Futuristic Music of Rebellion (Synner x Hiddencard)

[Synner]

Hiddencard

43XX

Times have changed. The world's population skyrocketed and cities have expanded. Old wars have unitied the world yet at what cost? People no longer are free. At first, it was to control birth rates. To make sure nobody over spent on resouces. The rations ensure that everyone had a fair share. Technology advanced. Then people were systematically documented at birth. Before a mother's first loving embrace, a microchip was implated in the right wrist of every newborn. It was required of every citizen. The chips were placed in the most vital of spots where the veins would grow around them. Removal meant amputation or even death if attempted by anybody other than a professional. People accepted it. It kept them safe. It made keeping track of their health easier. It made investigations faster. It made it easier to pay than having to use a card. It was easier to log into accounts. Easier to give your contact information to somebody. It was a mere swipe of the hand with a single thought.

Yet with overpopulation came unrest. Cities were becoming more and more cramped as they expanded. Factories surrounded with towering apartment complexes. Permanent smog seemed to surround the cities and only the central area was ever maintainced and cleaned. The outter ring was the slums and before long crime was rapampent. People wanted more than what was allowed. More than what was available. The government had to crack down.

And they did.

Everyone has their status. It is hard wired into their microchips. It is part of their very body. They work to gain credits. Being a good citizen gave them bonus credits. Credits bought provisions. Food. Rent. Comfort. It also bought rights. The right to own a shop. The right to own a vehicle. The right to live at a higher level. The right to even own a home. The right to own a bed. Everything was now a right to be earned or bought. The government could take away everything tbat was yours with a simple command. In a second you could even lose the right to be spoken to. Total and complete exile within the city. Those cases were rare.

Unrest still exists but it is surpressed with heavy militarant presence. Robotic enforcers patrol after curfew. Police armed to the teeth parade the streets. It was nothing unfamilair now.

As the rain poured down, illuminated by the blue light of advertisement screens thst danced with bright writing. Police trotted by in mass. Curfew was only an hour away and yet the streets were already quiet beyond the splashing of heavy boots in puddles and pittering of rain on helmets and pavement. In moments, smoke filled the streets. The sound of bullets rained down. Flashes of light followed with explosive bangs. There was yelling. The flag of rebellion drifting to the ground as blood was washed away by the rain. Such squabbles were always short lived. The rebels were simply not able to stand up to the sheer force of their armor and weapons. With the smoke clearing, the police held their guns ready. Studying the clearing for movement.

"Over there!"

"Shoot to wound. We want to take in the stragglers."

"Copy that!"

More movement, a few more shots.

Then the evening announcement of curfew echoed through the streets. Nobody has business to be outside anymore. Not like anybody was outside to begin with.

Staggering through the rain, Damien Kiran turned a corner. His breath trembled as he tried to breath slow. Shuttering lightly from the cold that drenched his clothes. His hand held his side tightly. His fingers glistening with red from the wound. The pain radiating throughout him. His lungs felt like they were on fire. His knees felt like they would buckle at every moment. Yet he had his purpose. He had to keep moving. He tilted his head up toward the rain briefly. His platinum blind head touching the concrete wall behind him before pushing off and continuing on. He swayed on his feet. His hand touching the wall for support as hr swallowed hard as he came to an intersection. Before him, he could see the darkened front of a familiar resturant called Petrichor. Yes. He was almost home. This was where he and Thomas spend alot of their time after all. His tired, reddened eyes focused ahead. He just had to go a little further. Without a second thought, he made his way across with renewed vigor. He pressed on into the next alleyway. His mind replacing a melody in his head. Recalling the smooth feel of his precious treasure in his hands. Was it the blood loss? His vision was split in two. Blurry. He swayed into a wall then slid to the ground. His gaze focused on a nearby dumpster as the rain co tinued to fall over his cold body. He had stopped feleing the cold at some point. He only felt the rain. His eyes tried to focus on his hand as he tried to close it to a fist briefly yet failed.

is this.... how I die...? He wondered absently, his mind barely concious as he closed his eyes, listening to the music he wished to be playing in this moment. It was a sad, lamentful tune he could hear over the rain. So vividly. His fingers moved faintly as he knew each motion by heart. Would it have been so hard to play one final song? To stand at the street corner and play his music. To just hold his violin one last time. Yet he felt oddly at peace. The pain had stopped and he was lost in his own musical memories.

