[PYRACAN] Diving Shenanigans

[Brody]

“Okay, so signal when your coordinates match. Should be on the site…” Davi calls over his shoulder against the intermittant guests of wind ruffling his manic hair. Bobbing and swaying effortlessly with the boat, the captain of the little University Boston Whaler stands atop the raised bridge for a final check of his GPS. The reef flourishing twenty meters below was young, compared to the natural, ancient ancestor that used to sculpt this restored patch of seafloor. It had been a few years since he personally checked on the critters calling it home, but a few of his students and colleagues had paid more recent visits.

Nya, however, hasn’t been diving these waters since she was a teenager, and therefore gets first dibs. With Maxwell, of course. She casts a glance around the horizon at the blinding dips and swells. Not many other small craft about, so shouldn’t be much dive traffic down below. “Yeah, we’ll hit our beacons when we get there,” she confirms, gesturing to the little red-capped device clipped to her BCD. “Then you can anchor and follow.” Turning to Maxwell, she sits on the edge of the boat and dons her fins. “You okay?”

Maxwell smiles over at Nya whilst doing last minute adjustments of stuff “Well, it feels odd to not be in space, but I’m fine.”

Nya grins. “This is the place where life began and where it returns to. Being here…is as natural as breathing.” Inhaling the scent of brine noisily, she lowers her mask and flashes an ‘ok’ sign to Davi, who leans over his tiny railing to watch.

“You better keep up,” he calls, pointing to Maxwell as Nya topples backwards over the side with a heavy splash. While he’d been agreeable enough in welcoming his twin’s ‘boyfriend’, whatever he is, into his apartment and onboard his research vessel for a pleasure cruise, there’s still an edge to his smile and a bit of hardness to his gaze whenever he looks upon the smaller man. Brothers watch out for their sisters, and alpha males watch out for their territory. Both things became immediately at risk upon the astronauts’ landing, as media attention – and female attention – had tracked them to Brazil and were distracting Davi’s ‘game’ away from him and towards this Maxwell, the intruder.

Lips still peeled back in a toothy smile, or maybe fang-bearing, Davi motions for Maxwell to hop in when he’s ready. One hand keeps the boat more or less in position as Nya resurfaces and bobs in the waves like a frizzy cork.

Maxwell smirks as he hops in after Nya, with the normal splash. Getting physics to look the other way for a long flight doesn’t seem to work on the sudden displacement of water.

Nya waits for Maxwell to reorient at the surface, paddling a bit nearer to close the drift distance. Kicking in a semi-circle around him, she does a double check (again) of his gear, pulling this and tweaking that. Just cuz. Arching a brow when she faces him again, she offers him the ‘ok?’ sign

Maxwell returns the ok sign. Looks like he’s as ready to go as he’ll get.

Gripping her inflation/deflation valve, she raises it high as a final salute to their vigilant captain and presses the red button. Down she goes to the tune of hissing air. Slowly, of course.

Davi continues to watch for a few more minutes as both sink below the surface and a steady bubble stream fizzles in their place.

Maxwell watches the underwater scenery go by as they slowly descend. Water, fish, so on. May be natural to some, but it’s as alien as space to others.

Davi slides down the abbreviated ladder with a short, sharp squeak of sweat under his palms. Bare feet hit the deck and he plods over to the gear stash, tugging his monofin out and laying it against the starboard side. He tosses his mask over next, then scampers back up to the nav console. The pop-hiss of a beer accompanies a long sigh as he punches a code into the GPS tracker. And waits.

Blue. Abyssal blue is the first wave of color to surround the pair as they descend. Nya curls forward, splaying her legs behind her in a skydiver pose for a more horizontal, ‘natural’ view of the formations below. A neverending, silver streak of jack jet by overhead, cutting off the view of the boat. Below, tiny bits of yellow, orange, green, etc flit about the artificial reef – now encrusted with layers of vibrant polyps, sponges, and coral colonies. If one can listen through the popping of their own ears, they might hear the crackling of shrimp claws, crunching of coraline rock as parrotfish graze. In the distance, larger shadows lurk, keeping to the fringe of ambush territory until the right opportunity comes along…

It’s beautiful. Nya seems to be more focused on watching Max, however, affording a casual glance here and there to her dive computer. Almost at depth.
Maxwell watches it all with a certain expression of wonder as they sink ever deeper. Enough that for once he doesn’t notice if Nya’s eyeing him. Well, there’s always time for that later.

Nya counts the timing of his breaths. Not /quite/ a steady stream of bubbles, so that’s good. She’ll chalk it up to excitement. All in all, it takes a few minutes to reach the spires of reef outraised to greet them. A glance to her air gauge – just in case – and she reaches out to gently tap Max’s arm and taps a finger to her wrist, indicating he should do the same.

Below, something green slithers between holes in the rock, disappearing as quickly as it looked their way with a bright, yellow eye.

Maxwell takes a quick glance at his air after the brief prompting to do so, and gestures out the current reading. Which is about what it should be, really. If the tank was tampered with, so was the gage! Probably neither, though.

