2012-11-15 Enjoy the Silence

Various routes existed to gather the information on this job. Various ways exist to make the long trek out to the northern Pacific into the area south of the Aleutian Islands. Finding the derelict ship called the Kelsey is half of the battle, but one that not everyone involved would have to handle on their own. Those that elected to take the offered aerial transport would find themselves inside of a helicoptor as it sweeps across the choppy oceanic currents. It's early morning and the air is bitterly cold, the slender aluminum fuselage barely helping to insulate its passengers against the chill.
Piloting the craft is a man who had introduced himself as Aldric Labelle, the years catching up to him as the gray dusting his short, dark brown hair would prove. His blue eyes are both friendly and serious, having not offered much by way of conversation during the flight in favor of trying to locate the lost ship. There are two things which he appears to be quite skilled at: Flying against a persistant cross-wind, and locating the proverbial needle in the vast, blue haystack.
The Kelsey is not insignificant in size, large enough to have a landing pad for a chopper which, fortunately, is vacant. Trying to reach anyone over radio remains unsuccessful, Aldric taking it upon himself to land upon the large, raised disk at the back of the ship. Despite the sun rising upon the horizon, the ship is dark. No engine noise, no motion. No lights. There's the low hum of wind passing around the ship, the ticking of the chopper's engine, and the ever-present drone of the ocean all around.
"Alright, kids. This is your show from here. I might suggest trying to get the engines started so you've got some power to work with, but it's your call. None of the doors are powered, just expect it to be dark inside. We've got questionable weather approaching in five hours, either we need to be gone by then or we'll need to have the heaters running for spending the night. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to find the latrine."
Cold. Lunair is bundled up in some sort of military surplus jacket lined up with fur. She resembles the love child of a disgruntled mercenary and a penguin in her darkly colored gear. But either way, she's a quiet, cooperative passenger if one ignores her thousand yard stare and distant expression. It might be almost serene in better circumstances, calm enough to make a zen master offer her chai and chat meditation. Happily, her mittens are not pinned to her jacket - she has gloves. But this cold business is still not exactly thrilling. She nods at the information given. She looks thoughtful. A flashlight probably wouldn't suffice and would be a dead giveaway. For now, she looks to the others for their opinions on powering the engines and this cold business. She's hesitating, on the verge of asking.
Storm, who, up until this point has been quiet on the flight over, deep in meditation to distract herself from the whole "enclosed in a tiny pressurized metal tube," issue, opens her eyes, which begin to go from pale blue to frosty white as does her earth-mama nature-communing to get a feel for the area. She does not appear to be dressed for extreme weather. Her sleeveless bodysuit, dramatic two-piece wing-like cape and headpiece would probably look more at home on a Victoria's Secret runway show than over partly-frozen waters, but she doesn't seem to be the least bit cold.
"I will do what I can about the weather without causing drastic changes in surrounding areas," she assures the others on board the plane. The weather-witch takes a deep, cleansing breath, and as she exhales, the winds over the water begin to die down, giving the waters a chance to calm somewhat before they approach the vessel. "And before anyone asks, no, I cannot make it much warmer. I'm sorry."
Well this was certainly interesting. Barry, AKA, The Flash, was used to getting everywhere under his own power. It's not that he didn't enjoy kicking back and letting someone else drive for once, it's just that when you can break the sound barrier with a light jog, you tend to move faster on your own. However, lacking any sort of navigational tools for traveling over large bodies of water, he was pretty much forced to take the provided chopper ride. Most of the way he tried to involve each of his fellow passengers in conversation, interspersed with long periods of silently chowing down on the small feast he brought with him. Every time he'd start to speak, he'd open with, "Name's the Flash -- Fastest Man Alive. Nice to meet ya'."
The very second they touch down on the helipad, he's gone. Outside the copter, dashing around the immediate vicinity as he searches for... something. Anything, really, that could be a danger or clue. He's moving quickly, but he's still in the visible range as a red and yellow streak of color. Luckily his costume needs no cold weather option. The Speed Force regulates all temperatures, not just the ones that would light him on fire instantly from the friction of simply moving through the air.
If silence is golden, then by Psylocke's estimation, the past few weeks have been rusted pig iron. With the uproar over the US government's consideration of mutant registration and internment camps fuelling the fire, she's found herself tossed hither and yon between various interlocking schemes. A coupled of stolen evenings in the company of newfound allies and old friends alike have been her sole reprieve from seemingly endless days waging war in the criminal underbellies of Gotham and New York, and running concurrent investigations inbetween. Her ear has rarely left the ground, tracking the dinsome murmurs of smuggling operations and aborted assassination attempts, anti-mutant gangs and pro-mutant terrorist groups...
In some bizarre, twisted way, the opportunity to respond to a distress call in Alaska feels like a reprieve. And so she's left her ragtag band of tenuously-united allies behind and taken the most expeditious route to the deck of the Kelsey.
BLINK!
Which explains how, if not *entirely* why, Betsy Braddock arrives on a quiet portion of the ship alone and without backup - having no intention to immediately announce her presence to any others who might have answered the call. What she doesn't quite bank on, is the explosive streak of crimsony yellowy disorientation that greets her apparition. Her telepathic scans in conjunction with the mauve-skinned mutant's prodigious teleportation skills informed her she'd be picking a nice, stealthy point of entry to get tabs on the situation...
But she didn't account for the Fastest Man Alive being aboard.
"M-My goodness!"
It's out in a near-hiss before she can stop herself, a hand flying up to the suddenly-dishevelled sweep of her purple hair, still trailing a few motes of pink light from the lapsing portal. Drawing a deep breath to calm her very un-ninja, but very distintly British reaction, Psylocke glances after the passing blur, violet eyes narrowing as she starts to creep toward those gathered further along the ship. Her mind reaching out to get a read on those present-- civilian and otherwise, though she's distracted for a few moments, heart racing from the greeting surprise and... more mundane senses reeling in the otherwise chilly *silence*.
Calming the winds helps to alleviate much of the chill, but it doesn't help relieve the feeling of isolation. Taking place of that ambience is the random creak and groan of the mighty ship as it coasts along with the currents, ever drifting to an unseen flow. A notable improvement in one area. Perhaps less so in another.
The initial recon that The Flash decides to tackle reveals ..surprisingly little. Closed doors. A complete absence of crew or power. It's like everyone abandoned the place and killed the engines on the way out the door. Everyone except for the purple-haired mutant that poofs into existence in a magenta flash of light. If any of the doors get tried, they're found to be unlocked. Buttoned up tight, but no key necessary to proceed. There's pictures posted outside several of the doors to help the crew navigate the place, which could be awfully handy for those only first setting foot onboard today. Tour guides cost extra.
Lunair's silence on the trip out here is returned in spades, the very world around her seemingly without a whisper to share. Beyond the low sun causing the waves to appear as though they were on fire, the view is downright desolate. Even depressing views can sometimes be beautiful.
Having a psychic on board should make tracking the crew down much easier, one might think. The strongest signals come from those to have just arrived with just the faintest undercurrent of static, comparable to ground fog in an astral sense. Is something blocking more within the ship? Maybe there's nothing at all? It's hard to tell, especially with those few souls sharing space upon the deck.
Poor Lunair. She's not really fast (unless there's cake or explosions involved) by comparison. Actually, she's starting to feel a bit ... -worried- about this. Awkward. But depressing and beautiful views have a poignant, aching sort of joy to them. Deep breath. Right then. She doesn't pull up a weapon right away. Actually, she has a pretty sturdy flashlight in hand, for those darker places. It's not a fear of the dark - it's always someone waiting in the dark that gets you. She has a few things with her, in a small bag. She doesn't say what for now, though since Flash speaks to her, she speaks back. "Pleased to meet you, Flash. I - am -" She falters. Wow. Deadpool was right. It's a sort of stabbing contrast of a memory to this place. Her code name IS dorky. "... just call me Lu." Yeah. Let's go with that. Life has been an odd ambivalence. But the fog is shaken off to concentrate on things now. She seems impressed by the powers witnessed so far. "Um... that's - okay, thank you..." She's at least grateful for the thought. She'll carefully start to inch out, though she's very much open to direction. For now, she glances to the others. She's clearly not an expert at taking charge. Hesitatingly, as if walking on a tight rope over a pit full of mines, lawn rakes flat on the ground and legos, she starts, "Do we want to stay together or split up?"