When a light suddenly came onto him, he opened his eyes briefly. He couldn't make out who it was. It was just a shadow against a bright doorway. Was he dead? Was it... "Grandfather...?" He whispered in a low voice with what remaining strength he had left, before slipping out of conciousness again.

 

[Hiddencard]

Morton looked up from the interface of the screen with a contemplating look. The orange holographic light reflecting off of his brown eyes in the dimmed room, and highlighted his sharp features. His gaze ran quizzically between the ten men- and women at the table. “What is this exactly?” He asked them, and placed the tablet on the table, turning the screen back toward them. On the screen was an image of a highly sophisticated weapon, illuminated by orange rim-light for dramatic advertising purposes. It was a weapon that was only seen amongst highly advanced military personnel, and nowhere near the slums where they currently resided.

“This,” a woman named Liza with long dreadlocks and a crude smile pointed at the screen, her eyes beaming as if she had been ready to answer this question all evening. “Is a HT37 Wendigo, we have ordered about a dozen of them. Lately we have not stood a chance in our protests, it’s time for more drastic measures."

Morton sat back in his chair and ran a hand through his dark hair. The woman proceeded to explain the technicalities of the highly destructive automatic gun, but not a gaze in the room was focusing on her. Instead they were all staring at Morton, as if assessing his reaction with a nervous energy buzzing through the room. The man had his calloused hands resting by his mouth thoughtfully, as if weighing his options. Morton was far from the oldest member of the group at 26, but his demeanour sometimes robbed his age of at least a decade.

When Liza finished talking he hummed to himself thoughtfully. “…and let me guess… you want to store your weapons here at Petrichor?” he concluded. The woman picked up the tablet from the table, and send him a confirming nod.

“This is the safest place. Your restaurant was already been cleared its monthly inspection, so they won’t come here for a while,” she stated.

“Even so…” Morton sighed. “…I can’t just have weapons escape through a secret exit. If anyone finds them I lose my restaurant and get stripped from all credits within a second.” He snapped his fingers. The other members exchanged glances, and a large man stood from his seat. He gestured a prosthetic hand toward Morton as he started speaking.

“You are the only location we got, that we all trust.”

Morton glanced aside and spotted his jacket on the wall. Suddenly craving the tobacco stored away in his right pocket. Then he looked back at them all gradually, and his eyes trailed along the crowd of apprehensive faces. “I will think about it,” he promised, making hope spark up in various people’s expressions.

—

“Bye…” Morton mumbled, as the resistance members poured out of his back-door after the meeting. The tall restaurant owner followed them as far as his canopies reached, to get a smoke. Outside it was dark and pouring rain, with the familiar noises of curfew announcements, sirens and military drones buzzing, all filtered through the roaring downpour. His guests pulled up their hoods, or started jogging away in the terrible weather. Their steps splashing against the ground, before they disappeared, which hopefully wouldn’t bring attention to their whereabouts during the curfew.

Morton's flame flickered alive, and he placed the cigarette between his lips, craving the nicotine that he had to use sparsely. Indulgences like cigarettes and alcohol was a luxury that few could afford, and it was almost a privileged to have gained an addiction to the poison.

Spoiler

He puffed out a cloud of smoke, and in his peripheral a silhouette stumble into the back of the alley. A drunk? He narrowed his eyes through the thick shower of rain, and saw how the man fell against the wall and slid down it in exhaust. He took another quick drag of his cigarette, before killing it on the wall and stuffed the remains back in the pack. “Hello?” he called, his voice drowning through the wall of water between him and the stranger. If there was a response he couldn’t hear it. He sighed, headed back inside and grabbed a jacket that he threw over his head, along with a flashlight in his hand.