Nya nods her approval and then rolls over, throwing her arms wide to embrace the view froma slightly upside-down perspective. Her back arches, completing the slow motion flip before dolphin kicking a couple shallow strokes to propel forward and away, angling to go down and around the edge of the reef.

Maxwell takes a moment to enjoy the view before following Nya downwards.

Arms held against her sides, Nya streamlines and milks every bit of energy out of her last kick, continuing to glide along for several more feet before paralleling out in line with the sandy bottom. Once Max catches up, she flicks her flashlight on and blinks it into a space beneath the nearest ledge, encouraging him to look with his own. A behemoth of the deep slumbers there. Her leathery hide almost gray in the dimness of her hiding place. A thick, brown shell encrusted with barnacles, algaes, and little bryozoan colonies is wedged tightly there, beneath the shelter of reef, anchoring her to bed.
Maxwell flips his own light on and clearly enjoys seeing all the neat stuffs down here. It’s rather relaxing in its odd sort of way.

Some meters away, the probing antennae of a lobster waggle at their movement in warning before it creeps backwards into its cave. Crabs scuttle and ‘blink’ their stalky eyes, ignoring the intruders while on the prowl for morsels. Big, droopy mugs of grouper pout at them from the shadows while a contrasting ‘smile’ whirs by on the face of a puttering pufferfish.

There’s no doubt that this reef is /alive/ and flourishing. A tiny eden where even the bigger, transient predators come to roost, here in this once dead place. Satisfied, Nya creeps effortlessly along as they near the ‘spot’ Davi was curious about. Something about a weird, magnetic anomoly one of his students picked up on awhile back. Sometimes it was there. Sometimes not. Could be an old instrument of war embedded there and still pinging. Could be activity within the earth’s crust. Could be…just faulty, second-hand University equipment. Either way, he’d been tasked with exploring it further, so here they are.

Nya motions ‘this way’ with a pointing finger, in towards the heart of the reef structure. No longer able to skim around the rubble zone surrounding it, she looks for a way in, and finds it – through a fairly narrow groove and archway. As the waves continue to roll overhead, the tide is undergoing a change. She can feel the gentle pull. Currents inside this thing could get interesting. Stopping at the entrance, she fights to stay in place while scribbling a quick word of warning onto her slate.

“Keep steady. Don’t bump stuff.”

Maxwell quickly scribbles out “Do my best” on his own undersea writing device. UWD is a terrible acronym. No wonder they don’t sell em under that name.

Nya fingers the Tracking device on her shoulder caribiner and pushes the button.

…if she isn’t out with that other guy. What was his name? Doby? Something stupid. Maybe they could do a drink tomorrow night inst—-oh shit!

Davi stops his daydreaming and snaps to attention, seeing the little blue dot appear on his screen. Sitting up, he pilots the boat around, repositioning it while keeping an eye on the depth finder. Wouldn’t do for good PR to drop anchor ON the reef. But here’s good. Scrambling down again, he hurries to the bow and opens the anchor hatch.

Flashing Max the ‘ok’, Nya tucks her slate away and kicks slowly inside. The jostling begins almost immediately and she does her best to stay centered while still leaving enough space alongside in case Maxwell wants to huddle up. A push back, then pull forward. Surges of what feels like surf make progress slow, at best, but she can’t quite account for it…

Maxwell carefully catches up to enjoy the space Nya seems to have left for him. The currents would probably seem odd to him if he’d done much diving before.

The furrow in Nya’s brow is hidden well enough by the rim of her mask, but her bubbles are spewing a bit more frequently. Bad idea. This was a bad idea. Should have circled overhead first…

…Is her final thought on the matter while reaching out to thread her fingers beneath Max’s shoulder strap to keep him attached. Moments later, the sideways throttling shifts to a forward pull. It’s fast. And pays no mind to the small outcropping ahead. What’s harder? Nya’s shoulder or a tiny mountain of calcium carbonate?

Oblivious to the turmoil below, Davi finishes tying off the anchor and skips back to his freediving gear. He stops short though, when the GPS stops beeping. Dropping his monofin, to land beside his shirt, he begrudgingly climbs back to the bridge and squints at the screen. WTF did they go?

Maxwell probably looks a bit panicy at this point. Sudden doom tunnels weren’t in the brochure! Panicy or not he’s definitely breathing harder, and naturally, a certain amount of attention is on Nya now.

Sounds travels four times faster underwater than through the air. Under these normal circumstances, Nya’s scream would easily be audible around the obstruction of her regulator, which she’s clutching /very/ tightly between teeth as she braces for impact. When hurled through a rift event though, who knows?

Managing to keep a firm hold on Max, Nya tucks her head and attempts to twist with a kick to send them /around/ the obstacle. She succeeds only in not passing fully out when her shoulder breaks through it, knocking her head only as a secondary impact. Even still, there’s a moment when her grip goes lax and she stops fighting the current.

