Gray Raven Lounge
Babylonia
Before Departure
Commandant, I've been looking into Port Podesta and turned up some useful intel.
Port Podesta's current chief administrator is a man named Tavis. I pulled his records and found he's the head of the Spelmin family.
You vaguely remember that your partner for this mission bears the same surname.
During the height of the Golden Age, he was a researcher for the Transatlantic Economic Community. His project reported directly to Dominik.
Specialized in M.I.N.D. research. I was only able to pull a few of his academic papers, but after the Punishing Virus outbreak, he left the scientific community entirely.
Commandant, your weapons are checked and ready. I've calibrated the parameters to your preferred settings. Should be more than enough to handle regiment-level Corrupted.
Also, my Pyro Katana—
...Understood.
After a brief hesitation, Lucia reluctantly loosens her grip on your hand.
Commandant, since you'll be on an island, please take care of yourself, okay? And don't go sneaking any strange local foods. I've packed some medicine and supplements for you...
Oh, and I checked the schedule. It's actually pretty light. Try to take it easy and let yourself unwind a bit, Commandant.
As she chatters away, Liv hoists a stuffed backpack onto your shoulders.
Comms check.
A call from Lee comes through on your terminal.
You copy?
I've tuned the comms. They'll hold a stable connection within Port Podesta's designated diplomatic security perimeter.
If anything unusual happens, contact us. Don't hesitate.
Lee raises his hand to his ear in a call-me gesture.
I know you're going as a diplomat... but the fact that they keep turning down Babylonia's official security presence doesn't sit right with me.
Constellia is the closest Babylonia territory to Port Podesta. We've already submitted a request to Command.
Once you reach Port Podesta, we'll be on standby at Constellia. If anything happens, Gray Raven can deploy at a moment's notice.
Please be careful, Commandant. We'll be waiting for you.
Liv's tone stays quiet, but when she says "waiting for you," those few words carry everything.
Beyond the transport's window, the clouds thin, revealing the vast blue expanse of the ocean below.
Helentine sits by the window, the same leather notebook resting open on her lap.
Her hand does not move. Her eyes remain fixed on the world outside.
The sea.
It's been a long time.
Look...
You follow her gaze.
As the transport descends, the planet's arc presses down into a flat seam between sea and sky.
And there, at the horizon's edge, something massive begins to emerge. A stranded iron whale, impossibly vast, rises from the water. Perched along its metal spine, a broken city flickers like a ghost.
Port Podesta.
Yes. It's where I'm from.
Helentine pauses at the question, as if searching for an answer. Then she looks down and begins flipping through her notebook.
During the Golden Age, Port Podesta was one of the most prosperous port cities in the Transatlantic Economic Community...
Her tone stays as even as always, like the voiceover in a documentary.
It was the shipping hub of the North Atlantic. Back then, merchant vessels and cargo ships from both sides of the ocean passed through here, and Port Podesta thrived on that traffic.
She pauses briefly, then turns to the next page.
Commerce, advanced technology... As Golden Age innovation accelerated, Port Podesta adapted to meet the changing demands. They turned the entire city into a massive bionic machine.
The transport descends, and the coastline sharpens into view. From above, it almost looks like something out of a strange dream.
An enormous biomechanical skeleton rises from the foundations, the remains of some colossal creature long dead. It still holds up the fading outline of what the city used to be.
Then came the Atlantic Calamity, the Punishing Virus outbreak... Disasters that severed the world's connections. The maritime trade that kept Port Podesta alive collapsed along with everything else.
The transport sends out its landing request and sweeps past the city's outer edge like a great bird crossing above ancient bones.
Beneath those skeletal bridges, low buildings press together in gray clusters, spreading like moss over the body of a fallen giant.
The old port district. Some rusted "ornaments."
When they first rebuilt Port Podesta, people dreamed of a mobile harbor, sailing the North Atlantic forever. Back then...
Port Podesta handled over eight million tons of cargo a day. Massive freighters lined up beyond the harbor, waiting for the pilot boats to guide them in. The cranes and floodlights never went dark...
The transport drops lower. The colossal cranes of Port Podesta hang their heads over the rusted and empty port district, silent as a herd of giraffes deep in thought, utterly indifferent.
And now... this great whale lies stranded, waiting for the passage of time and the weight of oblivion to finish it off.
That's Port Podesta. A city perched on decline and mourning.
She closes her notebook and looks at you, expressionless.
It wasn't among the hardest hit in the immediate aftermath, but the flooding and economic collapse that followed... those reached everyone equally.
You have long known of the great catastrophe that occurred just before the Punishing Virus outbreak, but the finer details have always remained beyond your reach.
The publicly accepted account is that a major research accident occurred at the Atlantic Eye, triggering a chain of explosions across a devastating radius.