“Hey, are you alright there?“ He called as he approached through the rain, and heard a muffled voice that sounded like he was calling for his… grandfather? “..what? Oh shit..” he whispered when he got close enough to get a proper look at him, just as the man’s eyes closed shut.

He was pale as a ghost when the light hit his skin, contrasted by the mass of red that was pooling along a wound on his side. Yet in his weak state he was still clasping a violin as if it was his last lifeline. A violin? Morton realised he knew who this person was…

After the initial pang of shock, the restaurant owner was quick to kneel down to tap his cheek. “Hey, stay with me!” he urged, but the wounded man was already long gone. He pressed his lips together and then reached under his knees and back, to pick him up. “..ah, fuck..” he whispered and manoeuvred the man’s limbless arm to sprawl around his neck, before he managed to straighten up with a bit of strain from the deadweight. His jacket fell off of his head and onto the ground, and the clammy feeling of water down his shirt made Morton shudder. Then he turned back toward the restaurant, and quickly carried the other man inside.

—

Spoiler

Petrichor visuals



Morton’s apartment

The Petrichor was a small restaurant off to the side of the main road. In the day time it was a nice place to get cheap lunch, and in the evening it served as a comfortable place to grab a drink. It was neither known for flashiness or regularity, but simply a nice place to visit, with a facility that would likely not last beyond a week in a person's memory. It was frequented by ‘low credit holders’, but even ‘medium’ could be seen there on occasion, and the odd officer would sometimes walk in too after hearing about the burgers. The bottom floor was designated for the restaurant and bar, and just above it Morton himself lived, only a staircase away from his business. Normally he would already be opening up the restaurant, but on this particular Thursday morning, the ‘closed’ sign seemed to linger longer than normal.

This Thursday, the owner was kneeling next to a pale man, lying on his couch, whom he had been tending to most of the night. He had had his wound compressed for hours, until the bleeding had subsided and allowed for further care. He had stripped the man down to his underwear to check for other injuries and get him out the soggy clothes, but fortunately only found minor scraps beyond the fatal blow. He had wrapped him up in several warm blankets after that, to try to defrost the cold body.

Morton had tried to get a few hours of shut-eye himself, but the others raspy guttural breaths were enough to leave him restless. He was beyond relieved when the bleeding finally stopped being rapid, and he could properly bandage it. Now the rest would be up to the violinist fighting spirit…

Morton knew the man was a musician. Today was not the first time they had met; despite never having had a proper conversation. The blond would often linger around these streets and play his beautiful melodies, contrasting the dreary image of the grey buildings and rough lifestyles every ‘low credit’ person led, like a plant blooming out of the concrete. Which was one of the reasons Morton had never dared to report him for loitering around the restaurant, and probably the reason many people had never thought to turn him in.

He squeezed a rag in the bathroom sink, before he patted down the other man’s face lightly for the day. His breath was sounding much better now, and there were some colour in his cheeks again, so Morton was hopeful that the man was going to pull through.

He straightened up and yawned dramatically, before walking over to make himself some coffee.

 

[Synner]

He recalled visions that night. Hazy movements of a hand touching his face. An unfamiliar cieling and comfort. Eventually, warmth and sleep.

He slept for hours. Thoughout the night, he did not stir. Yet the smell of something familiar brought him back. His eyes opened slowly for a moment. Those pale eyes shifting over the cieling's patterns before closing. His body felt heavy but so warm. He didn't want to move. He felt the drag of sleep pulling him under. Yet the sound of somebody nearby. The familiar clicking of mug being placed down on a polished counter top.

Wake up...

He opened his eyes again. He knew that smell. Coffee. How long had it been since he tasted it? He swallowed dryly. His hands moved under the blanks. Those soft... warm blankets. He closed his eyes again. He saw himself home again, tucked into his bed. The sounds of grandfather in the kitchen making his morning coffee before piano practice. The familiar warmth of a bed. The comfort of a pillow to sink his tired head. The warm sunlight on his cheek form the window.

