[OPEN] mod plot | sacking of olympus: harbinger descends

[unplug]

CHARACTERS ▶ All characters opting in
LOCATION ▶ Olympus
SUMMARY ▶ The Zion Defense Grid with civilian relief corps arrive at 1100 6/18, and Commander Gwisin gives the orders for rescue, assault, and investigation. This log is player-run and includes The REAPER simulation option (1 of 3) in the Matrix, as well as rescue activity in the Real. Kill some zombies, save some abducted babies.
WARNINGS ▶ Violence and reference to human experimentation, possibly R.
NOTES ▶ This is Part II of the Sacking of Olympus plot. Questions/investigation here, for example, what happens when you shoot compartment x of the centipede

▶ Sacking of Olympus Part II

REAL: THE ZIONITE RESCUE OPERATION ◀

Gwisin's orders are terse over the comms, two hours before the fleet makes Olympus. Make contact and communication to the best of your ability, restore comms if possible. Provide emergency care, fire control, and evacuation, before the unidentified bogey arrives at city center.

Pandemonium reigns over the populace of Olympus, civilians trapped by fires, drones, and debris. Olympus’ forces have rallied but remain thin on the ground, and the Zionite reinforcements are direly needed. Electronic communications remain down except for the Matrix pirate signal, darkening the panic and despair that have descended over the city; REAPER drones harry every human or ship that tries the ground or air.

Organizing this wide-scale rescue in the face of explosions and still-unexplained abductions comes down to ingenuity and manpower.

REAL: HARBINGER DESCENDS ◀

Thirteen hours after the Zion rescuers arrive in Olympus, the Harbinger does too. The cavern ceiling, dead center, cracks, crumbles, boulders the size of hovercrafts hammering down on the city center. By now, thankfully, the heart of the city is empty of civilians, but as the Machine breaks through, it's instantly clear that isn't going to be enough.

Harbinger is massive. Digging mandibles up front could eat a squid whole, and have room left over to total a hovercraft; its name emblazoned on red on each segment. Scarlet optics glow against its black chassis, and drones flush out of the gasping ports in its sides the same way insects give birth in dozens. Ponderous but unmistakably powerful, the centipede-shaped robot crawls out into a dangle into empty air. Keeps dropping its head toward the city in neat, clockwork degrees, almost elegantly, to let itself down onto the rubbled cavern floor. Erratic gasps and comments sound off across the disrupted networks: the oldest of the humans, civilian or otherwise, have never seen a Machine like this in the Real.

But maybe you remember dreaming a monster like this, from another lifetime.

Pilots throughout the city gun their engines, preparing for a feat of comms-blind synchronization. The battle truly begins.

MATRIX: REAPER COMBAT FREE-FOR-ALL ◀

When the Harbinger arrives, the Matrix pirate signal augmentation doubles in strength. Triples. The operator reports start to come in, distorted from the REAPER signal jamming, but unmistakable. There's a simulation out there, like a bridge to-- what? The Matrix? The programming language carries unmistakable similarities to the Dowager's feed from Kitty Jones' call to the Atalanta, but there's nothing specifically like that strange, consuming pattern in the girl's neuro-output. At least, not on this level of the sim. Not yet.

Jack in, and the first thing you see is the cold belly of a spaceship. What you hear are the screams, bouncing echoes off catwalks and cold corridors. Next, figures coming in a wave of seemingly unstructured attack. In the vanguard, the Husks, screaming zombies-- sinewy, discolored flesh mingled with useless tech components and bioluminescence. Not far behind, the bulbous Scions with their single energy weapons. Bringing up the rear, the Banshees float in deceptively slow at first, only to accelerate into a dazing flash of teleportation, skeletal-faced, real death waiting in their razor hands.

One thing is certain: they're guarding something, though where in the recesses of this ship, the operator must largely guess.

