"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
dick.
Hours later, dragging a dying man of their own back to the safehouse reminds him that death comes here, even if it isn't permanent (even if the main timelines are fixed), and to witness it is to feel the same visceral horror as in his own universe. He was unable to stop it (weak), air punched from his lungs, insides twisted into knots and tangles, trigger finger too slow. A blink and he marks the time on his implant on instinct. Although the immediate, crushing wave of helplessness threatens to drown him, the voice (cold, always cold) reminds him you're not finished yet. The truth is that Fitz remains complicated. Digging deeper inside himself has unearthed ugliness, but that's not the whole of him, and he knows it — hard to deny it, given the way his heart has threatened to burst from his chest throughout this operation.
When the timer on Giovanni's revival starts, Fitz staggers out of the way, half-wanting to make himself useful in the interim and half-considering a private collapse. 'Course this hallway's about as empty as it gets, with the main rooms of the safehouse bustling, as rescued agents, families, and displaced alike cluster together. Can't be sure how long he stands outside the entryway that he just bloody left, one hand on the doorframe and the other curled across his chest, faintly registering the growing ache there as painkillers and adrenaline wear off simultaneously. Do something. He drags a hand over his mouth, pushing down his nausea once more. Footsteps nearby signal someone's approach, so he manages to tilt his head enough to look and scan for injuries, brain only belatedly catching up to his eyes. ]
Dick. [ Startled. His legs carry him forward, then, a dazed propulsion. There it is again, his stupid heart. Ought to tear it out, for all the good it's done him, loud in his ears when he most needs to focus, striking an uneven tempo now despite the lack of danger. ]
Dick, [ louder in case he hadn't noticed Fitz fast approaching. For his part, he sports minor cuts and bruises, a dark splotch on his cheek, a slim bandage at his thigh, dried blood splattered across his front, matted in his short curls, and flecked up his neck (not his own, only visible against the blacks of his clothes up close). ] are you — are you alright? [ hands already reaching out, motioning for Dick to come closer. ] Did you, ah.
[ a noise that signals he has no idea what he was going to say, Did you have any trouble? Did you see Malone? Hafid? Are they okay? Is everyone okay? Dick's here, and that's — pretty good, something he hadn't realised was wedged at the back of his mind and pulsating with worry until the threat of that loss has gone, replaced with a spike of relief over the presence of Dick Grayson, alive and right here, stepping into his space. ]
no subject
[It's barely more than a breath. Tinged in wonder, with his eyes blown wide in surprise. Because there before him, is the one person Dick hadn't been able to account for. He'd hit a dead end, when he'd tried to reach out for a status update, in the aftermath of learning Damian had fallen. He'd had contact with Jason, had the worrying encounter with Bobbi- steeped in what ifs that could have happened, if he'd just been moments later, or hadn't come across her at all. What might have happened to him if Loki hadn't found him, and taken all further decisions out of his hands and rendered all his protests useless. He'd heard from Bruce, at least over the network. But Fitz?
Had been nothing but radio silent after their initial contact. There's plenty of reasons for that- too distracted to respond- had limited or frozen access to avoid becoming distracted by them- or that he'd ended up hurt, or worse. Perhaps in a pod- perhaps stuck out there somewhere, with no one to find him. He'd run the gamut of every possible bad ending- because while he knew Fitz was capable, Bruce had been too, once, and Damian was more than that. And both had left him.
He'd had no choice about returning to the safehouse, or having his injuries seen to- but he'd have gone back eventually, regardless, to check on Damian. Had seen him, in that pod with the timer set- pressed his hands against it and tried to reject the truth right there in front of his eyes. The proof of all the ways in which he'd failed him.
In the end, he wasn't able to stay there and stare at him. Watch him and know that technology, even ones like this, weren't infallible. That this could fail. Couldn't do this- in full view of everyone. Grieve and break down and worry about those he hadn't seen. It's just pure dumb luck that the empty hallway he'd been trailing his hand along as he'd made each aching step, hadn't been quite so empty after all.
