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Futuristic 𝓝𝓮𝔀 𝓛𝓲𝓫𝓮𝓻𝓽𝔂

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Tulkar Tulkar Zhul-Sen Zaid Nabil
Location: Bathroom
Interactions: Nogoodname Nogoodname Deegan Deegan


Tulkar took another chug of his double fisted beers when the lady mentioned she was a journalist. The gears turned in his head as to how he could use that to his advantage up there. He set his bottles down with a clump.

"Vodka Deadbull you said? You're in luck" he claimed. Tulkar had ordered three, but only chugged two, and the bartender was just done pouring the third, which he pushed to the reporter's side of the table. After leaving a generous heap of cash for the bartender, he picked up his third stud light and now was officially triple-fisting his beers. A true accomplishment.

Stepping away from the bar so other patrons could order, he couldn't stop his gaze from drifting to the size-changing twink. The number of desires that could be fulfilled with that enhancement were immeasurable.

"A statement? No, I am no one" Tulkar claimed. "My surname, Nabil, actually means no one in Arabic" he followed. That was a lie - it meant noble born, which was also a lie, both for him, and the construction executive killed in the Gulf Kingdom Succession Crisis whose identity he had assumed.

"But, you should come with me to the VIP lounge. There are more interesting people to interview there. Besides, the man who has demanded I speak to him does not like speaking to reporters, and you may be able to keep him away for a while"

Tulkar glanced at the large, antique hand clock hanging over the bar, and realized the time.

"But I must go to the bathroom now. I will be back"

On his way to the bathroom, Tulkar looked at the secretary for Commissioner Liao. The annoying ginger was staring daggers at him, so he simply held the beer in his right hand in his mouth for a moment while he stuck his index finger up, so as to indicate he would be upstairs in a minute. Chugging the beer with only his mouth holding onto it, he entered the bathroom where he saw numerous distinguished guests fixing their ties and cleaning clear fluids off their perfectly ironed white shirts.

"Zaid Nabil, I think we've met before" said one man who was washing his hands. "I'm August Forsythe with Morganstern-Wells, specializing in the funding of residential devel-"

"I'm sorry, I have diarrhea" Tulkar stated, pushing past the man, cutting another to enter a bathroom stall, and locked the door. Fortunately, this was one of those fancy stalls - the kind you would find in a country club - with a full door that could be completely shut. Tulkar set down his beers, sat on the toilet seat, and closed his eyes.


The cat made sure to stay close to the walls, and away from the passing crowds as it made its way to a dark alley outside the Civic Hall. Turning inwards, the grey-furred creature, its outsides covered in brown mud and dried red blood, started at the lone figure in the crevice. Its stare was menacing. One of the cat's eyes was completely white, and its neck - visible now that it had turned its head upwards - had a gaping hole. But no blood was coming out. In its mouth was a piece of paper. It approached Vega cautiously, rubbing against his leg and trying to purr, but only managing a cackle. Tulkar's control over his minions was more like that of a CEO setting a vision than a boss giving direct orders - he could tell them what to do and roughly when to do it, but not how, nor could he micromanage their behavior or control their basic instincts. This menacing corpse, created by the neighbor’s pitbull, couldn't resist the desire to still be an adorable kitty. When it was done rubbing against the rebel leader, it dropped its note on the ground, and the paper said only one thing - "ready".
 
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ＧＥＮＥＳＩＳ ＯＬＩＫＴＯＲＯ
location: directorate civic center ; VIP room
mood: bitter
tags: Zedalith Zedalith

Fire unbridled, lurching and starved. A fire stifled, smothered by wet blankets or mercilessly stomped on until extinguished. Now it was vengeful. A concentrated roiling mass of pure, uninhibited indignation clawing with bloodied fingertips to be set loose. To consume everyone, herself included, into a fiery blaze that ripped through flesh and bone.

But Genesis wasn’t so brave. Ambitions like that were a thing of fantasy for malleable, subservient dolls like herself. Something pretty and polished with no need for autonomy. As much as she yearned to thrash and break and destroy, she recognized her place. She felt the shackles heavy at her feet, an angel with clipped wings.

Vincent, the astute puppeteer, coiled each of his long, deliberate fingers around her strings and pulled. Each word tugged and snapped her into place. A taught, inescapable web. It was suffocating, familiar. Should he loosen his grip Genesis feared he’d realize she doesn’t know how to stand on her own.

Her gaze is laden with venom. Dozens of foul expletives tear at her closed lips, wanting nothing more than to shout obscenities at the man so vulgar it’d make the entire room shudder. Vincent knows that he’s won, but Genesis relishes that fleeting second of independence where she says nothing to him. Where she relays in the arbitrary language of eyes that this victory he held over her was only temporary.

“Give it to me.” She hisses, snatching the device back from Henrik and letting the text glide over her eyes again. It was just a performance. She’s done dozens of them before. Genesis—Seraphina—was no stranger to masks. So, she puts one on. The press princess. The sweetheart angel she’s known to be. Her eyes soften and her lips pull into a modest smile. “Thank you for this opportunity, Vincent. I won’t disappoint you.” She nearly gagged.

“Glad that’s settled. If you don’t mind, Director, I will be checking with the styling team to ensure everyone is on the same page for the performance tonight.” Henrik’s tongue nervously flicks out between his dry lips, standing from the plush seat with a reverently bowed head towards Vincent. “If you’ll excuse me.” He leaves, fussily straightening his clothes and patting his hair into place with his palms.

Genesis tilted her attention unto Vincent. The seething look reappeared in her eyes for the briefest pulse before she reminded herself to smile.

“Is there anything else you need from me?”
 
Legend Saunders
Code by Serobliss
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Location: Directorate Civic Center
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Mentions: N/A
•
Interactions: Clockwork_Magic Clockwork_Magic | Zedalith Zedalith
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Mood: focused
•
CS
Dion

Though his parts mainly were metal and his insides mechanisms, Dion put great care into appearances. Normalcy. Functional but beautiful. God’s image, replicated by smoothed marble, a statue weathered through time. Still, an artist never finds perfection. Always an extra touch, extra stroke, but even then, more could be done. The statue closed his eyes and listened. Animated chatter surrounded him, conversations filled with veiled pleasantries, and Dion picked up bits and pieces. Most of it irrelevant: juicy gossip, lustful whispers. He pulled a face and moved on.

To an onlooker, he looked still and unfocused. A man staring off into another world. In reality, he was one with the building, utilizing the implants in his ears to amplify sounds and voices. Most take their basic abilities for granted, but he was always grateful for his cybernetics, allowing the man to connect to the world far better than an average person. If they stopped and listened, they might have understood. Too much chatter, too much fluff. Blowing smoke into each other's faces when they got nervous.

“Report.”

He startled. One drawback of his augments: anyone who spoke close to his ear while he was listening at a distance sent a whine through his body, like a microphone and loudspeaker fed each other more and more signals until the system overloaded. Another imperfection that needed attention. The guard who’d approached waited with his arms crossed. Cybernetic eyes zoomed in on his features: annoyance, a slightly upturned lip, a small crescent-shaped scar underneath his crossed eyebrows. A flash of anxiety. The guard was on high alert but not a threat.

“Nothing right now.” He pressed his lips together and replayed the memory from earlier. The female security member from before had acted suspiciously, and that feeling of wariness was still settled in his gut. Yes, there was nothing right now, but if he could prevent anything from going awry… The other guard seemed satisfied with a nod of his head and left, continuing his rounds. Dion took his chance and started heading in the direction he’d last seen the female guard, his systems particularly attentive.

“...go. Almost time for shift rotation.”

There. He picked up on her stern tone as she assumedly addressed another guard, though he wasn’t in view yet to conclude anything. He briefly wondered how to approach this and settled on subtly. He took deep breaths until his biomonitors displayed a steady heartbeat. For a man of his size, he approached quietly from behind, a silent machine, face a grim resolve. He cleared his throat. He didn’t need to, but it was more for theatrics.

“Anything to report?” His eyes were already in motion, examining their features closely. “Just received an order from above. I’ll be joining you for this shift.”
 