“Nononononononono” Davi mutters to himself, head-shaking at the shoddyness of UROI tech. Palm-smacking the GPS housing, he jumps back to the deck and pulls his mask on, straps his feet into the monofin, and pumps air in and out of his lungs in preparation for a very long, deep plunge.

There’s definitely a certain amount of panicky screaming from Max as well. Again, this was totally not in the brochure. Not so much screaming that he doesn’t notice that Nya’s grip has loosened considerably, so a hand grabs onto the first bit of her he can. Could be a wrist, could be a strap.

Muffled sounds of the underwaterworld drift in and out of Nya’s ears. Who the hell is screaming so loudly? Also, what hurts? Blinking free from her deadened, fixed gaze of nothingness, Nya resumes her breathing when a slip of water creeps into her slackening jaw and tickles her tonsils. A burst of bubbles signals her reunion with the land of the living and she claws at the purge button on her reg. Air, air, only air.

Shorter, shallower breaths follow as she realizes that hey, there’s a Max! And she grabs hold of his forearm belonging to the hand gripping her BCD. They’re no longer being bashed into precious reef anymore, seeming to have miraculously been spat out of whatever that hell hole was and set gently adrift over an open wash of …pink sand? A gap in the massive reef wall looming around them. She doesn’t exactly notice yet, though, still staring wild-eyed into her partner’s face. Very shakily, her left hand lifts between them with an ‘okay?’ sign.

Maxwell stops the screaming as things slow down. There’s a bit of blinking and a vaguely confused expression. He does gesture that he seems to be alright, though. Possibly even a bit of a relieved expression that a Nya is still there after whatever the hell just happened.

Davi pierces the choppy surface with a well-executed jacknife after flopping less gracefully into the drink. Armed minimally with a knife and a pair of giant lungs filled with air, he lets gravity do most of the work for him, assisting his downward propulsion with leisurely strokes of his fluke-like fin. He reaches the assumed entrance point into the reef after a minute’s descent and hovers there, looking up and around for any sign of bubbles.

Nodding, Nya glances around. And again. And again. This is NOT familiar. Granted, reefs change over time and it had been a LONG time since she visited these waters, but…how on earth did they end up here? Moreover, /where/ is here? A single look at her dive computer instills a milder sense of fear into her heart. Frozen. Not working. Addled. Much like her brain?

Something a few meters away shifts beneath the sand and while her mind assumed it to be a stingray, her eyes observe not a round, pancaked body largely compose of wings, but a round, pancaked body largely composed of MOUTH. A big, floppy mouth. Beady little eyes peep out at the world overhead from fleshy nodules on the dorsal side. Just as quick as she glimpsed it it shimmies back under the sand. Letting go of Max, she scribes all caps across her slate. “Narcosis?” (reference to Nitrogen narcosis, where the levels of Nitrogen build up so high in the bloodstream that you get a little funny and mind plays tricks on you)

Maxwell looks at her with a concerned expression, and scribbles on his own board “Feel normal”

Nya shakes her head and looks back to where she’d seen the ‘thing’. A trio of Haemulon flavolineatum (French Grunts) flit to and fro, huddling near the sand. Is it just her or do they appear to be equally disoriented?

Or did. Nya gasps audibly and points as the sand shifts a second time with an explosive POP of a sound and the fish are no longer there. Pink granules settle out of the cloud to reveal stillness once more. By now, thin wisps of red are leaking from her braided scalp, all but disappearing into the aggressively teal water.

Nya looks up through the cloudiness. Must be storming, stirring up the water this strangely. Maybe an algal blooms’ washing through. She should take samples…

Maxwell moves his gaze over to what she’s pointing at and blinks a few times as he carefully writes something new on his board “Very strange”

Nya rolls her eyes and gives a ‘thumbs-up’, signaling a return to the surface. Time to return to the boat. Or look for the boat, seeing as how they aren’t exactly in Kansas anymore. Hopefully Davi was able to navigate around the reef in pursuit of their current location. If not…phones exist on shore. In either case, she’s calling this dive. A glance to her air gauge shows the needle hovering just over a thousand. Acceptable.

Maxwell nods. Clearly even he thinks it’s time for this voyage to come to an end.

In other universes…

Davi cannot find bubbles or any signs of his companions. He passes briefly through the channel in the rockwork before banking out and up, kicking slowly and steadily to the surface. He’ll need a pony tank to do any at-length search. Dammit, Nya. He’s so kicking her ass is she’s lost her GPS.

Maxwell starts making his way up to the surface. The water’s a bit of an odd colour now, isn’t it?

Nya kicks off the bottom, leading the charge upwards to an estimated depth of twenty feet, pausing there for a safety stop. No need to add a case of the ‘bends’ to their aches and pains. Hovering there, ticking seconds into minutes, she surveys the expanse of seafloor in all directions. This is not a new reef. This is an OLD one. And, if she’s not mistaken, it’s grown over a rather mountainous slope. The path to shore is much steeper than she remembers. Not to mention the schools of life clustering around the pink palaces are not like anything she’s seen in text books, or sampled from the wharf on her plate.

