voidtreckerexpress | A New Platform [Intro Post September]

A New Platform [Intro Post September]

On the Train

"Good morning Voidtreckers, it is day one of the month of Nebula. Points have been updated on the system."

With points updated, everyone can spend the morning shopping. Most people will be expecting the second announcement that comes a few hours later.

"Shortly arriving into a designated void platform. Exit from void in ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one." A lurch and a jolt and the windows fill with the fog that means they are at a platform.

The doors open. As usual, those who leave first notice nothing, walking silently, rucksacks on their backs, towards the barriers. A-Qing, Atem, Beauregard Lionett, Casper LeBlanc Jr, Donatello Versus, Frankie Bacon, Ichiban Kasuga, Kumoko, Lena Sabrewing, Mami Tomoe, Mono, Peter Parker, Reno, Shi Qingxuan, Tobari, Wen Ning; all pass across the platform, not looking back. And then they're gone, disappeared through the barriers and into the fog beyond.

But on the platform itself there are new faces. Wearing hoodies in all four colours, in various states of confusion.

For New Passengers

At first all they can see is steam billowing around them as they come to their senses. As their eyes adjust, they find themselves on a platform. The platform is open to a bright blue sky, speckled with a couple of clouds. It's very warm, enough that they will not want to stay in those hoodies for long. Behind them through the fogs is a set of barriers, set in a brick wall and in front of them is a single set of tracks extending both ways into that same thick fog.

They are standing, in clothes that are not their own and a style they might not even recognise. They are carrying a rucksack on their back. For a moment it seems to just be them, alone on the foggy, blistering hot platform; then the fog begins to fade and they realise they aren’t alone.

The platform isn't large, but it is enough to hold the figures scattered around, all facing the tracks, all dressed in cargo trousers and hoodies. Then there is a roaring sound and out of the fog arrives a train. Jet black with gold writing on the side. The Voidtrecker Express. There is a hiss as the doors slide open and out pours a strange assortment of people, over a hundred at least. Some are human, some are less so. Most are wearing the same hoodie in one of the four colours, red, orange, blue and purple, though some are sporting different clothes in a variety of styles.

Behind them, the doors close, and the train is cloaked in the same fog that hides the world beyond the platform.

The Train

After a short time, perhaps ten minutes or so, the fog clears and the doors hiss open again. Those from the train may encourage those on the platform to board. It’s not like there's anywhere else to go and even if there was, you feel a pull. A need to board, a feeling that staying on the platform would lead to something terrible. If that is not enough, there are plenty of people on the platform now, to encourage them onto the train.

Each ICP shows the same message and next to the screens there are stacks of leaflets written by those on the train, with further information (see
'Publications'). They will also find a bunch of posters around the train and might notice the new clock in the standard coach.

The store rooms have been restocked with fresh ingredients, the ingredient this month is a strange meat, yaddon tail.

For passengers that have bought items, these are also scattered around the luggage carriage in various suitcases and bags. There is a box labelled for purple team containing a stick of rock for each member of purple team, including those who are new. Join in your teams success!

New passengers will find their ticket allows them into their cabins. In most rooms, the occupied beds are obvious, leaving the spotless, empty spaces for the newcomers. Room is tight but there are storage cubbies at the head of each bed, beds fold up and the bottom bunks double as benches for the small table. There is storage under those benches full of spare blankets and pillows.

Departure

A second horn sounds to encourage any stragglers taking advantage of the fresh air, and the doors slide shut. Veteran passengers know what will happen next, but they may wish to brief their new companions.

The train sets off, the fog obscuring the view again as it picks up speed.

"Welcome aboard, passengers of the Voidtrecker Express." A female-coded artificial sounding voice echoes throughout the train. "Please take the time to read the passenger information displayed on the Information and Communication points and familiarise yourself with the layout and emergency exits."

The train begins to tilt, leaving the ground and rising up into the fog-filled sky.

"Entrance into Voidspace imminent. New passengers are advised to remain seated. Entry into Voidspace in ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one."

