** "Korero could help."

C for #1 and B for #2 also, and I wonder how the abundance of crabs will react. Is it too early for a crab-voltron? This was a good chapter because it featured some interesting tradeoffs. Zatth cast Summon Bigger Fish successfully and Cyrix beat some of the dread Rock Ussals, but the resulting terrain destruction is bad underground. Meanwhile, Crazy Crew is pretty safe for now, but they've lost some weapons. By the way: That's a grammatical error (tense disagreement), albeit a minor one.

IC: As he walked through HQ's halls, heading for his destination aflutter, Gavarm heard a voice he had not had the pleasure of hearing in a long while--though it gave him small pleasure to hear it now. He entered the lobby and silenced Phop with a polite wave. "Mahnd if it comes from a friend, Rynekk?," he called humorlessly, his electrification at good news and a friend to share it with significantly reduced by the gravity of the big picture.

IC: A lesser man, shocked at such wonderment of the obvious and disconcerting, would've widened his eyes or ejaculated a brief cry of "What?," alarmed at the incongruity between the uneducated question and the military-educated asker. Mister Phopp was not a lesser man. "Sir," he explained gently, removing his monocle to lay it on his desk and regarding the group with a solemnity that straddled sympathy, "Ko-Koro has fallen to Makuta-worshipers. The Matoran you see are those who escaped."

Excellent.

IC: "Any time, Lieutenant," the Vortixx said graciously, and for a microsecond Naona thought she might have seen a wink flicker on his un-lensed eye, but he dipped his head civilly just as soon. "Farewell," he added, looking up to resume his military poise.

IC: "One minute, please," the debonair man pronounced. Sliding a tablet from his desk, he inscribed something onto it with blinding speed with one hand as his other opened a compartment in the furniture, then slipped the note into it and the stylus back onto the counter. There was a faint sound like wind. He sat straight, hands folded, and regarded his environs patiently. A short while later, a wind seemed to blow again, and he brought his hands up from beneath the counter with a tablet that was, down to the crab insignia, unmistakably an Ussalry file. Its label clearly included "Roth." "Will that be all, Lieutenant?," the secretary queried smoothly.

The wurst of all brats.