"High noon" still has a resonating historical significance not lost on the people of New Amsterdam. Old cowboy movies, complete with John Wayne standing in a dusty, old street are imprinted upon people's memories, helping them recall a simpler past where grudges could be settled with guns. By 2511, these movies have been remade countless times over with different set pieces, but nostalgia continues to be an ever-present factor. It's not nostalgia that drives the UNA soldiers and Morningstar agents into position during this hour, but the time itself serves as a reminder. A call to a different time and a different past.
Outside, the sun burns bright, but people sleep soundly, shades drawn securely over their windows to create a false darkness. This is why the UNA strikes at noon: their targets will be vulnerable, comforted by the presence of daylight only a drawn shade away,
Across town, Morningstar's agents are preparing for their own strike. One of them makes a joke about the non hour. He's told to shut it. They have fifteen minutes. Is everyone ready? Their uniforms are black, tightly fitting. Each of them pulls their mask over their faces. Up ahead, there's a wall to scale.
Fifteen minutes and the plan goes into motion. Each agent knows the costs of this mission. Their last one ended up with numerous dead – lost – with no reward. UNA soldiers are far more threatening than the armed guards Morningstar faced on that day, but the reward is more sure. Worth the risk. They're secure in what they need to do.
Then it's time. Across the city, the UNA soldiers descend in perfect unison. Separate but thinking with one mind, one goal. Eliminate a festering problem, one that only stands to grow in a world haunted by chaos and trauma. It's their job to set things right. To restore order to a world that is currently without.
About forty five minutes in to the widespread assault, El sends out a message to everyone in the safehouse. This time, zeir communication is immediate, without the steady scrolling of text. Prepared in advance:
Hey, so. Emergency everyone. Come to the safehouse ASAP. Morningstar agents are in trouble, including a number who have helped you behind the scenes. Gaby will tell you more once you get there.
Once everyone shows up, crowded inside the part of the safehouse with the cots, Gaby gives everyone the rundown. The risk. The place where the rest of the agents are – this last bit of information being shared with an uneasy edge, arms crossed and body language giving off her discomfort. There are other people at risk, people who can't fight, who try to undermine the corporations with their regular lives, doing their best to keep the people they care about safe from their rebellious activity.
After she hands out the gear, she insists that it must be returned. But Gaby isn't stupid. Her desperation is inherent in her decisions, in the information that follows: exposing most of the inactive safehouses, giving away the addresses of the people likely in danger. Every Morningstar contact in New Amsterdam is likely at risk. So far, agents in other megacities aren't being targeted – yet. But this operation could be a model for future UNA efforts to eliminate the Morningstar threat.
The safehouses are spread across the city. Typically present in disheveled and forgotten pieces of real estate, there will be squatters and homeless alike taking up space as they move inside with the agents. This may prove a risk, and they may need to be bribed to go elsewhere, offered food and supplies. Other safehouses will be beneath bars, convenience stores, and through the storage room in less expensive apartment buildings – businesses and buildings owned by long-time Morningstar agents, kept ready in the case of an emergency like this one.
None of the safehouses will be prepared for living with the exception of cots and communal restrooms ready for use. This is a problem, but not a priority. She'll ask that everyone get out there and save the lives of the agents. Bring them and their families in safely – the rest can be figured out after that.
> RESTORING ORDER
Given the limitations over real estate and space even in a city as large as New Amsterdam, every citizen lives in an apartment building. The great majority of them were meant to be built quickly, similar layouts and designs behind them. A quick bit of research will get anyone the floor plans for these places – they're publicly available, ready for potential tenants. Most of these places are no dreamhouse, however: small and contained, they show the lifestyle of the typical Morningstar agent.
Any of the agents with a child – and there will only ever be one per agent, with the restrictions on childbirth – will have a roomier place, with better furnishing and more space for a child to run and grow up. These places will afford the family within better privacy, and many of them have drones and advanced robotics to help maintain the household, even caring for their child and keeping the door locked as the UNA soldiers move inside.
