NationStates Jolt Archive

[OOC: Assume that only people I have invited have received this little message. To get invited, you must either

A. be invited by me
B. post in the OOC thread, and prove to me that you are talented and dedicated enough to participate in a quality RP.]

(Projector starts)

This is Khrrck. This is the Third Age.

(Shot of rolling, bleached sand. as far as the eye can see. A rock appears over the horizon, and the camera zooms in on it, moving impossibly fast.

As the camera approaches, iron chimneys and vents can be seen, protruding from slots on top of the mesa. Armored doors surround its base; one gapes open. The camera drops and falls inside.)

We have conquered this place and made it our own.

(The camera continues down the tunnel. It suddenly expands into a massive room, big enough to house a football field. Massive, plated, treaded crawlers lie in rows, waiting for their pilots and their missions. Reptilian forms scuttle across the room, minute in the gaze of the camera, checking and repairing.)

Civilization lives beneath the sand.

But three hundred years ago, this place was a desert.

(Shot of rolling, bleached sand. as far as the eye can see. A rock appears over the horizon, and the camera zooms in on it, moving impossibly fast.

The mesa is untouched and pure.)

Three hundred years ago, a small band of survivors began to make their own way on a dying, forsaken planet in a galaxy far, far away from here, separated from their ancestral home by the Rift that lies between the universes.

(Blurred, still photographs of a hellish world. Dark, smoke-filled skies lit by the glare of a small red sun. Bleached rock capped with stunted, twisted trees. A gaping cave.

Tunnels, caverns, an underground sea. Lichens growing in the feeble light filtering from above.

Something alien, massive, with six legs, charging the camera.)

They built, and survived. Some would say they prospered.
This was the Second Age.

(Pictures again, much sharper. The same tunnels, now squared and propped by artifice and expanded by mining.

Massive, black iron machines, lurking on the edges of the underground sea.

The surface again. Something massive, in the form of a half-arch, surrounded by construction cranes.)

They tried to return to their ancient home.

(Flickering video. The arch lights and fills with crackling energy, then with a volumetric white glow that blinds the camera.)

They failed.

(Computer generated image. The same white glow opens, circular, above the desert. Equipment, vehicles, reptilian bodies fall from it and plummet onto the sand.)

The new world was rich, beautiful, and inhabited. We had to fight for our place in it.

(Video, compressed, taken from an open-frame buggy. In the background, a machine gun rattles away at something unseen. Sand cascades away from its wheels as it plows over a dune, bringing a tank, of human make, into view. Rockets take flight towards it.)

This was the beginning of the third age. Eighty years later, today is the beginning of the Fourth.

(The camera resumes its flight through the vehicle hangar. A massive tunnel, big enoough to fit two of the massive crawlers through abreast, looms at its far end.

The room beyond is just as big as the previous one. This one, however, is half-filled with arcane, flickering machinery.

In the empty portion of the cavern, a massive half-arch looms.)

Although it was long lost, we have found the way home, to the world of the First Age and the planet of the Second.

It is time for us to return home.

(The machine accelerates. The arch begins to brighten.)

It is time to reopen the portal.

(The portal seems on the verge of opening, then suddenly dims. The machinery slows and stops.)

We wish you to be here to witness this momentous occasion. The portal will open at noon, exactly one week from this date, and eighty years to the minute from the moment of our arrival.

(Blackness.)

We will see you then.

(The projector stops)

[OOC: The OOC thread is here (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=11486651).]

Time passes.

On the ground: A runway, paved at great expense on the ground just outside the Mages' Guild mesa. A hut-cum-control tower. A set of six Quonset hangars. A small fuel depot. In the air: A single solitary fighter.

The place looks deserted. Possibly because you have to be crazy to go out in the desert heat at this hour. Crazy, or mechanical.

"This is Orca Machine, calling incoming aircraft... You are cleared for landing. Welcome to Khrrck."

Khrrck... pronounced by that otherwise normal, low male voice, it sounds like an industrial accident in progress. A grinding of colossal, inscrutable gears.

No human could talk that way.

******
In the distance...

:: NGIN BEGN begin ::

This is Flight 10874 out of Karid International Airport, and thank you for the welcome. Truth be told, I'll be well glad to be free of these passengers. The pilot commented as he brought the chartered aircraft down. His passengers were always the rich or dignitaries, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd flown anyone group who acted like they were long-tailed cats in a rocking chair store.

The five passengers were naturally at unease at the method they'd had to travel to Khrrck. Of course it was only natural, if you knew that thier normal modes of travel were sail, steam or literal horsepower.

Once the plane had settled, the passengers disembarked with noticable relief marking the faces of the two women and three men. There was the diplomat with her starting to grey hair in a bun, the journeywoman with her blue trimmed vestments denoting that of a Healer, while slightly in front of her the master sorcerer was standing with his carpetbag inscribed with runes. To the side was the guard who was with them and the investigator bringing up the rear of the party.

Okay. What's the plan?

Fingers play the syncopated rhythm to a little ditty that has no tune, drumming between the side of the plastic armrest and the fiberglass cabin wall where no one will bother looking at it. The frown on Diplomatic Officer Fareed Alim-ud-Din's face tightens and shifts in time, echoing in the facial muscle equivalent of sotto voce the words playing out in his head like the worn out reel of a player piano. It only gets that far because no one is actually looking at him.

Right. The plane will land; I'll call up to say I've arrived--no, wait, it'd be best to make a full report later. They'll know from the courier service I've arrived. So we land, I get out, immediately make contact and make sure they know how honored we are to have been invited, that we hope for better relations and blah blah... no, that's too much. Cordial, not pressing. This isn't a time to press that sort of thing, it can come later.

With a plan of action in hand, the drumming ceases and turns to a gently spasmodic twitching of the fingers on his right hand--still between armrest and cabin wall--curling up so the fingernail of his ring finger idly picks at the side of his thumb. Fareed looks out the window at yellows and buff tans, looks over his left shoulder at the empty cabin, then goes back to looking forward at the bored Dominion-native crew. Why import pilots from outside the gravity well when the local talent works just fine?

So, what's the plan? Frowning, the diplomatic officer continues to pick at his thumb. Really. After that I just have to play it by ear. This is a big day to these people and all I have to do is play along. Still, if I--

"Hey," the pilot calls back perhaps slightly too familiarly--just like a Dominioner could be expected to, Fareed would think if his current burst of feeling were put into words rather than just a sharp shock of irrational annoyance--"we've beena cleared to land. We're gonna put down now--youa buckled in?"