A shudder, a jolt, a lurch to the left. A flash of light, colourful and blinding. As quick as it happens it is done. The train seems to steady itself. The fog from the windows is gone now, replaced with a kaleidoscope of ever-changing colours.

Welcome to the Void!

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He picks up his brush, pulling his hoodie sleeve back so his wrist is clearly seen, fingers pressing down in the lighter hold he has on his brush. It isn't wet down yet, and he has ground out no ink, but it's a demonstration, nonetheless.

"Cultivators, monks, and priests. It's not exclusive, but those who can channel the energies of the world, and those who spend time studying how to speak with its voice, tends to fall in certain categories." Those who can afford it, too. He knows that as much as anyone, that it's a right of access to the tools, and only cultivation sects and religious institutions have the general resources to allow people the luxury of learning, or the necessity of it.

"You need the time and energy to be doing this work, versus tilling fields, fishing, merchant work, brewing—any of the thousands of things people do day to day to get by."

He looks up, saying nothing either way about it.

"So, the way you hold the brush matters. We can start with that, ah? The movement of the arm, at the elbow, not at the wrist." He demonstrates as he moves brush against paper, the invisible form of seal script blooming in his mind.

When all those people are put into the same category, it reminds Tidus of Spira. Of a world divorced even from the one he stepped in, of teachings and living he could never step in - no matter how often he did their buildings.

Probably not a fair comparison, and it's not one that sticks too deeply, tries to mend together, when there's too little to do that. So Tidus picks up his own brush, new and unused, eyes flickering from Wei Wuxian's demonstration, to pretending to copy it - or, at least what he says. How Tidus interprets them, an arm and elbow that's stiff. Doesn't move at the shoulder either, ghosting some vague shape of the word on the paper.

"You don't move your wrist at all?" There's a single beat, he should concentrate, but- "And when you say energies... so, what's that to you, in your world? Speaking it. Is it, uh... does this kind of thing have a connection to whatever teachings you guys follow? Do you have any?"

It's a bit of contradiction, to ask. Because if they don't have teachings, then why do they have priests? But then, everywhere is so different. Who knows how Wei Wuxian's world works? ...a world where people can bring back the dead, and all that.

...he may be losing his focus a little.

"No, the movement's in your elbow. Try to keep a looser hold on the brush," he says, reaching out and tapping his finger on Tidus's brush. This isn't going to be easy, but it is doable, with practise and time.

"Speaking is my way of trying to explain here that we're dealing with there. I can make a talisman that's for creating fire, yes? What I say in that talisman is to make fire, a direction given, to inform the energies in the world around us to do something in particular. Another one says, drive away evil. Yet another says, attract evil. In each case, it's a set of instructions, written correctly, asking for a response of energies moved in certain ways.

He waits to see if that appears to make sense. As far as teachings...

"Teachings in which sense? Each school of cultivation that each clan has offer their own teachings, with the ones held by Gusu Lan considered the most proper, for polishing's sake. If you mean in a sense of believing in gods, that's less our particular way; some cultivation paths follow the ideas of the monks more closely, but if there's cosmic influence, it's in reminding us there are laws we're surpassing in choosing to cultivate to immortality."

Oh, so just move with the elbow. Tidus swings is hand a little in the air, just as a means of feeling out how moving with one's elbow with a brush works, feels. Well, that shouldn't be hard, right? He tries an invisible loop though, and even thinks he bent his wrist; squints at it (or rather, he's half-squinting as it is, thanks to the notebook), but isn't paying too much attention to that, given that Wei Wuxian's speaking.

"Okay, I get that. So it's how magic works where I'm from. But yours isn't magic," he thinks to add. For reasons. (See, Jingyi, he remembers!)

But it's basically the same, in how energies are manipulated, told to turn into whatever you're looking for them to do. Except with talismans, you get a choice of when you can activate them, sometimes. Or...make a stockpile?