Where it's viable, the majority of UNA soldiers will move through the front door of these buildings. Never numbered over five, these soldiers will take the endless staircase up, erasing what little chances there are to run into anyone along the way. The knocks are just a cover to soothe the close-packed neighbors. Not all are fooled, and that's where the calls to the NAPD come in – though the UNA is prepared for this, too. Ready to assert their jurisdiction. Rather: their bosses are prepared. These soldiers have their orders and beyond that, only follow their orders with their formidable physicality and swift training.
But they are physically assertive: most of them are tall, seemingly without gender within thick black, metal armor. Despite their size and their robotic carapace, they are human underneath. Their extensive armor doesn't slow them down, instead seeming to propel them forward in a fight, letting them predict their enemies' moves as the mask they wear provides diagnostics and likely attacks on the fly. They carry extensive weapons and supplies, all to wear down any opponents. When they fight together, their actions are perfectly complementary.
They won't start a fight, but as soldiers, they are prepared. Though they enter through the front door, they intend to leave through a window, into a large flying vehicle outside, ready to hold the targets and bring them to a temporary dropsite. They don't expect any assailants, anyone to provide trouble – but they wouldn't be very well-trained, well designed if they couldn't expect or deal with the unexpected. They won't shoot unless someone forces the matter. Their training means their stature should be enough to put down most threats.
> A WELL-LAID TRAP
Confident and well-trained, the Morningstar agents have the plan ahead of them all mapped out. They know the shifts, the patrol patterns, especially at hours like this one. Fewer, right now, but they aren't nonexistent. Several strike teams spread out, ready to move to dismantle the UNA soldiers on site as needed. These are combat-trained agents, but five versus three UNA soldiers, or two, or even one still leads to odds where they don't win. Morningstar knows these soldiers intimately, has studied and discerned their few weaknesses. But these UNA soldiers are formidable opponents.
UNA Soldiers en route to Morningstar's goal will be handled with an eerie lack of follow-up. No reports of reinforcements incoming. The swift-moving Morningstar agents are too focused on their goal, which is close now, to worry about the implications. Besides, their information told them most agents would be away on training exercises. Reinforcements being delayed is no surprise.
Each agent has their own reason for being here, for believing that Morningstar needs to be more proactive, more forceful in fighting back. They aren't career soldiers, but people who thought that they could wield a gun and change a world that hides its problems under false promises and shimmering gloss. Many are impatient, frustrated: they were given a lead on weapons in June. They weren't mislead then, at least not intentionally, but what they got instead was a bus full of disoriented people. This cache is real, verified, and vulnerable, housed here temporarily before being moved for some unknown operation.
Once the Morningstar agents are all inside, the concealed UNA soldiers left at the base line up in formation. Perfectly tailored for the fight ahead, they move onto the site. Any agents on lookout duty will see the UNA moving in, ready to lay waste to anyone in there. This is a trap, they message frantically. The very real weapons inside are meant to mock with false hope.
The UNA aren't worried about Morningstar making off with their toys. After all, this is just as planned.
> INTERLUDE
Numerous officers pass by the holding cells in the NAPD's twelfth precinct, talking softly about what can they even do, muttering to themselves. Others pop a squat nearby and call it a well-earned day off. Let those soldiers take care of whatever mess they're cleaning up. That's not their job.
It's around this time that a third, unidentified group, takes advantage of the chaos. Well-dressed despite what is a late hours right now, they head into the precinct to take care of a dangling loose end. They show credentials that link them to New Beijing's governing body and personal security, they claim the men temporarily known as Tak and Alexei. As they're brought out of their cells, they're injected with the same compulsory drug as always, leaving them veritable walking zombies at first, leaving them unable to speak or act as they're given orders that tell them to do otherwise.
The records of these men will disappear with this action, the two of them swept away into the back of an expensive four-door sedan. The whole incident erased. Two somehow anonymous men didn't kill semi-innocent bystanders during the festival. As long as the records can be trusted, that was a fantasy. A whimsy.