"Yes," Alim-ud-Din says more harshly than he intends, immediately chastizing himself for being rude and angry just because the pilot has something of a stereotypical accident to go with his stereotypical behavior.

If anything actually is wrong, the pilot doesn't notice. "Okay. We're setting down."

Broken from his train of thought, Fareed glances down at his right hand. His thumb and fingers are soaked in a thin sheen of dark red blood from the scratch he has once again habitually opened up, just leaking thinly from where his nail dives under the skin. After glancing forward again to make sure the pilot is busy he brings his his hand to his lips, a little bit of finger sucking to hide the evidence.

* - * - *

The distinctive rear-wing forward-canard sleek shape of the Dominion-built Piaggio P1800 Avanti III in blue and black Truimvirate of Yut Diplomatic Corps livery touches down easily on the concrete runway, nose wheel only having to drop a few degrees to touchdown because the pilot clearly learned on the older pusher-prop models rather than this new overtechnology jet. Other than the engine nacelles, there's not much difference between this aircraft and its forebears other than a marginally higher subsonic cruising speed and a much better range--redesigning wings is expensive, after all, and no one wants to add structure weight so the wings don't shear off thanks to the thrust of miracle engines. Landing, taxiing, all within international regulations and tower control, a turbine-noise solo ballet of movement.

A ballet, perhaps, but a boring one, especially when the plane's sole passenger has nothing better to do than stew in his own juices in the few minutes all this takes. The black-and-blue jet comes to a halt inbetween the yellow lines assigned to it, and the portside passenger door opens out and aft while the boarding stairs fold down. The man at the door pokes an olive-skinned head out, then with quick gingerness descends the steps and hits a measured stride intentionally somewhere between stateliness and nonchalance on the concrete. His uniform looks military--overall a dark charcoal cover with a sky-blue plastron, wide fabric belt, and shoulderboards, with silver-and-black trim along the double-breasted lines of the plastron and the medium-high open collar. Silver S-shaped centipede above an engraved silver nameplate bearing the legend "ALIM-UD-DIN" in English on the right breast; a ribbon tree consisting of one line of small square patterned ribbons on the left; and finally silver segmented belt, set over the wide blue belt, with a triangular buckle and sporting the regulation clip-on communications brick on the left and a palm-sized steel cylinder on the right.

He finds whoever seems to be looking to meet him, bows politely--"Diplomatic Officer Fareed Alim-ud-Din of the Federated Segments of Scolopendra. We are, of course, honored by your invitation."--then stands back up to his 175 centimeter height and looks reasonably at ease.

The Nofian aircraft entered Khrrck's local airspace, it was a beatup C-130. The markings on the craft were that of all Nofian vehicles, the Grim Reaper holding the world in his hand, below it the words "As long as mankind exists, war will be unavoidable." The pilot radioed to the control tower.

"This is Nofian aircraft PDU-696, requesting permission to land."

The response came, granting permission. "This is Orca Machine, calling incoming aircraft... You are cleared for landing. Welcome to Khrrck."

The craft began it's descent.

Two female passengers waited in thecargo hold, along with a squad of soldiers. The two women were delegates sent by their nation. One wore a camoflauge utility uniform with razor creases. A strand of blonde hair fell in front of her green eye. It seemed her gaze pierced into your very soul. Her face would be considered pretty by most standards, but in the Mercenary State of Nation of Fortune beauty had little measure.

The other woman wore a heavy cloak with a hood, protruding from the bottom were the standard combat boots with the utility uniform bloused over them. A strand of pitch black hair slivered down from under the hood, it was the only facial feature that could be easily seen.

Along with both of the women were signs of prestige, they had both tamed wild animals, something that only the highest class soldiers were allowed. A cougar followed the blond, and a black leopard followed the other.

*****
The plane grounded on the hot tarmac of the runway, slowly screeching to a halt, leaving the standard of long black lines in it's trail. The plane came to it's final position, and would stay until the two delegates returned. The two women stepped off of the plane, followed closely by their prestigious counterparts. The heat did not seem to bother either of them, especially the one wearing the cloak. The blonde was visibly taller than the cloaked one. The blonde looks around, noticing a lack of people on the runway. They both sling their rifles over their shoulders, and make way to the nearest building.

"This is Orca Machine, calling incoming aircraft... You are cleared for landing. Welcome to Khrrck."

The plane was tiny, a custom Cirrus VK-30 jet specifically modified for these types of trips. Although it was a diminutive sort of aircraft, a pair of small rocket pods and a back-mounted gattling gun would be sure to disagree with anything unfriendly. A pair of eyes peered out of the windows, staring down at the planes that had arrived before them.

"Mmm. That is a Triumvirate plane, is it not? I recognize the colors. Can't tell whose the other's are, though. Ooh, that's an interesting one; the Grim Reaper. Nice touch."

"I believe that's the Nation of Fortune logo, sir." A metallic voice answered after observing the aircraft for a few seconds.

"Is it now? Interesting..."

"Sir, are you sure about this? We're in the middle of the desert. What if something should happen?"

"Nonsense, Nex. Khrrck is an old ally; nothing out of the ordinary will happen. My, this is exciting though, isn't it? I wonder what this portal will look like."

The jet jolted as it hit the runway, then nearly flew it's passengers out of their seats as it halted almost immediately.

"Perhaps this whole 'able to stop on the runway quickly' bit was a bad idea, eh, Nex?"

The cockpit opened, and two figures stepped out into the scorching sunlight. One of them-obviously the diplomats-was a short, pale man in a two-piece suit, complete with cane and bowler hat. The other didn't seem to be any sort of man at all, but a huge, brisling mass of metal; it was one of the next-gen Ravean royal guards, one of the best soldiers on earth.

This particular man had abandon his traditional cape and tunic for the best military technology available. The guard was encased in a suit of flexible and modern suit of armor, capable of taking an extraordinary amount of punishment. The traditional Raven longsword that all guards wore was paired with a long, elegant custom bolt rifle slung over the shoulder.

"I say, Nex, is the suit really necessary? I thought you folks only wore those things for military missions."

"Give me a break, minister. I like to be cautious. Besides, this has it's own cooling system; I guarantee that you're going to collapse of heat exhaustion long before I do."

The first man frowned, fanning himself with his bowler hat.

"Well, we had better go meet all these people. Let's go, Nexlon!"

The two Nofians noticed the latest addition to the airstrip, off walked two men, or at least one of them was a man, the other could have been anything. He was obviously a guard of some sort, something these two had seen plenty of. The blonde slightly shook her head.

"A guard with such armor can't be so sure of his skills," she said softly to her compatriot.

The hooded one only nodded.