Storm almost enjoys the feeling of /nothing/ for miles. The sheer open, emptiness is almost comforting after being inside a plane for so long. But, the sense that this vessel once held living souls that are nowhere to be seen overrides that, making her furrow her brow as she walks along the deck of the boat. "I'll remain on the deck in order to keep he wind and waters calm," she says. "Though if I'm needed below, I'll certainly come if called. Psylocke," she's surprised to see the woman here, though only shows it in a slight twitch of her eyebrows. "Will you be able to maintain a telepathic link for communication amongst us? If everyone is comfortable with that, of course."
Flash returns from his scouting run quickly, offering a faint shrug, "Nothing. Seems like the few doors I tried are unlocked, but I didn't go in. It's mostly empty save one teleporting girl with purple hair... Though it may be violet." He glances over his shoulder once, before he shrugs and looks back at Storm. "Psylocke? Okay, so it's empty save one teleporting Psylocke with purple-hair-though-it-may-be-violet."
He dashes to one of the doors, fiddling with the picture until he can get it free and return to the helipad. "Maps on the door, got one here. So... What's next? Any ideas?" He glances to the picture and searches until he can find something vaguely resembling a room that he may possibly be able to confidently say he thinks its the engine room, "I might be able to get to the engine room, and possibly turn it back on, though... I'm not the greatest mechanic. Like... I haven't driven a car in years..."
It's a painful fact of life that no matter how much you train, no matter how good you are... you're not perfect. Psylocke is barely within keen eyeshot when she finds herself addressed by her senior-ranking erstwhile teammate; though surprised Ororo may well be. The telepath has strayed from the X-Mansion of late, her visits brief and her latest seeing her personal chambers divested of all but the barest essentials. Those she's closest to have been tight-lipped, sworn to some manner of confidence through their friendship. But today, likely isn't the day...
They've got a job to do.
Drawing a quick breath as she finds her flimsy attempt at stealth compromised - scolding herself a little inwardly for even attempting it - the kunoichi pushes away from the outer walkway and steps out onto the deck proper. Her telepathic awareness continues to throw a wide net, though she's doing nothing more than a surface scan on anybody present-- enough to know *what* they are and where they are without invading more than the most readily apparent of thoughts and emotions. Strayed from the fold she might be, but she's not grown disrespectful or invasive.
"I can," she confirms Storm's query clearly, coming to rest at the edge of the group. For her own part she's clad sensibly enough - black fatigue pants over light, waterproof boots, and a fur-lined jacket of dark, faintly shiny material whose hood is currently flung back. "Provided you all keep your thoughts clear. And don't all move as fast as our friend there."
Her head jerks in the general direction of the flighty Flash as she says that, smiling slightly.
Inwardly, she's focusing entirely elsewhere. There's something... odd...
Any bad weather is still quite some ways off. Storm's job out on the deck will be an easy task for the next handful of hours. With visibility being so clear, she'll see it coming long before it ever gets to be a problem.
No one else is currently using that sign, The Flash has little trouble popping it free and rushing it back to the others. There's a very rough outline of the ship with color-mapped points of interest. Getting to the engines will require getting through most of the ship and down several levels, though it shouldn't be too much trouble for someone as fast as Barry. Right? He could probably single-handedly have this place back up and running in a minute flat.
Lunair's coming prepared is probably a good thing. It's better to have things and not need them than need them and not have them!
As far as having things goes, there is a chopper pilot here. Aldric comes walking back to the group, chuckling softly at the group. "It can be disorienting out here--where did you come from, Miss?" Psylocke now holds the older man's attention, both surprised and confused about bumping into someone else here. Someone that doesn't appear to have had any ties to the crew, if her appearance is any indication. "Friend of yours? Well, alright. If you kids consider splitting up, two high to the bridge and two to the engines might be the way to go. There may be some useful info up top on what happened and where the ship was before it went dark. If anyone's still around, they'll be inside. Probably in the lower levels, I'm guessing. Let's go see what all the fuss is about."
The bridge oversees the entire deck, as far as interior design goes it offers the most natural light and has the most windows to the outside world. It also has the most controls to fiddle around with! Much more inviting than the belly of the beast, which might be better suited to those with a fast or stealthy approach.
Aldric himself heads for one of the bulkhead doors, proceeding further inside and away from the bridge. Before anything happens, getting power up and running is going to be important.
Mindless comedy and witticism are meaningless, but it is amazing how much they contrast and amplify the darker parts of existence. The cracks in Lunair's personality, the ominous, consuming silence that devours whole any pleasant white noises as ruthlessly as the most savage predator, tinges of fear. What happened to the crew...? There's a wavering uncertainty in it all, despite the realization that yes, her code name IS dorky. It's shoved aside into the snowbanks. "Oh... I'm actually pretty good at driving if you'd need a hand..." She offers quietly. Deepbreath. As Psylocke speaks, Lunair listens. "... that is fine, I will try not to think too much." And from the looks of it, Lunair's speed is nowhere *near* Flash speed. If he would like an assist, she will go. Otherwise, Lunair remarks quietly, slipping her flashlight out and turning it on, "I think I shall go up if I'm not helpful over there. It is better ... for ..." Shooting suddenly seems ominous, her normal creepy obliviousness to just how *awful* some of the stuff she does is momentarily halted. "... seeing things." There you go. Her speech is still a little formal and stilted. But if no one would like assistance, she meanders up towards the bridge.
The surface of Storm's mind is still, much like the waters she's keeping still with the lack of wind. She's had enough practice with psychics she knows exactly how to make things easy on anyone tapping into her thoughts. There is also a slightly odd, if not unpleasant sensation of being connected to something much, much bigger that is always just sort of... there with Ororo's mental presence. "Thank you," she replies to Betsy. << I take it you don't sense any other minds aboard, >> she thinks towards the telepath.
The Flash looks around momentarily, before he nods once, "Sure, telepathic link me up. I warn you though, it's not only my body that goes this fast." It's true, though. It's next to impossible for him to completely clear his mind, but he can manage to slow it down to a dull roar.
|"Is this thing on? I'm going to see if I can get to the engine room."| With that, he's off, dashing right through the nearest door and into the depths of the ship. As he goes, he starts to notice something... Something odd. |"Hey guys? It's uh... Snowing in here. Well, not snowing so much as snowed. There's some kind of white powder all over the place, and I know enough about chemistry to confirm it's not actually snow, in case any of you were wondering..."| He starts to slow down, moving comfortably at a pace just faster then the all-out sprint of an olympic track star. As he goes, he starts noticing some crystal formations, and he immediately stops once he notices something very important within the crystal formations...
|"I also found the crew..."|
"Actually," Psylocke addresses Lunair with a cool, distantly amused glance, though her tone is pleasant and warm enough, "It's better if you just think 'normally'. People have a tendency to... second-guess themselves when they know what I'm trying to do. Just relax. If you need to communicate, imagine you're doing it aloud. It might help if you picture one of us while you do it."
Violet eyes shift rapidly from the dark-haired girl to Monsieur Labelle when the distinctly approachable pilot addresses her directly. At first, the telepath's lips seem to purse with some barely-distinguishable air of disapproval, but it's fleeting indeed; her natural composure takes over to offer him a welcoming smile and a slow inclination of her head. A nod masquerading as a bow. As to his query, she answers enigmatically: "That's a long story, my friend."
His advice is taken at seeming face value, her expression passive but attentive as he details the situation from his perspective. She's drawing the assumption that this... man is the one responsible for putting out the wider call for international-level heroism, or at least closely related. He has a ready manner, and an obvious capability for taking charge. That's the sort of thing she would respect, under most circumstances. It's certainly helpful.
|"Nobody else. Fewer even than I *should*. Tread carefully, Ororo, and be wary of this man."|
That thought's for Storm alone, and it's rampantly clear by her body language that she's not referring to the Fastest Man Alive. They may not have crossed paths, but she's ready to trust the Flash on reputation alone. Still-- she's a former intelligence operative, and she knows when to play a card close to the chest. Her fellow X-Woman she trusts more than almost anybody.