As the pink cloud settling out around her head confirms though, she DID konk her head, so…figments of the imagination? In either case, a fun trip has become suddenly very UNfun. Her jaw flexes and tensese around the reg and eyes follow the movements of shadows from her vision’s edge. Figments. Surely.

Maxwell keeps a concerned eye on her as they climb, and more so when they pause. The board stays unwrit for now. Plenty of time for questions when they’re back above the surf.

The churning action gradually returns as they exit the safety stop and kick for the surface. Bigger waves now, so maybe there /had/ been a storm rolling in earlier. Inflating her BCD to the fullest, Nya relaxes her legs and lets the air keep her afloat while she swivels this way and that, looking for the boat. Any boat.

There are none.

Tipping her head back with a defeated sigh, she welcomes a few rain drops onto her tongue. “Sonofabeetch!” she shouts. “He’s probably passed out!”

Maxwell gasps a bit once back above the surface “That… didn’t strike me as a normal experience. There’d be movies about it if it was.”

Nya groans, tipping her face askew to examine her GPS light. It’s still blinking. “I know, it…I never been through anything like that before. Currents, they can be strong, but this was…weird.” Not to speak of the monstrosities she was /sure/ she’d seen down there. I mean, scientists were still uncovering new species from the depths, but that many in one place? She couldn’t be so lucky.

Wiping something smeary off her mask, she squints to the horizons. Some small landmass to the north. Something bigger to the southish. “Okay,” she pants, feeling her belly protesting the rough ride. Those fried fish are on the verge of being set free again. “Let’s…let’s swim. Down. Swim down and that way. We can call Davi from shore, let him know we’re okay if he’s out looking for us.”

Maxwell nods “Yes… land to stop on sounds great.”

“Mi Deu,” Nya blows another sigh from her lips and fishes blindly for the regulator over her shoulder. Finding it, she stuffs the thing back in her mouth and peeks at her air. Okay, so they weren’t going to go ALL the way down…just beyond reach of the waves. She points to his air tank and taps her wrist.

Davi curses a multitude of fine things under his breath as he climbs back over the side of his boat and fumbles with a pony tank. He straps it to his left forearm, positioning the mouth piece just so. Twenty minutes of continuous air, so…almost an hour if he made it last. If this search didn’t pan out, he’d call it in. Call it in, and listen to a wicked earful from the Dean, his boss.

Maxwell checks his air and lets her know how much is left before putting his own regulator back in. Been a heck of a day.

A few miles down the beach, one can find a small tidal pool between two Sandstone Slabs.

Hearing the sounds of conversation, Sterling glances toward the small group, smirking faintly and inclining his head in greeting to the guy with all the swords. He looks back out toward the ocean, setting his sandals down long enough to scoop up a bit of blue-green sea glass in his hand.

Alhambra nods agreeably. “You got it,” she drawls, and lumbers a little ways down the beach to where her blanket and small solar powered cooler sits. Rikki, her russet and black Baile-ean kitten ferret, is dozing on top of her beach bag on an empty box that once contained cookies. She gives James a “Howdy, Sterlin,’ wanna beer?” as she passes, flips the cooler open and starts rummaging around. “I got… triple ginger brew, applejack, a little of Wolfhouse’s Summer Ale, and some purple stuff that comes from fruit that looks like grapes only I can’t remember whut they’re -actually- called.” Rikki opens a beady little eye and chitters lazily. Nark and Lyddmull are a bit closer to the shore, along with Flamesprite, Lyddmull’s stalwart horse. As it is later in the evening, there are less tourists, but still a fair amount of ‘townsfolk,’ including humans, bipedal tailless wolf people, bird people, and various young versions of the same. The sun, getting towards setting, sparkles off the teal green water and the assorted bits of seaglass in the pink sands.

More strange sights swim below them as they follow the lines in the sand, the wash of the reef, towards shore. Nya pretends not to notice, trying to stay focused on keeping her breaths calm and even. Gotta conserve air. Also, her skull really friggin hurts. Vomiting may occur anyway, despite avoiding the tossing waves above.

As the depth shallows, the clarity of the water worsens a bit – a sign that the surf is close. They can hear it crashing somewhere above and beyond. Nya angles her body to the left and gets closer to Maxwell, so as to not lose him. Ten meters turn into five, which turns into the depth of a mere pool and Nya rears her head for a quick examination of what they’re about to flounder into.

The sun is lower on the horizon – MUCH lower than it should be, in her opinion. They hadn’t been out all that long, had they? Air gauge says no. But the sun? Her eyes are strained to see any details of bodies milling around the beach. There’s a handful, not so far off. One of them’s shiny. The other is a dog…something. Wait…what? What week is it? There /was/ a convention scheduled for the summer, she remembers hearing one of Davi’s students raving about it.