To say that this day was putting a strain on Khrrck's rather small diplomatic corps would be an understatement.

C'mon, why isn't anyone out there? Go for it, Cath.

Greetings must be made, refreshments prepared, floors swept.

...A C-130. Why the fuck are they flying a C-130? We'll have to park it on the taxiway. The hangars are too small.

...not to mention the aircraft parking problem, which is rapidly piling up.

–Look at this list man, we don't have nearly enough space for 'em all–
Don't worry, we'll get a man out to glass you some parking space.
–Shit, here comes the first one.

******

The delegation from Theao (first on the runway) are greeted by a plump, brown-haired woman in a plain, sand-colored uniform. She seems the sort of person who is destined to end up as a kindly grandmother. A copper pin is fixed at her collar, green with tarnish.

"Hello, delegates." she says, curtseying (a curious anachronism, but one that seems to fit her). "I'm Acting Diplomat Catherine Walls. I'm sure you want to rest after your long ride, so we have a building prepared for you. The others will be here soon– then we can begin."

The building she speaks of turns out to be a simple adobe building - windowless and thick-walled, to keep out the desert heat. Inside is a fairly generous, although not large by any means. A few couches and chairs are scattered about, and a table in the corner holds a modicum of generic refreshments. The air conditioning is running full blast, struggling to beat the desert heat.

******

The diplomat from the Triumvirate of Yut is next.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Alim-ud-Din. I'm Acting Diplomat Cathrine Walls. We're glad you have come. I'm afraid you may have to wait a moment before the main event begins, so we have a building which you may rest and meet the other diplomats in. I'm sure you must understand how busy we are- it has been simply ages since something so significant happened around here."

******

The Nofian diplomats are quickly met as well.

"Sorry to keep you waiting- it's simply frantic around here with all the preparations. I'm Acting Diplomat Catherine Walls. If you'll just step right this way, we have a building where you can rest and meet the other diplomats. The rest of the diplomats should be here in a moment- then things can begin."

Catherine pauses, and looks pointedly at the women's rifles.

"You can keep those- I will tell you, though, that we have wards set up in the area. You may find it difficult to kill anyone with them."

******

The oddly mismatched Ravean pair was last - but certainly not least. Catherine seems unfazed by the towering suit of armor.

"Hello, hello. I'm Acting Diplomat Catherine Walls. Sorry for the delay - it's dreadfully busy around here all of a sudden. There's a building just right this way where you can rest and meet the other diplomats. The others should be here in a moment, and then we can begin."

The armor recieves another of her pointed looks.

"You can keep those - I will tell you, though, that we have wards set up around here, and you might have a hard time killing anyone with them."

"Oh, don't mind Nexlon. Just my personal bodyguard; I didn't want him, but the President insisted on some protection." The shorter man looked around at the various vehicles parked along the runway. "Quite the party here, eh?" He stuck out his hand. "Vergil Fillmore, Ravean Minister of Foreign Affairs, at your service. Now where's that building, I simply must get some air conditioning!"

Nexlon noticed the pair of Nofians observing him, but didn't make anything of it. He wondered exactly how good they were; he had heard quite a lot about people from that nation. He quickly caught up to Vergil before he wandered too far off, and the pair quickly made for the building.

They both only slightly nodded at the comments about going into the building, which they started heading towards. The comments about the rifles however, sparked a little response from the blonde.

"Regardless how difficult it is, if we want someone dead, they will be dead. Besides, if we wanted someone dead you wouldn't know we were here. Consider this, we go nowhere without our weapons, so this gesture is nothing to be feared."

The women walked away, easily falling in step with the beat engrained in their heads.

The diplomat returned the curtsy with one of her own. "I am Lady Margret Hargreave, and it is a pleasure to meet you." She replied before gesturing to the man with the carpetbag. "This is Master O'Leary."

He inclined his head as he was introduced before reaching back to brush his burnished copper hair back while his green eyes twinkled as he said in a brough not unreminsecent of that of the Irish or Scots, "Ma'am."

"Journeywoman Miller." The young woman likewise inclined her head as had the master sorcerer had done, her blond tresses tied back in a ponytail.

"Lord Miles." The man bowed, and took Catherine's hand and placed a light kiss on it. "It is a pleasure to meet you." He added as he straightened with a charming smile on his face.

"And Armsman Marko." The guardsman simple stood silently as he surveyed the environs.


Sean O'Leary looked at the air-conditioner, noting that it was trying to keep the room cool, "Would you mind if I placed a spell on that contration to aid in keeping the room cool?" He asked Catherine.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Alim-ud-Din. I'm Acting Diplomat Cathrine Walls. We're glad you have come. I'm afraid you may have to wait a moment before the main event begins, so we have a building which you may rest and meet the other diplomats in. I'm sure you must understand how busy we are- it has been simply ages since something so significant happened around here.""Oh, yes, I'm certain it must be something of a strain."
Fareed looks sincerely concerned. "I hope you don't take it amiss if I ask if there's any way I can be helpful in that regard, al-Fulaniyyah Walls, although I'm sure you're can handle things quite capably. In any case I am most grateful for your hospitality." Knowing she's probably going to be quite busy he politely takes his leave--"I look forward to talking to you more later"--and walks briskly towards the neat earthen building. Along the way he takes a good, long look at the installation and absent-mindedly chews on the inside of his bottom lip with the very tips of his incisors until once again he tastes blood.

It's not that being in new places bothers him; it's more the natural result of an internal cultural conflict where the two non-negotiable standards of being helpful and respecting the host seem to clash slightly. Just by asking if he could help suggests that the Khrrck authorities weren't capable of handling it (unintended) but if he hadn't asked when difficulty was admitted then he wouldn't be living up to the usual idealistic standards that got him to this point in the first place. He believes in both simultaneously, and normally they play nicer than this. On an unrelated note, the area's quite peaceful. Almost like the travelogues of Jadiid Sahara, but not as blue. It's certainly hot enough, but no humidity. It's actually a bit more bearable than Si'lat was that way.

With a variation on these thoughts and the ferrous taste from the occasional nervous suck keeping him occupied, he makes it to the building without further incident. Once inside he steps aside from the door while his eyes get accustomed to the change in the light, then bows politely to the Theao delegation. Next stop is the table, where he introduces himself. "Assalaamu alaikum. I'm Diplomatic Officer Fareed Alim-ud-Din of the Federated Segments of Scolopendra." He pours himself a small amount of the most tea-looking substance on the table. He never really cared for iced tea, but in this weather it's appropriate. "I hope you're looking forward to this as much as I am?"

This process is more-or-less repeated with the others as they come in, a polite greeting as he stands off to the side (but not so much as to be disengaging, oh no) and lets things build naturally.