To the others, she sends a simple communication - in part to test the telepathic waters - her crisp, cool British tone touching their mind gently, causing no more distraction than if she'd leaned over and spoken in their ear. |"I'm going i--"|
She doesn't get far, before the aforementioned speedster is making himself known. Frowning outwardly, the kunoichi quickens the steps she was planning to take regardless, covering the distance to the nearest access with a brisk stride. Once inside, she doesn't hasten to catch the hero deeper within, but pauses instead to run a finger along an outcrop of one of the bulkheads. Gathering a few flakes of the odd substance, before bringing it cautiously to the tip of her tongue for a cursory taste. Risky? Perhaps. One doesn't get far without risk.
|"You found what's left of them. If I break contact and focus for a few moments I can probably get a read on what happened here; feelings, emotions, what sort of experience they were having when they died. Have they been injured? Are the bodies decaying?"|
As Lunair makes for the bridge, she'll soon come across that 'snow' for herself. It's a fine blanket of pure white that covers everything, further gathered up in the corners in a way that makes the bare, industrial-like corridors seem more rounded than rectangular. Despite the lights being shut down there's a faint glow similar to a full moon reflecting off of fresh wintery powder. It isn't that cold, slightly warmer than outside for that matter, but it's so still and -silent.- Something about it muffles sound extraordinarily well.
The Flash experienced the same substance, whipped up into a blizzard as he shoots through the narrow hallways. There doesn't appear to be anything lurking beneath the powder itself, and the crystal formations don't hide things nearly as well as the shadows do. Further inside, it's much more dim. That extra bit of illumination only carries so far.
It feels like ..sand? No. Glass. With a strong mineral-like residue, for those placing it onto their tongues. And a subtle trace of salt. It's kind of bitter, really. Not likely to become a new condiment.
Aldric, seeming to act normal despite Psylocke's take of him, doesn't get much further inside before coming across the ghostly dust inside. "This is new..." Wherever he steps it leaves perfect indentations of his work boots. "Maybe it was 'work on a beach' day for these guys?
Something is clearly not right about this place.
(To Lunair: You also hear something that sounds like whispers. Very, very faint, impossible to make out individually. There might have been a whiff of antiseptic on the air, but it might have been imagined.)
(To Storm: With your mind clear, you might be able to hear faint whispers. There's no wind for them to be carried in by, whatever the source it's probably coming from inside the ship...)
(To The Flash: There's something -else- weird going on down there. In the small amount of available light, things seem to be ..shifting. Like the faces on those crystals are shifting, redirecting the light at random. It's going to make brisk navigation through those halls and rooms a lot more challenging.)
(To Psylocke: Whispers. In the air. From the shadows. From all around you, above and below you. It's like a concert hall filled with the softest echoing voices, mingling with tiny, insignificant specks of colored light that seem to dance upon that white powder, as though guiding you further inside...)
... snow? Snow. Snow b-- no... terrible puns are something for happier times. Her knowledge of poisons makes her hesitate to touch it. She furrows her brows. Lunair finds herself wanting to take a deep breath, as she runs a gloved finger over the snow. 'Snow'. Sandy... She blinks and looks around. She clings to her flashlight just a little more tightly. Deepbreath. "It's just. Dark. And quiet." There's no whacky humor to turn to and make a smile. She swallows a little and moves forward. But for those reading her mind, or able to hear such thoughts... It's a troubled sea. She freezes in place, eyes a bit wide. She certainly doesn't look too calm. More like maybe she just saw or thought of something unpleasant. Lunair's mind is an odd place. It's inconsistent and unsteady, the marks of being turned loose and away from a very structured environment. One in which something positively unpleasant went on. But her calm unsteadiness is replaced by a tone of unease. Snifffff. She takes another deep breath. Did she smell something? She looks left. Right. Up (just in case. No one ever looks UP). Must've been her imagination. They probably just clean lots. It's cold comfort. 
|"... was there a hospital or sick room here?"|
|"Understood,"| Ororo replies to Betsy alone, letting her eyes go snow-white to hide her gaze before she eyes the pilot responsible for bringing them here from the corners of them. She is careful not to turn in any way that puts her back to him, but also keeps herself from facing him directly. Whether his intentions are malignant or not, it will do them no good to let him know they're suspicious of him. She follows Aldric down below deck, and frowns.
Voices. Whispered, muffled, but definitely voices. She can't make out any specific words, but in the otherwise eerie silence, the sound is unmistakable. |"There is something else here, I hear... whispering,"| she thinks towards the team. |"I don't like it."| The cramped surroundings of a boat's interior are more than enough to have her on edge to begin with, and this... this just makes keeping her usually very stoic demeanor just a liiiitle hard to maintain. "Psylocke, I think you can break the link now, if you like." Everyone seems to be in talking-distance.
Except for Barry, of course.
|"They seem to be perfectly preserved... Definately dead though. I think..."| He starts to move on, looking this way and that, until he suddenly runs head first into a wall and falls backwards. "Ow..." he looks around, realizing that the crystals are doing... all kinds of crazy things to the light, that crystal is also on the floor, and it's not exactly the easiest stuff to run on, and that... something is just messing with his head. Disorienting, would be a good word for it.
|"I don't know how much longer I can keep up this pace. Looks like I've got a couple more turns until I get to the engine room. Just hope I don't run into any of those creepy face-hugger things from the Alien movies. Also, there's an infirmary of some description on this map... Check a door, they should have one."|
Taste tells Betsy nothing; only what this stuff isn't. It was never going to be so simple, was it? And at least she's given cause, either, to induce regurgitation or otherwise embarass herself in front of predominant strangers.
|"Whispering? I don't... give me a moment."|
Disengaging the telepathic link feels more jarring than having it established; like suddenly missing something you weren't aware you had, there's a small but insistent 'tug' upon the senses. A tiny flicker of feedback. The crazed and those familiar with mind-altering substances would know it well-- it's a taste of the 'edge' of consciousness, where reason is lost. A side effect of Psylocke's relative lack of finesse when it comes to her powers.
And then she's detached and plunging into the astral, mind displacing body to surf through the realm of thoughts and the trailing vestiges they leave behind. She's navigated it many times, performed many feats she still doesn't fully understand, but today Psylocke feels something different. Unnatural. A shiver runs up her spine, a cold plea by the physical shell that she pull back, as her enhanced vision sees the world warp. Crystal gleams, and she 'hears' more than she should. More, and yet less. There's so many complexities to this art, but she knows. Something's wrong. Storm's 'whispering' is present on the astral place, along with...
"Hnh!" Jolting as she returns fully to her body, Psylocke glances to Storm, and then rather irksomely to the man nearby. Who also didn't appear as he should. Still doesn't. "We're here to help, not make jokes."
Her tone is cold, colder than intended-- a snap to match the frosty one in the air. It completes a cruel trio with the flicking of a wrist at her side, prompting a fierce electric hum as a fiery violet blaze explodes through the sleeve of her winter jacket. She's got to further into this phenomenon-- but she doesn't want to risk losing herself, or tearing her focus away. So she does the one thing that Jean Grey can't do, nor even the Professor. The pulsating flare of her psychic knife is bright and sharp in the dimness of the ship's interior, as she lifts her arm and plunges it into the nearest bank of white particles.
Nothing left. Nothing right. Just white powder. There's even less when looking up. There's pipes running through the ceiling, but those seem to be free of the healthy dusting that everything upon the floor had received. It might seem a small comfort that the volume of powder lessens when looking up the stairs leading to the bridge. Instead, it's replaced by glass-like formations. It's as if the interior of the ship became overgrown in quartz crystals, now jutting out every which-way. The already narrow passage becomes something of an obstacle course, and those protruding spires have sharp edges to them.