Tashi, Kyoko, Tulkar
Stage 1
Directorate Civic Center
Anxious
interactions

zlexis zlexis

Tashi's eyes narrowed, a quick beat of his heart echoing in his mind, "Time to get started.” Stepping lightly, he moved across the room, the rhythm of his footfalls seamlessly blending into the ambient hum of conversation and music. His gaze flicked around, quickly honing in on his target. A burly figure loomed near the entrance of the control room, a man so built into his uniform he could have been sewn into it.

Drawing in a deep breath, Tashi approached, ensuring his face held an expression of concern. "Excuse me," he began, directing his gaze towards the control room, "I noticed someone acting rather suspiciously near the control room. They didn't seem like they belonged there. I lost them in the crowd but I’m sure they’re still around." The guard turned to him, dark eyes assessing him with a pointed gaze, "You're not part of my squad," the man's gruff voice carried a subtle note of suspicion. His brows furrowed, the already stern expression deepening. "Who are you with?"

He straightened up, meeting the guard's gaze squarely. "I was stationed outside," he declared, gesturing vaguely towards the main entrance, "I noticed her lurking near the entrance and thought it was my duty to follow and report. I didn't want to just stand by while something might be happening." He looked back at the guard, holding his gaze, praying that his performance was convincing enough. His words, while not directly answering the guard's question, were delivered with such an earnest expression that he hoped the omission would go unnoticed.

The guard scowled, muttering under his breath, "Damn younger generation. No sense of protocol just wanders where they please." He sighed, shaking his head. The guard took a glance at Tashi and a wry smile flickered across his face. "And don't even get me started on the blatant nepotism in this place." Pulling his focus back to the task at hand, the guard straightened, casting an authoritative gaze on Tashi. "Alright then," he said, his voice now firm and commanding, "Show me where this person was last seen."

Tashi assumes a posture of deference, shoulders slightly hunched, head tilted down. Every action is calculated to give the impression of submission. Following orders. Not a threat. Keep the guard relaxed, unsuspecting. It's like a dance, and he's leading—but he needs the guard to think he's following. His heartbeat thrums in his ears. Closer, closer. Just a little further now. With every step, the risk increases. But so do the chances of success. It's happening now. The plan is in motion and there's no turning back. The thought sends a shiver of anticipation down his spine. I just need to get him right...there.

He stops, pointing to an unassuming spot a few paces away. "There," he says, his voice wavering just enough to sound uncertain, "That's where I saw them." It's a calculated risk, an invitation for the guard to step closer, to investigate. An invitation to step right into the spot conveyed by the “beggar king”. The next few moments will decide everything. His heart pounds a relentless beat against his rib cage.

"Right there," Tashi repeats, placing his hand lightly on the man's back for emphasis. His fingers make contact with the fabric of the guard's uniform, directly over the thrumming pulse of a living heart beneath. As he unleashes his power, a chilling aura creeps from his palm, spreading like a frosty spider web across the guard's back. He can almost feel the rhythm of the heart as it struggles against the encroaching cold, the frantic beats growing fainter and fainter until they cease altogether.


It was like having a sixth sense. Tulkar couldn’t exactly describe the feeling of sensing death. A barely traceable metallic smell, a small rush of pleasure, somewhere between carnal enjoyment and adventurous excitement, a green streak that filtered into Tulkar’s field of vision if he closed his eyes. Those signals were not important, however. They did not need to be decoded. He simply knew that someone geographically near him had died, that his soul had left his body. He knew where the soul was, and how to wrestle it back into its body, bound to the service of the hive mind until it drained itself trying to constantly jump-start the broken vehicle that was its corpse. Trying to describe the sense in further detail was like trying to describe vision to the blind.

He knew not who had died, nor where, simply that someone had died at roughly the arranged time, and he forced the unfortunate spirit back into its vessel. Tulkar could feel that the corpse was killed with such surgical precision that all its machinery, save for its heart, was still intact. This was an unusually excellent repossessed vehicle, and could have been healed back to full health if he was willing to sacrifice the souls of some of his other minions - but then, a man brought fully back to life was no longer bound to Tulkar’s will. Instead, the unusually excellent preservation of this corpse’s muscles, brain, nervous system, and vocal cords was to be exploited.


For a long time, the rebels had known that the mysterious, suicidal attacks on gang leaders and the authorities in the inner city weren’t the product of simple, organized crime - that something more mysterious was at work. This was the true nature of the power of the “beggar king”, their most reliable but elusive associate.

Tashi watches with a faint sense of awe and a twinge of relief as the guard's body straightens up, movements slightly stiffer than before, but largely indistinguishable from a normal living person. He lets out a sigh, a low exhale that hums with the quiet satisfaction of a plan smoothly executed. The guard—no, the puppet now—stands upright, devoid of the life it once had but being compelled by the will of an unseen master.

A glance around the area confirms their lucky break—no prying eyes have spotted them, and no alarm raised. Tashi nods to the newly animated puppet, a silent acknowledgment of their shared secret, before turning on his heel.


While the other 2 were busy procuring and attaching strings to their new puppet, Kyoko stood at the door to the control room. A fairly standard Directorate security door secured mainly through a two-step identity verification lock.

First off was to confirm the security staff serial number which acts to create the lock on the door itself, to put it in an analog analogy. Normally, this step would be done automatically when the door registers the associated serial number of a guard’s badge as they get into range, but a relatively simple program could give Kyoko’s phone a similar effect, prepared once she got a hold of the security team’s database.

Compared to the first step, the second one wasn’t that much of a step up in difficulty. Naturally, once the lock was created from the serial number a key would need to be provided to actually open, and in this case a basic remote biometric scanner. Of course, Kyoko wasn’t willing to input her biometrics into the system, so instead the hacker opted to bypass the scanner entirely and transmit the serial number’s associated biometrics directly to the receiving components. All she had to do was bring that throwaway phone near the scanner and voila.


The duo approached the control room door, Tashi, flanked by the lifeless shell of their boss. With a swift nod towards Cipher, Tashi let the puppet separate from him, its rigid form trailing languidly towards Cipher. As she stood at the entrance to the control room waiting for their newfound puppet to join her at her side, she suddenly heard a voice.

Turning around, she was met by quite the sight indeed, a man that seemed more robot than a man with all his enhancements. Undoubtedly one of the Hounds contracted for the event. “Nothing yet, sir.” She said while at attention. “The boss here called me in to be part of a routine security check, to make sure no terrorists have messed with anything.”

The guards stationed inside the control room straightened as the door creaked open. Their boss's figure was familiar, its presence commanding. They didn't question the seemingly sudden check-up; in their line of work, security was paramount and unexpected inspections were just part of the job. They awaited their instructions, oblivious to the reality of their boss's fate. “We are here on the boss's request, we just need to complete a routine check-up on our systems.”


As swift as a shadow, Tashi moved, placing himself between the cybernetically enhanced man and Cipher. The timing was delicate now, each step needed to be perfect; the margin for error was nonexistent. He ran through the lie he had crafted in his mind once more, praying to any gods that were listening that it would pass muster. "My apologies," he said, his voice steady despite the quickening of his heartbeat, "but the protocol is strict on this one. No one is permitted to enter the control room without clearance. Give the boss a few minutes to check it over and you’re free to step inside.”

Inside, his heart was a riotous drum, his mind churning with every possible worst-case scenario. The hulking form of the Chrome Hound was like a mountain range—silent, unyielding, foreboding. His sheer physicality was enough to make even the most courageous hearts stutter. But retreat was not an option. They were committed now, locked in a game they could not step out of, not without losing everything. His palms were clammy, and his pulse pounded like a war drum in his ears, yet he forced himself to meet the Chrome Hound's gaze.


Kyoko walked over to a security console, accompanied by their puppet, the guards’ blind loyalty to their boss preventing them from questioning Isabelle's presence there. Having the enemy ranks full of a bunch of bootlickers with loyalty to their superior officer above all else certainly helped in certain situations. “I’ll get started right away, sir.” She said to their puppet, not expecting a response, as she took a seat at the console, plugging in her neural jack into the system. It certainly wouldn’t be an uncommon thing to see a technical specialist have, they are a pretty efficient tool for anything cyber nowadays after all, it’d be stranger to see a technician without one. The other guards returned to their normal operations on their own consoles, oblivious to the fact that they’d just might as well made the gravest mistake of their careers.