Morningstar cameras will see this sedan stop near the current safehouse, near the typical entrance, and order Hei and Jake out. "Stay here. Sit down. Don't do or say anything until someone comes to retrieve you. It'll be a bit – they're tied up right now."
The man in the passenger seat in the front rolls down his window, leaning forward on his arm. His face is concealed, utilizing technology that's not the same but not dissimilar to what Morningstar has at their disposal. "Try not to do anything else too stupid, will you? The cops are gonna have a bug up their asses about you idiots."
And then the sedan rolls away, lifting up and passing through the city. Morningstar cameras will spot a specific – or perhaps the more apt word is "suspicious" – lack of license plate.
> MEDI-UNITS
Each of the safehouses were designed for the worst case scenario. There is a medi-unit in all of the safehouses, a large and complex machine that can heal most ills, but given the expensive nature of their design and the risk of using them, they're not used lightly.
The medi-units are reserved for the direst of needs. come into play. Dependent on a person's time of death to bring them back to the living, they need the exact time so that someone can clock it in and prepare the restoration process correctly. There are many risks in lacking that information – someone may come back damaged, unhealed, hurt in some way. They may not live for long. Assuming that a body is brought in with a time of death, they'll be directed to a safehouse with a free unit.
The person is kept in a medically induced coma while the machine repairs their body. What dreams someone experiences will be at the end point – which can be between 48 and 60 hours – as they slowly surface, starting to return to the world of the living. As they surface, their mind will be encumbered by images of bright blue lights glowing, swirling, communicating – but language seems thoroughly out of reach.
Once the medi-unit opens, the person inside will be thirsty. Desperate for water. But there will be no other signs of the wear and tear on their bodies.
> FINAL OOC NOTES
Please refer to the OOC EVENT POST for this event for all OOC info, including suggestions for directions on how to engage with the event and the questions thread for any questions regarding this event. The outcome for this event will depend upon character plans and actions developed in both this OOC post, and any additional plots brought to the moderators. Please feel free to submit any game-changing plans to us under the questions thread – but we will be reading all comments on the post!
The Operation will continue until September 11, IC time. An aftermath wrap up post will be made on January 26 which will detail the resolution and fallout of the event.
As a reminder, there is one power level up available for this event. This will be granted for a thread of at least 5 action/log comments containing your character utilizing their power in some way. They will need to reach the 5 comments required by FEBRUARY 23 to be eligible. Submission will be handled on the wrap up post.
Our Activity Check will be posted tomorrow, January 20, at 9 PM UTC. It will run for seven days and close on January 27. We will not post a warning list.
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meadowlarklogs2019-01-19 09:58 pm
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[Closed to Aranea]
[Closed to Droids]
[Closed to Cain]
[Network]
[Wildcard]
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i'm also at the safehouse! luuuucky timing
[he's walking past people, bumping shoulders as he scours the place out, wincing at an accidental elbow to his chest, until he finds the target of his communication close to the medical supply room.]
Noct!
[prompto approaches, cool as a cucumber, and slaps his ass in greeting, stepping out of the way as to not get retaliation--facing the other.]
The two warriors of legend take a break at the same time and place. It's fate! [he rubs at his nose. jokes aside--] Got into a bit of a scuffle but I'm good. You?
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The tone of Prompto's text is perhaps even more encouraging, though nothing can honestly prepare him not just for hearing his nickname in that familiar voice, but for the ensuing ass slap that weirdly does the best job of telling him things are fine. An ass slap. This is what his life is now. This is what comforts him. ]
Hey--
Breaks are for non-legendary warriors, I'm here on business. Ah, as usual... [ His own return joke, definitely a good sign even as he raises his significantly damaged cast that's now flecked with the same blood that's streaked across his front. Something's torn through a segment of it, ripping a few layers deep but leaving it still annoyingly intact. ]
I'll looking for something to cut this off the rest of the way; it's seriously getting in my way now.