Aldric doesn't seem to mind being watched or followed, or maybe it doesn't bother him any. There's an abrupt, forced laugh of disbelief when he says "I'm trying to lighten the moment. This is -awful- creepy. It's not the fire suppression system's fault, I can tell that much..." Perhaps something is starting to draw him further in as well, starting to wander inside and explore the labyrinthine interior for himself.
The Flash may still have a mental link with the rest of the team at first, but he's very much by himself deeper within the ship. It's dark, it's almost impossible to navigate, and those crystal formations are making the hallways awfully narrow. Speeding through them might cause them to shatter, but going too fast or too slow might cause problems of their own. Those spines are -sharp.- Like a thousand glittering razorblades, with the crew encapsulated within, images frozen in time. Being disconnected from the local psychic network may not be a pleasant experience down there. Being able to see should make a huge difference, just need to get to the ignition controls for the engines...
(To Lunair: Sharp edges, like scalpels or hypodermic needles. Ragged, like bonesaws. Nothing but claws and teeth, everywhere, threatening to rend the flesh and tear into the very core of a being. Wherever the beam of your light falls, the crystals seem to swirl and shift in disorienting patterns, refracting the light into a thousand impossible directions. In the distance it sounds like someone yelling, crying out in agony to the high-pitched whine of a drill. If you look in that direction you'll notice that one of the sharpened crystalline points is stained with a clear red fluid.)
(To Storm: There's something curious going on within that powder. Tiny, pinpoint flashes of light fire off at random, like momentary flashes of lightning strobing through an overcast night sky. An otherwise still room almost seems to come alive with silent, glowing streaks of animation. The hallway ahead of you seems to stretch on for quite some ways... Far enough that there's the distant sound of wind echoing from further inside of the ship. Wind, and rolling thunder.)
(To The Flash: Those hallways are shifting. Patterns changing. Things moving. Something..scratching, like steel nails upon glass. Rustling. -Something- is moving down here, there's no other explanation for it! Flashes of imagery, whispers in the darkness, the echoing sounds of weapons being readied--it's as though something is about to ambush you out of every corner.)
(To Psylocke: Fog in the distance. Moaning in the darkness. Thin, wisp-like tendrils flowing like plankton in the water. Something's there, something..vast. It lies low, pulsing like the belly of a giant beast while it breathes. It's pirimitive but aware, slowly shifting like sludge flowing down into a drain. The instant that you make contact that great underlying consciousness surges, lunging forth, bellowing a psychic scream that sounds like miles of diamond formations shattering in perfect unison. It's almost feral, and very distinctly territorial, carrying with it the weight of millions of gallons of water, crushing pressure and impossible blackness miles, miles below, sinking, falling, -cold-...)
"..." Stare. Lunair. Just. Walks. Forward. She is apart from the others, just her and her flashlight. There is some solace in it. They would probably laugh at her being scared of nothing, but nothing, but nothing... It is hollow inside. Her eyes are wide, still. Sharp... sharp ... No matter which way her flashlight turns, the beam of light reveals - those... awful, awful crystals. Swirling like the disorientation from medicine. Just take it, you'll be alright. "Just. The. Light. That's all..." Fragments of thoughts piercing her serenity. She'd pushed it all away, into the shadows. She shoved it face down into the snow, to smother and kill it. She swallows hard. She's going to be torn apart. Walk slowly. "Um. ... did anyone else hear that scream?" She asks, her voice whispery with worry and horror. "Someone is being hurt?" A drill? A drill. They use those on people, and really, for all of its precision, it's an awfully -brutal- instrument. Deep breath. It's - she's got to look and ... "Eh? Blood?" She peers to look more closely. "Um! I'll try to save you!" She'll start forward towards, if she can figure out where it came from, towards that noise. Even if you're afraid of some sharpy bits, of it tearing away at one's precious, oh so preciously whole skin... well, the guy on the business end of the drill might argue that his day is far worse.
Storm's attention falls to the powder, and her white eyes glow ever-so-slightly as she studies it. Flashes of light, not unlike the lightning she normally calls and controls so easily dart between points within it that she can't quite make out. Then, as she looks up once more, the world around her seems to grow even more strange. Lights, like will-o-the-whisps, darting around her in dizzying movements. Then, a sinking feeling in her gut as the hallways around her stretch out... and out, but still feel so narrow. She closes her eyes, and takes slow, deep breaths... It has to be a trick, she tells herself. Something is playing with their minds.
"I need... I need to go above-deck," the white-haired mutant says, panic coming through in her voice. In this state, she simply /cannot/ stand to be in such a closed-off space. She needs to feel genuine wind on her face, wind that can carry her away from this confusing, surely haunted place.
The Flash forces himself upright, blinking as the link is severed and he just stands around in the shifting darkness for a moment, watching the shifting light, and the shifting hallways --
Wait, the shifting hallways?
He narrows his eyes at the wall, as if staring at it intently will force it to stop... Doing whatever the hell it thinks it's doing. He moves onwards, creeping along as he catches glimpses of things moving just out of sight, and the whispered sounds of something getting ready to attack him at every corner. "Look, I don't know who you are, or what you want, but I'm the Flash. You know, Fastest Man Alive? I swear, if anyone or anything jumps out at me, they're getting a fist to the face that will be traveling several times faster then the speed of light. Do you know what that'll do to said face? It will end it. It will be removed from existance, and I will end up with a slightly bruised fist. Go ahead and test me. I dare you." Surprisingly, the horrible, nails on glass sound doesn't stop. Go figure.
Wielding a blade constructed purely of telepathic fire can be a fine art, demanding as much caution as the delicate slicing of a surgeon's scalpel-- but Psylocke, for all her development as a psychic, remains something of a blunt instrument. Her knife may cut deep, but it does so with all the finesse of a heavyweight boxer throwing a haymaking sucker punch. With similar effect; it gets her in deep and hard, but if she misjudges, the resultant payback comes tenfold. It's arguable whether the kunoichi has judged well or poorly, this time...
Though the empassioned *scream* torn from her breast would attest to the latter.
Violet fire explodes up her arm, impacting the right flank of her torso and almost spinning her clean from her feet as she comes into contact with the consciousness beneath these increasingly bizarre phenomena. Contact was harder than she might have imagined; though it took but a split-second, the thrusting blade parting aside a great distance in both physical and metaphysical terms. Through the perilous maelstrom of her shattered focus, Psylocke tries now to piece it all together-- but her own physicality fails her in the process. As Storm reaches the point of panic, and announces her intent to withdraw, Betsy falls to one knee, then further; forced to *slam* a palm to the crystal-drenched floor to keep herself upright.
She's breathing hard, purple hair falling past her face in a drifting tumble.
"Ororo! Wait!" Her words come quick and harsh, the harassed psychic forcing herself to turn and fixate upon her X-fellow over one shaking shoulder. "It's beneath us. Huge. *Vast*. Find out why this ship was here; it's trespassing on something. Causing pain. Anger."
It's hard to yield a better description without organizing her thoughts. The energy about her right hand has abated now, leaving fingers half-curled and twitching as though wounded. There's nothing more Betsy can do to help her allies for the moment, restoring her composure in heavy breaths, and trying to push herself back to her feet as the damage done to her mind forces the body to the very edge of failure.
Is there anything there to chase..? Psylocke did a sweep of the ship and didn't find any other minds... Sure Lunair could go rushing forth into that glittering maze of razored edges and needle-tipped gemstones, but where would she go? Up to the bridge, or back down to the others. Wherever they might be. It's hard to tell, directions are a bit less distinct than they once were.
The door leading back out to the deck beyond isn't far behind Storm. At least, it shouldn't be... It's somewhere back there. It was before, it has to still be there. Right? Left wide open to the approaching sun and the still ocean air.
Whatever's happening down by The Flash, it doesn't seem to heed the verbal threat. Yelling at the shadows isn't likely to help the others very much, either. Standing in one spot for too long just might lead him into becoming another soulless face, permanently sealed away within a transparent mineral deposit. Could that be what happened to the rest of the crew, standing still for so long that this stuff just ..grew right around them? Not with the way that one figure has his arms outstretched, mouth frozen wide open, endlessly running from -something.-
Click-Click. Scrape.