Comments

[ironwork]

( has anyone ever been as pleased to see mr chatty in this moment as seoraj is? --well, sure, maybe steve, actually, but the point remains that under the circumstances, he (and his weapon, bless his weapon) are a sight for sore eyes. and shoulders, and torso, and it doesn't hurt exactly but there's a warm sensation at the back of his thigh that probably means blood, and nothing good. there's no time to worry about any of that, though, and he doesn't; he can still carry cage, he can still move, so he hurries, adjusting the dead weight over his shoulders to sit better so he can jog forward, clapping his free hand against Bucky's good shoulder when he joins him.

under said circumstances, he isn't exactly his own usual chatty self, but there are important details worth imparting: )

He's not dead.

( --in case he was, uh, wondering. )

[lostsoldier]

[ The shoulder-slap earns the same mild, rabbity sort of confusion Seoraj's existence usually prompts from him, but maybe that's not such a bad thing. He gives a brisk nod in answer, partly because it hadn't. actually occurred to him Seoraj might bother carting a dead body around, and maybe later he'll ask Natasha about that sort of sentimentality he still has trouble understanding, but maybe he won't.

Either way, they have bigger problems ahead of them. He falls into step beside Seoraj, energy weapon at the ready, stalking through the rubble smooth as a hunter on the prowl. His muscle memory might not be what it used to be, but even lean-limbed and fuzz-headed, this is his element. ]

Your leg. [ he asks without sparing so much as a glance to it, because of course he noticed. ] How bad?

[ironwork]

I can walk, ( slightly more relaxed on the subject of his probable leg damage than is probably sensible, but he's also probably still slightly in shock from the crash and should be commended - quite frankly - for getting this far with a second person slung over his shoulders. ) Ask me again when the adrenaline wears off.

( he keeps pace with him, at least; he favours that side, but only so much as he's able to favour either side of himself when he's slung cage like a hog he's bringing home for dinner and must by necessity maintain a certain center of gravity to keep the both of them from eating dirt. more laconic, not looking up but the sentiment remaining: )

If it wears off.

( they still might die. he's upbeat, somehow. )

[lostsoldier]

When, [ he returns with the shadow of a Look. When it wears off. Because if you think he's letting the two of you kick the bucket on his watch, well — you've been paying attention to his usual lack of empathy, probably, but time on the Phoenix has started to unearth a one or two long-buried instincts.

The less-well-buried ones are not without their uses, though. Accepting that assessment, he leads quick as he thinks Seoraj can manage; better to keep the adrenaline up than find out one way or the other. They pass through ruined streets and smoking husks of buildings, his breathing hard but even — until an incoming click-clatter of metal pinchers has Bucky shifting weight to shoulder back against the other man — wall, now — as if his 5'11" of half-starved dog could shield Seoraj and his Christmas ham from anything.

(Humor him, ok.) ]

[ironwork]

( it's a touching effort that seoraj accepts in the spirit it was made, flattening against the wall as much as it's possible for him to do with the awkward burden of cage on his shoulders, throwing out the shape of them. somewhere in the back of his mind he's concerned about head injuries, and jostling, and making things worse-- but there's nothing he can do about that right now, and this is the only way to make damn sure that cage lives long enough for someone else to tsk over his haste and tell him all the ways he should've done it instead.

they're so close. he stops breathing. )

[lostsoldier]

[ Bucky, for his part, exhales slow and calm, suddenly as comfortable as slipping into a warm bath. He waits, listening to the electric chitter on the other side of the wall, then to the long scrape of metal forelimbs curling around its concrete edge. The hum of electricity too near.

Machines see in all spectrums, after all. Body heat doesn't just disappear.

It's only a matter of time, then. He looks back over his shoulder to Seoraj, to catch his eye, and jerks his temple ahead to their left. A rise. The wreckage of a factory. The Phoenix beyond, maybe. ]

Run, [ he says, before he steps out from behind their cover, and to the right. ]