1/2
Did some guy happen to heal you with magic blood? Dude, I'm telling you this is straight out of an RPG or a twenty-six episode long anime. The good ones, y'know. Anyway, hold out your arm, I got a fix for you.
[his gun.]
[his expression: dead serious.]
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[he holsters the gun back on his thigh and instead moves closer, looking at the cast and tapping at it to test out how strong it actually is.]
Is it like fiberglass? Bet Gladio could just rip it apart.
[doesn't mean prompto's not gonna try--! lend him your arm for a second, as he wiggles his fingers under the cast where noctis's hand is-] Sorry for the awkward intrusion. [-of their empathy bond, that is. he spreads his feet like he's about to do a squat and seems all too into this idea of ripping it apart. it's a valiant effort! but it only makes the material crackle a little.]
[red-faced, puffing air out of his mouth, he stops.]
Ughhhnn!! Geez!
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... you're so messed up... [ This is exasperated affection right here. ]
Oi... oi, quit, you can't seriously think that's gonna' work! You're gonna' break it all over again! Here, what if... Look, you can try that again if we make the gap a little bigger, maybe. Do you have a knife?
--we're not using the gun. Period.
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Well, it all starts a good six stories above where Noctis is. Aranea starts off evacuating any civilians she can find for the safehouses - reuniting families, escorting kids, occasionally getting in between UNA soldiers and their collateral damage. In a way, it makes her feel a bit more at home, even if it creates an entirely unflattering picture of home - more over, it reminds her what she's good at. (She may not be getting paid for it, but at least she'll get to keep Morningstar's supplies — or so she's decided, overall consequences be damned.)
One apartment building was a bit less lucky than the rest. Isolated, with the next closest Morningstar agent being miles away - possible, miles down - and cornered. She resorts to killing blows the moment it becomes a hindrance not to, but this armored hydra only sprouts more and more heads in answer. It doesn't matter that her shots are well-timed and well-aimed. When her clips run out, that split second of an opening is all that's needed.
A shot through her thigh. She ends up through the glass wall, down - down, colliding in a heap in the ground. Aranea knows enough to spread out, slow her descent as much as possible, land on her side when imperiled... but none of it matters when she hits the asphalt like so much rubber. Glass, blood, cartilege, viscera all fans out, lining the shape she makes on the tarmac, a grotesque facsimile of a television crime scene's chalk outline. The mess Aranea makes here and now will likely still be there weeks from now, a stain for passersby to wonder at. As it is, she's swearing up a storm, the skin of her arms torn up where they bore the brunt of the impact. Her dark trousers stain darker with rivulets of blood, fabric and flesh alike ripped open where the bone juts out, shredded muscle and sinew threatening to leak.
Her face is flushed a deep, pained red. Despite her best effort, her eyes are watering furiously, puffy with pure shock. Her expression, however, isn't upset or even afraid. No, it's pure fury, and she would be bellowing like a wounded predator if she lacked the presence of mind of their mission. Fortunately, her military discipline hasn't all fled her.
So. You know.
Happy Birthday, Noctis. ]
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For all his tumbles, for all his collisions with pavement, solid rock, or the unforgiving wood floor of his old training room, Noctis has never heard that sound before. It's wet, like the slap of rain-soaked boots against mud, but also hard like the driving of a tent peg into earth. He's felled a number of beasts far larger than her, some that have incidentally fallen from greater heights, but none so spread out and so eerily absent other sound.
He also knows instantly that he'll never forget it.
His knees hit the ground hard at her side when he rushes over, completely ignoring any tiny glass fragments that choose to stick in him for his trouble -- all minor wounds, nothing, nothing compared to what he's looking at here. ]
Aranea-- fuck. [ There's a twinge of pain in his chest and he knows immediately that it's a reaction from his instinctual, overwhelming desire to access his magic, but he can't do anything to heal this. ]
There's... there's a satellite safehouse near here, alright? I'm going to take you there... so I'm gonna' have to move you.