The ship doesn't seem to care when Psylocke drives her hand down into the dust. A plume of impossibly fine particles gets thrown up around her, dusting the violet woman as it cascades around her. It still isn't known what the powder is or what role it might play, but now it's all..over..the psychic. Maybe it's static, maybe something else, but those particles almost seem attracted to her.
Aldric is..was..is nowhere to be found. Not even a path of footprints can be traced upon the floor, as though he simply vanished from existence.
(To Lunair: There's that smell, again... Antiseptics Like an operating room or a laboratory. Machines, rustling, whimpering, fingernails upon flat, steel exam tables. Another cry sounds out from a vast, hollow distance, coming from another direction from the last. The air itself seems more cold, heavier than before. More dark. Just the path of your light shines your way, and it can't seem to figure out which direction it wants to go in! Those glass-like formations scatter it into dizzying arrays like a kaleidoscope gone haywire.)
(To Storm: Closing your eyes allows something else to come through. The scent of the ocean. It's still out there, as if calling to you to return. Instead of the rolling of waves, it's the faint sounds of crying, wailing from the cold, cramped depths of the ship. People, panicked, desperate, calling out for help, lost within this darkened, dangerous maze. There's more inside, you aren't alone. The Mother has yet to forsake you, but what of the other souls yet trapped within?)
(To The Flash: The voices get louder, one almost deafening in an abstract yell somewhere between a cry of outrage and a howl of fear as it sails down the corridor, washing past your ears with the physical brush of wind. They're everywhere... Swirling like the unnatural formations frozen to the metal interior. The only thing left stationary would be you, and even that might start to seem questionable. That clicking and scratching seems to be getting closer, too. Amplified. More acute. At ground level, it can't be very far from the floor.)
(To Psylocke: Voices. -Everywhere.- Voices calling out, crying, screaming, whipping past your senses with that demented Doppler effect. It's a whirlwind of -noise,- of conscious entities blending into things that hold no shape, shouldn't exist in the first place. Jagged edges, blinding flashes of light, then..something familiar. "Elizabeth..." Somewhere up ahead, in the dimming, shifting light of the hall, stands a lone figure. Tom Lennox. "Elizabeth, help me..!")
Where will you go? What would you do anyway? Each direction leads only to that awful smell, those awful noises. Only to pain and death. It's not that those noises in and of themselves might be horrific - such things are often heard in legitimate medical settings. No one LIKES having teeth drilled. No one LIKES those sorts of things but ... Memories unwanted return. Minds are cruel that way, filing away such fodder for special occassions. Lunair's cautious as she draws near into the maze. But ... the purple haired lady - she said... there was nothing. There was, there should be nothing. But here it is, staring back at her. There they are, those noises with nothing to tell but some sort of awful, whimpering rustling story. Another scream from - there? Lunair's eyes narrow as she squints and turns her flashlight beam that way. Lunair feels lost. Scared. Maybe a bit dizzy as vivid memories return.
This is ... like home. Before. Maybe. In a distorted way, like looking back behind you through a shattered mirror. Unpleasant features revealed by tortured angles. She closes her eyes a moment, putting her hands to the sides of her head. It's like a kaleidoscope broken, its contents spilling sorrowfully onto the floor. Oh. She's slowly falling away into some sort of numbed horror. It is cold. Such finality. Now. A peer towards where the scream came from. "Is there - someone there?" Step towards a less crowded, less razor filled part. "..." A part of her wants to turn and run. But some other part is worried. Why didn't they find the screamer before? It doesn't make sense. "Helloooooooooooo?"
Psylocke's scream rips Storm from her own scource of panic. Where could they find out what the crew was doing here- the logbook, yes! That would have their course plotted out, details of who was on board, and anything of note. She begins to stumble towards the bridge to find it, keeping her hands out in front of her to protect her from the jagged crystals jutting out from the walls. "Can you tell... whatever it is that we are leaving?" she asks Betsy, straining to keep herself from falling into that gaping maw of fear and disorder. If she gives in to it, there's no telling what her powers will do to them. Unpredictable weather and boats are a terrible combination.
Ororo tries to block out the terrifying sounds that replace everything else. It's as if the Ocean itself is crying out to her, crying out for help, rushing through and around her, like a wind she can't control. "Logbook," she repeats to herself under her breath. "Need to know."
Outside, the wind begins to stir, her emotional state causing her to tug at the elements. It's as if the wind is trying to push the boat away from this place.
Look, he's the Flash, typically that conjures up images of a guy running faster then the eye can follow. A red and yellow streak cutting across your field of vision. Breaking the sound and light barriers, and many more beyond.
But damn it, if he has to crawl to get where he's going, he'll do it. "This. Sucks," he murmurs at the floor, inches from his face. Already, the swirling, shifting, never-ending motions of things that should definately be stationary is making him sick, but he's determined to get to that engine room. Voices, clicking and scratching, whispers, then an ear-drum-popping yell that only serves to send shivers up his spine, and make him crawl faster. "This is just great Flash," whether it helps or not, it serves to keep himself sane, so Barry keeps on talking to himself and the not-so-imagined horrors in the darkness, "Fastest Man Alive reduced to crawling. I bet Batman wouldn't be crawling if he was here."
Psylocke is a well-trained martial artist, and a telepath who - lacking fine control or not - has spent a great deal of time learning to focus what power she has. This requires composure, and the ability to clear one's mind no matter the situation. It's something she is ordinarily able to do; stay calm under pressure, think and *act* with body and mind as one.
Attempting to gain one's bearings when assailed by a sprawling entity with a hundred thousand conscious strands - and, Betsy's theorizing inwardly, possible reign over the very ocean... this is a good deal tougher than the usual difficulties. She's faced similar threats, of course. But how often has she beaten them? Gritting her teeth as she shuts out the clamouring now pressing at her senses unbidden, uninvited, the Violet Butterfly focuses everything on the purely, approachably physical. Letting the honed instinct of Kwannon's body - itself close to the apex of 'merely' human perfection - she is able to get herself upright, the veins in her forearm bulging and chest burning from the effort. The world around her spins, and twists...
Perhaps she's feeling something akin to Storm. Like she can't move. Can't escape. But needs to.
And then there's a beacon in the uncertain haze, something familiar.
"You're... not... real..."
Each word comes with the same reliance upon physical instinct, the kunoichi brutally, desperately tearing body and brain apart through the pained tumult of her thoughts. It's rough - to imagine oneself as two different entities without making the necessary separation on the astral plane, and takes every ounce of her willpower. Of course they remain linked; the trick is to not allow herself to *think*, to be deceived in thinking, but to feel. Everything, felt from the heart of her being, in the essence of what makes her *her*. From the soul. Her pneuma.
Raising violet eyes to what she has to believe is the illusion before her, Betsy Braddock beholds for the first time - in the flesh, or so it would appear to seem - the form of one Thomas Lennox. The man who drove her from love and trust for so long, whose horrifying death flayed her to that same core; who taught her what death truly is. Pain, then nothing. Blackness. Horrible, endless blackness that terrifies the being whom beholds it before their time. She was never a particularly religious child, a cynic as a woman, but she never knew until she felt that. Mortality is just a thin veneer over a bleak, scientific reality.
Accepting that even now makes her angry. That she could be so fooled. And fooled she is.
In part; but not in soul. Not in the dark, keen pit of her being.
Suddenly, there's a tremendous psychic backlash throughout the ship, a rippling blossom of focused human emotion that becomes not a scream but a roar. Betsy finds that place inside her, and then expels it through her telepathic awareness; subdued or not, it works as a conduit. Butterfly wings of electric fire blaze a virulent, scathing purple within the belly of the ship, spreading about Psylocke and then tightly coiling inward. Forming a cocoon. It happens in a near-instant, and she has the same amount of time to act, pushing her psyche to the limit...