Whatever. Unconcerned with crazies smothering themselves in paint and polyester in this absurd heat, Nya reinflates her BCD just a touch and drops her reg, swimming the rest of the way in a wimpy, tired breast stroke. College students means options, in terms of communication devices. They could hail Davi, and then she can reem his ear off over an ice cold beer. And maybe a nap.

Maxwell keeps swimming along with Nya, his attention turning to her with a fair bit of frequency. He’s pretty worn out from the trip, but she’s the one who collided with something in that tunnel. He’s concerned enough that he hasn’t even registered all the distinctly non-human life up on the beach. Apart possibly from the horse. Horsies don’t set off alarm bells in most people.

Nark Brogainn’s eyes brighten. “Ahhhh, Falari Cloudwine!” Nark says, indicating the purple drink. “May I? It is one of the few drinks I can still taste somewhat, thus I have a bit of a liking for it.” he says with anticipation. His eyes twitch a bit at the sound of swimmers approaching the beach, but given that it’s not uncommon along this stretch, he doesn’t seem particularly concerned about it for the moment.

Sterling bends to rinse the sand from the sea glass in the surf, taking another drag from his cigarette as he does so. He glances up at the sound of something breaking the surface of the water and straightens up again. “Yeah,” he says, turning his head toward Alhambra, though his gaze stays on the water and whatever it is that’s heading in to shore. “Gimme an ale.” He absently drops the still-wet sea glass into a pocket of his shorts, switching the cigarette to the hand that’s further from Alhambra so he can claim the booze when it gets to him.

Alhambra dredges some ales and a purple bottle out of the cooler, the first of which she opens using her belt buckle and passes it over to James. “Sure thing, my man,” she drawls, and then heads back over to the group after a squint in the direction of the water’s surface. As it does not yet appear that anyone is in obvious distress, she opens and distributes bottles to the others. “Here you go, Mister Brogainn, and one for you, Mister Seamel. I am all kinds of fond of the Wolfhouse, really. Them micro-brewery thingers are quite somethin’.”

“F@*$ing Davi,” Nya breathes, spitting a frothy mix of seawater and saliva from her lips. The snorkel, dangling from her face, is completely forgotten about, but she seems to be managing. Fins kick bottom, swim’s over. Rolling over like a bloated otter, Nya ‘parks’ her ass on the ever-shifting sand and rocks to and fro with the surf for a moment while tugging her fins off and clipping them to her belt. She rolls back to hands and knees and takes a moment to breathe, braced against the watery assault from behind. Red mingles with blue, sending purple droplets into the tide as they get flushed out of her hair by the periodic wave.

A shaky hand relinquishes its grip on the sand and peels her mask off , yanking strands of hair out, and flinging the whole contraption at the beach. “Babaca indolente! Quase chegar nos morto!”

(Screams the Brazilian)

Maxwell pulls himself onto the beach next to Nya, and after collapsing for a moment, gets the fins and mask pulled off. “…Er, Nya? You seeing… large birds?” This may be just a ad too much for Max, who apparently finds this a good time to collapse back onto the sand again.

Nark Brogainn takes a long draw from the bottle, relishing it, before his attention is drawn to the shouts from Nya. “She sounds like she is in some sort of distress.” he says. Shifting his weight to his staff, he begins to head in the direction of the newly arrived divers, stopping to stand above them. “I could not help but hear your shouts. Are you in need of some assistance, young lady?” the old wolf inquires, his weight shifting back to his staff as he plants it in front of him to support himself.

Sterling tosses his sandals to the sand, far enough from the surf that they won’t be stolen by the waves, and tips back the bottle of ale to take a healthy swig, flashing Alhambra a thumbs-up with his other hand. “Hey,” he drawls in his Australian accent, moving toward the pair of divers who just washed ashore, “you okay over there?” He casts a toothy smile on Nya. “I dunno what ya said there, but it don’t sound like you’re havin’ a good day.”

“Yep, I’ma agree with you there, sir,” Al drawls, breaking into a lope to snag her med-kit and then approach the distressed and, judging from the red droplets, possibly wounded diver. “Everybody okay, folks? Honey, honey can you understand me? I need to take a look at you, you might be bleedin’. Somebody see if that flat feller over there is okay; if he ain’t, we might have to switch places.”

Wanted people, with a phone. Ask and ye shall receive? Squinting against the glare of setting sun, Nya peers up at the furry looming overhead and takes a moment to admire the craftsmanship. So…life like.

She glances worriedly to Max and arches her back to balance on her knees, shuffling her weight closer to hover a bit protectively over her tired companion. Her own legs don’t look like they’ll support weight much longer. The wetsuit begins to change colors, a few nodes at a time as the upper half dries. “I…” huh. Must be American students. “Hey, hey,” she pats the air with a hand. “We…our boat,” a vague gesture over her shoulder before her gaze also becomes lost and confused, watching one of those afore mentioned bird people walk by. “…Need to call my brother.”