And the smell of coffee...

It's a dream. Wake up.

He opened his eyes again, not finding the familiar glow from his old bedroom window. This was someplace else. The light was much cooler, colorful amost from the screens on the buildings adjacent to it. But nothing about the light was warm or welcoming. His gaze focused on the nearby coffee table then toward the kitchen in the corner where somebody was. He didn't recognize him, then again he didn't know where he was. Slowly, he forced his body up right, the covers sliding down his skinny frame. His body ached and his side burned. His hand touched the wound but found the textured gauze there instead. He had been hurt? When? How? He closed his eyes for a moment as he tried to recall last night. Bright, intense light of flash grenades. The rain. People running. Pain. He opened his eyes again as he looked to himself. He had been shot. So how did he get here?

Don't be stupid.

Strangers are dangerous.

He saved your life.

Run, run, run.

"Shush.." he murmured to himself, running a hand through his wild hair, looking around for a moment. He didn't see his violin anywhere. Where was it? His gaze searched more frantically as he tried to stand, grunting as he supported himsekf on the coffee table. "My violin... where..." his voice was raspy. His throat was dry yet the low street musician was definutely lively now as he forced himself to stand. His frame was thin. His platinum hair had dried and was curled around his features wildly. He did not care about his state of undress, nor did he care about his wound or where he was.

Spoiler: Damien Kiran

 

[Hiddencard]

In an small apartment scents quickly spread- and lingered whenever cooking, because of this Morton did most of the cooking in the restaurants kitchen downstairs; the scent of coffee was a special case though, and one that he didn’t mind filling the small space. He vaguely registered some rustling when he poured the boiling water, but only really reacted when he heard a quiet voice shush him…. Morton put the kettle down, and turned his head to see the unconscious man he had found now very awake and moving. It was a little unreal to see someone who had laid that still suddenly spring alive. Hair pointing in every direction. Previously closed eyes flickering around the room. Limbs sliding over the side of the couch and making an attempt to stand upright.

“Oh,” he began and left the coffee in the kitchen. “…hey,” he said and walked over to gently put his hands on his shoulders to urge him to sit back down on the couch again, even if his mobility was very impressive. “…you should really not be moving around that much…” he glanced down at the job he had done on his side. It was crude work, and definitely not professional. Morton had disinfected with alcohol from the bar, and patched it with gauze, only to wrap bandages round his torso to keep it all together. “…I am not much of a doctor,” he admitted. “...You might need stitches at some point, so keep it still.”

Then he nodded when he asked for the Violin and glanced over his own shoulder, where it stood leaned up against his desk, gesturing with his chin. “I wiped it down with a towel, I don’t think the water damaged it too much,” he told him.

He stepped back, and figured some explanation was in order. “I’m Morton Wendell, you are on top of my restaurant Petrichor,” he explained and pointed at the floorboards. “…I saw you in the streets, and picked you up. Did someone in the organisation tell you to come here?”

An assumption he had made since he knew there had been a showdown last night, which might have wounded some rebels, and someone might have let him know that the restaurant was often a temporary refuge for government runaways.

 

[Synner]

His eyes met that of the stranger as he moved to put him back on the couch. He looked at him as he calmed, slowly sitting down onto the couch again. The stranger was gentle. His touch was not harsh, his voice low. Looking at his face he started to recognize him. He had seen him work in the resturant before and donate a credit time to time. He was friendly. He didn't look much older than himself. Older by two or three years at most.

He gestured toward his violin and he turned to lokm toward it. His gaze focused on it as it rested neatly against the desk. The polish catching the light over the warm wood. His gaze softened as his shoulders dropped in visible relief. "Thank you..." he whispered, full of gratitude.

The man spoke again, introducing himself as Morton Wendell and telling him where he was. His gaze searched his as he asked how he knew to came here. In truth, he didn't know. He was never told to come here. Last night, his only concernw as getting away. Getting to his shelter in the alley a short distance from here.