To turn that gathered energy into an explosive lance sweeping away as she turns, away from Tom Lennox and toward the nearest edge of the ship. This place is becoming a trap, a prison; worse, a tomb for those who venture within. She means to blast metal asunder and clear a path to the outside, ripping plate steel into angry, out-flaring strips of jagged ruin.
|"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!"|
There's an extra obstacle on the way to the bridge. Lunair, and her flashlight. From Luna's perspective, there's many more obstacles. The mind can become as much of a maze as this ship is with its hallways, though the ship just might win out with how everything seems to be constantly -moving.- The stairs are real. The deck plating underfoot, that's real. With everything else displaced, finding one's own equilibrium is far from an easy task. Standing still may be the safest bet, but what does that accomplish beyond not walking into a rigid spike that's so flawlessly clear that it might never be noticed until it's halfway through a person's skull. This world has become vastly more hostile, but how much of it has actually changed since the others arrived?
Storm fares better, the hold on her not yet so pronounced. Reaching the bridge without injury is a tedious journey, but one that holds something of interest at the end. Buried upon a dusting of fine white powder is the physical copy of the ship's logbook, requiring no outside power source nor keyboard to access. There's even natural light cutting in through the glazed over windows, hidden somewhere within that jagged, diamond-like crust. The outside world feels so far away despite being so near as to nearly be able to touch it. On the bridge proper, those formations glow with an orange hue like that of fire. It's a beautiful sight to behold, if not for what accompanies it.
The situation continues to grow worse for The Flash, now crawling further along. At least no one else has to see it happening! What happens inside of the ship stays inside of the ship, especially where the crew happens to be concerned. This, too, shall pass. Unless you get caught within a wall of crystal.
Where Psylocke is standing, a normal mind would see a woman who has completely lost herself. Paranoia, delusions, the whole packaged deal. The dust around her begins to settle, gradually, but the violet-haired female amidst that cloud is anything but settled. When that backlash is thrown out from her mind, tearing into every darkened corner of the ship, it does so with a response.
Something calls back.
The individual delusions assaulting everyone onboard are interrupted, if just for a second of time, the hold upon every mind aboard momentarily loosening as a audial, real cry of anguish screams out in response. Every room, every hallway resounds with the lingering wail, physical as well as psychic as it hangs in the air for an impossible length of time.
Unfortunately for Barry, this bellow is even more prominent. Whatever the source, he's getting closer to it.
Someone once said something about not staring into the abyss...
(To Lunair: The clearing that you find offers momentary solace at best before it seems to morph into a capsule, one giant geode, with you at its core. It might just be a play of the light but those glass spears seem to be growing longer, all of them reaching inward, trying to get to you...)
(To Storm: A hollow wind rushes down the stairwell, becoming more turbulent the closer you get to the bridge. The howling that follows it holds an edge to it that seems more organic than born of the elements, mixing into random twinkling notes like a windchime caught in a gentle summer gust. The logbook itself maps out a path further north, specifically along the Aleutian Trench, south of Alaska. It looks like the ship and crew had been stationed in that area for some time, including various notes that point back to deep sea exploration operations. Among the notes is reference to a peculiar mineral formation, listed as being a large crystal growth. Seems like they were set to retrieve it from the depths of that trench, four days ago. It's probably on the ship now, there's research labs further inside.)
(To The Flash: That clicking and scratching is -definitely- following you, now. Determining its direction is next to impossible, it sounds like it's coming from everywhere at once. If that isn't bad enough, in crawling forward your hand bumps against something. -And it bumps back.- That dry, scraping sound is louder from that direction, flecks of light refracting off of moving, pointed spines. Then there's a brief flash of light, something very sharp and very jagged physically taking a swipe at your arm. This one is no illusion. There's a living, hostile -thing- down there with you. Judging by the sounds, there may well be quite a few of them!)
(To Psylocke: The image of Tom shatters like it was struck by a hypervelocity pellet, the face smashing inward as the outer profile simply sheds away into millions of jagged, dazzling scraps of diamond. As they hit the floor they break apart further still, collapsing until there's nothing left but a fine, white powder. Dust. The dim lighting within the space around you threatens to grow darker still, but it's struggling. Fighting back against you. For the hall to become dark is for the presence to gain further ground.)
"..." Lunair clings to her flashlight dearly. Why ... is everything moving? She's scared. "... where are you..." She asks quietly, eyes watering. She stays still for a moment. She just wanted... to help. It's scary to be abandoned. To be so very alone. When you have to be kept in a room because you're always sick, no one can hold your hand... On one hand, she's frustrated. She bets if she were a ninja or super fast or had lightning, she could just bust through those stupid crystals. Hard not to feel a bit short changed by the universe sometimes. If only... it'd be so easy to be braver. Still. She doesn't want to go back to then. She likes the sun and outside and... standing still is so peaceful. Watering eyes just close. She takes a deep breath. There was nothing here a moment ago. "Who put you here?" She asks quietly, opening her eyes.
She wishes she had a helmet. Why does killing things always seem to go better than rescuing people? It's a conundrum for the ages. There's no time to don a toga and wax philosophical though, such humor lost, like a coin thrown into the depths. It glimmers hopefully, then falls away, gone, gone... And it too, will rust away. Just stay here a moment. Just... a moment. But then there's - a giant geode. Lunair likes geodes. They're sparkly and p-- IT IS TRYING TO GET HER. She wails, startled. That is not some poor sap about to get drilled (in the most literal sense). They're reaching for her, aren't they. Where will she run, when everything is dizzy and spinning? "... yeah well... I'm not - going to die like some poor soul in a tar pit." This is something she remembers. "If I run... you'll just keep reaching." She hesitates, looking over her shoulder. "So... I'll walk sideways. And um, watch it... I have a hammer." Maybe. "... who are you, anyway?" Squint. She's going to back away from the geode, insides turning. She feels a little ill, memories of hospital rooms and kept away from everyone trying to ebb their way in. "... you're weird."
"They brought it on board," Ororo realizes aloud, as she tries to ignore alien winds, flipping through the pages of the log, and piecing together what must have happened. Crystal formation within the trench. The crew brought a sample on board.
She clutches the log book under her arm, and stumbles back towards the steps leading down below. "I think-" she yells to the others as she descends down into that sparkling, razor-sharp Hell below deck once more, against evrey instinct she has. She needs to get to the others, to call them out of its grasp. "The formations- they're alive!" And, she doesn't add on out loud, they're /angry./ Or perhaps /it/ is angry, would be a better way to phrase it. Some unknown lifeform, a piece of it hacked off and brought to the surface to study. Slowly swallowing the vessel containing it- trying to make itself whole again?
Crawl. Crawl. Crawl.
Oblivious to what's going on closer to the deck, having lost psychic contact long ago, Barry just keeps on moving his way through the corridors, reading that map of his like it was the only thing keeping him alive. The clacking is getting closer, and he keeps looking over his shoulder, though it's pointless because he literally has no clue where it's coming from. At one, point, while shifting forward, his hand bumps up against something. Nothing too crazy in the grand scheme of things. AFter all, his head's been bumping into things all day, why not let his hand have a go at it for once.
The only problem is, this something likes bumping his hand back.
"Oh."
Barry looks up just in time to see light flashing, and sharp things moving quickly through the air at him, when suddenly psychic backlash washes over the entire area, and everything pauses for just a moment. Luckily, he's the Flash, and just a moment is all he needs.
Within the span of that moment, where the vomit enducing display of hallway shenanigans stopped, and the whispering quieted, though not the clicking and clacking, much to Barry's displeasure, he was able to leap to his feet, dodge incoming spines of death and pain, whip out a couple hundred punches to any soft parts of whatever the heck he's facing, then exit this particular corridor faster then you can say, "Wha-." Slipping on crystals has now become the least of his worries, so speed is no longer an issue, and when speed is no longer an issue to The Flash... Things get done.
Nothing but dust. As Psylocke settles herself in that moment of harrowing, psyche-shaking respite, she watches the illusion to her right melt away with the manner of emotive detachment that only a psychic can truly know; deeply wound into the neural pathways, yet half a realm apart. There are times when the boundaries between one plane and the next blur - as though she stands at a third point, completing an ineffable triangulation. A curious demi-god playing three-dimensional chess with reality itself. In these rare moments she feels how more potent telepaths must feel all the time. A perilous line they walk...