He should let his mind wander, when he isn't in the middle of a lesson. Or when Wei Wuxian's answering questions he asked himself. He waves the brush in the air, just because he's got a hold of it, and because he speaks with his hands.

"I was just wondering since- back in Spira, where I'm from, they have priests and monks, and everyone follows teaching, but it was all from one guy. Not a god," he clarifies. Maybe a comparison would be to this Gusu Lan guy, but again, why make comparisons for entirely different worlds? He shakes his head, a sheepish smile in apology.

"Sorry, getting distracted."

He blinks in mild surprise, since the easy shorthand is to call what he does magic, when it's not quite the same as the magics he's learned about here.

"Yes," he says, slowly, flashing a curious look at Tidus. (Good work, Jingyi, for that to have stayed.) "Similar to, but different from ideas of magic. Though if your world works in that fashion, ours might be closer than some other kinds."

At some point, the words start getting to be interchangeable, because there aren't enough specific words to talk about this otherwise.

"The teachings of one man? In a sense, you see some of that with Buddhism. Taoism looks toward a whole, and also the deities within that whole. There are other religions, too, not one unified set of teachings, but many. Most their texts come from multiple voices."

Part of what makes things messy and also fascinating, though his familiarity was more with Buddhist and Taoist principles. Buddhism even more so, when it aligned with the sects of the realm, with a healthy respect for Taoist principles.

He answers with a smile in turn, shrugging his shoulders. "Better to be curious," he says. "Time we have for practise spans long enough, depending on when you were planning on sleeping. Now, let's use the ink, to get used to how little it takes to leave an impression on paper."

He sets down his brush, still dry, and pours some water into his inkstone. Not much, but enough that when he picks up the ink stick and starts grinding, he gets a decent amount of ink working its way into usability.

Worlds with multiple teachings, religions... Tidus wonders what a world like that would look like - probably bigger than Spira. Maybe even Spira one day. ...so long as it wasn't anything to do with Yevon.

Yeah, but they're still following what that guy said, reminds a voice in the back of his head. But he puts it aside, takes the instruction of using with ink to bring forward his own plain pieces of paper, the jar of black ink he received along with the cinnabar. Looks between his and the inkstone, and asks, as he can't help but feel the bristles of his inkbrush against the palm of his hand:

"Is bottled ink okay?" ...should he have been clearer about the ink, and gotten whatever that is Wei Wuxian has?

Harder to travel the breadth of his world, too, but if one had an air flying contraption, and around eighty days, they might just make it all the way in one big circumference with enough weather sparing them safe passage.

"Hm?" He looks over at the bottled in, grinning a moment after. "Yes, it should be fine, but you might want something to tip a little into, so you won't be dipping into the whole thing each time. Part of the ink stone is this," he says, picking up his brush to show the wetting of it in in, and the stroke upward, driving excess ink out of the brush and letting it bead and roll back down into the reddish pool he'd made.

"Controlling how much ink is on your brush, and collecting the rest back down in the well. A cup, a small plate, a flat stone, there are ways to achieve the same."

Wait, he can't just tip the whole brush into the bottle? ...alright, fair, what Wei Wuxian's saying makes enough sense that Tidus isn't going to argue it, even if this means he needs to get up. So he drops the brush onto the table, laying his hands flat on the surface, readying to move.

But first: "There anything you want from the kitchen then, since I'm going that way?"

Admittedly, he feels goofy more than annoyed at the distance - like this is something he should have expected than to cause an interruption. But, it's not the end of the world. Or train.

Go on, be the whole bottle dipping heathen you were meant to be, future person!

"Only if you feel like bringing tea!" Said with a grin and a none too serious shrug of his shoulders, Wei Wuxian unconcerned about having anything more than what he brought along here. "No, it's fine, I'll put together a worksheet for the strokes."

Reaching for the notebook, he turns to another page and slides a thicker piece of paper underneath it, setting to work on what he'd said. In reality, it was teaching a language, albeit in a specific form. He can concentrate on breaking down the common elements, before the ones that change, and alter the purpose of each stroke.