It wasn’t Kyoko’s first time tangoing with Directorate security systems, not by a long shot, this was her domain after all. Compared to other breaches, this one should be relatively easier. Having direct physical access to a pre-authorized console connected to the system was definitely easier than breaching the system from the outside in. Less traceable too when your access credentials were all tied to an individual that didn’t exist in the real world. “Local power grid normal… Vital systems operational and accessible… The firewall is intact… Building controls functioning… Surveillance equipment all green and recording…”

As she went through and voiced the standard security checks, a backdoor program made its way into the system via her neural jack, silently being installed in the background hidden deep within the system’s files, and flying below the radar of the firewall. To those that aren’t well versed in the cyber world, it’d take a long while to find and identify, days if no expert is available. Heck, even if a run-of-the-mill guard did manage to find it, it’s doubtful that they would even know what they’re looking at, being just another benign file on the outside.

It’s not like she’d even need the backdoor to remain in that system for that long either. A few hours was enough time to get the job done and by then there’d be nothing left in the system for anyone to find. It’d be below an amateur move to just leave traces of the program there after the job’s done, and that’s precisely what the kill code was for. “Systems all green, sir. Nothing unusual on the network.”


Tashi was acutely aware of each passing second—every tick was a possible signal for the plan's untimely demise. Feeling the need to break the silence and distract from the delicate task at hand, he turned to the Chrome Hound.

"Is everything... you know..." He made a vague gesture with his hand, indicating the man's lower half, his words fading into silence under the weight of his own awkwardness. "I mean... is it all metal?" It was a wild attempt to steer the conversation away from their current predicament, to distract the hound and maybe even himself. He shot the Chrome Hound a sheepish grin, his nerves sparking underneath his light-hearted facade.
 
ELENA GRAHAM
LISTLESS DREAMER
DIRECTORATE CIVIC CENTER
APPREHENSIVE
interactions

Eteri Eteri
Elena fell quiet at that.

Dreams. An alien word, yet it rang in her mind all the same.

People at the top only ever dreamt of more power. With more power came more vassals, bending the knee to serve their liege lord in a twisted recreation of feudalism. The corporations of New Liberty struggled against each other for supremacy, crushing others underheel and turning them into extensions of their own will. The Directorate was always fighting among themselves, jockeying for better positions. For what? All their dreams were tainted, stained black by baseless greed. Power for the sake of power was no dream at all - merely an expression of that human need to conquer, to dominate others and subjugate them,

This charity event was as much a display of power as it was Vincent gathering support from his vassals. Without support, his bid for the golden throne of New Liberty would be for nothing, and he would fade into the annals of history. All calculated. Elena doubted that his anti-Xenogenic stance was anything more than a cynical ploy to appeal to those who suffered at their hands.

True believers in a cause? This far up? Unlikely. Morals were discarded and picked up as needed to adapt to the game.
Envy sank into her mind like the poison it was. Elena looked at Mischa, eyes framed by her hair as she knocked back her offered drink. Clearly the other woman questioned her tone when referring to her bodyguards, but had said nothing. An uncomfortable topic was best avoided, and they lapsed into silence once again.

She wondered how people like her could dream in this kingdom of lies. Kings in all but name made their serfs slave away for their cause, and yet, and yet… they could still look up. Still be able to stare into the eyes of their liege and dare to try rise above their station. Rebels, terrorists; the Directorate could call them any variation of ‘the enemy’, but these people fought for a cause.

How do they do it?

Elena’s fists tightened, but forced herself to relax. The game she was playing with her own mind was far too dangerous-

-and she froze.

Number exchange. She wasn’t a stranger to it; the amount of missed calls and blocked numbers on her own was a testament to it. But it was… quick. Far too quick. Enough that she suspected some kind of malicious intent. While there were many people like her sleeping around and generally causing problems for their family, they also made for easy targets for honey traps. Elena had filtered a few of those out herself.

So she squared her shoulders, turning to face Mischa with a rejection forming on her lips, only to pause. There was a look that Elena had seen before, reflected in mirrors at night; uncertainty, fear. Mischa’s leg bounced, and she seemed to just shrink into herself.

Maybe she was jumping at shadows. Maybe it was just a woman jumping the gun, happy to talk to someone new. Or maybe she was just looking to blow off steam.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Elena sucked in a breath through her teeth. “...I’m not looking for anything intimate right now.” she said slowly, already feeling that pit of anxiety open up and threatening to swallow her. “But… a talk? Where I’m not surrounded by pomp and ceremony? I could be convinced. This place is too stuffy to talk about anything remotely enjoyable.”
 
Chairman Amhson
20230602_171006.png
Location: Regular Bar, Civic Centre
Interactions: CaptainSully CaptainSully , Eteri Eteri


Amhson mentally sighed as he realized that he roped himself into resolving a staff-attendee conflict and he couldn't replace this just yet for what must have been the exceedingly peaceful, merry and quiet confines of the other lounge. Oh, the woes: he couldn't be seen letting this situation go unresolved since he observed it.
He thought to a span in time decades ago, his job in the Directorate then different. A sliver of his thoughts were briefly occupied.
The barkeep did literally call the Xenogenic a "rat" while he complained.
Amhson made a gesture of calling with an index finger, at the barkeep and a security detail, the former appearing to be keeping as wide a distance from this spot as duties he attended to made possible.
He asked the guard to retell the story of what transpired.
Immediately after the woman finished her story, Amhson added a note to the minutes and dismissed the guard and the barkeep.
"Mr. Gascoigne, threatening bodily harm is no good response. I ask you to contact the management of the bar if the likes of this were to occur in the future, which it hopefully won't",
Amhson promptly dismissed this whole fiasco from his mind.
As the conversation between resumed, Amhson chuckled at Orpheus's words. "Indeed, Mr. Orpheus. You are to be congratulated for your victory."
These words flowed as easily as if they were describing reality.
After a short lull in the conversation, Amhson was addressed by the white haired man, who he was quite familiar with on paper who was conversing with the xenogenic earlier. His mind shut down the moment he uterred the first five words, as his reply consisted of language as sincere and subsantive as it was mindless, "The please is all mine Mr. Morgutes. Your family is one of New Liberty's many prides, after all"
His tone was cordial.
After Sylvester discussed a nearby pair of people with the xenogenic, a perfunctory look from Amhson was directed their way. Despite the fleeting thoughts of memory as he looked them over, his attention was directed at the duo only for a moment before he continued finishing his drink.
 
DIRECTOR VINCENT
Campaigning Governor
Directorate Civic Center
interested
interactions

Klown Klown Alisutte Alisutte
There was no surrender in her eyes, just a temporary retreat. He sees it in the way her eyes soften, the edges of her mouth curling up into the facsimile of a smile she wears so well. Victory tastes sweet, even if layered in the bitterness of her thinly veiled contempt. He watches the facade she's so expertly crafted, and appreciates it. An angel with clipped wings indeed, but an angel who can still brandish her feathers with quiet rebellion. His control, however pervasive, is temporary. There's a recognition in this thought, a quiet acknowledgment of her resilience. Yes, the fire in her won't be blotted out so easily, but for now, it's been subdued. And that, in itself, is satisfying.

With a measured sweep of his hand, he indicates the path leading away from their current location. "We will consult with Henrik," he begins, his voice smooth. "So we can display the speech directly onto your cybernetic eyes." With a subtle shift in his posture, he addresses Genesis one final time. “Enjoy the rest of the night. Feel free to mingle, or you can make use of the VIP bar until Henrik returns for you." She would play her part for now; such was the nature of their little game.

With her departure, a new focus takes hold. He beckons to an attendant standing at the periphery of the room. "Show me the thief," he orders, his tone clipped and devoid of warmth. The attendant, a young woman with mousey hair and wide, fearful eyes, nods briskly. She taps a command into a screen nearby, her fingers darting deftly over the surface.

Moments later, a live feed flickers into life across his Cybernetic implants, replacing the grandeur of the event with the stark, clinical confines of a detention room. The figure within is a far cry from the polished attendees outside. He's thin and underfed, his complexion marked by the sun's kiss. His hair, dark and matted with dirt, hangs over his face like a veil, concealing his features.

The thief. A pawn in a game larger than he could comprehend. Yet, every chess game needed its pawns. With a final glance at the live feed, he blinked his eyes shut and the image faded away.