She's brought from the spinning of her mind by a whisper of frosty wind against her cheek. Purple strands below, setting a shiver to her spine utterly unconnected to the discomfort she feels from that next, trembling scream. Every portion of her awareness that can is still latching on to the physical, seeking the real - the affectable - through the simplest trappings. Like the touch of a scattered wave on her brow. Moisture dripping into an eye.
In front of her, beyond the darkness, a gouged hole in the side of the Kelsey lets in the light and the errant dance of the ocean's waves. The air tastes like pure, real salt; not the odd mineral tang of the powder still coating Psylocke and the interior around her. Beyond, and below, she's sure is where this creature truly dwells. It doesn't belong here.
But here it is. Here it dwells. *Why?*
Storm reaches that conclusion through investigation. Betsy reaches it through instinct. Though perhaps it runs a deal deeper-- she's never been aware of her limits, and might never be, nor how much of her psychic connection to the world is shared in the opposite measure. Information is ever a two-way path, and the more she studies her powers the surer she is that there's a single point through which all things join, and must past. At least all terrestrial things. Storm's tell reaches her ears and she nods to herself, rolling her shoulders, straightening--
Then lunging forward at a dead sprint.
|"Get everybody out, Storm! I'll give this thing what it wants."|
Her thoughts leave her mind as her body extends into a catlike leap, clearing the hole she's made by a country mile-- but clearing it was never going to be the problem. Her athletic, lithe musculature ripples into a full extension, and she enters a swan dive upon the other side. The wind alone threatens to freeze her skin at such velocity, raising brisk goose-pimples only partway countered by the shimmering, near-invisible sheath of telekinetic energy that envelops Betsy on her rapid journey to the sea rising from but a couple of dozen feet below. She's not so fast as the Flash, and she has a moment to think, if she chooses to... but her mind is made.
On impact with the sea she has to suppress every physical urge in her body to gasp, to suck in bitter salt and bitterer chill. Keeping her eyes closed - navigating through the pressing murk with her mind's eye - Psylocke kicks out her legs and strives from her initial plunge back up toward the surface. And yet not. Toward the bottom of the ship. It looms before her, a huge slab of metal stilled in the ocean depths. Too vast and heavy for any unschooled mind to even believe it should be able to float; a marvel of humanity's endeavour. And his hubris.
Violet energy flares beneath the waves, as Betsy summons up twin blades of psychic fire. She wields them in tandem as she strives upward, sharply kicking her feet and using that telekinetic shield to give her the aerodynamic speed of a natural born swimmer. It gives her enough power to slice through the base of the ship into the hold, but she leaves her arms extended...
And begins to kick up along the side, struggling against the urge to draw breath.
Rending steel as she goes. A sharp, entirely physical shriek fills the bowels of the ship.
It's not easy talking to something that isn't there. But -is- there. But isn't really. But is all over the place and everywhere but here -and- here and what the hell. If Lunair is expecting a response spoken back to her with words, she's going to be disappointed. It's life, Jim, but not as we know it.
Storm has the logbook, and ready access to Lunair if she happens to track down the other woman as she calls out into the aether. Two souls, so close to one another. Trying to reunite may still prove difficult, too much of a challenge to separate the real voices from the spectral. At least her efforts have something of value to show for them. This growth, entity, whatever it is, originated from somewhere. It might be possible to find one of these sources, if only there were light.
The Flash is one step closer to making that happen. (Actually, he's many, many steps closer.) He's also probably scratched up all over his hands from punching solid crystal objects as they shuffle around the room. There's lots of them! One high-velocity punch each and they just shatter where they crawl, inverted into fine white powder. It sounds like breaking glass, satisfying in a way if not for how tough and sharp they are. Running achieves a similar result, that stuff is solid but like any physical matter it can only take so much before it simply explodes into a very fine dust. The walls are still alive, still trying to crawl out to him, but before they can see what it is that they're reaching for..it's gone.
Gone, like so many things. Aldric. Storm. The Flash. Lunair's mind. Now Psylocke, right off the edge of the ship. Outside of the confining hallways, things become much more clear. Much more as they should be. Also, cold. Very, VERY cold. Hopefully she knows what she's doing, as no one else has a clue. Especially not whatever's inside of the ship with them. Overlaying the psychic noise, the swirling hallways, the flashing colors and the banshee-like howls comes a report that's so low and so loud as to thrum against the ribs. What follows is the dying bellow of a wounded iron and steel beast as the Kelsey is dealt a killing blow from beneath the waves.
Hopefully Psylocke remembers that their ride off of this now sinking ship is also -on- the ship. And where the heck did their pilot go, anyway?
Lunair's mind is - is ... it's here, isn't it? Wasn't it? "... you're quiet ... because you're strange," She offers quietly. "But I guess it's nice to talk to someone who isn't totally freaked out by me." In a weird way, it's alright. She's not scary... not really. She's still pretty young in the grand scheme of things. "... or maybe you are afraid of me and I hate you." How quickly a turn. "But probably not. You're pretty powerful..." Hmmm. She still wishes she had something cooler and slightly less lethal. "It really isn't fair." Timmy got super awesome dragon powers... and ... and ... She's sort of quietly descended hopelessly into madness, resigned. A drowned swimmer looking up peacefully to the surface. It's so ... peaceful... unimaginably calm and warm, almost like having a friend close or wrapped up or ... It would probably frighten her if she weren't quietly defeated by it all. People are afraid of you. But here... There's no flickers of fear in their eyes, no puzzled glances. Only... such ... peace. Yes. She belongs here. Why should she fight it? "Still... the screaming thing was a bit much. I don't like those smells." Her eyes are wide, darkened by the dim light. She looks dazed and lost. But somehow content about it all, lost away from the cold shutting down things or... where are the others?
The others. Pause. The shift of boots on the floor and a blank stare. "There were others. I don't know about them." Or if - "But I think I should be worried. Did you get them? Was it awful? I bet it'd be gory..." That's... DISTURBING. "You should have a name." Yes. She looks positively a fixture, unaware of the one so close. She just follows her flashlight beam back towards Storm. "Everything I do is awash with blood," Her voice is soft, calm, almost singsong. "Rivers... of..." She trails off. "Well. It can't be helped. Where is everyone anyway? I hope you didn't eat them." ... yikes. 
And weirdly unaware of the screaming and destruction around and below her. Wherever she is, she's found a place within a place.
Ororo calls out to the others by name- Flash, Lunaire, even the now-suspiciously-missing pilot who brought them here. She reaches out with her enviromental senses, searching for changes in temperature that allow her to locate warm bodies and exhaled breath. And then, she /pulls/, pulls on the very air within the ship to guide them out towards the deck with a strong gust of wind to their backs. "Follow the wind, get /out/ of here!" she bellows as loud as she can, the wind carrying her voice directly to their ears.
Storm clammers into the helicopter to start it up. She's not the most experienced pilot, but someone has to start getting this thing in the air before it sinks with the ship.
Barry turns a corner, punching and stomping the whole way, and there it is! The engine room! Oh glorious day! He's finally done it. This maze of horrors and terrors and tribulations and he's made it to the end, the proverbial light at the end of the really dark, scary, and proverbially insane tunnel.
And then he's being told to get out of there. This would be the time where curses would start streaming from his mouth like a lovely fountain of insults and profanity were he not a more family friendly hero. Instead, he sighs, turns on his heel, and starts blasting through the corridors, breaking the sound barrier several times over in his desperate sprint to get out.
When he finally does, and he stops directly next to Ororo, panting faintly, he looks to her, and says, "It's a bit dark in there."
Pressure. Not mental any more; or at least not *psychic*, but Psylocke's physical efforts no longer depend only upon honed instinct and hours upon hours of training. Now it's all about stamina and willpower, about how long she can keep her breath held against every burning desire to strive for the inhalation of sweet, life-giving oxygen. Worse, the pressure from the exploding hull lashes outward, smashing so hard at one frantically whipping leg that she feels it break even as she continues kicking out. Pain mounts, and builds, but through it all she keeps at least one of her psychic blades held forth. The other hand trembles, the blaze sputtering out, and she uses it instead to push against the riveted steel...