“Maxwell,” she whispers, leaning over to drip blood/breathe in his ear. “I see them, too. I told you, our computer messed up. Nitrogen Narcosis. Has to be…” Testing the boundaries of reality, the displaced botanist chomps on her lower lip and gathers a foot beneath her to lurch forward, reaching to touch at the wolf man’s furry arm.

Maxwell does what he can to get back up with a protective botanist over him “Ugh… Might be okay? Somethin’s not right… where…”

As Nya’s hand touches Nark’s arm, it is instantly obvious that it is not a suit. The hair, and skin beneath, carries the warmth of body heat, not dulled by fabric or rubber. The faint hints of the blood pulsing through his arteries may even be apparent. The old wolf though doesn’t appear to be affronted, instead a paw reaches out to pat her hand. “Boating accident? These seas can be rather rough at times.” Nark says.

Having an armored knight approach you couldn’t be bad, could it? The Bronze Rider approaches the pair with his warmest smile. “Perhaps you are somewhere you did not expect to be,” he says knowingly.

Sterling stands slightly aside to be out of the way of Alhambra’s attempts to render medical aid. He takes one last drag from his cigarette and drops the butt to the sand, pushing a small quantity of sand over the top of it to extinguish it. He begins rummaging in his duffel bag, using the bottom of the ale bottle to push the canvas fabric aside as he searches. “Who’s yer brother?” he asks Nya. “I’ll punch ‘im in ‘ere an’ see if I can’t get hold of ‘im.” He produces his PDA and balances it oddly in the mouth of the open duffel as he awkwardly pokes and swipes at its surface.

Al, seeing the signs of a conked noggin and wobbly legs, bends her knees so that her shoulder is ready to catch/support the unsteady Nya via arm pit if needed. “All right, honey, how’s about you lean on me for a second and we can get you figured out? Looks like you got a whack on your head, and maybe got messed up in your diving, yeah? It’s okay, my name’s Al, and I’m a paramedic, and I’ll get you stable, okay? Look at me, look over here, okay? Lean on me, hon.”

Nya flashes the bearded man a grateful smile, glancing between the other faces with an equal degree of perplexity. “Davi Healy, Adjunct professor of UROI marine studies progra–AIIIE!” Nya yelps, feeling that Nark is indeed not a fake. But what does that make him? She starts rambling again in Portuguese, recoiling to huddle /very/ gratefully against the human woman, even if she isn’t quite hearing what’s being asked of her. “Max…Maxwell?” she whimpers for confirmation that this is indeed all happening and not some sort of childish – if not exquisitely elaborate – prank by Davi. The glint of armor draws her eye towards Lyddmull for a second time and she /stares/. It’s got to be a joke. And maybe some side effects from the dive. That’s possible. They did get whalloped by some weird shit.

“No, no,” she second guesses Al’s offer and starts to push away from the woman, one elbow struggling to back its way out of a BCD strap to drop her gear.

Maxwell finishes sitting up, and slowly looks around before looking back to his companion “Nya… I… this looks real.” There’s a lot of blinking. Things like this shouldn’t be real. But real or not, it’s a good time to start shedding the diving gear… slowly.

Nark Brogainn is startled a bit by the woman’s reaction. “My dear, there is no cause to be frightened so. I mean you no harm.” he says, though the toothy smile he offers could just be the dealbreaker on that. “You are safe now.”

Lyddmull swiftly removes his helmet, since that is obviously the issue, and puts out a staying hand. “Mistress,” he says in the soft gentle voice he would use with a panicked foal, “I know precisely how strange, no, how mad this must all seem to you, but I give you my word that none here intends you harm.”

Sterling looks up from his PDA at Nya’s startled yelp. He takes a moment to process the girl’s expression and what she’s looking at, and raises one eyebrow in skeptical consternation. “Ain’t you never seen a Pyracani before?” he asks, smiling over at Nark. The smile broadens into a grin at Max’s words, and a look of gleeful realisation crosses his face. “Yer new rifters, ain’t ya?” He transfers the grin to the Pyracani. “I bet that’s it.” He drops the PDA back into his duffel and moves toward Max. “We’re all real, mate,” he drawls, “each an’ every one of us. Even the feathery an’ the furry ones.”

“Okay, okay,” Al soothes, keeping her arms in place for a little firm support (she’s quite strong!) but it can be broken with enough struggling, as she is clearly trying NOT to hurt anybody. “It’s all right, why don’t we just come on away from the water, have a sit down on the blanket here, and we can get ahold of ourselves, how’s that sound?” Aside to the rest of the gathered folks, she mutters, “Guess you guys are thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’. We gotta get ’em off to the side here afore the flailin’ gets serious.”

Right. Dry land is firm(er) land. Firmer land is easier to run on. Nya nods dumbly, unsure of which potential hallucination she can trust the least to keep watch on. This causes her wild eyes to do a great deal of flicking to and fro. “Come, Maxwell…” The tank drops heavily from her back, landing with a solid *splut* to the soggy sand. Her feet start to shuffle obediently along, leaning more than she’d like on Alhambra’s sturdy frame. She drags the O2 behind her by a strap of her BCD, knuckles white. That’s her lifeline outta here. That and…

Suddenly remembering, she chances a look down to her right thigh, and the serrated dive knife strapped there.