Vincent pushes himself up from his seat, the smooth fabric of his suit rustling softly against the plush upholstery of the chair. He glances down at the watch adorning his wrist, its face glimmering softly under the ambient lighting. The hands are inching closer to the designated time, their march forwards was a reassuring reminder of a plan set in motion.

"Hmm," he murmurs as he watches the second hand complete another circuit. His eyes flicker back to the room, scanning over the faces of the attendees, unaware of the storm brewing beneath the surface. The game was about to reach its climax, and he was eager to see how the pieces would fall.

"Request Chairman Amhson to meet me in the Directorate Executive Suite," Vincent orders one of his attendees, his tone laced with authority. The aide nods curtly, stepping away to fulfill the request as Vincent begins to make his way toward the designated room. Flanked by his security team, Vincent strides through the room. His path is cleared by the imposing figures of his guards as he heads towards a location within the VIP room: The Directorate Executive Suite.

As he approaches the entrance, the guards stationed at the door snap to attention, their gazes respectful yet wary. Inside the suite, the decor is a blend of sleek modern design and timeless beauty. It's a room meant for power, for decisions that shape the course of the Directorate.
 
ＧＥＮＥＳＩＳ ＯＬＩＫＴＯＲＯ
location: directorate civic center ; regular bar
mood: anxious
tags: Nogoodname Nogoodname

The air returned to Genesis’ lungs as the viscous, smothering pressure of the VIP lounge was abandoned. It wasn’t an immediate relief. She was exchanging one anxiety inducing affair for another, already feeling the sharp pinpricks of eyes against the back of her neck from tonight’s attendees.

The angel sighs, her breath quivering and crumbling before its even made it past her throat. She cradles herself in her arms as if keeping herself in one piece. She squeezes and longingly eyes the bar filled with an easy escape from the evening. All she would really need are two or three drinks, but she’d want more. Anything to get the sound of Vincent’s voice saying her name out of her ears. It was all too similar to someone dragging their nails against a chalkboard.

“Oh, Seraphina!” A man and woman approach her, arms linked. The woman wore a beautiful red dress and the man an impeccably tailored blue suit. It took Genesis a second to realize their eyes were set on her and not another person coincidentally named Seraphina nearby. “It’s so good to see you, are you enjoying the night?”

The man’s face took a second to process, but Genesis made a seamless transition from the moment her mind was recalling where she knew him from, to when she recognized him.

“Mr. Tordeu I had no idea you would be here!” She gleefully extends a hand towards him which he accepts in his own, delicately carrying her knuckles to his lips. Jackson Tordeu was given the opportunity to direct a music video for one of Genesis’ songs not long ago. She’d been bitter about it at first. Henrik had promised her that she could play her hand at directing the video herself, but ultimately changed his mind. Not wanting her to put out anything too “amateurish” and possibly bring down sales.

They talk about current and prospective projects. Mr. Tordeu introduces his fiancée, Lydia, in the red dress. There are eager congratulations, excitement over tonight’s performance. All Genesis can think of is how badly she wants to leave.

“It’s a blessing to have someone like Vincent putting together an event like this.” Says Mr. Tordeu, sipping from a flute of champagne he’d snatched from a server making the rounds. Genesis feels herself start to sour. “Some of these violent cases with the Xenogenics are utterly barbaric. I’d be horrified to come across one.”

You’re talking to one right now, stupid. Genesis thinks of her father, brave and cunning, who she ever really got to know through her mother. Her mother was nothing but sweet, and gentle. Who made Genesis feel like a princess even when all they had was rags and musty alleys. But I guess that’s utterly barbaric, huh? I guess that’s enough to call someone a beast.

“Yes, well…” Her eyes discreetly dove into the crowd scanning for an easy escape. An excuse to dismiss herself from the conversation without coming off as rude. She supposed she could dive back into the VIP area, it was barely a few feet from reach. A head of red hair catches her attention at the bar and for no particular reason, Genesis decides that was her ticket out. “Ah, that’s my friend over there. I’m so sorry but I promised I’d meet with her as soon as I could.” She vaguely gestures in the direction, hoping they did not press.

“Is she an aspiring artist? Maybe we could—”

“Oh no, she’s terribly shy. I fear I’ve left her alone for too long. It was great talking to you both.” She’s backing away as she speaks, Mr. Tordeu’s desperate expression to drag the conversation for longer being the only thing keeping her from outright bolting towards the bar.

“We should meet up after the show, have some drinks!”

“I’m sure Henrik would love that!” Genesis makes her escape, her steps brisk but steady. Not wanting to give the impression that she was all too eager to escape that conversation. She just hoped the one she was inevitably roping herself into wasn’t as unbearable.

Genesis slips beside the woman, a gentle hand gliding onto the table to catch her attention. She doesn’t sit in case anyone else takes it as an invitation.

“Hi.” The moment the words leave her lips, is the moment Genesis realizes how utterly horrifying this is. Genesis has never approached a stranger who wasn’t introduced to her by Henrik first. There was only one exception to the rule, and Genesis had yet to see her anywhere. How did one talk to strangers effortlessly again? She couldn’t remember if it had been this hard with her secret drinking buddy. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt.” Mr. Tordeu and his wife were still lingering about as if waiting for Genesis to get bored of the redhead and return to them.

Leaning her head a little closer, she whispers “Would you mind pretending to be my friend for a bit?”
 
Sylvia Valentine
Mood: ???????????
Location: Directorate Civic Center, Main Bar
Interactions: Klown Klown

Sylvia looked into her drink with a tinge of confusion, what a strange interaction, just who the hell was that guy anyways? She knew the directorate and their people were a bunch of weirdos but, Nabil had definitely been one for the books. At least he was a way into the VIP room? Maybe? If he hadn't just decided to dump her here and wander off to, whoever the hell knows where. Honestly she wasn't even sure whether this guy was actually a VIP or not, he'd just puffed out his chest and alluded to being important, for all she knew this could just be some weird pick up artist shtick. Sylvia gave a soft sigh, she... might've still gone for it... maybe... he was hot alright??

She sipped at the drink and settled back in, listening to the people around her. At least she still had options, the night was still very young, she could afford to hang out for a bit longer and just gather information. Besides, maybe she could find someone else to take advantage of, all she really needed was to follow them into the vip area, after that she'd be free to snoop to her hearts content. Sylvia took another swig of her Vodka Deadbull, god the stuff was strong, how in the hell had Nabil chugged two of these things without getting even a little tipsy?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a somewhat familiar voice? She couldn't quite place it, at least not until she turned around and felt her heart practically drop into the floor. The woman in front of her was incredibly hard to mistake. Those wavy golden locks that tumbled elegantly down her back, with glowing seraphic eyes to match, that nigh perfect complexion save for the sole beauty mark, and the angellic wings fluttering gently behind her.

The redhead could hardly believe what she was seeing, and in the back of her head she still had the lingering feeling that something was deeply wrong with her optical enhancements. She cleared her throat, hardly able to get past the introduction before the nature of her situation began to sink in.

Pretend to be her friend? Was she in a bad situation? Was someone trying to mess with her? Didn't she have security detail specifically for this kind of situation? Endless questions ran through her head, none of them with any clear answer. But she had to do something, right? This wasn't even about meeting a celebrity, this was just about a woman who might be in trouble, and she just might be able to help, she kinda had to, right?

It was perhaps lucky for Genesis then, that nobody spins a story like Sylvia. She took a second to parse the request, before her expression seemed to change to one of warmth and recognition. "Hah, there you are!" she chimed, in that sort of half teasing way one would use to chastise a friend. "Sure took your sweet time in there, hope you don't mind I already got myself a drink." she took a bit of that liquid courage to her lips, silently thanking Nabil for his taste in the strong stuff. She had the sneaking suspicion she was gonna need it.
 
ＧＥＮＥＳＩＳ ＯＬＩＫＴＯＲＯ
location: directorate civic center ; regular bar
mood: anxious
tags: Nogoodname Nogoodname

The woman effortlessly slotted into the role of a long-time friend, picking up the cue as fast as Genesis had put it down. A quiet, nagging voice in the back of her mind chastised her in Henrik’s intonation. Now you owe this complete stranger a favor. And it persisted there like a little ant who’d lost its head, worrying her relief at having found someone who hadn’t hesitated to help. It could be more of a bad thing than a good thing.