"Sorry, no. I was..."

Don't be a fool.

"...trying to get home." He replied before shaking his head, realizing he was being rude. "I uh...I'm Damien Kiran... thank you, for saving my life." He sat back on the couch as he put his hand on the back of his neck, looking down then shifting his gaze around the room then back to him.

He's going to want something.

What organisation?

Does he mean the rebels?

That coffee smells good...

You took enough of his resources.

"I'm afraid I... don't have anything to repay your kindness." He swallowed dryly as he looked down a bit nervously. His uncertainty clear as he looked to him.

 

[Hiddencard]

The man was easy to read with the way his shoulder’s dropped and eyes softened up upon seeing the instrument safe. As if Morton had just confirmed that his firstborn was unharmed. Morton didn’t blame him though, he could understand being possessive over such a rare item, it looked like it must have cost him a bunch of credits, even if it was on the older side, and worn from frequent use.

“Nice to meet you Damien,” he mumbled, and eyed him carefully, noticing the way he seemed to move his hands a lot and haphazardly glance around the room. In return Morton seemed to relax more and put on a more carefree attitude, to portray that there was nothing to be uneasy about. “…so you live in this neighbourhood I figure. Is that why you play outside my place all the time? I see you often…”

He turned back toward the kitchen, to get them the coffee he had brewed. “…and now I finally know your name... Damien,” he mumbled to himself as he picked up the cups. When he turned back he send him a grimace when he said he 'couldn’t repay him'. “Of course you can. You can owe me one, in case I bleed on the street one day. God knows a lot of people would just let you rot.”

He walked over and took a seat next to him. “Here you go... oh wait, do you need milk or sugar?” he double checked, and set the coffee on the small coffee table. “Sugar is hard to come by, so it’s a one-time offer.” he offered a tug of his lip to show he was just kidding. Well. Half. Sugar was definitely not an easy item to gather, but Morton knew how to get his hands on small quantities.

He stood up again to go get whatever Damien would pick. Morton wasn’t really the type of person to ask a lot of hard questions. Especially not to people he suspected were part of the rebellion. The less you knew, the less you could tell if you were questioned, therefore his best policy was to not dive into people’s personal secrets, unless they were friends, family or needed him to know.

 

[Synner]

"so you live in this neighbourhood I figure. Is that why you play outside my place all the time? I see you often…"

Damien gave a nervous smile as he looked to him, a sort of guilty look but said nothing. His shelter wasn't necessarily part of a neighborhood but it was a safe enough home. His gaze followed him as he got up and went to the source of the smell. Bringing back two cups as he explained how he could return the favor later. The violinist made a short laugh. "I... suppose you are right." He commented lowly as he looked to the cup. He picked up the mug, taking a deep breath as he took in the scent and the warmth it radiated. It had been so long since he had coffee... he almost brought it to his lips when he mentioned sugar and milk. He looked to him immediately. His eyes were saucers with anticipation. "Did you say... sugar?" He watched him hurry off again. He lowered the cup. "I would love some milk and sugar." He smiled finally, clearly ecstatic, much like a child at the thought of something sweet.

He accepted both, taking a little bit of both into his coffee. He watched as the hue of the liquid brightened with the new ingredients. It was now cooler to the touch as he brought it to his lips and finally too a drink. He savoured it. "Ah...." he sighed, "I can't remember the last time I had something sweet..." he murmured, unable to hide that satisfied smile as his posture relaxed as his gaze focused on the old violin by the desk. "You have been too kind to me." He slowly looked back to him with a look of genuine gratitude. "Thank you... again for this." He took another drink. "The rations the government passes out have... absolutely no flavor." He made a light chuckle at that as he lowered his head down a bit, finally noting his own appearance. All his clothes must be soaked or ruined after last night. Probably both.

Serves you right for sticking your nose where it doesn't belong.

Imbecile.

Mistakes happen.

