Perp

OOC: Ember and co. (@Krayzikk @Void Emissary) from Ga-Wahi IC: Ember - Deck of the Fowadi, Rehu Cove –no time had passed at all. The previous day’s events would weigh on her mind for a while. Excitement and terror, which she had found herself suddenly craving after having been starved of them for so long, signalled a simple concept in her mind: adventure. Wherever the Fowadi led them, there was surely something incredible to be experienced along the way. A simple supply run had seen them almost lost to sea, if not for the professionalism of two Toa eager to learn. True, she’d likely think twice about getting on a skiff with both of them together again, but Brukin and Rynekk were fast learners and quick thinkers – traits which were crucial when at sea – so she was more than happy to be in their company. It also helped that the two of them were absurdly strong, a blessing which had come in handy during the resupply run, though she guessed that that was the trade-off for being so massively built. They’d had to ferry the crates from Forsi back to the Fowadi one crate at a time, leaving Rynekk and Brukin behind on the docks in alternating turns, else they would assuredly sink. Apart from the relative lax pace of the run, however, everything had gone smoothly. At first, it sounded insane to Ember that the Forsi dockmaster had already prepared most of their cargo for departure, as if he was prescient. When he explained that the Fowadi’s radio operator had “called it in over the radio”, it still sounded insane to her, but for totally different reasons. She’d given a whole “back in my day” spiel right there and then about not having fancy radios on boats, nor radios at all. Times had changed, and she was still getting up to speed. Everything had been in order: provisions, munitions, equipment, consumables. Even the Quartermaster’s “special items” were accounted for. Getting that cargo transferred and stowed was the easy part. Her own cargo – choosing which of her possessions to pack and which to leave. having returned to Ga-Koro after the resupply run… well, that had been harder than she’d anticipated it being. Just standing in her hut, or even walking the streets of Ga-Koro itself, a wash of melancholy hit her hard. She knew she’d be back to see her home before too long, but the feeling was inescapable. It was that mix of anticipation, trepidation, and longing common to every sailor before the start of a long tour. A journey lay ahead, and what might happen along the way was never certain. It was never a final goodbye, until it suddenly was. She made her choice of items, packed up, and left to board the Fowadi once more. As the sun set behind Ko-Wahi’s mountains, Ember watched the reddish glow glittering across the hulls of the Dasakan vessels, strangers to her home village as Ember herself had felt at one time in her life. This time, she didn’t say goodbye. She’d slept soundly belowdecks that night – her second aboard the ironclad, which she had already come to respect as a hardy sailing vessel, even if it was built by the rockheads. When she woke up the next morning, Ga-Koro was no longer among her thoughts. Her second home loomed before her, its obsidian cliffs unforgettable to any who were afforded the privilege to glimpse Ta-Wahi from offshore. The sun was still low when she made her way to the main deck, always an early riser. The plumes of steam rising high into the crisp morning air always seemed a supernatural phenomenon whenever she saw them. The churning primordial heat of the Mangai meeting the life-swaddling-and-smothering depths of the ocean old as time; their inexorable clash releasing etheric spirits into the heavens. The glow of sunrise made the spectacle even grander, and the personal mythology just that little bit more believable. It was another couple of hours before the ship docked and the bustle of activity populated the deck. She’d saluted the Captain as he disembarked, but was not ready to leave the ship herself just yet. She leant there, against the gunwale, contemplating her time spent in Ta-Koro. She knew she’d never be able to escape the memories once she’d arrived, but being outside the city proper let her reminisce on the good ones. The bad memories could be contained inside those stonework walls, at least for the time being. It wasn’t too long after that she heard familiar voices behind her, across the breadth of the deck. She turned away from the dark cliffs beyond the ship to Rynekk and Krayn, having just come topside. She raised a hand above her head in greeting.

IC: Ember - Naho Bay, close to Forsi At sea, the cold bosom of death was always nearby, ready to take you into Her cold embrace. That great blue expanse, which all sailors who were worth their salt instinctively knew, was not a picturesque vista to be plastered on a postcard. It was a living entity, a great mistress that demanded respect – payment for the reassurance, not guarantee, of safe passage. Those who romanticized the sea could never cross it on their own accord. Those who tried were never seen again, or opted to do so in the company of those who knew the true nature of the water. Sailors were the only ones who could truly comprehend the enormity of the reef of bones that peppered the deepest fathoms. She was as fickle as she was awesome, and sometimes she was simply hungry, and no amount of souls could sate her for long. Even the most experienced crews had to contend with the bleak reality that even they were not safe from her appetite. Ember had no plans on becoming just another light snack today. She was not on the menu. The outcropping of rocks they were nearly about to hit clearly had it wrong. She yanked the handle of the rudder harder, but the churning of the sea was fighting her, and it didn’t help that every time their flimsy skiff crested a wave, the aft of their vessel caught some air, and for a moment the northeastern gale buffeted the rudder itself with tremendous force. Having to overcorrect to compensate for the poor circumstances was wearing on her arms, and she was not nearly as young and fit as she was in her prime. The rocks loomed before them, too close now. Through gritted teeth, she barked an obscenity, but whatever it was was caught and carried off by the wind. The two Toa accompanying her had done their jobs well enough to keep them on their tack, but the combined mass of the two – giants, even for Toa – meant that the craft was handling sluggishly, and there was nothing they could do about that. She yanked harder, her muscles screaming. If she hadn’t already been half-blinded by the ferocious weather, she would’ve properly seen the mass of metal nearly collide with her before it was already in position. Nevertheless, she yelped, caught off guard. “Ahh! Sakes alive!” They were banking harder now, and her arms were no longer on fire. It took her a moment to comprehend what had happened, but when she did, she almost couldn’t believe it. It was about as close as she was going to get to belting out a peal of laughter in their current situation. It was only seconds later that the rocks sailed by off the skiff’s starboard side, less than a couple feet away. “Well done, Toa Brukin! The both of ye’ll make fine sailors, I’m sure!” The imminent danger was over for the time being, and with the skiff heading in the right direction, Ember lifted a hand off the rudder and rubbed the sleet from her eyes. Like a prophetic vision, her new clarity of vision spotted a break in the storm ahead of them, Forsi illuminated in a ray of golden light peeking through the impenetrable grey mass above. “Land ho!” she bellowed above the howl of the storm. It was noticeably quieter than it had been twenty minutes ago. “Port ‘o call’s dead ahead!” The Ta-Matoran breathed a sigh of relief. This was the first time in a very long while she’d been on a voyage headed straight into the jaws of death, and there was nothing more invigorating to an old sailor than the threat of mortal peril narrowly avoided. Despite herself, she grinned broadly. She knew, right then and there, she had made a great decision yesterday. The old skills never faded, they only became more refined with age. She suddenly felt young again. It was like— OOC: Ember and co. (@Krayzikk @Void Emissary) to Ta-Wahi