Thus he does in fact end up carefully breaking down the strokes of a broad and common enough talisman design, without the words that guide its particular purpose. Or, as he decides, makes it the purpose of his butterflies and their pretty explosions of light, slight stinging sensation and barrier breaking beacons they are. Surely safe to work on, if any prove viable under Tidus's hand. (He doubts much will happen today. It would be good, however, to see that something does, for the sake of dedication.)

But he's trying to behaveeee! (Note: He will very much just dip into the bottle when he does this on his own.)

Tidus makes a sound, a confirmation, slipping out of the booth to go now to the kitchen, daring the walk through the quiet and dining carriages to get to there than to take the transgate. It just seems lazy to go for that, even if there might be a wait - a contradiction to his not wanting to waste time, but since when were people reasonable creatures?

Such as: understanding Wei Wuxian wasn't bothered about his request, but here Tidus is, putting on the kettle anyway, opting out from the tea machine to use one of the fresher teabags as a drink. Because Wei Wuxian is offering to teach him, so he'll get a cup of tea - That's what Tidus will say. That's what he'll stick by.

There's no reason to bring up what Wangji told him, and how stories of should be dead men hit close to home.

( It's just a cup of tea. )

So he's got the words ready as he returns, coming to their table, putting the drink down with company - "I had to get the saucer anyway" - and sitting down himself, with his saucer for an ink well, whatever, eyes on the papers on the table before Wei Wuxian. But he won't keep his eye away. Just, you know.

"Should I see what kind of marks I make when I use the brush first?"

There's a lesson to get to.

A cup of tea, well appreciated, for all that's going unspoken that he remains unaware of. How much anyone ever hears from Lan Zhan is a mystery to Wei Wuxian, who heard the hardest of facts not from his soulmate's lips, but from his soulmate's elder brother.

Death, be not proud. Death has a habit of poorly hold those cast into its arms, between his home, and this train, and so many of the potentials they learn in the realms between.

"Thank you," he says, with a ready smile and genuine appreciation in his features, Wei Wuxian always a congenial enough person when not facing down murderous legions, or shut down by family. "That was kind. Anyway, yes, it's worth trying, ink has a way of getting away from you at first."

Another sheet taken out of his notebook at that and slid toward Tidus, while he keeps one before him, too; and all those ready for practise, breaking strokes down into individual sections, considering characters are nothing if not made up of independent strokes.

He demonstrates with a long stroke, sleeve of his hoodie pulled back so his hand and wrist are on display. He's being more restrained, less artistic in style at the moment, and all this is demonstration: one adds style as one grows.

Tidus isn't artistic. Some love the way a blitz player moves in water, but Tidus isn't about to put sports and art in the same frame, when art is just pictures, fancy designs, and probably where you can slot the sunsets that he loves to watch, wherever it's in view.

None of that is about how he should move his arm. Don't bend the wrist. It makes everything feel stiff to Tidus, with that fault lying with him. But he dips the brush into the ink, just at the top, then stares at the plate for a second before he figures - just dab it some, get rid of any excess ink that way?

--he won't continue if that's wrong, but if he's allowed to, he'll move to the paper, and attempt to copy Wei Wuxian in making a long stroke of his own. His own perception, muddled by inexperience and muddied interpretations of what he thinks he's seeing.

But it's just a line, right? His eyes flitter from his to Wei Wuxian's, returning to assess. He got that, didn't he?!

"Might want a little less," Wei Wuxian says, tipping his head toward the ink rolling back off the brush, "But try with that first to see how it flows."

Every brush has the ability to be different, and in this, it's a matter of learning by doing. Thus he offers only that comment, then waits, watching how Tidus works to make the stroke. It's not great, and not so horrible that he has reason to call it that, so he doesn't, only waits to see what comes out.

"... Anyway, I should start with a reminder that it takes people up to many, many years of practise to be halfway decent at calligraphy, so... we just need to get your forms recognised enough to not be. Misinterpreted."

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A New Platform [Intro Post September]

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