Quiet. Not here...

He then looked back to Morton. "If.. it isn't too much of an inconvenience. Would it be alright if I could borrow some clothes?"

 

[Hiddencard]

After adding both ingredients to their coffee he took a seat next to Damien and relaxed into the cushions with a sigh, again acting many years older than his actual age.

“You’re welcome,” he mumbled, bringing the cup to his lips and took a sip of the warm beverage. He hummed in blatant agreement when Damien commented about his distaste of the governments idea of a ‘meal', camouflaged in carbs and nutrition, but tasting worse than paper and grass. They might as well have ground up vitamins in a bowl and mushed them into a ball, because there was nothing even remotely satisfying about what they made their people eat.

“You eat rations every day?” he asked him, and clicked his tongue, clearly not envying him “…If you do some cooking and dishes for me when you are healed up, I will treat you breakfast now,” he offered with a shrug. “…I normally get up early to cook, but today I am a little behind schedule…” he mumbled and took a look at the clock hanging on one of the walls. “…maybe I can make it for lunch time.”

Then he glanced over at him, and his humble request made him smile. “Right,” he said and placed his coffee down, and headed over for his closet. “I think we are close to the same size…” he hypothesised and picked out a clean blue button-up shirt and dark pants. He also threw in some boxers and black socks to the pile, before he walked over to him. “…you can’t very well take a shower with a wound like that, but feel free to wash up the best you can...” he told him, and pointed over at a closed door that was clearly the bathroom.

“Call for me if you have any problems,” he told him, and picked his coffee back up. After this cup he would need to get back to work. At some point the resistance would be back here as well, to talk about storing weapons.

 

[Synner]

The idea of breakfast made him oerk again. Looking to him, the offer was too hard to resist. "I'm not much of a cook... but I can do dishes." He smiled lightly, pushing back the thoughts telling him otherwise. An opportunity for a real meal was more than welcomed.

"You eat rations every day?"

"Yeah... not many people are willing to donate their credits. I make do with what I have. I am trying to save up enough to buy the right to play my music." He confessed with a longing look toward his preserved violin. Admiring the shape. His hands instinctively itched to grasp it but he stayed seated. Now wasn't the time for music.

He turned his gaze toward the bathroom then to the clothes provided. He finished the last of his coffee and set the mug down before he picked them up. He rose to his feet. For a moment he was unsteady, but after a brief pause, he bagn to walk toward the room. He looked baxk to him from the door as he mentioned calling him if he needed help and gave a nod with a tired smile before closing the door behind him. He set the clothes on the sink before finding the towel closet. He pulled out a rag. And a small towel. He took off the last of his clothes and took a seat on the edge of the tub as he set to work cleaning himself off wirh the rag, careful to avoid his bandages. After about fifteen minutes, he changed position onto all fours to wash his hair properly, takimg full advantage of this opportunity as he cleaned himself up.

Drying himself off and getting dressed. The new clothes were a big baggy on his thin frame but for the most part fit him well Enough. He looked in the mirror as he rubbed the towel over his messy white hair before looking at his face. How long has it been? He touched his cheek, noticing how thin he looked. The dark circles under his eyes.... he shook his head and backed off, looking for a place to leave his towels.

He then stepped out and looked toward the kitchen following the new scent thst rosr from it. The promised breakfast for certain as he made his way over. His mouth already watering as he tried to take a peek. "It smells delicious..." he murmured in a low voice nearby. He couldn't help but smile as he looked to Morton with a clear sense of child-like excitement.

 

[Hiddencard]

Morton had walked into the kitchen and started preparing breakfast for his unusual guest. The pan was sizzling in butter as he made two eggs fall onto the hot surface, and he grabbed a spatula just as his phone went off. “Hello,” he answered it, holding it between his shoulder and ear to make it easier to cook at the same time. “Hmm… I think I can fit them underneath the tiles in the kitchen floor…” he mumbled and popped two pieces of bread in the toaster. He listened to the other end speak for a while, as he pulled out utensils and plates, humming lightly in agreements once in a while.