Genesis offers a soft, maintained laugh. A careful balance of feigned and earnest. Her hand reaches out as if to touch the woman on the shoulder, but instead hovers slightly above it without making contact. She was acutely aware that beyond this fabricated acquaintanceship, they were utter strangers. The gears that worked Genesis’ brain reasoned it audacious to touch her without even knowing her name.

Genesis takes a seat, one leg crossed over the other as she smooths the creases of her dress. A discreet glance in Mr. Tordeu’s direction reveals he’s moved slightly away, perhaps still clinging onto hope that Seraphina would call him over and introduce him to this impromptu friend. She estimated he’d get bored of waiting soon.

A bar was not a usual backdrop for New Liberty’s angel. She stuck out like a stroke of white paint against a black canvas. She sat with her back straightened, hands delicately cradled into her lap where there would be no mistake of her reaching for a glass. Her body, fully turned towards the woman, as if shunning the bottles of alcohol that decorated the wall behind the bar counter. In a subtle, nearly imperceivable self-soothing motion, Genesis rubs the top of her hand with a finger.

“Thank you, and sorry.” What else was customary to say? Should she compliment her outfit? Tell her she had gorgeous hair? Ask how she was enjoying the night? That’s a good one, Genesis assured herself. “I hope your evening has been going well.” Did she sound too pretentious?

There wasn’t a lack in situations that made Genesis internally malfunction, but talking to women who appeared similar in age bracket to her took near precedence over that list. For all the lessons on social etiquette that Henrik forced onto her, there was a jarring absence of socializing in and of itself. She wasn’t meant to socialize, after all. Just a pretty thing to look at while another, bigger conversation played out beside her.

“Would you like another drink? It’s the least I can do.” Mr. Tordeu was fully out of sight now, but Genesis felt intentions to approach her at almost every corner. The moment she looked even a little disinterested in this conversation, or prompted an exit, she would be hailed. “I probably shouldn’t even be here.” A rare, unguarded giggle follows, one not meant for show or out of politeness at a bad joke. It was more nervous than anything and targeted at Genesis herself, predicting the earful she’d receive from Henrik when he inevitably found out.
 
Chair Amhson
5153806-1191101160-304.png
Location: Regular Bar ->> Executive Suite, VIP lounge
Interactions: Zedalith Zedalith​


Amhson heard steps closing by before he heard a quiet voice say in a polite, respectful tone to his ears, "Excuse me, Chairman. Director Vincent has requested to meet with you in the Executive Suite". Amhson moved his eyes towards Vincent's aide, his thoughtful gaze moment ago was at a random point before him. Hm, was it time? The Chairman nodded and the aide bowed their head before leaving. Amhson clasped Gascoigne's shoulder as he stood up, as he projected a jovial smile on his face. "Excuse, Mr. Gascoigne, Mr. Morgute, I am afraid I will be leaving this conversation for now. It was a pleasure to behold your company." He turned and stood, his gaze on the red-headed woman that caught the attention of his present company before, and Oliktoro, their golden tool apparently having replaced the man from before as the red-head's current company. Certainly, she atttacted some interesting company. He walked towards the VIP room, his eyes on the crowds as he gave them an acknowledging smile before entering the confines of the secluded lounge. His sight scanned around as he saw some of Directorate's officials sitting before a table as a small group, which also included Jack Haller, who was expected to be in New York this week on clandestine conversations with Senator Carter; at the bar a Directorate agent was conversing with the infamous offspring of Graham.
Amhson greeted the people at the table, "Gentlemen and women, greetings", was his utterance as he eyed Director Haller with curiosity.
"Amhson, how pleasant that you made it here," Archer Nisbalt said with a smirk on his face, followed by the other's greetings and questions.
"Did Haller finally convince the Senator to give up that 'field'?" Amhson queried Haller, projecting a curious tone. Haller shook his head.
"No, Chairman. I am in the process of pressuring him, but Carter is acting ellusive as usual"
The long-haired man's face was dissatisfied as he complained before taking a measured sip of his drink. "I'm sure I will be able to break him soon."
"The field" was a name for an underground lab in the outskirts of New York which the Board really wanted to acquire for reasons best left unsaid in polite company.
"Inform Carter that New Liberty's Board can save up to a favour for good Senator should he be amiable in this regard", Amhson said after a quick calculation. With a nod, he excused himself as their conversatiom continued in hushed tones. He walked unhurriedly towards the Executive Suite before he entered. The secure door sliding shut behind him, Vale would see Vincent. He walked towards one of the full-view windows which opened the view to the city's skyscrapers and unseen objects moving back and forth in the sky line as well as the crowds surrounding the venue below. "Vincent, the man of the night", he begun as he looked at the Director from the corner of his eyes with a smile, "your organizational skills shone well today. Tell me, are there any updates regarding the little guy we have below the venue? I also saw the singer, Seraphina, in the other bar, quite distraught. I assume she wasn't quite happy about the role granted her tonight?"
 
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NICK LORD
Directorate Civic Center
Anticipation
mentions

Klown Klown

The fine net of emerald, bias cut sheer overlaid with metallic lace, clung to the curve of her body. Her hand dabbed perfume at the pulse of her neck to the faint clink of gold bangles. Smell like- creased bed sheets, Cointreau and New Liberty bouge. Wafted from the toss of her hair. A spill of jet curls over her collarbone. The beads of a gold chain grazed against skin to plunge into cleavage.

She caught the slip of his eyes with the clever tick of her lips. "You don't need to be shy." Her head tilted. Knowingly coy.

Nick let his smile break. Lounged in the leather of the limousine, his arm lifted across the seat around her slim shoulders. “We’re late.”

“We’re exactly on time.” A dark brow arched. “Don’t you trust me?”

“As far as I can throw you.” Teasing.

“Mm. The bed, then.” The way she said it, smart dry wit, belied by the way she hid her smile. Knuckles, to the bow of her lips. The girlish tint of warmth crept into her cheek. It looked good on her. She shook her head like it would chase the blush away. “I’m one-hundred and thirty years old, Nica. You can’t surprise me.”

"Looks like I did." Cheek, he knew he could get away with.

She laughed, warm and low. “You can’t hide from me.” Reaching to slip her hand across his chest. Fine jeweled fingers spanned the navy blue of his suit. Come to rest above his heart. “I know you’re nervous.” Her eyes, tracking his. Suddenly so gentle. And for a moment, it felt as though she could really see. The briefly twined lines of fate drawn between their gaze. Like she could feel the true thrumm of his heart-beat. Hidden, as it were, with the modulation of Libra system.

He sighed, and let the tension tighten his brow. "It on my face?"

"No, darling." Softened still. "You're beautiful as a hundred dollar bill. But I know you…" As much as one could know a man with more secrets than seconds in an hour. "Remember. All the money in the world can’t buy the light I see in your eyes.” The earnest truth, said with the smile of someone who already understood: all good things come to an end. “They’ll look at you, like they’re looking at the sun. I never thought I-”

"Zulena.” His touch grazed her cheek, dark hair brushed from her face, and cupped his palm against her neck. Warm. Smooth, wrinkle free, but soft and thin to touch as tissue paper. "The only one they're lookin' at… is you."

Her sigh trembled. And the motion of the vehicle stopped. Nick's gaze drawn past Zulena to the blurred gleam of lights beyond tinted glass.

Security guarded the entrance, but no crowds or swarm of paparazzi. "What did I tell you." Zulena's smile, ever clever. Her arm linked through his. "Exactly on time." She swept through the scanners with all the confidence of old money, into the dim glitter of chandeliers and heated crowd of bodies.

The air was thick with perfume and sweat. A constant humm of chatter, laughter, movement. Nick trusted the lead of Zulena's steps. “Come.” Her figure hugged close to his side, following the keen sweep of her eyes across the room. "Look. The bar.” The incline of her chin, subtle, her lips barely moved, her feet did not stop. “Chairman Amhson.” Beside a man in a battered jacket who stood out amongst this crowd for all the wrong reasons. And whose name was not on Zulena’s lips. Skipped over for a blonde waif. “And Sylvester De Morgute. Cover Model. You know.”