"Lady Margret Hargreave of Theao, representing his Royal Majesty." She replied with a bow, before introducing the others of the party, who replied in much the same way as they had for Catherine Bell, thought Lord Miles abstentained from the slightly more intimate form of greeting he'd directed to thier host.

"Yes I am, though truth be told the manner in which we arrived was most unsettling. The contraption that is called a plane should never have been invented."

The blonde and the oh-so shrouded one entered the building where the other delegates had started their friendly bantering between the nations. The door swung open, letting the absurd heat into the building. First was the cougar, followed by the blonde, thirdly the leaopord made his journey to the cool building, last and certainly not least was the women wearing the heavy cloak.

Their eyes quickly adjusted to the dimness of the room. The two women and their aforementioned counterparts made their way to the table with the other delegates. The blonde took a seat, and poured herself a glass of water. The cloaked one just took a seat, her face still obscured from view.

Virgil nearly dove into the building almost immedietly following the Nofians, gasping with pleasure. He wiped a sizable amount of sweat of his brow and refixed his bowler hat, looking around at the other delagetes. His attention was immideatly caught by the stunning big cats a few feet in front of him.

"What lovely animals!" he observed admiringly, circling the cats to catch every angle. "Very, very beautiful, and no doubt well-trained and deadly." Virgil wrinkled his nose and frowned. "I've always been fond of birds myself, but the Ravea has a strict no-pet rule in administration offices. Pity, or else I'd carry around my pet falcon with me".

"Yes, very deadly. Well trained so long as it is I, or perhaps my associate. If you are fond of avian's perhaps you would love to meet Ennis Duer, or DWAR as he is better known in the nation. He holds proudly a golden eagle," the blonde responded, obvioulsy the elder of the Nofians.

"An Eagle, eh? Perhaps indeed! Perhaps a diplomatic visit to the Nation of Fortune is called for, after all this Khrrck business, of course. I'll have to see what the President has lined up for me, but I'm sure I could make room for you lot." Virgil looked around at the other diplomats, his eyes resting on the Triumvirate officer for a moment before moving on to the party from Theao.

"Wonder when all this 'Portal' stuff is going to begin. As long as I stay in this air conditioning I'm content, though. Much to hot around here; first I complain that I can never get out of the Ravean rain, and now I get sent to a desert! Figures..."

Nexlon ignored the prattling of his energetic minister and continued to scope out the other diplomats and their guards. He wondered what was under the shorter Nofian's hood.

The blonde was rather amused at the thougth of someone making a diplomatic visit to the NoF. Quite the intruiguing thought. On top of that there was whole issue of even getting DWAR to agree to the visit.

A strand of black hair was all that was exposed from the hood, she had been waiting to make introductions before the cloak came off. The heat of the thing didn't bother her, she just preferred to hide her self from prying eyes.

"Lady Margret Hargreave of Theao, representing his Royal Majesty." ...[lacuna]... "Yes I am, though truth be told the manner in which we arrived was most unsettling. The contraption that is called a plane should never have been invented."
Fareed makes his way through the introductions solely on diplomatic training, thinking enough on it to register names and faces for future reference and avoiding any obvious faux pas. This keeps his cognition busy and away from any of the nervous fidgeting it tends towards when unobserved and idle, which--as he'd be the very first to admit--is a good thing.

The latter bit strikes him as completely absurd--no surprise there, given an upbringing in the Up-and-Out--but he of course has the grace not to show it at all, replacing the quzzical look he'd use in informal conversation with an equally sincere concern for the good Lady Margret. "I gather then you're not comfortable with flying, ma'am? I'm sorry to hear that, then, especially seeing how that seems to have been the only way to get there. If it's not prying too much, is there any particular reason why flight bothers you?"

Around this point the Nofians and the Raveans come in. Guns, armor, wild cats acting as dogs... well, they're certainly bringing attention to themselves, which suits Fareed just fine. It's not like this is any sort of competition, after all, but it does strike him as odd for a diplomatic meeting. He grew up in an armed society and it still strikes him as odd. Oh well... different strokes...

He introduces himself with the polite bow and simple D.O. Firstname Lastname of the F.S.S. announcement the DiploCorps has practically trademarked by this point. Asking about cats or armor or guns seems too abrupt for a first question, so he finishes off by asking: "So, how did your flights go? It's rather hot outside, and the iced tea here is excellent for that."

He visibly gets out of the path between them and the refreshment table, half out of politeness and half out of it being a subtle way to suggest movement. Beyond that, Arab traditions demand he be a polite guest to his fellow guests, which occasionally means vaguely hinting at hostly duties whilst the host is otherwise indisposed.

"They violate the way the world works." She replied to his question of why flight bothered her, and bothered the others of her party as well. "Master O'Leary could provide a better explaination as he is the one versed in the sorcerous arts, and flight falls under that."

What she didn't mention as to her it was a natural understanding, was that many of the disciplines that most lands would call sciences,were to Theao, the equivilant of the Flat Earth Society to the majority of the world. Afterall, why research faulty logic when the sorcerers, engineers and Healers did what was necessary.

Living in a pluralistic state that values multiple points of view, Fareed has certainly heard things just as wacky before. He's also heard wackier. He is also enough of a diplomat to keep from laughing or raising an eyebrow or apparently discounting her explanation out of hand. 'Apparently' is the key word, here; despite his best efforts his mind has already slotted her into the continuum between 'harmless old-timey eccentric' and 'bats' when it comes to air travel.' Except... airplanes aren't flight, which she seems to associate with sorcery. A little bit of face reading suggests that this isn't a bad thing, not like "she's a witch, burn her!" accusations of sorcery, but the casual statement of fact.

He'd best not say anything about how far and in what ways he had to come. "I suppose if Allah had wanted us to fly, he would've given us wings." It's a joke, yes, but a very mild one. "Still, I suppose one of the ways one could define humanity is the seeming need to press boundaries at every turn, one way or another. Could there perhaps be some way we could arrange a more natural return trip for you, in the interest of making new friends and committing random acts of kindness?"

It's a stretch, but I could pull the strings if I needed to. He wasn't around when he heard Walls tell the Raveans that the place is warded. So it goes.

"Allah?" Margret commented slighly thrown off from her chain of thought. "The name of God for those who follow the written word of God as put down by the prophet Muḥammad, or the Islamic faith." Miles commented, "Ah, the faith of the Padishah Empire." She replied before turning back to the other diplomat. "My apologies for that. I did not expect to find a follower of your religion here."