OOC: Jam courtesy of Emzee, Geardirector, Krayzikk, and Snelly IC: Farzan - Jokaro - Krayn - Skyra - Tailua - Wiremu The Po-Koro Technology Emporium, five hours before the Fowadi’s departure from Ostia * * * Right. Where were we? “...So, how does it hold up to heat?” Tailua asked, grinning like a Muaka. “Can fire go through it? Around it? Resiliency’s a priority, ya know.” “Well,” began Jokaro, his attention focused on the shop’s solitary customer, “I wouldn’t advise either – at least not for extended periods of time. Gas seal’s not rated for extreme heat, and you don’t want to deform the breech or the barrel either. Plus, the wood furniture on the exterior’s liable to catch fire. Wouldn’t exactly call the whole package ‘fireproof.’” Gingerly, the Po-Matoran hefted the launcher - his Patero V2 prototype - giving both himself and Tailua a proper look at it. “However, seeing as I’ll have to make a new one of these for you anyway - this’un’s a prototype - I can throw in a few modifications to accommodate your, uh, temperature range. Definitely would recommend swapping the wood furniture out for something less flammable. However, swapping the wood out for metal will inevitably make the thing a lot heav-” “Give me metal or give me death (metal)!” His last word was punctuated with a thump to his chest. “Uh, alright. Metal. Message received. To be clear, I-” “When do you think you’ll have it ready? With the metallic enhancements and whatnot?” “Well, uh…” Jokaro gingerly set the launcher down on the counter, mildly flustered. “We don’t have any formal blueprints drawn up just yet. I only just put it together today, actually, so if you’re fine with the possibility of malfunctions in the field, then… you get the picture. We’re actually supposed to get someone in later to do some… comprehensive testing…” The Po-Matoran’s voice trailed off, a stray thought catching his attention. “Uh, Farzan?” He called over his shoulder into the workshop behind him. “That group that was in here earlier today - did they have any special requests or did you just sell them some stock?” “Well, let’s see…” came the Fa-Matoran’s reply. He appeared a moment later in the threshold, scanning his notes. “We had a few requests that were a bit out of the ordinary, which is not a bad thing. There was an order for some armor plates by Captain Dehkaz… two sets of upsized wrist-volos, ear protection, a custom diskette rifle with magnification and spring-loaded belt clips, revolver speedloaders - all for a Mister Krayn Inzaka…” Jokaro’s eyes were beginning to glaze over. “Aha, here we are: For Miss Skyra Daring: one V2 Patero prototype in return for testing services rendered.” “Right, testing services,” he parroted, turning back to Tailua, patting the top of the launcher. His expression suddenly turned inquisitive, and he swiveled back to the Fa-Matoran. “Farzan. This, uh, Captain Dehkaz - he’s a friend of yours?” “We travel in the same distinguished circles, you could say.” The Po-Matoran seemed to digest that for a moment, glancing past Farzan at his backpack sitting on his workshop desk. “Ominous.” A sudden clatter of footsteps from the adjoining storeroom announced the arrival of a third Matoran, stirring up a torrent of dust particles in his wake. Jokaro, having forgotten that said Matoran was even here, gesticulated toward the not-so-new arrival. “Right! Farzan, this is-” “Oh! And who are you, my good man?” “He’s-” “Uh, hello. My name’s Wiremu, I was… uh… told I could find a workshop to… pitch in at?” he answered slowly, becoming increasingly frazzled and his words more uncertain as Farzan crossed the shop to approach him, pace uncomfortably fast. “Ha! Well, pinch my neck and call me a tunnel rat, I never thought I’d see the day!” said Farzan, shoving the Onu-Matoran’s hand into his own without the former even having offered it first, decidedly not putting Wiremu’s already nervous disposition at ease. The hand-shaking was vigorous, and mostly one-sided. Farzan continued, “To think, we get to have such a heavyweight visiting our humble establishment. This is a great moment for us, Jokaro!” “Hm. You seem to know a lot of people, Farzan,” remarked Jokaro drily, watching the handshake become a spectacle of duration. “Wiremu here’s been sent as an attaché from Onu-Koro. Some kind of inter-village program. You probably know more about it than I do.” Farzan seemed not to hear his co-worker and continued to fawn over Wiremu. The Onu-Matoran exchanged a glance with Jokaro, his expression one of pleading. If it were possible to shrug with one’s eyes, that was the expression Jokaro returned to him. Tailua was also watching the exchange, his own face a mixture of bewilderment and respect. His attention returned to Jokaro when the latter clapped his hand onto the counter. “Well! Sounds like we’ve got our work cut out for us today. Having a third set of hands should speed things up, at least,” he remarked to Tailua, jerking his chin in the direction of Wiremu. “I’d say swing by around day’s end, should at least have your launcher partially complete by then. I’ll be able to make adjustments to the design once we’ve done some well-needed testing.” The Ta-Toa’s catlike grin returned to full strength. “That I can do!” Tailua said boisterously, turning to make his way towards the shop’s exit. “I’ll be back by sundown!” “Appreciate ya stopping by,” remarked the Po-Matoran over the door chime. The shop devoid of patrons for the moment, Jokaro figured it was high time to free Wiremu from his social bondage, crossing over to where the pair stood, still locked in the handshake. “Daylight’s burning, we’d better get started.” Jokaro thrust out his own hand, palm upturned, towards Farzan. “Mind if I glance over your notes?” "Wiremu here is a big deal, you see," Farzan remarked excitedly, at long last releasing Wiremu from his grasp to retrieve his iStone for Jokaro, who had to stifle a chuckle as Wiremu began massaging his hand while Farzan’s back was turned. "Nuparu's right-hand man, they call him.” He slapped the iStone down into Jokaro’s palm, not even waiting a second afterwards to whirl back around, facing Wiremu once again. “Kinda surprised to see you here! Aren't you also surprised to see you here?" Wiremu, who had just cleverly clasped his hands behind his back, was clearly puzzled by Farzan's insurmountable social intellect. He shrugged. "Well, I wouldn’t say I’m that important, really… But we did work on some projects together, that much is true.” Farzan’s further lauding of Wiremu’s provenance just barely registered to Jokaro, busy leafing through the orders and details thereof. “Good, good, he’ll be of some use, then,” he grumbled in scant acknowledgement. After delivering a jovial clap of the shoulder to Wiremu, Farzan finally diverted his attention away from the Onu-Koronan engineer to scribble down a physical copy of the work order in his notebook. Jokaro continued scanning the listed items, quietly reading to himself. One thing in particular piqued the Po-Matoran’s interest, who spoke it aloud once he parsed Farzan’s… unique stylus-writing. “Huh. Long-range diskette rifle, single barrel. Someone’s a marksman, sounds like. Guessing you’ll want to tackle that one, Farzan. ‘Strongest firing mechanism’… well that’d be one of those spares left over from that heavy diskette launcher you made for that one guy, Commander what’s-his-name.” “Commander Dehkaz,” Farzan replied casually, tearing the completed page from his notebook and handing it to Wiremu. Jokaro went still. Externally, nothing showed, but within his mind, as he suddenly connected two disparate pieces of information… well, it was certainly a reaction. Like one you’d get doing irresponsible chemistry. Two quantities were mixed together, and the result was (figuratively) explosive. It took a few moments for the (figurative) caustic foam his brain had become to cease its churning. Eventually, the resulting mixture settled, a new substance crystallizing. “The same Dehkaz?” “The same one as earlier. And yes, I will be handling that item. It’s got a few special components that I’ve still got t-” “Wait a minute, hold on, hold on – is he a Captain or a Commander?” “Both.” The two craftsmen of the Emporium stared at each other, their expressions unreadable in equal measure. Several moments of pure silence elapsed. Jokaro was the first to crack, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, releasing it in a sigh. “Well… we’d better get to work.” Farzan simply nodded and whistled for his ussal, striding back into the workshop proper. Jokaro trundled over to Wiremu, who had been happily absorbed in studying the work order. Startled, he only looked up when Jokaro quite loudly cleared his throat. “Hey. You handy with a heatstone torch?” * * * Brusque chatter amongst the three assembled craftsmen was punctuated by the soft whirr of lathes, hiss of torches, and clang of hammer against metal over the course of the next few hours. A third set of hands did indeed prove much-needed after Lenat had gone to work for the Koro’s Engineering Department full-time; the work progressed in earnest, with little in the way of friction between the assembled Matoran. Wiremu, intermittently discussing the details of the Po-Onu-Koro technology exchange, as well as some long-term plans that included building something like a college, at least as far as Farzan and Jokaro could tell, kept his statements relatively vague and reserved. The latter two Matoran, when not plying the former with questions, effortlessly danced around the not-so-subtle attempts to determine the secrets of proprietary diskette tech and related interesting if hardly-believable stories from a round-island trip, respectively. Po-Wahi grew dimmer and cooler at a rate not totally disconnected with the frantic millings-about within the shop, which were now winding down after a hardy afternoon of labour. Farzan had made some improvements to his diskette launching system (which he had done when Wiremu was preoccupied with various tasks assigned to him by the other two present, much to the Onu-Matoran’s mild chagrin) and Jokaro had some extra time to make detailed notes on the construction of V2 Patero whilst starting on Tailua’s commission. Before long, the end of the work day approached, the bright desert sun fading to a dim crimson as it neared the shimmering horizon. Three Matoran, reeking of sweat and grease, were gathered together in the workshop proper. The day had wound down, and so had their collective and individual energy. In relative silence, occasionally shooting the shit and tinkering with some of the various items which they had spawned over the course of the afternoon - a pile of weapons and gear fit for a band of Toa - they were granted a few precious moments of reprieve and reflection. Each was perched upon a shop stool, arranged in a rough circle facing each other in the largest open space unoccluded by scrap and machinery. Farzan fiddled with the marksman’s diskette rifle while his ussal napped beside him. Wiremu wiped the grease off a few of his tools using a rag, its color now more or less the same pitch as the gunk it was displacing. Jokaro took a swig from a canteen, the liquid within ambiguous, while flipping through the wrinkled pages of his notebook. In the corner, a few lukewarm slices of Papa Podu’s lay unattended. And that’s when Skyra Daring burst through the door, as many a tale on Mata Nui starts. “...so the guy asked me why he was being arrested for speeding, and I was like, ‘Look man, I’m not arresting you for that, it’s because you flew your Gukko through five market stands and then a tavern!’” “How did he… Doesn’t matter.” Krayn began, then thought better of it and abandoned the thought. He raised his voice, very slightly, to say. “Skyra Daring and Krayn Inzaka; are you folks in?” Jokaro, stupor suddenly broken by the ringing of the door chime, looked up to find the other two Matoran also rapt. Eager to get the day over and done with, he pried himself from the stool and meandered through the threshold into the storefront proper, tossing his notebook over onto his workbench as he went. “Right here, right here,” he grumbled, exhausted, stepping behind the counter. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder into the workshop where the distinct noises of an annoyed ussal crab could be heard. “Got all your gear ready to go. Farzan’s got the full inventory.” “Indeedly I do!” said the Fa-Matoran, stepping through the threshold a moment later, waving his iStone level with his head before setting it down in front of the pair of Aggressors. He followed up with a sharp whistle, and Kreff the ussal crab skittered out of the workshop and into the storefront moments later, a table mounted on his carapace, precariously balanced, upon which rested the treasure pile of technology and gear. It took a few moments for Farzan to get Kreff to cooperate, motioning, gesticulating, and performing all sorts of bodily motion in order to wrangle the crab into position. Wiremu, keeping quiet in the workshop doorway, simply stood by, ready to lunge forward and catch anything that might fall off the crab’s back. “Aha, it should all be right here!” remarked Farzan, Kreff now perfectly still and he himself out of breath. Dramatically, he swept his arm across the largest and most notable item on the table. “Mister Inzaka– the custom-order Diskette Rifle you ordered.” The newly minted Sentinel irregular (consultant? mercenary?) whistled long and low, his hand running the length of the rifle laid out on the table a few inches above its surface. The other items he had ordered were arrayed loosely around it, an unconscious acknowledgement that it was the centerpiece of the spread. Finally he wrapped his fingers about the grip and lifted it, hefting it in one hand experimentally. Not too heavy nor too light, the weight was perfect, the balance just so; he sighted through the scope and smiled at the magnification. When he’d started working, something like that would have seemed impossible. The Great Telescope could do it, of course, but the lenses were so much larger; to see them working precisely on such a small scope was a minor marvel. The silence borne of admiration was broken by Skyra, scanning the generous length of Krayn’s new rifle. “Wow, it’s so big.” Krayn finally broke eye contact with the weapon, glancing over at the other items forming the perimeter of the rifle-shaped hole in the table’s top layer of kit. The two Volo Lutu, his spring-loaded clips, and the speedloaders for his revolver’s bullets all rested before him and each also received a careful (if shorter) examination. He smiled and nodded his appreciation to the engineers as he laid the rifle back down. “These look perfect. The rifle, especially. It’s exactly what I had in mind. Did you have any luck figuring out some hearing protection?” “Mm, ah yes, I’ve got those right here, one moment…” Jokaro remarked, a finger lazily pointed in Krayn’s direction as he moved about the shop, retrieving the requested item from the back of Farzan’s ussal. “Funny little request, this’un.” He held out the pair of what looked like a set of heavy-duty headphones, with knobs and switches mounted upon each earpiece. “There are dials on each side to control the amount of sound that permeates through at a set interval. On one side is a switch that’ll dampen all sound as best as the device can do; otherwise on the opposite side is another switch that’ll adaptively dampen any sound above the levels set by the dials. Wasn’t easy putting this thing together, and it’s rather expensive. Don’t go breaking it now, y’hear?” If Jokaro was aware of the pun, it didn’t show on his face. “Perfect.” Krayn said simply, smiling. It would take some time practicing with it, learning the settings and how each one sounded to his ear, but it seemed that it would do everything he hoped for and more. “I’ll be very careful.” The Po-Matoran responded with a distracted “Mhm” as he went to pore over the other items in the pile on the ussal’s back. “Your belt buckles, or clips, or whatever they are– right here… speed-loaders too, and, uh, let’s see here… Right!” Jokaro plucked the duo of modified Wrist-Volos from the rest of the spread, setting both down on the counter in front of the other Toa in the room. “Two modified grapples for the famous Skyra Daring.” Skyra’s confusion was instant. “Huh?” She hefted the Wrist-Volo already clamped to her arm, for Jokaro to see, looking awkwardly between her device and the upscaled ones on the counter. “Errr…” Jokaro frowned. He, too, compared the Wrist-Volo attached to the Le-Toa’s arm and the ones quite obviously two sizes too large for her. Befuddled, he turned to Farzan, hoping his co-worker could clear things up. “Do you, uh… Lemme see– where’s that work order…?” Spying it, he snatched the iStone off the counter, intently scrolling as Farzan hovered over his shoulder, also staring at the tablet – the text on which was all in the Fa-Matoran’s handwriting. In another life, Farzan probably could’ve made it as a physician. Jokaro felt a pang of embarrassment creep into his gut as he realized that everything was perfectly in order and up to spec except for his ability to decipher Farzan’s handwriting properly. The knockout blow came when he looked up over the iStone at the figure in front of him: Krayn Inzaka, failing to conceal a grin, his arms crossed. His massive forearms were noticeably devoid of any kind of gear. “Well, uh. I guess those are also yours, then.” Some mild chuckling permeated the storefront, though it was not quite as mirthful a sound to the Po-Matoran. Farzan retrieved the two oversized grapples and helped the De-Toa get them fitted as Jokaro was left to remedy the awkward atmosphere. He turned back to Skyra, his hands clasped in front of him. It took a fair amount of energy not to wring them nervously. “Heh, well, uh, it’s certainly possible that I need to get my eyes checked. Ahem, um. Right; Toa Daring, my partner’s informed me that he’s brokered a deal with you, regarding the testing of one of our new products.” Skyra nodded. “Yeah, something like that. Some kind of weapon right?” Jokaro exchanged a quick glance with Wiremu, and then motioned the Onu-Matoran over. “Yes indeed, a weapon,” he responded while Wiremu sidled up. In hushed tones, he spoke to Wiremu, giving him some instructions - no, directions. “...got all that?” The Onu-Matoran said nothing in reply, but nodded confidently. “Alright, hurry back.” With that, Wiremu hustled out of the shop, headed into town. Jokaro refocused his attention on Skyra, who once again seemed slightly confused. Jokaro held out an arm, ushering the Le-Toa towards the corridor that led in the direction of the firing range. “This way please, Miss Daring.” Having finished getting the Wrist-Volos set up, Farzan and Krayn followed behind them. Only one bench in the range had anything on it - the second prototype laboriously put together earlier in the morning. On the other side of the range, not really visible if you weren’t paying attention, some shrapnel was still embedded in the stonework walls from the test firing of the first prototype. Jokaro stopped in front of the bench, resting his hand on the body of the weapon. “So, are you familiar with the Patero launcher?” * * * A few hours later, the crickets were chirping unceasingly, the air was soothingly cool, even bordering on cold, and the stars were out. Farzan and Jokaro stood outside the front doors of the Emporium, both of them cast in a pale yellow glow from the now-uncovered streetlamps lining Po-Koro’s avenues. The Po-Matoran was scratching idly at his chin, exhaustedly ruminating on the day's events while the Fa-Matoran locked the doors, the shop closed for the day. Wiremu was absent, having been bade farewell by the other two Matoran, returning to his guest accommodations twenty minutes earlier. He had done exceptionally well on his first day at the shop – he was clearly much more talented and attentive than he initially let on. Perhaps Farzan’s appraisal of the man’s accomplishments and ability was not quite as exaggerated after all, and the inter-Koro initiative he represented could prove to be one of the most important developments for Po-Koro’s immediate future. But above all, he was dependable, industrious, and had a direct line to Nuparu, which Jokaro would be sure not to forget. Jokaro's first day back at the shop in a very long while had been an incredibly eventful and tumultuous one, to say the least – you could probably label it destiny that he returned right when he did, if you were a spiritual type. So many grand new ideas and responsibilities battered him from this direction and that; in some ways, it was quite stressful, even overwhelming. However, at the literal end of the day, one feeling that eclipsed all others was relief, for a multitude of reasons. First and foremost, his newest invention hadn’t exploded during testing and injured one of the most famous Toa on the island, which would have most likely tarnished his reputation irreparably, so that was a great victory, even if that testing revealed that he’d have to do a great deal more work. Which leads us to the second reason for his relief: he did not, in fact, have to part with his prototype as he feared he would – maddeningly scribbling down notes as Skyra Daring described the airflow dynamics of the weapon as she fired shot after shot, it became patently obvious to all parties that, while the prototype functioned well enough, it would still need quite a number of modifications to be reliably safe. So Skyra hadn’t taken the V2 home with her after all. There’d been some negotiation after that regarding payment for services rendered but they eventually agreed on a modification to the deal: when the V2 finally entered production, she would receive two of them for no cost, a deal which was certainly generous. Perhaps too generous. See, Jokaro had very much prepared for the possibility of the V2 being gifted as payment had it outperformed expectations, and thus devised a much more… equitable method of payment, and he’d be dаmned if it wasn’t a great opportunity that he’d regret forever if he passed it up right then and there. So, to set the stage, he added even more sugar to an already saccharine deal: a serious discount on her next order was offered in exchange for one extra-special request. This was kickstarted by the task Jokaro’d sent Wiremo off on earlier. His relief was owed to the Onu-Matoran’s return, having managed to convince the sketch artist he’d been sent to find to return to the Emporium with him. Baxter P. was a talented small-time artist travelling around Mata Nui, just as Jokaro had been doing months earlier. The two had met while Jokaro was hiking through the mountains of Ko-Wahi, and stumbled across the spot where Baxter had set up his easel. They’d spoken at length, and got on well, the Po-Matoran finding his range of different styles impressive. Baxter just so happened to be in Po-Koro right now, as it were – Jokaro had bumped into him on the road the other day, headed into town. Baxter had let him know where he’d be staying in the city while he solicited street commissions. So, during the day, Jokaro had cooked up a plan to put his newest creation, as well as Baxter’s art, in front of a whole lot of eyes, and Wiremu had succeeded in bringing him aboard, just in time. The grand majority of people on Mata Nui would not know Baxter’s name or his face, but they would certainly know those of Skyra Daring. So, that was his great scheme. Advertising. Celebrity endorsement. They’d all shaken hands (Farzan especially) in the end after haggling out the exact percentage of the discount, but by the next hour, Baxter had whipped up a fantastic pop-art poster of Skyra posing with the V2 in record time. It was an advert specifically for the V2 (nobody needed to know they hadn’t finalized the design yet) and it told of the only place on the island you could get them: the Po-Koro Technology Emporium. Greater Accuracy! Faster Loading! Light and Nimble! All these exclamations boasting of the prowess of the V2 were noted on the poster - and in the middle of it all was Skyra Daring, one hand on her hip, the other toting the launcher. So, their deal sealed, the Aggressors had taken their equipment and left, each of their respective payments fulfilled. Of course, a separate deal had to be made with Baxter. It was a relatively simple matter – a flat fee for the commission and then a percentage of all V2 sales over a certain period. Jokaro made the deal with the artist himself, partly because it was his idea and so he’d front the money, not the Emporium, and partly because he sought to spare Baxter from Farzan’s iron grip. He was certainly not done for the night, however. Shortly after Baxter had departed, he’d run off into town with the poster, hoping to catch the local printers before they closed. It was about another hour when he returned, a stack of printed copies of the poster in his hands along with the original, again relieved to have caught them in time. He’d bumped into Tailua on the way back, hefting his new launcher and thanking the Po-Matoran for his quick work – Farzan had completed the sale while he’d been away. Opting to not inform him about the potential safety risks testing had illustrated with the prototype just yet, he’d directed Tailua to return to the Emporium with him. Jokaro had yet another idea to cover all his bases. By the time the Ta-Toa left the shop again, he had three new things with him, in addition to the launcher: a cursory warning about the prototype’s faults (purely for legal reasons), half of his money back, and a stack of advertisements for the V2 featuring one Skyra Daring to distribute as he traveled. There was no handshake this time. Yes, he’d spent a lot of money today. Yes, he’d made deals and promises that would cost both himself and the Emporium some profit in the future. Yes, he had a lot of work cut out for him if he wanted to get the V2 into production. No, he wasn’t too concerned; these were all just minuscule bumps in the road compared to the relative mountain that lay beyond them. He could practically feel the sketched-out blueprint burning a hole through his backpack as he stood there, drawn back to the present by the deep clack of the Emporium front door’s lock snapping shut, the workday finished at long last. Farzan replaced the key in his belt as the two Matoran exchanged their farewells, walking in opposite directions down the street. “Well, another busy day over! See you tomorrow, Jokaro.” “See you then.” He’d only taken a few steps, still thinking on the one request that plagued him for the millionth time that day, when Jokaro had the first inkling of an idea on how to start climbing the mountain. He spun on his heel abruptly, facing Farzan’s retreating form. “Oh, Farzan!” he called, watching the Fa-Matoran stop and turn in response. “I won’t be in tomorrow morning - I’ve got to consult Lenat about a major project! And man, this one is a real mother!” * * * OOC: This has been an absurdly long time coming, and I’m glad to finally get it wrapped up. We’ve got some serious BZPTime quantum character superposition going on, glad to get at least a part of it sorted out. Thanks again to everyone involved in this jam: @Emzee @Geardirector @Krayzikk @Snelly oh yeah bazpost too IC: Baszlin - Iron Mahi What does it mean to ‘think’? The brain can sometimes be mysterious in its inner workings, but it is never not thinking. Even the most zen states of mind still crackle with the background radiation that gives rise to consciousness. When energized and active, however, it is an entirely different spectacle. The synapses form an everlasting fireworks display, flaring and fading unceasingly, each minuscule quanta of thought branching out to others, which then form their own branches, ad infinitum. Branches within branches – a literal tree of knowledge, each thought its own tree in a psychoelectric forest. Often, these trees grow so large that they overwhelm the roots of their neighbors, depriving them of the nourishment they need to continue growing. The lesser tree withers – a whole train thought snuffed out by a grander one, and in time even the victorious thought can wither, becoming overtaken by another just as it had done. It is an invisible dance that plays out beneath our notice, governed by the stimuli of our senses injecting patterns of noise into this synaptic grove. The forest takes on shape and structure as we take in more of this noise: a grandiose, beautiful garden which comprises a whole person. It was unfortunate that, in Baszlin’s head, the forest had a few lumberjacks milling around. Here and there, a tree was felled at random, a blossoming thought suddenly erased, and another took its place, filling the void where there had once been some musing of philosophy, a peaceful memory, one’s strongest passions. They could disappear at a moment’s notice almost as quickly as they sprouted. He no longer craved the snacks he desired a moment ago. New stimuli drew his attention elsewhere, new trees flashing into existence where others had faded or been felled. He turned around, leaving the others to their ministrations at the front of the passenger car, and wandered the length of the central aisle. The seated passengers – densely wooded, as previously described – paid him little heed, if they could do such a thing in their state of mind, as he passed between their ranks. There was commotion at the back of the car, and he was curious. There appeared to be a Vortixx standing in the connector between the two passenger cars, just on the other side of the thick door which was shaped like a different Vortixx that had perhaps wanted to kill him at some point. The female Vortixx looked pretty worse for wear, quite a match for the haggard appearance of Baszlin himself, if he discounted that she looked like and clearly was a drug addict of some sort, and he looked like he had been chewed up and spit out by a muaka once or twice. Not a joke by the way, that actually happened. Regardless of whether or not this Vortixx was allowed in their boys only club no girls allowed, she was trying to get in anyway. She was talking directly to the door, saying something about wanting to help. Honestly, it sounded pretty fair to Baszlin, the door was just being difficult and stubborn; they were gonna need all the help on this one they could get, especially when the psycho went feral later and they had to bump him off. Still, something at the back of his mind (thankfully the lumberjacks had missed that particular tree) told him that Surdo would not be totally pleased if they began allowing more individuals to join them without going through the standard interview process first. Instead, he peeked his head around the door’s shoulder, and addressed her directly. “Hey buddy, I think you got the wrong door, the buffet service is two cars down.” OOC: @Vezok's Friend @Nato G @oncertainty @Tarn