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Instead, she's left gurgling, struggling for breath, more vulgar words wheezed out when she can. She still feels the vibration of the impact in her ribs, her marrow, even her teeth.
The pain... That too. She couldn't even begin to describe that. There aren't words.
Speaking of words, she manages to grit out, ]
Don't - touch me -
[ It isn't about the pain. Well, it is, but it isn't. She doesn't want him to feel what she's feeling. ]
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Or what? [ The frustration is there in his voice now, spurred on by worry. ]
Look, I need to know if you can move your arms. If you can at least hold onto my neck or shoulder, anything that can stabilize you a little better.
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(helping markus down the ladder is next to impossible by himself, but after getting a good grip on the back of his belt he somehow manages. they practically tumble the rest of the way, connor barely managing to keep his boyfriend's arm around his shoulders as he absorbs the impact with his legs and only a brief jolt of pain up his ankles. they made it and that's all that matters, hearing noctis after everything tries at once to filter through the ringing in his ears, raising his head with a jerk.)
Noctis! I need help, he— (the desperation in his voice and the way that it cracks under panicked strain is audible, frightened and for good reason. they're both covered in markus' blood, mismatched hands a rich red that drips through their fingers as they both hold pressure to the hole in his side. this makes it difficult to stay calm, to better tell him what he needs. but he has to.) Markus got shot, he's damaged. I think it's his side.
(he sniffs a sharp inhale to try his hand at a better explanation. there's little improvement.)
I can't diagnose it, I-I can't even tell how bad it is. Please.
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It should hurt more than it does, he thinks to himself uselessly. He isn’t gouting blood, but a moderate stream ribbons itself through fingers trying to keep the pressure steady, long soaked darkly into black fabric. It’s movement and effort that sends his nerves writhing, each forward step its own kind of gauntlet, flesh and muscle sending lances of pain across his middle; having been more injured from the impact-force of the bullet embedding itself into body, still buried there as they speak.
Or at least tries to. Connor’s panicked timbre momentarily overrides his thoughts, and he catches a glance of a familiar face — Noctis — when he lifts his eyes up. He forgets whatever reassurances he was going to spout — I’m fine, I can still walk — and manages:]
I think the bullet’s still in…
[He’s been trying to tamp down instinctual fear, trying to stop his pulse from flying into a panic, to keep this damn human heart from continually pushing out more crimson with each pulse—
And finds that it’s easier to do the weaker he feels, slowly enveloped by a cold calmness, an unfortunate result of blood loss.]
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Okay... okay, they've got some of the cots set up over here for immediate care, this way-- [ And whatever temptation there is to reach for Markus is one that he has to force himself to abandon, despite how it feels like someone's twisted a hot poker into his guts. His friend, someone that's helped him so much recently... and all he can do right now is lead the way to those cots rather than potentially jostle his fresh wound any further, making sure their path is as clear and direct as it can be in the crowded safehouse. ]
Hey, you need to step to the side! I told you to keep this area clear; we have a lot of people that need to come through here! [ So many of those he wrangles out of the way are dead-eyed, several sporting their own minor injuries, but right now his mind is only on two men. He helps ease Markus onto the stiff mattress when they reach it, finally leaning over him to do his own futile assessment of his side before he's locking eyes with Connor. ]
This is gonna' be okay, alright? I promise-- [ gaze darting to Markus instead ] --you're both safe here. We've got all the supplies that we need; stay here and I can get some, okay?
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network; @x'rhun.tia
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I'm not. There's bullets flying around.
[ okay not the most mature response but he still doesn't know how to get a read on this guy yet ]
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Ah, yes. I had mentioned that, hadn't I? In all honesty, though, how are you faring Noctis?
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taco truck thursday
And so the needs shift from saving people to ensuring the ones they have are cared for. Food, water, clothing, toiletries, activities for adults and children alike as they await whatever fate Morningstar has laid out for them--
Ignis brings a hand up to rub as his eyes, exhaustion already bleeding in through his facade of eternal, intense calm and control. The occasional bruise from his small run-ins with UNA soldiers certainly don't help, but he's well aware that he's in much better shape than most others. Carefully, he tucks the list of necessities they're meant to retrieve into his breast pocket, looking towards Noctis.]