They passed a couple, and Zulena’s smile and fleeting wave were flawless. Skirting plain clothed security, towards the more secluded bar. Stopped, suddenly, when an aura of gold swept past. The shiver of iridescent wings pulled Nick’s gaze. Zulena squeezed his arm. “No introduction needed. But-” She sucked her lip. Watching the shadow of a man escorted through a door, into the dim of another room. “Directorate Vincent.” Standing on her toes, the brush of her breath whispered against his ear. “I knew his mother.” Her sly smile met with his surprise. “Oh. And that is… Elena Graham. Not good for much except embarrassing the succession. You know. Too much money, too much time.”

“A bit like you, huh?”

Her laughter was crystal bright, gleaming in the eyes she flashed to Nick. “Exactly like me, then.”

 
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://SHOWTIME_003/

Orpheus drank as much as any one person could manage short of inducing alcohol poisoning all while doing a pretty piss poor job of trying to hide the fact he was staring at a fellow guest. Sylvester and the Directorate Chair had noticed the blatant gawking from the former gang enforcer from West Bridge. The pretty man even went as far as to get out of Orpheus’ way to give him a clear view. Hell, he even gave him the go ahead to go and talk to her. In the meantime Amhson bid his farewell as he wandered off towards the VIP area, but Orpheus paid him no attention, grunting as he said his goodbyes.

Finishing the last drop in his glass, Orpheus turned to the pretty man next to him and smiled…genuinely for a change.

“You know Sylvester, for such a pretty guy you’re actually alright,” Orpheus said, putting his hand onto his shoulder, as much as a sign of respect as it was for leverage. “If anyone ever gives you trouble, feel free to reach out.”

The drunkard pulled out a card from inside his jacket and put it onto the bar in front of Sylvester, it simply read, Professional Problem Solver, along with Orpheus’ contact details. A drunk Orpheus was a friendly Orpheus…unless you were a condescending prick of a barman of course.

Orpheus patted Sylvester on the shoulder as he got up and gave him a wink as he made his way towards the redhead he had struggled to pull his eyes away from. However, in the brief time he had spoken to Sylvester, a familiar, long blonde haired woman had plonked herself onto the bar. He paused for a moment, almost frozen in fear. The man who had a kill list longer than anyone in the entire complex was frozen with fear. He hadn’t felt this way since his early years when he could hear the rattle of his fathers belt buckle and stomping feet ready to give a young Orpheus a beating.

Grow up you fucking idiot…, he thought to himself. The worst she can say is get lost, maybe a slap in the face…but you’ve had worse.

He laughed to himself slightly and put on his best smile and much like the one he had shared with Sylvester, it was a normal smile. Not creepy, not sinister and certainly not the sort of sarcastic smile you give someone when you threaten to make their arsehole close friends with a champagne magnum.

He stepped towards the bar and maneuvered next to the two women, trying to split his glance across both but failing miserably. He gave the blonde a quick look but his attention turned firmly to the redhead. Considering how drunk he was, Orpheus had mastered the art of hiding it, or so he thought. He spoke with his wonderfully alluring accent of British origin and smiled.

“Excuse me ladies, my name is Orpheus and I’m looking for some people to share a drink with before this event truly kicks off. I'm not used to talking to the upper classes and amongst all these rich people I feel like a man lost at sea. Would it be possible to pour you both some of this most excellent rum and sit with you?” he asked.

Fucking smoooooothe lad…





♡coded by uxie♡
 
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Tulkar Tulkar Zhul-Sen Zaid Nabil
Location: Bar
Interactions: Eteri Eteri


Tulkar got up from the stool once his resurrection was complete, ending his fake bathroom break. He grabbed his two bear bottles and continued single-double fisting them while he washed his other hand. Fortunately, Augustwhatever from Meyersomething Williamsburg wasn’t in the restroom waiting to pitch his funding opportunity, which allowed Tulkar to continue with his true mission.

He didn’t turn left on leaving the bathroom, but right. Out a set of doors, down a flight of steps, where he stopped by the corner of a wall and peered slowly around, to see two lifeless, blue-uniformed bodies. Glancing at the camera, he could only hope the loop had successfully been installed at security. Raising his free right hand and turning the corner, he watched as the two corpses crawled to their knees, then up to their feet. One of their brains had been completely destroyed from the inside, rendering him almost useless - he had difficulty even standing. Still, that was enough for this mission. Ceasing their moans, the two undead guards retook their posts besides the door.

Tulkar then returned to the upper level, where he could see the redhead journalist he was previously talking to was instead joined by what looked to be her old friend in the pop singer Genesis. It was odd to see paparazzi and celebrities on good terms, but not the strangest thing to have transpired that night. Chairman Ahmson had fortunately left, and most importantly the poorly dressed bruiser had deserted his twink. Tulkar knew exactly what he needed to do before it was too late.

Striding towards the bar as fast as he could without looking suspicious, he arrived next to the supermodel and leaned over the bar, pretending that he needed another drink.

“Is that your boyfriend?” he asked the adjustable twink, nodding in the direction of the poorly dressed man. The question was partly teasing and partly genuine concern. While the rogue appeared to be buying drinks for women, anyone who had been to Hung Horse Lounge knew that was perfectly normal behavior for the gays. Tulkar was many things, including a literal necromancer, but he drew the line at home wrecking.

Feeling the need to explain himself, he shrugged after getting the model’s attention.

“You’d be a cute couple”
 
Sylvia Valentine
Mood: uhh??
Location: Directorate Civic Center, Main Bar
Interactions: Klown Klown CaptainSully CaptainSully

Maybe Sylvia was still in a state of shock, maybe the weirdness of the situation overrode any normal human reaction, or maybe she was just experiencing that strange sort of anxiety override she felt when someone else was in need. No matter what it was, Sylvia somehow managed to keep up this cool demeanor of hers, despite the fact that that she was sitting across from the very person who had inspired her to take up music in the first place. The experience was surreal, definitely not the way she'd imagined meeting an idol, but sometimes fate just had a funny way of setting things up.

"Ah, you're fine, I don't mind helping out" she explained with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders. How was she supposed to talk to celebrities again? Wasn't this her literal job? Hadn't she gone to some fancy school specifically to learn about this kind of thing? At least she was just being asked questions, questions were simple, she could work with this.

"My night's going alright, kind of hectic, but in a fun way, yaknow?" she gave a slight smile. It was only going to get more chaotic from here on out, the information gathering stage was just about over, she'd have to act soon or risk losing her window of opportunity.

She chuckled softly at the offer of a drink, waving a hand dismissively "sorry, I would, but I really can't. Technically I'm still supposed to be working" she admitted, as much as she'd like to just stick around for a few more drinks, the two that she'd had were already kind of getting to her. Sylvia could feel that familiar sort of tipsy haze just starting to work its way into her head, telling her it was time to stop. "And I figured! Gatta be honest, if I'd have known I'd get a chance to talk to the Seraphina tonight, I probably would've prepared some interview questions. Or at the very least brought something better than a bar napkin to ask for an autograph" the journalist laughed, her nerves just starting to even out as she got into the flow of the conversation.

"I hope you're doing alright by the way, you seemed kinda edgy, if you.. want me to call someone or something let me know alright?" she offered, her expression earnest, there wasn't exactly a lot she could really do in a situation like this, but if there was some way she could help, she might as well try.

Her train of thought derailed somewhat as she noticed another figure make their way across the bar towards them. An intimidating figure, at least from the outset, though he seemed polite enough. She gave a smile and let him introduce himself, though she really couldn't afford to get bogged down with a group right now, especially when she still had a lot of work to do. Speaking without thinking, Sylvia spun up another lie. "Oh! Well it's nice to meet you, and I'm flattered that you think I'm high class, but I'm really nobody. In fact, I'm just a journalist, and I was just about to interview Seraphina here for the New Liberty Press"
 
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ELENA GRAHAM
LISTLESS DREAMER
DIRECTORATE CIVIC CENTER
RELAXED
interactions

Eteri Eteri Klown Klown
Just a talk. Elena relaxed. Mischa’s frame showed every inch of sincerity in nervousness. She could see it gnaw at the other woman like a cancer, causing her to deflate. She shrunk in on herself, as if afraid of being reprimanded. Struck, even.

Her lips turned downward.