IC: Gorro - Onu-Wahi Shore Gray permeated all facets of the world inside of Gorro’s youthful psyche, perhaps influenced by the same gradient of gray that dominated the world outside the mind, or perhaps it was the other way around. Whichever was correct, featureless, invisibly roiling gray stretched out for countless fathoms in thick walls of force and impressioned will. The exterior landscape consisted of a dome of thick fog, impenetrable and dense the further one peered into it, oppressing feature and beauty in equal measure in a visual entropy punctuated only by the black, foul ghosts of formless shapes at the edge of this wall, only resolving themselves into the realm of the mundane as one dared to close the distance. Each instance had resulted in a swarthy outcropping of dark gray rock jutting up from the pale sands below his feet, though Gorro could not account for those fluttering shadows which seemed to retreat from the edge of the fog even as the trio grew closer. Within his skull, the landscape was similar. Homogeneity of feeling permeated every firing synapse. At once he felt terrified, elated, frustrated, depressed… in days previous these emotions roiled and swirled in cyclonic fashion, sweeping him along within the gale, extracting a toll from him as he transitioned from one to another in rapid succession. Now, as one swirls together two elements to form a blend of another, utterly without feature, the same had occurred with the swirling tempest of those emotions. Contrast between these opposing emotions resulted in the elimination of both, nullifying their effects in cosmic annihilation. To feel all was to feel nothing. Gray, in all regards. Base instinct governed his movements, presently. To be told where they were going and when was all that would register within his conscious and stay there for a time, unaffected and etched into the slab of gray without sublimating into nothingness for a long while. It was a simple command that appealed to the animal nature of his unconscious – when he needed to travel, he was a hypnotised individual, completely mechanical in motion, face blank as if the muscles did not function. Before long, the ragged boat of old, gray wood – the one that would deliver them to their destinies – lay before him, its bow gently plowed into the phantasmal white sand, colourless black waves lapping at its stern. He stepped aboard. OOC: @Goose @Nato G