“Careful of the drones down main street,” he said, and picked out some juice to pour into two tall glass. Humming another agreement and walked over to pull the eggs off of the head.

He looked over his shoulder when he heard rustling and spotted Damien walking out from the bathroom, now dressed. “Hey, Sax, I got to go, I have someone here, but you stay safe,” he told into the phone casually, and waited for the goodbye reply, before he picked the phone out from his shoulder and ended the call.

“You look much better,” Morton told Damien, and gestured toward him. His hair looked blonder without all the dirt, and he looked like anyone else from the middle class, except maybe a bit malnourished. Morton could fix that. His expression looked like he was starving as well.

“I baked the bread yesterday,” he told him and put two pieces on a plate, with eggs on top. Then handed the plate and juice to him. “Enjoy.”

 

[Synner]

Damien looked to him as he handed him fhe plate and the cup of juice. He took hold of the plate and cool glass before lookimg to hkm again with an appreciative grin. "You are amazing Morton." He praised as he moved to sit down again, this time seating himself on a stool beside the floating counter. He set the dish down before bringing the toast with egg up for a bite. "Mmm..." his expression was that of sheer happiness on the verge of tears as he ate, proving to be more refreshed after his wash. "And you made this bread? The government could learn a thing or two from you." He commented brightly before taking another bite.

He really was in heaven. He had to be. Why would some stranger save his life much elss feed hom such quality food?

Having finished his first slice, he sat back and took a drink. His free hand touched his side, the pain on his side grounding him. He was very much alive. For now at least, he pushed back the opposing thoughts for the moment as he looked to Morton.

Was he apart of the resistence? Is that why he asked if he had been sent there?

He looked to his violin once more before turning to the second half of his meal. "I do have a question. If you... don't mind me asking." He said between bites. "You are uh... apart of the rebelion. Aren't you?" He looked to him as he took another drink of his juice, savoring the flavour for fhe moment.

Don't talk about it.

This isn't good.

He maybe an ally.

Friend. He must be a friend.

This isn't a good idea.

He swallowed hard, forcing back the lourder voices as he looked toward the wall imtently as he ate. "I was... there last night. That's how I got shot. I teied to run. I was only there because I heard if I went, they would give me some food. There was mention of bread and cheese...." he swallowed the last of his food finally with a satisfied sigh.

 

[Hiddencard]

Morton just grabbed a piece of the bread himself and walked over next to him. He leaned by one of the pillars in his room, and nibbled on the homemade slice with a smirk after the compliment about his bread being better than rations. He sure hoped so. Although there was nothing too fancy about bread and eggs.

When he said he had a question Morton nodded. “Shoot..” he mumbled and took another bite of food while he listened. Yet the question made him chew a little slower, and he glanced aside. If he was asking that, then maybe Morton had been a little hasty about asking his own questions earlier. It was dangerous to tell anyone that you were part of the rebellion, in fact it could end your life. Therefore he said nothing, until Damien finished continued to open up about himself and admitted he had been part of last nights rally. He had figured as much.

“Ah, so you just got tangled up in it all ruckus, sorry to hear,” he told him.

That meant Damien really was just from the streets, and he had been going to see the rebels because he heard they had "food". That meant, that the man could also go to the military with information, in exchange for credits or food, which was a risk Morton couldn’t take. He had no idea if this man was manipulative or truth-worthy, after living on the streets you kind of needed to know your way around and people like that was the most dangerous: they had nothing to lose.

“No no,” he said with a friendly smile, and no hints of being tense in any way, just looking as friendly as before. “I am not part of the rebellion, hell that would risk my business.” he pointed down to the restaurant below them. “...I just have some friends on the streets, who I help once in a while, thought you might have spoken with them.” He shrugged his shoulder’s. “…you should stay away from the rebels if you can, they might get you in trouble. Better to stay on the good side of the government and avoid getting shot again.”