The explosion itself was catastrophic, but what made it truly fatal was the timing. It happened right before the Punishing Virus outbreak. The Transatlantic Economic Community was already shattered by the disaster, and it had nothing left to face what came after...
She closes her notebook.
Mm...
Helentine's fingers move slowly across the notebook cover. Her eyes rest on the view outside, where the gray coastline inches closer.
...
The port district grows sharper by the second. Streets, buildings, docks, all of it washed in a muted gray, like an old photograph bleached by time.
Silence fills the cabin, broken only by the growing rumble of the engines. The transport shudders hard, then touches down.
We're almost there, [player name].
The transport has landed on high ground, offering a sweeping view of Port Podesta below.
Through the porthole, rusted containers are piled into gray hills that scar the landscape. The blight here has clearly festered fast and deep.
The transport hatch remains closed, yet the view through the windows brings the port's decay near enough to touch.
The engines wind down to a deep hush and then to nothing. The Construct beside you tucks her notebook away.
The hatch swings open. Salt air thick with rust and brine breathes into the hold, threaded with something quietly unsettled.
Just as your feet step out, Helentine moves forward and places herself before you.
Careful. We've got a situation.
As the view opens wide, a strange and almost absurd scene reveals itself before you.
The docks are in an uproar. Two crowds stand shouting at each other.
Guards in standard-issue equipment have already set up riot shields. Across from them, workers in ragged clothing grip steel pipes and crowbars. Both sides hold firm.
Attention! This is a restricted airfield zone. Unauthorized personnel are prohibited from entering. Withdraw from the security perimeter immediately, or we will use force!
Crassus! Vick! This isn't your first time causing trouble. Get out of here. Now.
Restricted zone? Because this is where you've been taking everyone who's gone missing from the docks?
A tall man stands at the front of the workers' group, dressed in dockworker overalls. His bare arms are covered in old scars.
A few days ago, you were still sneaking them out in trucks. Now you're using aircraft in broad daylight? Not even pretending to hide it anymore?
I'll say this one more time. Leave immediately, or we will treat this as unlawful assembly and respond accordingly!
Get out of our way! Give us back the missing, and we'll pull back. Simple.
Final warning! Stop fabricating lies and inciting a riot—
None of this is a lie!
A thin young man suddenly bursts forward, stabbing a bony finger toward the guards. His voice comes out sharp and cracking with fury.
Tavis has been running human experiments! He used to be some kind of M.I.N.D. expert, right? That's what all those headache patients say, the ones they drove out of the city!
And what about everyone who's disappeared? Has he ever explained that? He took them. He took them all!
It's gotten worse every single year! Tavis has completely lost it! And you—
BANG!
Someone's hand acts faster than their brain can think.
The gunshot cuts through the air like a blade, slicing off Vic's words mid-sentence.
And it cuts the final taut thread of sanity holding the crowd in check.
Th-they're shooting!
With me!!
Crassus charges like an angered bull, roaring as he hurls himself toward the guards. His rusted steel pipe comes crashing down on a riot shield with a thick, heavy thud.
All units, hold the line!
The riot shields swing out in unison and slam into the ground. Guards drop their weight behind them, shoulders braced. Rusted pipes and crowbars hammer down against the shields in a steady drum of heavy, blunt blows.
In the next moment, the two sides collide. The impact seems to shudder through the very ground beneath the port district.
The standoff turned to chaos in seconds. A quick sweep of the scene tells you there are over thirty workers and twelve guards.
You have barely grasped the situation. No context, no clear sense of right or wrong. You are simply caught in a storm that broke without warning.
Understood.
Her answer is brief and swift. Her eyes meet yours for a moment.
I'll ensure your safety. Yours, and every member of this delegation.
The words are barely out when a worker charges from the side, a rusted pipe clenched in his hand and pure rage in his eyes.
Hah?! Like I give a damn where you're from!!
The chaos around him is so loud that the hotheaded young man seems not to hear a word.
The pipe whistles through the air and comes crashing down. Already prepared for this, you sidestep easily. The pipe slams into the ground.
The recoil sends him stumbling. Before he can steady himself, a nearly invisible thread snatches the pipe from his grip.
Wh-what the—?!
Another silver thread lashes out, whipping the baton from a guard's hand.
What? My weapon's...!
Countless threads burst through the air like a spider's web. In one fluid motion, dozens of weapons are ripped skyward. Pipes, wrenches, crowbars, batons, riot shields. All of them fly at once.
You will not lay a hand on the Gray Raven Commandant.
Helentine vaults over the crowd.
Fine threads extend silently from her fingertips, weaving an invisible net through the air above.
Every strand locks onto a weapon with perfect precision. Her silhouette arcs across the port district's iron-gray sky, then she lands with a spider's lightness, settling into the center of her woven net.