IC: Shavrakk - The Rift Out of all the words the Lesterin could have provided at that moment, the ones chosen were troubling. No, more than troubling – they were bad news. His mind was returning to its normal state of being, the mental fog dissipating with every second that ticked by and the adrenaline high beginning to wear off. Limbs suddenly felt heavier than they were a moment ago, and a wave of exhaustion passed through him before it, too, was gone. With a clearer head, he could finally think at a pace which was suitable to parse the logic behind this encounter. Result? He was in danger. Not exactly a stunning revelation given that he had already been in danger since stepping inside the Rift, but now the prospect of that danger following along once he trekked out of the canyon now lingered over him. Let’s break it down. This Lesterin spoke true. Yes, he had visited a caravan last week, and spoken with a couple members. No, he had not spoken with those caravaneers since. Whoever he was, this person had good intel on his whereabouts and movements over the course of several days. Meaning, Shavrakk had been followed by this individual. Now, you may think that these circumstances alone constitute the danger imposed, especially seeing as this Lesterin was armed and had his weapon unholstered… but this is only present danger, which the Skakdi was perfectly capable of dealing with. No, the real danger was that, over those past few days, Shavrakk had not seen this Lesterin stalking him, even after keeping lookout for anybody doing just that. Not a few hours ago had he been scanning the horizon from the lip of the Rift, finding no trace of any being shadowing him. It was immensely concerning – had he lost a step? Had he fuсked up? How had his skills failed him? This was not a chance encounter, he was sure. The odds would be astronomical – assuming the Rift itself did not alter probability somehow, which was an even greater danger that Shavrakk dared not fathom – and to be approached in such a manner did not constitute a purely benign confrontation. Whatever the Lesterin’s intentions were, his presence and knowledge implied an indirect threat. What if he had an accomplice, lining up a shot from a ridgeline elsewhere, even now? It would certainly explain his disarmed posture. Invisibly, Shavrakk’s grip on his revolver tightened, his finger resting more firmly against the trigger, though his aim did not waver. His limbs, loosened by the flight of the adrenaline from his system now tensed once again at the mental image of a set of crosshairs aligned with his temple. Despite this newfound fear, he gave no indication of any change in his disposition in response to the Lesterin’s remarks, save for the scowl now plastered upon his face. “On the money, so far,” he said casually, slowly raising himself from his knee. The revolver’s point of aim still did not shift – slightly down and off from the left side of the Lesterin’s torso. Almost casually, he began to pace in a slow clockwise orbit around whoever-he-was. “You’re very well informed. What do you want?” OOC: @oncertainty