It had been uncountable years since she was able to talk to someone. Social obligations meant that her other ‘friends’ were corporate children as well. Nepo babies, granted positions in the company by the will of their parent-liege. Fail-children, not blessed with the spark of brilliance that the heirs had, content to waste it all away like she did. The ingrained competitive nature of New Liberty meant that such friendships only ever lasted until the convenience was gone. After that, the knives were out.

Each conversation was a dance. They tried to pry information useful to their company out of the other, and the other would deflect, parry and withstand their pointed questions. Something like that would never be ground for something genuine.

Elena’s ‘friends’ had all been married off, crushed under the turning wheel of New Liberty, or ‘retired’. The only one left was her drinking buddy, but that was a new acquisition rather than someone she knew back in the days of her youth. A meeting of two privileged people, bonding over their shared grievances with the system.

She exhaled as Mischa’s mouth ran off, firing responses nervously. Her bodyguards were well and truly lost in their own little world now to notice, drawn deeper into the throng of elites by their temporary paramours. No doubt that her father would see fit to cut their pay - or remove them from their position entirely.

Elena rolled her shoulders with a satisfying pop.

“This place has always made people unhappy.” she said, resting her chin on a hand and keeping azure blue eyes on Mischa. “Who wouldn’t be, having to talk to others like you’re inches away from stepping on some landmine? Having to cut breaks, random calls in the middle of the night to deal with fires proverbial and literal.”

She forced herself to calm. Her tongue flitted out to wet suddenly-dry lips.

Make it slow. Measured. Purposeful.

“It would be nice,” she murmured, “to be able to talk to someone that isn’t here.” A pale hand reached down, fingers brushing briefly against Mischa’s own as she took her business card. A brief inspection, and the number was committed to memory. Elena put it away. “You must understand, though. I’ll still be tailed, if not have bodyguards present when we do meet up.”

Briefly, her eyes flitted past Mischa, landing on familiar golden tresses at the main bar. Her buddy was out of the Director’s clutches, then. Elena stood up, the sudden gap in height causing the bartender to take an involuntary step back in surprise.

“And if you’re fine with that, then I’ll call.” Elena paused, before producing a card of her own. It was meant for people of similar status, but her handlers weren’t paying attention. “Or you call me. Either one works." She smiled, a touch of genuineness brightening it. "But I have to go. It was nice to meet you, Miss Regenburg.”

And with that, Elena marched off in the direction of the main bar.
 
Legend Saunders
Code by Serobliss
•
Location: Directorate Civic Center
•
Mentions: N/A
•
Interactions: Clockwork_Magic Clockwork_Magic | Zedalith Zedalith
•
Mood: irritated
•
CS
Dion

A routine check? She responded to him with an unyielding nature, like a rock cutting through flowing water. A part of him wanted to scoff, but there was no confirmation to back up his suspicions, only the shadow of a doubt that the so-called guards were up to something that wasn’t in the Directorate’s interests. Then the woman flowed into the control room, stoicism and all before Dion could get a word in. How… interesting. And unacceptable. He stalked forward, machine and muscle interweaved with one purpose in mind, but before he could approach, a blur of youngish enthusiasm burst in front of him, impeding his path.

Ill-fitted clothes, youthful face. A touch of panic in those eyes, hidden behind a faux calm. The boy reminded him of a flighty bird; he craned his neck to look down at him. While Dion knew he instilled a sense of unease into those unfamiliar with the Hounds, the bird met his gaze, unwavering in his presence. Not afraid of him, but all the same, afraid. Of what?

He glanced over the kid’s head to the control room, despite his attempts to block the Chrome Hound. Eyes narrowed in on the other guard, the one with the stature of command, yet followed in the other’s shadows. What was particularly unusual was that Dion could not glean any emotions from the guard’s face, not even a trace of worry or excitement. Then, as if the silence would kill him, the boy kept blabbering, asking an impudent question that stopped Dion mentally in his tracks. Bold as brass, this kid. Was he being serious? After blinking incredulously, Dion straightened to his full height, then some thanks to his implants, and loomed over the boy with unwavering poise.

“Hm.” Cybernetic eyes trailed languidly down his body, examining every twitch, every contradiction. The two standing next to each other could not have been more dissimilar, though one difference stood out to Dion that had occupied his suspicions since he first saw the boy. “Nice uniform.”

At length, he spoke again: “Seems like they forgot to get yours tailored. Like mine.”

With that, he pulled up his sleeve, uncovering the metal underneath. It gleamed in the subtle lighting, and pride surged through the machine. Then, at the will of its master, mechanisms shifted and curved, revealing the hidden firearm underneath the synthetic surface. To another, it may have looked unnatural or grotesque. But it was second nature to Dion; he worshiped his body whenever it moved. He gripped the weapon in his other hand and focused back on the boy. Time stilled, and each second passed with anticipation.

“So,” he delivered in a deadpan, “guess I have clearance then.”

The artificial light from Dion’s eyes could have burnt holes into the boy’s body, a glare that seemed to say: move out of the way or regret it. At that point, he shoved through the kid and steered towards the control room, the uneasy feeling in his gut louder than ever.
 
ＧＥＮＥＳＩＳ ＯＬＩＫＴＯＲＯ
location: directorate civic center ; regular bar
mood: anxiety central
tags: Nogoodname Nogoodname CaptainSully CaptainSully TheRealAngeloftheStorm TheRealAngeloftheStorm

The word ‘interview’ whisked past Genesis’ radar as quickly as it was stated; a bad joke that didn’t stick fast enough to garner a reaction, instead processed as something odd the other person had said. The consequence of it overshadowed by the harmless mention of her unsettled demeanor.

Wall after leering wall rose between Genesis and this woman. Those that Vincent had mercilessly crumbled reformed in a matter of seconds. Afraid, cautious. Reminding Genesis of how raw it felt to have a part of herself she’d desperately buried be ripped onto the surface. She thought of Vincent, who molded into the shape of sincerity like it were his own. How she’d faltered—even if for a second—thinking her trust would be safe in his hands. The woman beside her wore no signs of fraudulent earnestness, but Genesis knew how easily that could be fabricated.

“I’m alright now, but thank you.” She needed to do better. To be better. If random strangers could detect even a semblance of discomfort in her, then she was lacking. Too much of herself was being put forth, not Seraphina. Her reflection, warped against a clear glass the bartender had finished cleaning, stared back at her pathetically. Seraphina. She reminded herself, the name bitterly repeating in her head like a mantra.

Pushing herself into the little shadow-y pockets of her mind, Genesis almost fails to notice the man approaching them. Her eyes flicker over his attire, then his face. For possibly the first time she’d ever care to admit, she wished Henrik was here to pull her away. Her tolerance for charm had just about reached its limit, and she desperately wanted someone who would call her a bitch to her face.

Genesis prayed to any god still impossibly lingering that the woman was lying about being a journalist. It would be just her luck, wouldn’t it? The first person she reaches out to as excuse winds up being a separate can of worms best left untouched. Perhaps it would’ve been better to have her ears bleed through whatever conversation Mr. Tordeu wanted.

“An interview, yes.” Genesis voices slowly, distractedly; much like an afterthought. Still trying to piece whether she’d inadvertently roped herself in with someone working for the New Liberty Press. She would be her own undoing. For all she fantasized about socializing with others of her own volition, she was quick to grow uncomfortable and panic. Maybe Henrik was right and the tight leash around her neck was out of necessity.

Gaze briefly breaching through the ocean of faces beyond the two at her side, a spark of recognition tugs at her brow. A face she actually knew, and one she didn’t want to hide away from. She subtly straightens in her seat; her wings give a single bright pulse of light as if in tandem with her excitement to draw attention to herself should her drinking buddy not have seen her.

“Actually, why don’t we postpone it for after the performance?” The mere mention of it had a tight coil of dread settle in the pit of her stomach. “I’ll have a more interesting story to tell, then.”
 
ARC 1

The Luminous Veil

Eyes peeled open, rigid fingers gripped around the cool stock of his rifle. He was cloaked—his silhouette weaving into the patchwork of concrete behind him. Ultra-scope focused, a minuscule bead on the chaos unfolding. Unimaginable. The sight seized him, breath hitching in his throat, heartbeat pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribcage.