"We were informed that travel within a plane was the only viable method. We can withstand the rigors of travel within a plane, so there is no need to trouble yourself."

The UH-60 general purpose helicopter was coming in lower than its passengers would have liked. While the private military corporation (PMC) they all worked for personified brotherhood and cooperation, it was a tad too large for everyone to know everyone else.

'Definitely former Army boys, probably ex-SOF...'

Diplomacy wasn't exactly a standard thing for a PMC, but the General insisted on good relations with as many countries and private interests as possible. In an industry dominated by trigger-happy steroid-hyped boneheads and certifiably insane revolutionaries with more fervor than funding, Red Dawn's relations policy was designed to set a standard of professionalism unknown in the private security sector. While it was a bit odd sending former soldiers out on diplomatic meet-and-greet operations, the overall effect was beginning to bear fruit. Contracts had begun to increase again, as had arms sales to more reputable clients than the standard nut jobs wanting to change the world through violence and intolerance.

Seated in the middle-most passenger seat was a man of maybe forty, probably younger, with a high-and-tight haircut and clad in a battle dress uniform colored in a modified MARPAT color scheme of digital tans and browns.
Desert boots rested comfortably on the steel floor of the chopper, pant legs bloused inside them to keep the blowing sand out. His MOLLE vest, patterned the same as his uniform, was mostly empty, save for a trio of magazine pouches on his left side, and a radio on his right. The insignia on his right arm identified him as a pay grade E-7, known otherwise as a Sergeant First Class. He'd been a Gunnery Sergeant in the USMC, and had tried as best he could to keep the nickname of 'Gunny' during his transfer over to the private sector. The symbol stitched to his left shoulder identified him as an employee of Red Dawn International, the company he now worked for.

He played nervously with the safety on his sidearm, one of Heckler and Koch's Mark 23 pistols. He'd swapped the 1911 MEUSOC he'd carried in Force Recon out for the newer polymer framed pistol, with almost double the magazine capacity and a few more options for customization. The polymer frame in this case was a standard Coyote Tan, to go with the rest of the uniform. When he'd asked his operations officer about wearing a suit, he'd simply gotten a strange look, and from the little beads of sweat forming on his brow, he would have already sweated through the nice Armani tuxedo he'd purchased a while ago, or even his dress blues. His old MARPAT patrol cap, complete with USMC logo, was rolled up and tucked in the back of his MOLLE vest, which thankfully had had the composite trauma plates removed from it, to save weight and make him look a bit less threatening. Company policy dictated that he wear his sidearm at all times, to 'promote an aura of preparedness during any situation or circumstance', which he believed would either scare everyone at the function to death or prevent them from taking him seriously.

The weapon in question currently waited in a tactical thigh rig on his right side, with a full magazine inserted but no round chambered. As an afterthought, he ejected the magazine and laid it next to him in the passenger seat. He doubted he'd need it, and if he did, a sidearm wouldn't do him any good against a national military guard force. Company standard operating procedure didn't say his weapon needed to be loaded, and he didn't intend to if this meeting was going to do any good...

"You awake back there, Sarn't?"

It was his rather redneck pilot, a warrant officer by the name of John Stacy...

"Roger that, sir... What's the ETA?"

He hated being late for anything, and he was already running late for this little shoulder-rub, which would make him look even worse...

"We've got about fifteen minutes remaining..."

He didn't bother responding. He'd decided his pilot was definitely ex-Army, and by the way he was flying low and fast, a former Special Operations insertion pilot. He wondered jokingly if he'd have to fast-rope from the thing to get to his LZ.

SFC Jeremy Stone hadn't volunteered for this sort of thing, it had basically been thrown at him because of his apparent 'people skills', which up until his retirement from the Corps had included either shooting them or stabbing them, and he felt that this in no way qualified him to serve as a diplomat, much less while carrying a firearm into a nation of unknown diplomatic affiliation with the corporation he'd been chosen to represent. It had all the classic hallmarks of total Mongolian Cluster-Fuck on an international scale.

They hadn't even given him a partner, which was a blatant violation of the company's 'Don't go anywhere alone, battle-buddies don't leave each other to die' policy, now that he thought about it. The one up-side was that he'd been allowed to crease his uniform, but on wrinkle-proof material it didn't work as well as the old standard-issue BDU's he'd had before the new digital stuff had come out...

"Compound is in visual range, Sarn't... Waiting on a landing go-ahead from the tower..."

Something told Jeremy that this wasn't going to end well...

"My apologies for that. I did not expect to find a follower of your religion here.""Lā ilāhā illĀ-llāhu; Muḥammadun rasūlu-llāhi," Alim-ud-Din replies easily with a bow, "guilty as charged, ma'am. We're somewhat used to being unexpected by now--no need to apologize. Given history, it's not all too surprising." Life is quite a bit easier once one takes the 'there will be no compulsion in religion' commandment more seriously. Still... "Even though we have a padishah (in short form at least) I don't believe we're affiliated with this Padishah Empire. We're generally more Arabic than Persian." The old adage goes that one should never talk about religion or politics but if one doesn't mind mixing metaphors the hangar doors have already been opened that way, so... "Forgive me for speaking from near-complete ignorance, ma'am, but what faith, if any, do you serve God under?" The switch to the English generic name is calculated to avoid offense, and Fareed hopes the sincerity in his voice gets that across. "I only say 'near-complete' because from your reaction I can safely guess it's not Islam."

All said in a friendly, conversational manner that dutifully and diplomatically avoids any connotation of proselytization.

"We were informed that travel within a plane was the only viable method. We can withstand the rigors of travel within a plane, so there is no need to trouble yourself."

"Very well then, ma'am." He smiles and tilts his shoulders in the vaguest suggestion of a shrug.

A small plane flies above the desert, steady and slowly. A sharp-eyed observer will note that it has no propellers.

The plane was clearly made from scrap metal. Its hull was not painted, so the welding lines, tidy but still disturbing to any passengers who feared flight, remained visible. The plane was clearly built to be power and resource efficient and nothing else.

A simple sign, the shape of a swan in a lake with its reflection in the wrong direction, was painted with precision under the wings. The mark of Balanite, a country where people needed the sign engraved on their back to be legally human.

In the country’s ruthless quest for efficiency above all else, the balanites replaced themselves gradually with artificial bodies, in order to be more productive in their work. It is now hard to tell if where the machine stops and the flesh that their parents gave them began.

Gliding over the desert heat, the small aircraft continued its way above the dunes.

Inside the hull of the aircraft, away from the goods stacked against the walls, were two people. One was in a chair, the other stood behind her. They were still like statues.

There were no windows, yet the hull was in a dim light.