IC: Shavrakk - The Rift Footsteps. Distorted and warped, but unmistakable nonetheless. The signals traveling from his ears to his brain were numbed, blurred into a dull tympanic thunder by whatever dark machinations permeated the Rift… but Shavrakk recognized the rhythm. Even through the befogged stupor, there were the telltale signs that set apart a gait from simple meter. Recognition was immediately replaced by fear. That lag, the extra time it took for the signal to reach his mind? It meant he was dead. Just another pile of bones and carnage left to rot in this godforsaken place, like the piles of viscera cookie-crumb-trailing towards another avenue of death. His last thoughts were, “I can’t fuсking believe this shіt.” In another life, he would’ve been a poet. When death did not immediately come, instinct took control. Perhaps whatever was microseconds away from killing him was also delayed by similar forces, allowing his hand, already resting upon the ivory grip of his revolver, ample time to free the weapon from its holster. So far so good. He was not yet mangled, crushed, eviscerated nor poisoned (especially unlikely). As far as he could tell, none of his limbs had been severed, nor had his head, which would’ve been most unfortunate. At last, the revolver cleared leather as he began his turn. Both velocity and the gusting of wind as his body rotated contributed to blowing his hood clear and exposing his head to the elements. It would also make for a cleaner slice - so it was, on some level, a welcome development. His killer was just coming into view now, but his eyes still had not adjusted, and the figure was still blurred at the edges of his perception. The sensation of falling overwhelmed him before he could begin to analyze the grey-ish blob. Was he shot? Had he been knocked over? Oh, no, he was just dropping to one knee to better stabilize his aim. See, there was his other hand coming up to meet the one gripping the gun just now! His movement was still involuntary - he hoped it’d return soon. This was agonizing. The being was coming into focus, and his other senses started to pick up the slack. It was something thin and ragged, beat to hеll and back, odd-smelling. Could’ve been his old mattress. Ah, yes. Of course, it’s a Lesterin. That explains a few things. Things were becoming clearer now - literally. Facial features: mouth moving, a smirk behind the motion. Clothing that had, at some point, been valuable. The gun. The gun. Fortunately, it was not pointed in his direction at the moment. Shavrakk could feel the firm grip of instinctual movement loosen a tiny bit, and it took a concerted effort for his finger not to clamp down on the trigger of his own weapon. Had he been a bit clearer-headed, he would’ve heard the footsteps - those telltale sounds which he certainly would have identified as Lesterin in origin - much sooner, circumventing this whole adrenaline-fueled, Rift-addled song and dance. The Lesterin’s mouth movements had since ceased. Only now were the spoken words being parsed by the Skakdi’s brain. Like the analyses which had riddled his mind in the few moments past, it was a question of recognition. His arms slackened, his aim loosening and angling closer to the ground. The Lesterin had chosen to talk rather than to shoot, after all. Foolish, but welcome. Shavrakk was about to be foolish as well. The influence of both hormone and invasive psychosis had lessened enough to form words of his own. “Maybe.” His throat felt hoarse, the words sticky and dense. “I know a lot of people.” OOC: @oncertainty