[player name], step this way.
She pulls you one step closer, then crooks her finger back.
Clang, clatter, clang.
The weapons fall from the sky, their impacts crashing together across the docks in a downpour of iron.
When the rain stops, you realize that right where you stood a moment ago, a riot shield now lies on the ground.
Her one hand still holds the last faintly trembling thread. The other hangs loose at her side. Her dress drifts down with the sea breeze as her gaze moves slowly across the crowds on either side. Her face remains expressionless.
All of you, step back.
On a rise across the way, a girl in silver blue leans idly against her motorcycle, binoculars trained on the distant port.
A commotion at the far end of the docks catches her eye, but it's too far off. Even with binoculars, she can't make out much.
Tch! Can't see a daaaaamn thing... Just looks like a whole lot of whoosh-bam-chaos from here.
Ugh, the curiosity is killing me. Maybe I should just head over? First rule of fun: never miss the action, right?
Click.
The sound of a shutter makes her lower the binoculars.
Oh! Wynne! You're late to the party!
Leia twists around and calls out to the girl in the reporter's outfit, who has been clicking away at her from just a few steps off.
You know, that shot of you leaning against your bike, staring off into the distance? Solid composition. Have you ever considered modeling?
The reporter hurries over, clutching her camera, and tries to get Leia to admire the brilliant candid shot she just captured.
Whoa! The new outfit Lady Vanessa gave me is seriously dazzling, super photogenic!
I just took an amazing shot of you, and you're not even gonna toss me a compliment? How about a photography fee while you're at it?
The reporter barely finishes her sentence before Leia, as if flipping a switch, raises her binoculars toward the distance again.
What are you looking at?
Looks like trouble at the docks again.
It's Port Podesta. A port with zero shipping traffic. Trouble's pretty much the only thing that isn't out of the ordinary down there.
Anyway, that thing you asked me to look into... I got something.
The reporter pulls a newspaper from her bag and hands it to Leia.
Okay, that's weird. Why are newspapers still a thing here? Talk about ancient.
Old saying: only what's been physically recorded can't be erased.
Port Podesta locks down information tight. Tavis wiped almost all the data from before the Atlantic Calamity.
So the only intel you can really trust is what you can hold in your hands.
Uh... even when it's stuff like this?
Leia jabs a finger at the newspaper Wynne just handed her. It is the latest issue of the Transatlantic Herald, and the front-page headline reads:
"Erhorn Family Cemetery Burglarized. What Has Been Taken from the Graves?"
The family locks down the site for a private investigation, refusing all assistance from TEC authorities.
Totally! This is the Transatlantic Herald, the most authoritative paper in the whole Transatlantic Economic Community. Who knows, maybe your Babylonia bosses read it too.
Leia's gaze rests on the name "Erhorn" for a moment, an uncommon seriousness crossing her face. Beside her, Wynne is too preoccupied with answering to notice the change.
...
Leia looks away, slipping back into her usual self.
You've got to be kidding me. It's the 22nd century and people still read newspapers...?
Still, this article is kind of strange. Not their usual quality. A family that powerful, and someone digs up their graveyard...?
I mean, it's the 22nd century. Who even buries valuables anymore?
Unless the dead are crawling out on their own? But no, that doesn't track. Their cemetery isn't even in Port Podesta...
Wait, hold up! Question! What does the cemetery not being in Port Podesta have to do with anything?
You've been sneaking around Port Podesta for a while now and you still haven't heard? Tales of "the dead returning" and "missing persons." Those are Port Podesta's two biggest claims to fame.
Wynne points to a side article tucked into the corner of another page in the Transatlantic Herald.
"Midnight Returns? A String of Paranormal Events in Port Podesta"
Three cases of the dead returning home were reported in the port district. Experts refuse to rule out mass hysteria.
Uh... again, 22nd century. Maybe we try a scientific explanation first?
Why don't you... see for yourself? It's not the first time, anyway. The same thing happened thirty years ago.
The reporter digs through her bag for a long moment, then carefully pulls out a yellowed, fragile newspaper and hands it to Leia.
Here. Be careful with this one. It's not something you come across every day.
Thirty years ago? Wait, that would be... the Golden Age?! You've got something that old?
Don't make a big deal out of it. Just read.
Transatlantic Herald, Issue 312. Printed the day after the Atlantic Calamity.
Unlike every other edition, the front page that day ran no headline at all, just a long list of victim names.
Leia runs her eyes down the long list of names. It does not take long for two to stand out.
<color=ffffffff>Arius Erhorn.
A close friend and colleague of Dominik, a pioneer in Construct and M.I.N.D. technology, and the head of the Erhorn family.
And then, another name among the dead.
<color=ffffffff>Helentine Spelmin.