"What are the aboriginals of this world?" asked Athena. Her voice sounded like a choir, but had a mechanical tone. Her assistant gave her a typed report, which she read in silence.

"We don't have much time to make a deal, seeing that they are leaving." She turned and faced Stamatios, for him to support what she thought, but he remained quiet.

"The populace, in general, of the Empire follows the faith of Christ." She replied, as she was a part of that religion, "There are members of the religion of Islam, the Hebrew faith and some few other small groups."

The two sorcerers, master sorcerer O'Leary and journeywoman Miller were having a conversation by the air-conditioner. "All sorcerers must undergo a yearly review under members of the Church to assure they are not practicing Black Magic. Those who have the rare gift of Healing almost invariably join the clergy."

"The populace, in general, of the Empire follows the faith of Christ. There are members of the religion of Islam, the Hebrew faith and some few other small groups."

..."All sorcerers must undergo a yearly review under members of the Church to assure they are not practicing Black Magic. Those who have the rare gift of Healing almost invariably join the clergy."Fareed nods, not having much experience in metanormal things himself and thus not really having anything to comment there. "To say we are mostly Muslim would be incorrect; Islam does make up the plurality in the Segments and most of its regional background derives from North Africa and the Middle East as well as the rest of the Mediterranean basin. Most religions are represented to one degree or another--we take great efforts to coexist peacefully due to past failures."

Call a spade a spade. He looks over at the sorcerors. "I'm afraid I don't know much about such things--an unforgivable lapse in this day and age--but at least I know they exist. I'm sure your system is quite effective but I must apologize, I'm not too sure where that came from. A non sequitur, if you will." He again hints at a disarming shrug. "Does this mean a large part of your Christian clergy are also sorcerors? If so, I'm certain they keep the tradition of Christian hospitals in good stead."

"No, the majority of the clergy is not as the gift is sufficiantly rare that even were it law, there would be insufficiant sorcerers to staff the various churches. The Healers, like Journeywoman Miller, are members of the church, though it is not something imposed upon them." She replied as she contemplated requesting O'Leary step in, should he request additional information as she had only a small amount of knowladge about them.

"If you wouldn't mind telling me information about your lands, I would be interested to hear it." She commented, realizing that as yet the information flow had been mostly on-sided, something that was not to be desired.

Fareed nods as he assimilates the new information but has no additional comment concerning it. Healers are members of the church, their presence is customary, and their presence, while not statistically negligible, is a decided minority. Makes sense. At the question-as-statement directed towards him, he smiles a bit more. Diplomatic Officers are chosen partly due to their national enthusiasm (a state of mind somewhat more benign than proper nationalism, more akin to the more mild forms of patriotism) and this particular Arab certainly has it in scads.

But of course boasting is improper and obnoxious and therefore said enthusiasm has to come through with a bit of moderating modesty, no matter how false. "Ah. We're just a secular representative republic quite a long ways from here that's a mix of things that occasionally defies conventional wisdom. We try to keep our government as secular as possible expressly because our people are so devout; with all the various religions we have it turns out that secularism is the only fair middle ground we can come up with. We have somewhat socialist leanings in economic policy and yet libertarian leanings in governance, which result in a lot of public programs that are optional. We definately try for pluralism and multiculturalism, moderated by the fact that it simply doesn't work without some sort of central set of core beliefs. We like individualism but work hard to establish a sort of civic consciousness in our society to make it all work."

He shrugs, this time not merely suggesting it. "I will admit that it seems most people don't readily believe all that at first hearing. We more or less consciously defy being easily categorized, but so it goes. Is there anything in particular you would like to know? Art, culture, relations, things of that nature?"

Margret blinked in some confusion as it had sounded like Fareed had switched to a new english dialect only loosely on the one she was familiar with. He was throwing words around that were completely new, and words were being linked that had no buisness being linked by the linguistic rules she was use to.

"If you don't mind could you elaborate on these words and concepts, representative republic, secularism, socialist, libertarian, pluralism, and multiculturalism?" She asked as thought if there were specifics that might be interesting concerning the subjects he'd proposed.

Alim-ud-Din smiles diplomatically while he takes a few precious moments to think on his feet. Oh dear. We have a live one. Step one, damage control. "Ah, aasef. I do apologize for the confusion. Sometimes I forget what is common dialogue in one place is obscure jargon in another. Hm."

Step two, back up and clarify. "A representative republic is a form of government where the citizenry elect officials via the process of voting to represent their interests in the government. Ours differs somewhat in that we have a system of direct democracy--plebecites--for major referenda. This does of course require our citizenry to be well-informed, a duty we try to ingrain from an early age.

"Secularism is the concept of temporal power as separate from religious power. Hrm." Back in the day, the decidedly Western distinction had no real meaning in the original Islamic or Arabic mindset. Fareed doesn't suffer that problem; his problem is that Islamic references would probably be lost on the good Lady and so he has to stretch for the most common quotes he can think of from Christianity, those being the ones he's most likely to remember correctly. "I suppose something like 'render unto Caesar' is analogous. There is a religious power--like your Christ and what he represents--to which is due faith, and a temporal power--like Caesar--to which is due fealty. A secular government thus has no relation to religion, any religion, other than coincidental similarities due to shared virtues.

He takes a sip from his iced tea, not expecting having to give a lecture. "Socialism is an economic philosophy that aims to reduce the, ah, inequalities common in market-based economies where the rich flourish at the expense of the poor. It doesn't really work for several reasons, but it does provide a good set of ideals when it comes to trying to establish an egalitarian state. On the other hand, libertarianism is a mostly political philosophy that believes that the government should be involved in as little as possible and give the most possible freedom to individuals. It also doesn't really work for several reasons, but acts as a good ideal to keep in mind so the government does not become monolithic or wasteful."

"Pluralism and multiculturalism are both cultural and political philosophies which generally support the acceptance of a diverse series of cultures. Given that we have heavy influences from cultures all across Earth"--he pauses slightly to cut himself off from saying '-That-Was'--"it's the only way we can live with ourselves without falling victim to animosities the world over. Again, we have to moderate this by accepting that all Scolopendrans must have (ideally) a core set of beliefs that transcend cultural background, but that is necessary to have such a system work."

Another sip taken, he thinks for a moment. "In summary, we essentially pick and choose from all the historical philosophies we've seen in order to assemble a system which works suitably for ourselves. Like any other culture we would like to see others agree with us, but we understand that it may not work everywhere." This last is added as an obvious concession, making it clear he's not looking to proselytize or convert anyone to his nation's mode of thought. "What is your civilization like in these regards?"