IC: Baszlin - Iron Mahi ‘If anything happens…?’ What did he mean by this? Were more strange fellows about to come crashing through the cabin windows, adding to the crystalline no-man’s-land on the floor that neither foot nor food trolley dared to traverse? Or, perhaps he was planning on having another medical emergency. Baszlin never thought to plan his; they’d be much more convenient that way, if he could just, say, schedule a broken arm for another day, or the terribly debilitating effects of Ga-Koro syndrome in six months’ time, when it’d be more financially lucrative. What? Musings locked firmly within his skull, the Skakdi said nothing and simply offered a nod to the Matoran before retrieving his still-packaged personal effects from his seat, catching up with Surdo and whom he assumed to be a professional psychopath, at the other end of the passenger cabin. He stole a glance at the other, motionless occupants of the car as he passed them. Suspiciously, none of them had moved a muscle since Surdo’s brief affliction had begun. As Karmine paused to open the door to the next compartment, Baszlin leaned closer to one such fellow in his immediate vicinity: a Toa of reddish coloration who, to his eye, looked somewhat odd. Stranger still, the Toa didn’t even do so much as turn their head to look in either direction - either towards or away from the Skakdi’s face, which was now uncomfortably close. Is this Toa… made of wood? Baszlin withdrew, now sweeping his gaze over every single one of the cabin’s occupants. My god, are they all made of wood?! Probably not, but the thought evaporated a moment later before he could make a proper determination, and instead was replaced by a sudden craving for pine nuts. Perhaps the psycho had snacks. He could ask.

IC: Ember - The Fowadi The Ta-Matoran eyed the waterline dubiously - with possibly two of the largest Toa in existence aboard, the skiff probably had the displacement of a craft triple its size. When it didn’t immediately split in half and sink, her fears were allayed somewhat, and she put them from her mind as she retrieved the oars from where they’d been stowed, holding one apiece out to each Toa. “Off we are, lads. Get us underway whiles I make ready the sails, aye?” Soon, the Fowadi was a way behind them to the south, and they started their short trip to the cliff-face village due north, ashen clouds enveloping the whole settlement in sheets of rain, and growing wilder by the minute. Regardless, she had confidence they’d make it to port just fine. IC: Ember - Naho Bay, close to Forsi, an hour later They were all going to drown. In the thick of the tempest now, the little skiff groaned in a way that Ember had never heard such a diminutive vessel groan before, being thrown around by savage winds and perilous waves. Ember Velliae had been here - in this situation - years ago, on one of her worst days. “Nor’east header!” she called over the roar of the gale propelling them. “Ready about, Toa Rynekk, starboard tack! Starboard!” Droplets of semi-solid sleet peppered the Ta-Matoran’s face, squinting as much as possible to keep herself from being blinded as she yanked the rudder to course-correct northwest. Even still, the skiff continued turning closer into the wind; there was only so much she could do with the rudder, but swapping positions with one of the Toa would spell dire consequences for the lot of them. The skiff heaved upward as it crested a roiling, befoamed wave, spraying the ice-cold waters of the bay over the three figures. “Keep opposite ‘im, Toa Brukin! If yer gripin’ our wee tender ye’ll be first t’ founder!”