Maxwell trudges along behind Nya, dragging his stuff as well. “No, no… divers. Just diving…”

Nark Brogainn follows along as the pair is led to the blanket. “Yes, some rest I think shall do you good.” he says finding a spot to stand beside them. “It sounds like you have had quite the ordeal.”

The Seamel takes his cue from the Sheriff and takes a step away so as not to aggravate the situation further. He falls silent, studying the pair for any sign he must take action.

Sterling likewise walks with the two newcomers, taking another healthy swig from his beer. As Alhambra seems to have Nya well in hand, he stays near to Max, possibly a bit too close for the smaller man’s comfort as he looms over him. “How about you,” he asks. “You whack yer head or anything?” He waves a hand to indicate the others nearby on the beach, including Nark and any other Pyracani or Falari who might be in the general vicinity. “Don’t worry about these guys, seriously. None of ’em’s gonna give ya any problems.” He cracks his knuckles ostentatiously. “An’ if they try, I’ll handle ’em, eh?” He grins down at Max, his eagerness to deal out physical damage with his fists evident on his face.

“Theere you go, there you go, you’re all right, hon, you’re all right, you just hold on to me and we’ll be fine, we’re gonna go over and sit on my blanket here, and get you clean and dry and make sure you ain’t hurt. You’re all right, hon, you’re all right,” Al keeps repeating, in the same soothing tones, keeping a careful grip on her ‘patient’. “I’ve got you, you’re all right.” When they reach the blanket, a nice hand-woven cloth in browns and reds, she stops. “Okay, on three, you an’ me are gonna sit down, okay? Ready?”

In nearing the blanket, Nya first takes notice of the horse – now further away. It’s a third option. Or perhaps part ‘B’ of her second option. She watches the /familiar/ animal over her shoulder as Alhambra ushers her down. A hesitant glance to the blanket, Maxwell, and her stuff, in hand.

“Yeah, I uhm, we should sit.” *Thud* the tank falls the rest of the way into the sand beside the blanket. Said sand’s pinkness also finally gets noticed. “What beach is this?” she queries. Not what planet, not what universe…she starts with beach. Nya’s wetsuit has fully transitioned into viridian hues, unveiling the stark contrast of a pale, beige zipper pocket on her left sleeve.

Maxwell lowers himself as gently as he can to sit next to Nya. Not very gently as it turns out. More of a thud than anything, really. Least the dive stuff didn’t land under him. “Uhm… don’t *think* I hit my head… though things might more sense if I had…”

“This is the beach of the isle of Eiru.” Nark replies. “Truthfully, it was uninhabited until recently when some offworlders decided to establish a colony. I must admit, they’ve been wonderful neighbors.” he says with a chuckle.

Lyddmull fixes Sterling with an exasperated look for a moment, but his attention returns quickly. The well-trained hose, Flamesprite, is standing still, unbound, off to the side.

Sterling laughs loudly, squinting his eyes shut for a moment. “Know the feelin’, mate, I do.” He glances toward Nya. “Mesomel Beach,” he says, smiling over at Nark. He finishes the beer in his hand and sets the empty bottle aside. “Hey, maybe a beer’ll make ya feel better,” he muses aloud, then suddenly snaps his fingers. “No.” He beams at Max, then begins rummaging in his duffel bag again. “I got a better idea. I know what’ll calm ya down.” He takes a battered paper packet from the bag and shakes out a hand-rolled cigarette into his palm. “Just about the same stuff in here as in Joca’s cigarillos, pretty much.” He holds it out to Max. “Dunno how well you two know each other, but if yer willin’ to share this, you’ll both feel lots better straight away.”

“Hey! There we go,” Al says to Nya, sounding proud. She rummages around in her medkit. “Looks like you got a little scalp wound there, d’you think maybe I could wash the sand an’ shit out of it, so you don’t get infected? Do you guys want something to drink? I can flatten out some ginger beer if you’re woozy, or yeah, there’s some nice summer ale if you desperately need a drink.” Nark gets a grin. “Well, thank you kindly, Mister Brogainn.” She pauses, rubbing her nose with her free hand. “You’re prolly gonna want a drink… ohhh -Sterlin-, tell me that ain’t one of pimp doc’s quote unquote healthy cigarettes, please.” Something behind Maxwell, on Al’s beach bag, on what used to be a full box of cookies, chitters. “Rik-kitch,” the tiny creature says, sounding sleepy.

“Isle of Eiru. Mesomel…” Nya echoes, the second name at least sounding as though it could belong to her homeland. Brow twitching, she lifts her right hand to graze over her braids. It comes away red, but she’s looking elsewhere, probably at the avian creature walking along the shoreline. “Water please,” she mumbles, then lurches to her feet, staggers a polite few feet away, and gags just once before horking her lunch into the sand.