Margret listened intently as he spoke, though she was finding the concepts strange beyond belief, almost akin to flying in a plane in fact. She also knew that they weren't concepts that would gain even a toehold back home, they were simply too radically different.

"The way to describe it, in perhaps the simplest form, would be as a vasselage state. The people live as they wish, within the bounds of law and skill. Those who live within the provinces governed by the noble, who is appointed by the Crown, owe thier alliegence to thier liege lord and to His Majesty, while His Majesty owes his alliegence to the liege lord and to the people." She explained as she paused before continuing. "If one feels he or she has been wronged, they may bring it before the local judge who is by thier position sworn to neutrality. Should a case be beyond the skills of the local Armsman or involves matters of sufficiant importance, one such as Lord Miles is brought in to solve the matter. Is there other information you might wish to know?"

"This is Orca Machine, calling incoming UH-60. You are cleared to land. Apologies for the lack of parking space. Someone thought it was a good idea to come in here with a C-130..."

******

"[i]This is Orca Machine, calling incoming Balanite aircraft... You are cleared to land. Welcome to Khrrck, and please don't fall apart on the runway. It's cluttered enough as it is."

"Acknowledged, Orca Machine. We will land in four minutes twenty-eight seconds." replied Athena in a monotone. The small plane flew over its destination, and decelerated as it turned around.

It landed quietly onto the runway, and the two passengers got off the aircraft as soon as it went to a complete stop.

Athena and Stamatios stood waiting in front of their plane.

The shorter Balanite had a metal visor which covered the top half of her face, long hair-like wires covered the back of her head, tied into a ponytail with a hollow cylinder, extending down to waist-level. They ended in various plugs, sockets and other electrical outlets. The tip of her small nose and a permanent half-smile showed below the visor. A hooded long-sleeved robe covered her body from the neck downwards.

The other Balanite was a head taller. His head was a welding mask. A few bars held it in front of the rest of the body. Behind the mask was his chest, inside which contained their luggage and his organs. His arms and legs were metal plates held together by metal coils. Thick metal tubes snaking around his body supplied a liquid from his chest to the out-lying parts and back. He had a slight hunch.

The blonde looked over at Fareed, who she felt had given them dissaprooving look upon entering the building. She would have spoke earlier, but had been accosted by the Ravean.

"So, Alem-od-Din, is it?" As she said this it was obvious she was reading the silver name tag he wore, and having a hell of a time figuring out how to say it.

Ah, so a neo-feu... no... more like just feudalist. Alim-ud-Din can read faces rather easily, that being a part of the trade and all, and so he realizes that he must seem like some sort of green man from Mars now. Not that such is totally inaccurate, but it makes his job just a touch more difficult. Just a bit more... I wish I had paid a bit more attention to that sort of thing back in the day; it's not like we see it all too often... hm. Looking it up now would be rude, let's see... closest analog is Cetaganda, I think... oh well, it's not too important. "I think I understand, ma'am. So the nobles are appointed rather than carrying their position through hereditary lines? That is different from what I've heard before. I suppose..." No, it's probably not a good idea to play thought experiment with the good Lady's culture. "...that the judges are also appointed by His Majesty, or does their power derive from elsewhere?"

As for the Nofian blonde, the fact that it's obvious he's reading his nametag only confuses him slightly. He was sure he had remembered to greet her (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=11528716&postcount=20) as she came in. "Yes, ma'am, Fareed Alim-ud-Din." When one's native language doesn't Romanize easily one gets used to indoeuropeanophones mispronouncing one's name. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'm afraid you have the advantage; I don't believe I caught your name." It takes him a moment to keep from adding 'my apologies,' because for the life of him he remembers doing the whole bow-and-introduce bit and not getting a word in return until now.

Valerie had quite likely missed Fareed's intorduction the first time around. Usually she is an astute observer of her surroundings, but certain things about this building have drawn her attention elsewhere.

"That would be because as of yet my name has not been revealed," as she said this the cougar's tail flicked a little, "I would be Valerie, from The Mercenary State of Nation of Fortune. My partner would be Haushinka. I'll let my associate introduce herself."

The shrouded one let loose a sigh of discomfort.

"Kiley Nessa," came the short, and almost dark seeming voice as she reached for her hood.

Her hood came off.

Her face would have been that of a seventeen year old girl, and a pretty one at that, although the scars that covered her face made her seem far older than she actually was. The eyepatch that covered one eye had long been sunbleached from black to a blueish color. Her black hair seemed to mock the fact that she had a single grey eye.

"No, nobility is hereditary. Provincial governors are appointed from amongst the nobility by His Majesty, while mayors are elected from the people of the towns. The judges are also appointed by the King, through the medium of the governor." She explained before turning to the Nofians, "Hello."

"Pleased to meet you--salaam alaikuum al-Fulaniyyah Valerie, salaam alaikuum al-Fulaniyyah Nessa." He bows in turn to both the Nofians, each time adding the traditional four-part salute associated with salaam--fingers to brow, to lips, to heart, and flourish. From his bearing the Arabic honorific is probably equivalent to 'Miss' or 'Ms.' Believe it or not, the appearance of the young lady doesn't seem to faze him at all--a bit of time with the Um Lizaans quickly got him acquainted with various forms of dismemberment. Working naturally--too quickly to think and worry about it--he doesn't jump to showing concern, as perhaps such scars and such are considered facial experience rather than a tragedy.

He nods to the Theao noblewoman with a quick word of understanding, then turns to aid her in bringing the Nofians into the conversation. "We've just been discussing comparative governance, and I for one am always interested in hearing another viewpoint, if of course you wish to share."

(OOC: Maybe this time it'll register that I posted.)

Valerie nodded her head slightly and thought for a moment. Government, it wasn't something that immediatly came to mind when thinking about the mercenary state. Little about how the nation was run even dwelled on most citizens minds, they were usually too busy.

Valerie spoke.

"I have no objections explaining the government structure, but I will warn you ahead of time, due to a sensitive nature of some processes I cannot explain those fully at this time."

She thought for a second, remembering back to her days as a child.

"There is so much to explain, why don't you give me a starting point," she said, leaving the offer open to either parties present.

Kiley had the same thoughts on her mind as she unconciously stroked several of the long scars that swept her face and neck.

Thomas Carnesîr, Artificer First Class, adjusted the collar of his uniform and gave the door before him a concerned look.

Come on. You can do this. They can't be any weirder than the usual crowd.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the oddly grotesque Balanites.

"I stand corrected," he muttered, taking hold of the doorknob. "They're just as weird."

******

"So sorry to keep you waiting. I'm Thomas Carnesîr."