Striving for the surface, metal spitting and cracking in her wake, until finally she can bear it no longer. Everything seems to hit her in a flood, she feels her mouth open rather than wills it, and the encroaching darkness becomes a horrifying blaze of the most shocking realization. Psylocke isn't afraid to die - hasn't been for a long time - on some perverse level she'd even welcome the sensation of a clean blade splitting her flesh, of a bullet piercing her skull.
A warrior knows to embrace such a death. But this...
Her desperate intake becomes a futile attempt at a scream, the bitter ocean bubbling before her lips, frozen water continuing to flood her lungs. Explosions seem to rock her chest and her gut, and her body lashes out even harder. Her remaining blade disapparates, the emptied hand catching rent steel and splitting into torn flesh and crimson ichor, the ocean quickly flooding into a garish blur around Psylocke's form as she keeps kicking upward.
Upward.
Upward!
Upward?
Space holds no meaning. Where she sought instinct before, now she has it so primal she *can't* think-- all she can do is keep acting, and hope. There's nothing now but the escape from a doom she thought she'd welcome; in the silence beneath the waves, she's found her fear. 
Batman pages: That sounds pretty sweet.
At least Lunair is never truly alone. Not so long as she has herself, and all of the voices that reside there. Maybe they can keep her company while those few souls left alive on the ship are busy evacuating. The bridge is one of the easier places to get outside from, and with some daylight helping guide the way (and Storm's wind trails,) finding a path back outside is a thing which can be achieved.
Storm gets to the chopper, still in one piece, but while she's busy trying to warm up the engines she neglects to check one thing.
She isn't alone.
"What th--?!" Aldric blurts out as he pokes his head in from the back. "You folks in a hurry to leave? We just got here! What's going on, and ..dear lord, what's happened? That didn't sound good at all. Is everyone alright?"
Who the hell knows where he was during all of this.
Sure, The Flash -could- start the engines. Sure, it -could- help the ship to take on water faster on its untimely journey to the bottom of the sea. But, why bother? It is, after all, a sinking ship. Anything that stands in his way doesn't for long, shattering into a powdery mist that swirls around within his wake. By the time he re-emerges at the chopper it might look like someone smacked him with a bag of powdered sugar, except that it all got swept away from the speed of his passing through the air. Whatever he encountered down there, the world may never know.
Psylocke is not in a happy place. She should take lessons from Lunair. Her present company? It doesn't give a damn. It's freezing, it's dark, it's filled with a deafening roar of splitting metal.
And one more thing.
As water begins to rush into the doomed ship known as Kelsey, something else comes out. It's about a foot in diameter, glimmering like diamond both polished upon its every facet yet honed to a razor's edge at every line. It's got six extensions that look an awful lot like clawed legs. Two smaller appendage-like bits hanging from the front. It looks like a crab made entirely out of glittering glass. It's also gracefully sinking into the pitch depths of the northern Pacific. So long, little guy.
"... I hope you didn't eat them. That would be pretty messy." Hmm. Lunair tilts her head. Someone calls her name and there's a twinge. "... they must think I'm crazy. But sometimes, it's okay to put your head down and stop fighting. Especially when people think you're awful." A faint smile. Yes. As her name is called, the dreamlike haze clears. Oh. She shakes her head. "Um. I hear something rending the metal... has anyone seen the purple haired - I don't think I caught her name, but she reminded me of butterflies somehow." She furrows her eyebrows. "I feel so - Um, right." She's sane. Sane. Right? Well, she can hope, even if such a subject could only be tackled by a masterful debater. There's definitely damage to her psyche, no argument there. Regardless, she now looks concerned as she heads out towards the helicopter and the others.
Lunair may quietly retreat into her own mind and dissociate when mental stress becomes too great, but she is now very much lucid and aware. "I most definitely remember a purple haired ninja lady with boobs." She did. She DID. "Well, she was pretty I remember..." Why does she seem so distant and recount it as if a far away memory? Sadly, while Lunair strives for formal, polite speech, sometimes her undersocialization as a youth just -really- headbutts her manners into the next count. "... and who is pulling the ship apart? Was it my friend?"
"Take off as soon as Lunair is on board!" Storm commands the poor, confused pilot. "I'll catch up to you." Immune to the cold, she steps back out of the copter, and dives off the side of the deck. But she doesn't hit the water. Instead, the wind picks her up, and begins to swirl around her in a tight, concentrated funnel. The tail of that tunnel reaches into the water, searching... searching... until she finds a solid body and pulls it from the water. "FLASH!" she yells. "CATCH HER!" The water-spout suddenly dies away, falling down in a freezing rain about them. With luck, The Flash will have several seconds to catch the flung body of the purple-haired mutant.
And, it is worth noting, Storm's waterspout fling's Betsy in the /opposite/ direction of those helicopter blades.
Several seconds? Talk about overkill. Maybe the Flash should go out and grab a drink for .0234 seconds, then maybe catch the first 1.352 seconds of a movie.
He's fast, is what he's getting at.
Anyway, with the Violet Ninja hurtling through the air, Barry seizes his opportunity to do something other then crawl along a hallway in the dark. He darts to the side of the ship, and rather then dive downwards, he plants one red boot on the railing, shifting his momentum upwards as he leaps from the deck of the ship.
Cue the slow mo as he hurtles through the air, arm pinwheeling until the last moment where he grabs hold of Psylocke, tucks her in close to his body, then lands, feet already propelling them both fast enough to dash over the water.
He turns, kicking up a large arc of liquid before he makes it back to the sinking Kelsy, dashing up the side of the boat and into the helicopter where he gets his passenger sitatued before clipping himself in. At which point he takes the time to call out to Storm, "Come on, Slowpoke, we're waiting on you!"
The only thing more disorientating than the light of that onrushing train, promising death in the most cold and ignoble possible fashion, is the yet more sudden and jarring sensation of being flung from its path. Darkness has all but overcome the British telepath when she feels a thunderous impact from below, her broken leg trailing into the lifting helix, spatters of her blood winding through it also - the imagery fitting, as she's shot upward to her salvation.
Her own blaze of accompanying crimson is as nothing to the virulent streak of the Flash, more than living up to his moniker as he dives through the apex of the spout. All that Betsy is aware of is a second impact about her midriff, fast and solid enough to thrust half of the water from her lungs immediately, a horrendous gasp sounding in mid-flight. By the time she's being slammed into a seat, head hanging and eyes lolling with the perilous vestiges of consciousness, she's just barely ready to erupt into choking coughs and wheezing heaves. More water spatters down her front, salty and bitter, the taste alone prompting the subsequent explosion of bile.
It's... not pleasant. Drowning isn't. She's going to need a few moments to be anything approaching human.
"I think the ship's sinking--is the ship sinking?!" Aldric quickly calls back to Storm while climbing in behind the controls. "You guys weren't supposed to scuttle the ship! The crew, the data, the -ship!- This wasn't part of the operation!" Ah gees, this is going to be a difficult one to explain! All he can do now is get situated at the controls and make sure that no one -else- gets left behind.
Fortunately, the others have that matter well in hand. It's not every day someone sees a purple-haired woman come shooting out of the ocean on a jet of water then get caught out of the air, and carried back across the water, by a man masquerading as a blur of colors.
"You kids can do -that- and you still can't save the ship?!" Yeah, so Aldric is a little upset about the whole thing. -He wasn't there.- Maybe.
"Alright, that..looks like everyone!" Aldric announces as the remaining two simply -appear- within the chopper. "Hang on, we're going airborne!"
The ship is already listing. It's of no consequence to the chopper, its engines winding up then lifting the crew up into the cold safety of the air.
Something's missing, however. Some piece of the puzzle that has yet to be completed.
The one person that didn't have their moment, the one person that seemed to have done so very little?
The others are all accounted for. Battered, but present. There's also a hidden canister tucked away within the back, shielded and safely guarded for its dangerous cargo. He's witnessed what it could do, just in following these kids into their own little versions of Hell. As he turns the chopper back to the mainland, he does so with a momentary glint in his eyes.
A momentary, yellow, glint.
Category:Logs
Category:Events