IC: Baszlin - Iron Mahi No lights, no musical stings, no roaring applause to take in. There would be no curtain call. This, he was used to. There never was any. It took Baszlin a few moments to free himself from the paralysis that gripped his body once his performance came to a close; enough time to process the affliction that had… afflicted… his charge, Surdo, was seemingly no more. If the Skakdi was aware of the context-change for which a “medical emergency” was declared, it did not show on his features, save for the mottled, skin-wrinkling confusion that twisted his mouth into a grimace as he rose again to his full height. Karmine, behind him, was ignored. Before long, the questions surfaced, pulling his already-tangled brain this way and that. Was he really faking that heart attack? Why isn’t anybody moving or screaming? What’s the wi-fi password? Truly unanswerable mysteries that plague us, even today. Instead, he glanced down at Surdo, and uttered a simple pair of words: “You okay?”

IC: Baszlin - Iron Mahi If the sudden cascading peal of shattering glass failed to faze the Skakdi, as harsh and violent the sound may have been, it would come as no surprise that the resulting razor shards vaulting through the air to pelt his spine and shoulders with pinprick cuts suffered the same fate. In fact, Baszlin remained stock-still after delivering his lamentations to the assembled passengers, still staring into their eyes long after they had turned their attention elsewhere - to the cause of this sudden intrusion. Plainly visible to him, some recoiled at the threats verbally leveled at them - invisible daggers of terror thrown wildly and minuscule particles of spittle (also impacting Baszlin’s turned back) sharing a common origin. He - and therefore the plight of his patron beneath him - was no longer central to the attention of their small audience. This would not do. The air was still for a few beats. Some passengers shrieked, others stayed silent. Hands began to move, but Raaka Baszlin did not see where their motion ended. Still knelt down at Surdo’s side, it took only a fraction of a second to refocus the grief and rage displayed earlier upon a new, sole subject. In that same time, his torso and neck twisted so that he could look upon his new quarry, an outstretched arm and accusing finger added to his arsenal and pointed squarely at the– “Interloper!” he cried, the indignity in his voice palpable. “A crisis weighs upon us! ‘Tis a weight hardly borne by those whose spines doth already buckle ‘neath burden of evil doings! No further can one bend! No further! See you not the cataclysm on the cusp - that of poor Surdo, whose life leaks from a heart cleft by sinners of the same thread as thou! Thou, who beholdest the ailment of fair folk and seek chaos even so! Thine eyes betray thine cruelty! I spit upon your ilk! Vile mongrel! Cur!” A thick globule of mucus landed itself at Karmine’s feet a moment later.

IC: Suzume - Sado Streets Beneath her robe, invisible to the others around her, she was clutching her shinobue. What was plainly visible, outside her robe, was her face - specifically the expression plastered on it, which was still a far cry from ‘reassured’. The one heading up the patrol - Toroshu Morie - shifted her attention from Suzume ever so slightly, though clear enough to the alert youth that she noticed. In response, the physical demeanor of the Menti under her command shifted a likewise subtle degree. Their changed posture, positioning and movement sparked a battle in her mind - the battle cry of one side bleating ‘Danger, retreat!’ and the other ‘Safety, surrender!’ She ignored both in equal measure, and gripped her instrument tighter. “What about my mom?” OOC: @Mel

OOC: I’m not really a stickler when it comes to BZPTime but this conversation is probably happening a while before the shenanigans in the Koro tbh IC: Ember - The Fowadi Standing a little straighter and with her arms clasped neatly behind her back, the Ta-Matoran projected the obstinance of her age - old salt, barnacles and crust anchoring her to the deck. Or perhaps she just looked silly with her chest a fraction more puffed, compared to the enormity of the two considerable Toa before her. “Well could,” she started briskly, rocking on the balls of her feet ever so slightly. “But bein’ frank, Toa Rynekk, I knows the dockmaster ‘round these parts and it’d be bad fortune t’ lock horns with ‘er while she’s likely o’er-canvassed, savvy?” A mild jerk of her chin over her shoulder in the rough direction of the glittering mass of Dasakan vessels swamping Ga-Koro’s port. “‘Tis a gale I’d not weather. ‘Specially with as much cargo as we’ll be haulin’.” After a beat, the rigidity of her posture loosened, arms swinging forward to indicate the opposite direction - across the deck, past the gunwale, Forsi’s weather-beaten structures snaked up the cliff wall like petrified ivy, dark clouds hanging above the treetops at its apex, the shadowy streaks of rain already starting to obscure it all. “‘Sides!” barked Ember at long last, already beginning her precise mariner’s stride across the deck to a skiff dangling from its davit. Halfway there, she spun around and began walking backwards toward the smaller vessel, her eyes still on the two Toa and her arms splayed up and out. “Forsi’s naught but a few leagues away! An’ what better time to teach ye about fair-sailin’ in a tempest!” The barest hints of that ever-elusive grin would be visible for only a moment before she spun ’round again and climbed aboard the skiff. OOC: @Void Emissary @Krayzikk

IC: Ember - The Fowadi She could feel the deck shuddering beneath her feet as the larger figure trundled up behind Rynekk - the same one she had met hours earlier before retiring to her cabin for the night, having stumbled upon the hulking figure grabbing some shuteye in the ship’s hold during a self-guided tour. They’d exchanged a few words, but nothing more than pleasantries. It was clear there was a lot more to the ship - in terms of both construction and crew - that she’d need to familiarize herself with. “Ah, Toa Brukin, nice t’ see ye up and about. Seemed ye were a hull apart from keelhaulin’ last I saw.” OOC: @Krayzikk @Void Emissary

IC: Baszlin - Iron Mahi Scrutiny and curiosity struck the Skakdi in equal measure, causing his brow to furrow and his eyes to squint. Certainly something was going on here, but what? All eyes were on the two of them now, the car’s passengers, some with mouths agape, watching the two of them. You might think him uncomfortable to have so many eyes pointed in his direction, but curiously a strange comfort washed over the Skakdi instead - a feeling probably not shared by the Matoran writhing on the ground at his feet. Baszlin knelt. The plowed troughs dominating his forehead became distorted by the upward motion of an eyebrow; as did the lines at the corners of his mouth in a confused grimace, and the rest of the lines making up the scars on his face followed suit. That old, familiar rumble at the back of his throat emerged halfway when he spotted Surdo’s own eyes, not directed at him, but elsewhere within the cabin. Baszlin followed the gaze to its likely end - the Vortixx who he had confronted mere hours earlier; sharp dark lines of an onyx fa- Something snapped. Snapped? Maybe not the right word? Broke? No. Shifted? Maybe. Whatever it was, something changed, roiled and ballooned to the front of his conscious mind. It was almost audible - a muted peal of thunder that rang out from a distance… but this was not the storm visible out the car windows right now. It was something only he could see. The lines of his face smoothed again as his expression twisted into a visage of grief and rage, head shooting up to stare back into the eyes all upon them. “Are none among you able of spirit, of compassion!? Before me lay a man dying! Can there be no greater injustice than to let men perish through the inaction of the meek and weak-hearted!? Villains, all! Villains!”

IC: Baszlin - Iron Mahi The Skakdi watched his charge with mild confusion as he rose from his seat and began toppling over, in the way a puppet does when its strings are cut. Questions wracked his brain, though any answers failed to appear. Practiced? Practiced what? I don’t remember practicing anything. Now everyone in the train car was staring at them, or rather staring at Surdo, writhing on the floor and clutching at his chest, as if some sort of ailment had crippled him. Bazslin tutted at the dithering, almost embarrassing quality of the performance, almost invisibly shaking his head in bemusement and befuddlement as the Matoran called out his name, clutching at the air as if he were in some low-budget Saturday-evening soap. “What are you doing? Stop that.”