Thomas bowed slightly as he introduced himself. He wore the same plain, sand-colored uniform, but without the pin. Instead, he wore a pair of thin sheet-metal vambraces, embossed with a simple grid pattern across the top.

"Things are almost ready, so we'll, um, be heading inside in a moment. In the meantime, I'm sure you all have plenty of, um, questions to ask. Feel free to ask them."

******

"Oh, there you are."

Catherine seems almost unfazed by the newest arrivals, although their odd - modifications - gave her pause for a moment.

"I'm Acting Diplomat Catherine Walls. You're here just in time. Mr. Carnesîr is taking questions in the room over there. He'll conduct you inside in a moment. Sorry I can't help you more, but I have things to do that simply can't wait. Mr. Carnesîr will hopefully be able to make things clear for you."

Athena turned her head in the acting diplomat's general direction. "We do not mind the wait. It is interesting watching the mechanics at work." She smiled, showing a perfect set of teeth.

Stamatios remaining silent, the pair followed Catherine's directions to the waiting room, their feet making metallic noises with each step. They let themselves in politely but without greetings and stood beside the door, where they observe the others quietly.

[OOC: Any questions?...]

[OOC:Tm if you want to revive this.]

[OOC: Indeed I do want to revive this. Anyone still here?]

*Waves*

Yo.

"Apart from humans, what other sentient lifeforms are on this planet?" Athena spoke suddenly, as if awakened. Stamatios made a mechnical noise, which paused Athena for a moment.

"...What is the significance of this event we are to witness?"

Catherine frowns, thinking for a moment.

"Well, as for the significance - think about it. If we get this to work, we'll be able to reach a whole new world. Think of the scientific and economic possibilities! Not to mention that a great deal of this country wants to see their old home.

"As for sentient races... well, um. I never studied the subject much, but I think the current number for Earth is in the high hundreds. Our country is mostly nonhuman, to be honest. I only moved here because they were performing these experiments. Besides the natives, we have dragons, humans, and a couple elves. Thomas is inside right now talking about the subject, I think. Here, you can talk to him."

******

Thomas looked across the room.

"No questions? Alright. I think we have one more group to come in here, and then I have a few things to say before we can go down to the test area."

[OOC: Trying to speed things up a little, but my computer access is becoming increasingly limited as of late. We'll see how it goes.]

[OOC: Helllooooo....]

Speed away, Mister Speedy MacSpeederson. Warp factor Keystone Kops.

[OOC: That would kind of require someone actually making replies to my posts...]

"Let us not wait for those who lag behind. This has taken long enough, and we are behind schedule." Athena said with a smile, revealing her lack of canines.

Stamatios remained still in the background, the light reflecting off the top of its mask.

Khrrck (explains Thomas, as the final guests enter), is an colony. It was founded by refugees - nonhumans, reptilians, from a world lost somewhere away from here across the fractal metaverse. They survived here - with brute force, cunning, a certain set of technological and mechanical talents, a few heroes, a lot of luck - but although they have become prosperous, their thoughts have always turned toward home. A few human and humanoid immigrants have also found the idea of an interuniversal portal interesting, and joined the effort.

Thirty years of research and development have culminated in this project (he says, leading them out of the building towards the blast-doored entrance to the mesa), which combines some of the best techniques of the mage's and the technologist's craft. Exactly which techniques are not specified, but it comes out that Thomas - a quarter-elf of indeterminate nationality - is somehow in charge of the entire project.

Via a few elevators and quite a number of rough-hewn, flourescently-lit corridors, the delegation comes upon a balcony on the upper edge of the test chamber. It seems to not have changed since the invitation was filmed - although from this angle, another balcony can be seen halfway around the circular chamber, filled with electronic equipment and scurrying, reptilian technicians.

This balcony, however, is simply a single row of seats in front of a window, one of which is placed before a microphone.

*****

"And now... it begins."

Thomas leans forwards in his seat and speaks into the microphone.

"Begin warmup."

The lights of the test chamber dim to blackness. The only sources of light arae the balcony on the opposite side of the chamber and the faint glow forming at the heart of the portal.

The dull light spirals. The outside of the arched portal shimmers, small bolts of (not quite lightning) crawling over its exterior.

A voice crackles from the desk speaker in front of Thomas.

"All ready down here, sir. Shall we begin?"

"Yes."

*****

Extradimensional portals are a varied lot - spherical, planar, blue, green, yellow, black, flashy, dull - opaque walls or mere holes in space, they all have one thing in common. They glow. This one is no exception.

They usually don't glow this brightly, though. Actinic light throws razor-edged shadows across the walls. An articulated shade drops into place, layering the balcony with tinted glass. Even through the near-black layer, the white-hot circular edge of the portal can still be seen, expanding around a circle of visual anomaly - a space not black or white or gray, but an eye-watering void, a place without color or tint that is simply, indescribably not there.

Thomas frowns. All is not going as expected.

"Where's the connection? All I see from here is hole."

"Sir. Everything's lined up. There seems to be some kind of anomaly. Our models for the metavacuum aren't matching up with the readings from the intervening space. Mass and energy are above zero."

"What? That'll wreck the torque settings. We won't get the right destination. Shut it down and recalibrate for the new readings."

A pause. The hole continues to expand and brighten, threatening to blind the inhabitants of the balcony even through the tinted glass. A second layer slides into place, cutting the brilliance a little. A few seconds later, a third layer drops.

"Sir..."

"Yes? What?"

"Sir, we've cut power. But we're still reading positive energy input on the portal."

"Are you sure the switch is working? Get an axe and cut the cables if you have to. Just shut the damn thing off!"

"Already tried that, sir."

"Fuck. Evacuate."

Thomas lunges to his feet as six inches of reinforced steel shutters rattle down across the balcony window, cutting off the light from outside.

"Everybody out of-"

He never gets to finish the sentence.

******

Light. White-hard light, bright enough to sear and blind the retinas if it was anything normal. But this is witchlight, the light that is Seen but not Felt, which makes its mark upon the mind but not the body.

It shines through the steel shutters, through the hands raised to block it, through the rock and iron of the Mages' Guild Mesa to register as a brilliant, impossible pinpoint on orbiting cameras.

The balcony is unharmed. The portal is shattered. The experiment is wrecked. But the test chamber is now... occupied.

******

"I'm alive? I'm alive?"

"Sir? Sir, can you hear me?"

"Thank God I'm alive."

"Sir, we've got some readings you need to see."

******

I'm alive.

Contact has been established with the destination - although not in the manner intended.

∞ preserves. ∞ protects.

[OOC: Threads Collide! (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=501782)]