He put the last bit of the bread in his mouth, and chewed. “…Live life safe, that’s what I always say,” he told him, and shrugged his shoulders, before walking over to do the dishes.

 

[Synner]

He listened to him speak, his eyes turned to the dish ad the man took his time answering, weighing his risk carefully.

He wouldn't tell the truth to us.

He is with them.

liar. Liar. Liar!

he is playing it safe.

turn him in.

he is not a threat.

Friend. Friend. Friend.

Damien looked to him as he took the plate to do the dishes. His eyes following his form. If he was an ally to the resistence, he wouldn't out right say it. If he was friends with those below him, like himself, he likely was involved be it intended or not. He knew thst much at least. Regardless of his role for or against the resistence, he seemed neutral at least. Sympathetic to people like himself.

"Government took everything I had." He said simply. "Only thing I have left is my violin." His gaze distant before he got up from the seat and wrnt to the desk as he picked it up. The familiar curve of the hand crafted and polished wood a welcoming sight and touch. "And even this.... they would take from me." He went and sat on the counter again as he set the violin down on the surfsce and inspected it for damage. Satisfied thst the pristine violin hadn't aquired any new scratched or scuffs, he raised it to his shoulder, resting his chin upon it as he brought the bow to it, gingerly sliding it across the strings for a crisp and beautiful sound that was drawn out from the instrument. A smile drew across the muscian's lips as the voices were drowned out by the piercing sound as he slid the bow across again ever so carefully. His hands stead as the tune shifted higher then low again until he was certain his voilin was still tuned correctly and no strings were damaged. He lowered the instrument as he looked it over. His expression much more relaxed as he looked upon it as if gazing at a child.

His violin was everything. There was no doubt about that.

 

[Hiddencard]

He send him an emphatic look. “Sorry…” he offered genuinely, albeit unable to console what was probably many years of hardship. Damien must really be on low credit if he had that few rights.

Morton turned on the water and begun cleaning the plates with a rag, catching Damien moving off his spot from his peripheral, but kept his eyes on the dishes. He started pondering about what to do with dinner, and if he should hurry down to open the store. Yet, his idle thinking was cut short when a single pretty tune cut through the air

He turned his head fully. Damien was sitting like he was alone in the room, and letting his bow move rhythmically over the strings, and Morton couldn’t help but feel like he seemed like a new person. Contrary to his fiddling demeanour earlier, he now seemed calm and fully engaged in his music. The restaurant owner's hand lifted to stop the flow of the water, so the music could flow undisturbed. It was short-lived, but he still lifted his hands and clapped twice, with an impressed smile.

“You’re a natural,” he told him. “What’s your favourite song to play?” he asked him curiously, as he picked up one of the plates to dry it off.

 

[Synner]

Spoiler: Violin Song

The relaxed man leans back in the seat with a proud smile from his praise, looking down at the violin. "Thank you." He then looked up as he asked a favorite song. He thought about it a moment before rising the violin again and begining the bow to the violin with high and low tunes that transitioned smoothing to each one. High then then low. His fingers dancing across the strings seemed transfixed on the elegant tune that poured from the violin. The tune was short piece that was beautiful. He lowered the violin. "Bach. Cello Suite No. 1... prelude. It sounds beautiful on violin. It was the first piece I ever heard and learned to play."

He closed his eyes as he leaned back just a bit in his seat. Recalling the moment when he first heard the silence beought on my such music. "I was... twelve... i think... when I fell in love with the violin. He used to play the piano as I played on the voilin. Moonlight Sonata was a favorite of mine back then... We would spend hours every day in pracrice... I picked up some piano too but... the violin was my heart and soul." He had a distant gaze as he looked over the violin, remembering those countless hours of practice. The sour notes. Yet the beautiful music bought by practice made it all worth it.

Yet those days were gone. He sighed lightly as he traced his hand gently over the polished wood. The smooth touch was soothing to him. "Feels like that was a whole different life now." He looked back to him. "If you want, i could play my music in your resturant."