Fitz is fast approaching, has reached out towards Dick before he's even gotten close, motioning for Dick to come closer, to step into his space- and he doesn't even think before he does it. Pushes off the wall as hard as he can, and uses the momentum to propel himself forward, barely feels the pain shooting up his leg from each staggered step with his right foot, taken only on the balls of his feet. Rushes as much as he can- and it's one of the most obvious injuries about him. An old wound, he's aggravated more times than he cares to count, bound tightly in a wide bandage tensor style bandage, something to make due with until a proper brace can be found, or those with more critical injuries have been seen to first. The other- is the cut that arcs down to his left eye, so close that it clearly could have nearly blinded him. But it's the worst of it. The rest are scrapes and bruises, a graze here or there with the near misses.
The question is ignored- and because Fitz has already reached out, has his arms at the ready- Dick has no qualms at all about crashing into them, sending them staggering back a step before he braces his hands on either side of Fitz' neck, thumbs brushing the edge of his jaw, and dragging him down until he can presses his forehead to his]
Fitz. [It's a benediction, breathed against the skin so close to his own, and in the face of it, the bond signals nothing discernible at first but relief. Fitz is here, alive, warm under his hands, alive, alive, alive- it's the only thing he's registering for some time]
no subject
Between his eyes and the implant, Fitz flags a series of worries on their way to each other. Leg injury, facial laceration, bruises all over. Christ, that's close to the eye. Did that happen during the fight where he helped Boobi, fuck, what if she, too, was hurt this badly — he's been busy, unable to help either of friends from home — stupid, he should have been there. Should have helped in the field and at the safehouses. Why can't he be everywhere at once?
In retrospect, he probably should have thought this through, 'cause the second Dick crashes into him, every bruise and broken rib smarts, a throbbing hurt that radiates outward. A choked noise of pain slips through gritted teeth, as his features scrunch, hands finding Dick's arms and fingers digging in there for purchase. Nevermind that the panicked feeling must register through the bond in some capacity, with the way it overrides his own solace at finding Dick alive. ]
H-Hey. [ A sharp exhale, working through the pain. ] Easy, easy, easy. [ Voice rapsy from the fresh stab and a long day of talking (shouting orders, walking amateurs through first-aid, calming patients). ]
[ The hands on his neck, then his jaw, pull him close to help him rebalance himself. Oh, that sort of intimacy's been rarer since the black site. Physical anchors, precisely what he needs at the best of times (and this is far from that). Dick's warm relief acts as a balm for the ache in his chest, empathetic injections to even out his breathing. Despite the initial discomfort, Fitz holds the position, eyes staying closed as the hurt subsides, helpless but to lean in until he can recover enough to do what he always does. ]
Right here. [ nose wrinkling. ] Just a bit fragile.
[ funny stuff, right... ]
no subject
When what he gets back primarily, and what he can glean from the tight grip Fitz has on his arms, fingers digging in enough to be nearly painful, bruising- is a panic that's slowly being replaced by a sense of solace at his presence, he feels like he's made the right decision. But it does stop him from moving closer. Any weight he may have put on Fitz before, if only to ease some of the pressure on his leg, instead gets shifted to his left leg, done with an ease and a confidence within his own ability to maintain his balance no matter the circumstance.
Fitz' breathing evens out, becomes less tight with the pained reaction that Dick had incited, and it's one of the only things that let's Dick laugh at assurance- under his breath and voice thick. Eyes blinking hard once, and then squeezing shut, tight enough to tug on the edges of his wound. The burst of affection takes over everything else, drowning out the sorrow starting to filter through, warm and deep]
I can...I can see that. [And since you asked- and he's capable of forming words now-] I'm okay. All in one piece, like I promised.
[All appendages accounted for. But he's going to hang out here, all the same]
no subject
This Fitz would say he doesn't deserve it, not after his behaviour today, but he accepts it. And Dick's dorky approach to this disaster of day disarms him, as ever. Something feeds back, more hesitant in its fondness. In moments, the affection eases into his limbs, loosening his grip. When Dick belatedly answers his question, he even huffs a near-laugh-turned-wheeze (by his pain spiking again 'cause Fitz has left it unattended since the first op, like an absolute idiot).
He tips back enough to get a better look, never one for stillness, but brings his hand up, fingers fanning at the juncture of Dick's neck and collarbone, maintaining the empathetic connection. The bond helps keep him upright. ]
Just a few chunks missing here and there, huh. [ said the wannabe slasher film extra, lightly chiding. He makes a faux noise of indecision, mouth tugging to one side. ] Suppose I'll let it slide — on a technicality.