....Have you managed to eat anything lately?
[In all the adrenaline and excitement, it's easy to forget- and this is some of the first actual downtime they'd had with less deadlines looming above them. It's probably the best time, too, before they have to get back to the safehouse with armloads of supplies, to the scared and angry faces of the people lucky enough not to be dead or captured.]
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Not in the traditional sense of feeling tired, but emotionally, mentally, he's drained. His actual energy stores are running on fumes and it doesn't click into place exactly why until Ignis asks that all too simple question while they're making their way through the streets. ]
Ah... no, I guess not. I had something yesterday but not anything today yet. You?
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And then there's Noctis, likely using that ability of his to keep himself awake and alert and functioning. Never drawing attention to himself, but always pushing himself harder than he'd ever ask of anyone around him. It's not surprising that he'd likely forgotten about his own needs in lieu of doing everything he could to save the citizens under attack or displaced from their homes.
At the question, he rolls a shoulder in a half-shrug.] Just something this morning. ['Morning' used loosely, with how reversed everyone's sleep schedule is in the heat of New Amsterdam. Resources were scarce enough in the safehouse- it hadn't felt right to take much more than the bare minimum, when he had the freedom to go out and fend for himself.]
I think the supply run can spare an extra ten minutes, if you wanted to stop somewhere.
[Another pause, and:] After all, I know you'd work yourself into the ground when left alone. How are you doing, by the way? After everything yesterday?
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@keith.kogane
[That is the definition of a non-answer.]
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I've got more to do out there.
You okay?
[No, Keith isn't going to tell Noctis his mood. He might volunteer is normally. Might. It's hard to tell if this is abnormal or not.
(With how close they're getting, it's a little abnormal.)]
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It takes a moment to realize he's being addressed, head lifting, back straightening from a slouch. He doesn't complain about the recruitment. Just grabs the bottle and steps over to drop down on the kid's level and twist off the cap.]
Don't drink it too fast. [Cain's gloved hand holds the bottle steady as he tips it up. Then he glances at Noctis, voice lowered.] Any others come in with him?
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... no. It's been kinda' rough for that reason for a couple of them to wanna' socialize much. Can't blame anyone for that. ... even if some of the other kids were talking about Planet of Battleforge earlier. Ahh, wish I could take the time to join in, but I'm swamped. [ Here is where his voice raises, fully intent to be heard. ]
Too bad, one of them was having trouble picking a character class. [ "... which one was having trouble?" ] Ivan. The one over there in the blue shirt. You see him?
[ The boy's clearly hesitant before he gives way to a little nod, eyes on the other child sitting not too far from them. ]
Well... you think you can help him? For me, just because I don't have time. It'd help a lot. [ The pause is longer this time before the kid is reaching up to carefully take that water bottle, eyes lifting to nod first to Cain and then to Noctis before he's finally moving to join the others. And the second he does, head turned away? Noctis's expression shifts, giving into a quiet little sigh that's half fueled by relief. ]
... you got a name?
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But the purpose becomes clear, the young boy's attention drawn toward the other children, toward Ivan and his predicament. A clever ruse to coax them into socializing. Cain's brow lifts as he observes the exchange. He says nothing until addressed, again.]
... It's Cain. [It's becoming more familiar, passing out that name. Everyone on the station knew who he was (and knew each other's code names), so he almost never had to introduce himself. Here, he has moments where his tongue nearly trips, where he wants to say a different one - but that urge dies each time.] You?
[Still dressed in the clothes he's worn through all of this, only shedding the Morningstar tech and bulletproof vest, Cain's black clothes are stained in odd patches with dry blood. He should change.]
Whole night was such a fuckin' mess.
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matrix dodges that question via edit
good it was so generic. pushing drugs is better
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stop flirty icon matching me
UNINTENTIONAL
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i'm sorry
i'm living
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