IC: Ember - The Fowadi CRAKKK! CRAKKK! Ember’s heart seemed to fall a good foot down through the bottom of her gut as she flinched in reaction to the piercing thunder of a firearm unloading rounds across the deck. If she were in worse shape, she’d have been doubled over as a tightness in her chest squeezed tighter from shock. That isn’t to say that her chest was not at all feeling that anxious pain - the annoyance of an unannounced discharge of arms was enough to at least spark a flame there, but it was the sight of who exactly was responsible for those shots and the raucous laughter thereafter that worsened the sensation. A deep scowl twisted her features into one of the more ugly visages one could find aboard the Fowadi. Ember’s fists balled, jaw clenched, lungs filled, and finally mouth opened to shout her impolite displeasure at the one-not-deserving-his-title, but the first syllable was cut short as the gargantuan shadow of a larger-than-life Toa - actually deserving of that title, mind you - veiled her from the midday sun. "You all set then, Ember? Noticed you head belowdecks before -- you get a grocery list from ol' Muuk?" She spun around to face Rynekk, struggling to untangle the lines which crossed her face. A look of slight annoyance was all she managed as she began to reply, eventually morphing into a more neutral expression upon the end of her sentence. “Ah, Toa Rynekk, there ye are! Aye, got meself the docket right ‘ere.” She patted the satchel on her hip. “Scannin’ for ye just now, was I. Got any other business or shan’t we head outboard, lad?” OOC: @Void Emissary @Krayzikk

IC: Gorro - Onu-Koro, The Unfortunate Fikou A turbulent silence befell the three gathered beings for a mere moment, permeating their conscious minds as each comprehended their present circumstances in ways unique to each individual. Having no access to the light behind the eyes of Savis and Montague, Gorro solemnly enclosed himself within the prison of his own mind, walls of bone and protodermis enclosing the flesh and containing his very being. The sole portal to the world outside those curved walls, the eyes upon which the crags of stone floor were presently imaged, saw now with a new purpose. A glaze of equal parts determination, fear and longing cascaded over them, diffused through them, and infected- nay, galvanized the mind to which they interpreted existence. And so, that determination formed a new foundation upon which the young Toa began to build. “So,” he began at last, his voice croaking from a throat dry with anticipation, “when do we depart?” OOC: @Goose @Nato G

IC: Baszlin - Iron Mahi “Start what?”

IC: Baszlin - Iron Mahi Far to the south, the starchy blue sky was bisected by a wall of gray - storm cells that mushroomed up into a high shelf, the complex structure within fleetingly marked by flashes of lightning. It was storming in Forsi right now. Their destination, shrouded in a curtain of rain, hours away. He could pretend that the rumbling of the train’s motion was the peal of distant thunder if he let his mind wander, though such a feat was made difficult by certain… environmental distractions. Even here, in the relatively-sealed railcar, the dry heat soiled all novelty of traveling over the desert at blinding speed and disturbed his fantastical rain-soaked daydreaming. All that remained were the basest desires to be in the midst of that faraway maelstrom, to close his eyes and open his mouth, hands raised above his head and bask in the chill of the downpour. He loathed this desert. It was that loathing that persisted in his memory, even if the events that had perhaps transpired here were missing. This place was the worst. “Yes, of course,” he replied to the Matoran seated next to him. His voice was coarse and he sounded on the verge of whining. “Been all over this island. The Ko-Wahi Drifts. The Motara. All the Koro. Seprilli. That godforsaken swamp in the south.” Actually, yeah, scratch that. The Fau Swamp- wait no, scratch that. Let’s just lump all of Le-Wahi in the “absolute trash” category, shall we? He’d take Po-Wahi’s dry heat over the jungle humidity. He felt dirty after just a half-day walking from Ta-Koro to Le. rumble rumble Ah, that sound again. Wasn’t the train, nor the thunder. That was his stomach. His throat suddenly felt drier, too. He tore his gaze away from the distant rainfall, probably wasn’t helping any. He fiddled with the canvas bag containing his shotgun within, trying to distract himself, pulling at a loose thread. “Mmh. They got any sort of food service on this thing? I’m starving.”

IC: Suzume - Sado Streets More fear, more confusion. Another step backwards. Under siege? What does that even mean? A thousand other questions blinked into existence, overworking the already-taxed cogwheels of her mind. “Um, no. I haven’t- I mean yes, um, that’s… correct?” OOC: @Mel

IC: Verakastian - Fortress Khy;Barr "Whit d'ye mean fetch, lad? A'm right 'ere!" He wished he wasn’t.

IC: Suzume - Sado Streets Ever since her subconscious mind had picked up the peculiarities that had magnified over the past few weeks and culminated with her epiphany in the streets moments ago, Suzume had been swept around in a cycle of fear and confusion. Now was no exception, the realization that she stood alone on one street corner, with a gaggle of Menti opposite her on the other. It was the conception of, through their separation, that she was alone and that street was otherwise empty, that stuck the biggest chord. A primal part of her brain cried ‘danger!’ “I- I… uh…” she stammered, taking a step back, cycling though fear and confusion yet again. “I went to go get breakfast and… um… there was nobody around, maybe it was too early in the morning or a holiday or… or something like that.” OOC: @Mel

It's not about the size of your Disk - it's how you use it. Folks, it's that time again where we whip out the Native Tech 3D renders, and once more we're serving up diskettes - pistol(?) edition. Hope you like toggles! The Diskette Pistol Three Quarters Profile Front Top Toggles Open Close-Up Aiming The "Hans Olo" Three Quarters Profile Front The "Wauser" Three Quarters Profile Front Bottom The Artillery Three Quarters Profile Front Aiming Once again, thanks to @Geardirector for coming up with the darn thing in the first place.

IC: Gorro - Onu-Koro, The Unfortunate Fikou Deathly still, remained the youthful Toa of Crystal, his face a pallid bust of contorted lines arranged into a visage of pure terror. Truly the trembling affliction which had so plagued him previously was progressed to such a gross degree that it was replaced entirely with the morbid placidity of a corpse. His wide-eyed glare bore into the stone flooring and watched the mild patterns shift and twist in the motion of waves stretched across the surface of seas. When he finally found his voice, it was but a whisper: “I have seen it...” The other two beings swiveled their heads to look upon Gorro, though he did not meet their gaze. “I h-have seen that… monolith… in my dreams. Dark and towering and awesome and terrible! I could- I could not look at it for long before it started to- to speak to me… to whisper in my mind…” Clapping his hands up to his temples, the iridescence of his slender digits paled as if they were mere bones, he snapped his eyes shut. The world was beset by darkness, though the watery patterns remained visible on the back of his eyelids. His hands squeezed vice-like upon his head, as if to dispel the entoptic illusions by pressure alone. “Must we t-travel there…?” he murmured.

IC: Suzume - Sado Streets The sound of footsteps echoing off the crystal faces of the buildings behind her sent prickles down the back of Suzume’s neck, who almost lost her balance as she whipped herself around and discovered a group of Dasaka materializing from around a corner a block over. The one in front was, as far as Suzume could tell, the one Ideatalking with her. If she had identified herself after all, it flew completely by Suzume, her heart-rate spiking. The Toroshu’s projected thoughts of :not safe here: absolutely did register, however - such was the reason for her heart’s current state. I SAID HEY “What’s going on!?” squawked the young Dasaka, her creaky, underutilized voice carrying well down the street. OOC: @Mel