[ Hard for him not to linger on the cut down Dick's face, or let his gaze drift down to Dick's leg. There's a joke to be had about him looking more like the rest of the population now, definitely, only he doesn't make it. Instead, a sincere little thing slips out, entirely soft. ] It's good to see you, Dick.
[ In one piece-ish. A squeeze of his arm, deemed a safe spot for reassurance. ]
no subject
[It's a gentle chiding, the corners of his mouth twitching with a desire to smile, even if the rest of him doesn't feel up to holding the expression. That near laugh- after everything he's seen, after everything he's heard today- it's a beautiful sound, even when it ends far too soon into a wheeze that Dick has become intimately familiar with, over the years. He'd bruised his torso and broken his own ribs, in a variety of ways- from vehicular crashes to run of the mill weaponry, to being thrown clear across the room. He'd broken them, just before arriving here, and while he can't say for sure- he can guess at the ways in which Fitz is hurt.
Something hidden beneath the fabric of his shirt, unnoticeable if not for the fact that Dick had crashed directly into him and refused to let go. The way that the rest of what Fitz carries hides beneath a seemingly unflappable calm. Concern starts to filter across, little bursts beneath the warmth of his affection, in the positive emotions of receiving the fondness in return- hesitant as it might be. It causes him to linger- fingers brushing down the slope of his jaw onto the top of his chest, stays until he can feel his frame ease once more, until Fitz draws slightly back, to get a better look at him.
There's a tiredness there, as he gently starts to prod at the canvas before him, as Fitz had done to him before] Did you see someone?
[And he can guess at that answer too- when now up close, he can see the flecks of blood still dried in his hair, along his clothes- and there's a gentle chiding in that too. Didn't he tell you not to behave recklessly? His voice loses some of that soft edge, becomes dryer with a humour that definitely sounds more rote than genuine] Is it really missing, if I know exactly where they are?
[Cut across debris and other shrapnel, the business end of a weapon, across someone else's knuckles, smeared and dragged along the halls he'd wandered down. Between one breath and the next- Fitz utterly disarms him, knocks off course anything else he might have said on scraping by on a technicality- with the softly spoken pleasure at seeing him, there and whole before him, relatively. With the fingers fanning across his collarbone and the hollow of his throat, the only exposed part of him that feels unscathed.
Everything about him softens, and he blinks once, twice- hard, to clear his vision. A little of the mask that makes up Dick Grayson cracks, and the relief isn't the most solid thing he's projecting, not anymore] It's good to see you, too. When you didn't answer-
I'm happy that you're here.
no subject
[ definitely thought about lying, but Dick’s already gently applying pressure in the right area, keenly aware of what he’s looking for — when Fitz feels the brush of his hand over the injury. Another twitch away from the touch, and his features scrunch again. No denying it. ]
There’s nothing to be done for it. [ mumbled downward. It may be true (‘cause gone are the days of wrapping and taping; ribs have to sort themselves out) but that doesn’t make it any less of an excuse. Maybe he’s just pushing himself, fearful that time may run out for someone else, when he’s the only trained surgeon (with working hands, sorry Stephen) on duty. But maybe it’s about punishing himself, too. He knows what Jemma would say. Don’t do that, at once sharp and soft. He gets caught in that thought for a moment, the hand at Dick’s neck slipping to grasp his shirt. It blurs part of their interaction.
Until it they the part where Dick stutters, just a little, cutting himself off where Fitz normally might do the same. That’s — new. Their empathetic exchange shifts with it, supplying equally unbalancing information. It’s on par with Connor’s confession to him at his birthday: Do you know how much you’ve impacted my life in the short time we’ve known one another? No, he doesn’t. How could he know how much any of them care when he gets stuck in his head, clever but lost. The sentiment silences everything in Fitz (the noise duller in his mind, just for a few seconds). Then, his mouth curves, helpless in the face of Dick’s statement, which leaves no room for questions. ]
Sorry, you know I get — [ overwhelmed, shutting out the rest of the world to protect his fraying neurology, but Dick doesn’t know in so many words. It’s Jemma and Mack that do, that he thinks of when he says you know, so he adjusts. There are still explanations owed to Dick Grayson. ] I get overwhelmed by the noise, sorry. [ ducking his head. ] I should have messaged you.
[ A shift of his grip on Dick’s arm to tug at him. ] C’mon, you should — we should sit.