Maxwell shakes his head slightly at James and rubs the bridge of his nose a moment “Could do with some water… cold if possible…”

Nark Brogainn steps back a bit as the two are in better hands than his at the moment, so he takes up his previously forgotten bottle of Cloudwine and finds a sand dune on which to sit and enjoy it, but still keep an eye on the proceeding nearby.

“‘Course it is!” Sterling tells Alhambra, not without a bit of pride in his voice. “An’ ain’t no quotes about it, Al.” He chuckles. “‘Pimp doc’.” He catches Lyddmull’s look and smirks. “Dunno what it is about the guys with swords,” he says absently. He cringes faintly at Nya. “Definitely whacked her head.” At Max’s response, he shrugs and tucks the cigarette back into the packet, which he drops into his bag. “Maybe later, eh?”

Alhambra’s on her feet almost immediately. “Whoa, whoa, she says, reaching to hold Nya’s hair back as she is ill. “Okay, okay, you’re okay, you’re okay. Can I get some water over here? I got you, I got you, you’re okay. It’s a lot to think about, so why don’t we just take care of the the immediate things, we’ll get you some water, get you cleaned up, okay? Let’s just uh, try not to -think- too much right now, and get you stable.”

“Ah,” Lyddmull says with a wry smile to Sterling, “Truly you have a dizzying and original wit. Never has one put propriety in its place so securely as you, good sir.” He chuckles and moves towards his horse, shaking his head. With a moment of rummaging through saddlebags, he finds a waterskin, cooled on its own, somehow. He makes his way over to “Ambassador” Alhambra, nodding towards the newcomers.

Something in Alhambra’s assurances strike Nya as funny just then, and her ribs tremble with not another heave, but a dark, silent chuckle. “Not think…hard advice for ff…for rocket scientists,” she gasps, swiping her lips with the back of her hand, then rubbing said hand briskly with sand. Good enough.

“I-I’ll be okay, just…just need to call Davi, see he-he’s looking for us. This.” Crawling back to the blanket, she grabs at the GPS chip pinging away on the shoulder strap of her BCD. Or at least…it was pinging. Now it just looks dull and crusty.

The end of the pings is just the touch more confusion/disappointment/hurt needed to put Fort Clatsop’s botanical expert off her rocker. And out come the tears.

Maxwell scoots over to Nya’s side, and gently puts a hand on her shoulder.

Sterling snorts at Lyddmull, moving back toward the water line to reclaim his sandals. “What is it,” he says, loud enough to be heard by anyone in the vicinity of the blanket, “about the guys with swords that they either think their shit don’t smell or they’re lookin’ ta prove they can still fight?” He makes a vague gesture. “Or both?” He looks back toward the blanket and the two newcomers. “Welcome t’The Future,” he says. “Looks like Al’s got ya well in hand, so I’m gonna take off before somebody feels the need ta draw his steel.” With that he tramps back up the shoreline in the direction he’d originally come.

“Awwwwwr,” Al rumbles, offering Nya a hug, casting a puzzled look over at James before turning her attention back to the stricken botanist. “Awww, honey, it’s okay, awww geez now I’ma cry.” She accepts the offered waterskin with a grateful nod to the Seamel, and then offers it to Nya. “Just a little bit, swish your mouth out, nobody’ll mind a little spittin’, get that taste outta your mouth. Awwr, geez.” The little creature previously reclining on the empty cookie box, a russet and black striped fellow about the size of a chipmunk and closely resembling a kitten crossed with a ferret, scampers over to the distressed Nya, little beady eyes wide. He sits back on his haunches and cocks his head, radiating a tiny unspoken wave of concern. “Reeeeetkch?”

“Oh, well struck, again,” Lyddmull retorts tiredly to Sterling, “It was so much better the second time.” He shakes his head, returning his attention to the two riftees.

Sandwiched between Max and Al, and being stared down by some sort of child’s plush brought to life, Nya has nowhere to run. And so she admits defeat to this surreal moment, real or unreal. The tension between the two other men goes unnoticed, or at least unacknowledge as she sniffs back a glop of snot and chokes down a long swig of water. The unsexy side of diving – mussed, salted hair and exploding sinuses. A second gulp follows after a brief hiccup and she considers the little creature before her. Should she pet it? Yes….

Except then she feels Max’s hand on her shoulder. /Feels/ it. Sucking in a hiss, she hands the waterskin off to Max, shoving it into the offending (though not offensively) hand and peeling back the dive skin to witness what wrath the seas hath wrought. The joint has become a giant, swollen bruise, and tiny flecks of white seem to be yet embedded.

“Ffffffff…..” the word never finishes but her first experience on this strange, new world does. Exhaustion, concussion, dehydration, fear, and confusion drop her like a rock. Now at least, medic Al can have her way!

Maxwell takes the waterskin, but winces a bit when he sees the size of that bruise. And a bit more when she keels over. Nothing else for it but to take a long swig of water himself. And to stare at the kitteny ferrety thing. That’s a thing worth a bit of staring. And blinking. “…She gonna be okay?”

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