A monster. Metal-made flesh, an abhorrent marriage of man and machine. The nightmare of every soldier. Is this our end, he wonders, a predator birthed from our ambition? Visions of shattering bullets, ineffectual against that metallic hide, dance mockingly before his wide eyes. Fire, won't scorch it. Force, won't dent it. Bullets won't penetrate it. All useless. All useless. The realization twisted in his gut like a knife.

His breaths came in ragged gasps, the ultra-scope fogging up with the cold sweat of terror. The image of that metallic beast, that horror, etched into his retinas, a twisted monument to mankind's hubris. His hand trembles, the world spins, and the metallic taste of fear coats his tongue. A man strung along by terror's insistent hand.

His mind activated his private neuro-comms, his lifeline to sanity, to Hathom. "Hathom," he stammered into their shared communications, his voice raw and trembling, "It's... it's a monster. Killed guards... invincible." The words spilled out in an unending torrent, their syllables twisting and curling in his fear-choked throat. The enormity of what he witnessed rendered him inarticulate. "Nothing... nothing can stop it..."

Images, brutal and unbidden, flash behind his eyelids. Echoes of war's past, resonating deep within his memory, awaken. The remnants of man's devastating inventions, their aftermath a scar on the landscape of history. Mountains of corpses, lifeless eyes staring into the void, piled high against the horizon. Cold sweat prickles at his nape, the phantom scent of blood and iron filling his nostrils.

"Hathom," he implores, desperation tingeing his voice with an edge of hysteria, "Send... someone... anyone... I can't shoot it..." The monstrous image of the metallic beast looming within his sight haunts him, the dread seeping into his bones. He swallows hard, the lump growing in his throat with every passing second. "...It'll see me..." He fled, as far as his shaking legs would carry him.


A once raging fire reduced to wisps of smoke, embers of a life that was. Memories, a haunting passing of moments long gone. They spun in his mind, flickering in and out of focus. The taste of his mother's cooking was warm, hearty. Now a ghost of a flavor. The rhythm of his hometown, a pulse beneath his feet.

A noise. Distant, like the sound of a bell rang miles away. The door. It's her. His body didn't register her entry. He was drowning, submerged in the icy depths of his memories. But her scent, the aroma of metallic dread, crept into his senses, infiltrating his thoughts. His consciousness reached out for it, a beacon in the fog of his despair. The footsteps. A metronome. The rhythm of his impending doom.

It took seconds, or was it an eternity, for her presence to fully invade his reality. His head moved, slow, so slow, as if underwater. His eyes, heavy with resignation, lifted to meet hers. A futile attempt at a smile, a grimace, twitched at the corners of his mouth. A wordless nod of acknowledgment. A resigned surrender.

"Parece que la muerte ha venido a visitarme de nuevo," he spoke, his voice barely a whisper, lost in the cavernous room. He met her gaze, then dropped his eyes, back to the cold, damp reality of the floor. A new round. His mind retreated back into its sanctuary, to the memories of his past, to the life he once lived. All the while holding onto that sliver of defiant hope, to die on his feet, then live on his knees.

Energy, precious and scarce, gathered, forced from the very depths of his being, culminated in a spit that landed disgustingly near her feet. His eyes lifted again, ignited with a flicker of defiant fire as they bore into hers. "Ah, La Parca," his raspy voice filled the room, the vestiges of his old soul echoing in the cold, hard walls. His mouth pulled into a mocking grin, teeth bared in a feral grimace. "Finally come to dance with me?"

He laughed then, a hoarse, bitter sound. The mirth didn't reach his eyes, those orbs reflecting only the reality of his torment. "Dance all you want, marionette," he spat out the words. "You can break my body, but my spirit, my memories, remains mine." The mocking glint in his eyes turned into a pointed glare. "So dance, puppet," he hissed. "But remember this: no matter how many rounds you win, you will never truly defeat us."

shadowz1995 shadowz1995 slim slim Deegan Deegan Eteri Eteri
 
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  • ImgCreator.ai Cyberpunk style character, female, brown hair, brown eyes, futuristic city back...png



    Isabelle Sibylle
    Security Detail Member

    Interactions: Tashi ( Zedalith Zedalith ) | Dion ( zlexis zlexis )
    Location: Directorate Civic Center; Control Room Vicinity --> Civic Center Back Entrance


Kyoko unplugged her Neural Jack from the security console, letting it retract back into place at the nape of her neck. Looks like things went almost as smoothly they'd been hoping for. The Directorate's security detail in the building was now blind and deaf, their cameras running on a seamless loop and their comms jammed, and control of the building's systems were at Kyoko's fingertips. There was just one thing remaining to take care of, eying him out of the corner of her eye. That unholy fusion between machine and man, it'd probably be more accurate to describe the Hound as a machine with human parts rather than the other way around. As she was eying him from the corners of her eye, she gave a little tap to her phone in her pocket, sending a little special package over to him, silently installing itself and set to activate in a couple of minutes.

"Oi, rookie, what's going on over there?" She called over to Ash as she got up from the console and approached the entrance where he was still keeping the machine man at bay. Well, that was until he shoved him aside. She eyed the firearm the machine man had produced. "There's no need for that, sir." Kyoko gave out an exasperated sigh as she looked at her partner and rubbed her nose bridge. Though it probably seemed that it was because Ash was giving her a tough time, she was just more than ready to leave the building. Well... maybe it was a bit of a mix of the two. This was the guy her clients had sent to back her up? Didn't they have someone a bit more versed in infiltrating directorate buildings or at the very least deception?

"The check's already done. We need to get back to patrol anyways." She went over to her partner's side and pulled him by the shoulder a little bit away from the room, scanning over the Hound a bit more before turning to leave, her destination the back entrance. It was quite the impressive range of cybernetics he had. How much longer could his body handle such augments? And how many seconds could his cybernetics' systems last against her malware? And how much longer would he take to fix it? As much as she'd love to witness the results of her little program, she'd much rather be far out of view of him and his gun when he does recover.

 
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Hanabi(City1).png



Hanabi Kage
Blaze, Leader of Daybreak

Interactions: Chaz ( Deegan Deegan )
Location: Outside Directorate Civic Center -> Inside Civic Center
Mood: Excited, Alert


A smirk spread across the redhead's face as she watched the guards stationed at the back entrance came under assault by one of their allies from the inside. It truly was a slightly cathartic sight to behold. Men, who hold themselves so highly and believe themselves superior because some sanctity of human genetic purity or some bullshit slaughtered like the pigs they are by the beasts they created by their own hands. How arrogant they are to think that simply they currently sat on the seat of power they could get away with genocide without the risk of getting killed themselves.

Though it seemed their ally had fun with the guards, she'd be damned if she let them have all the fun. Blaze and her companion, a woman with short dark purple hair, dashed out of the alleyway to the back entrance as the guards once again rose to life. A fitting fate for them, puppets both before and after their deaths. "Nice one." She said to the guy as she entered the building before giving a hand signal to the purple haired woman, who then took point ahead, and taking out a small phone. Her crimson eyes quickly scanned over an image of the floor plan of the building before putting it away and turning to the man once more. "It's that way, yea? Let's get going." Standing against the Directorate was never easy, but there was certainly a rush to serving those pigs their just desserts. So naturally, Blaze was raring to go and even though the ideal outcome would be a slick and clean extraction, a part of her hoped that there'd be at least some opportunities to clean out the pig farm.

 
ELENA GRAHAM
LISTLESS DREAMER
DIRECTORATE CIVIC CENTER
RELAXED
interactions

Klown Klown Nogoodname Nogoodname Klown Klown
mentions

Eteri Eteri CaptainSully CaptainSully

“Libby.” Elena croaked. The unfamiliar feeling of lacking a bottle in her hand hit her then, but she paid it no heed as she sat herself down next to her drinking buddy. “I didn’t bring anything with me this time, unfortunately.”

Libby was a shorthand for the ostentatiously named ‘Liberty’s Blood’ that had introduced the two of them to each other. She’d found it too strong; to Elena, it was as weak as piss. But it had blossomed into the start of something new. It was a little game of sorts between the two of them. Drinking sessions that they would have on occasion, when the stars aligned and their respective handlers cooperated to let Libby’s star shine a little brighter. Even if the cracks were starting to show.

Those imperfections made her brighter than any of the other stars in New Liberty’s skyline.

They left their respective lives behind in those quiet stretches of time. There was no superstar in the room with her, just as there wasn’t a corporate lord present. Two women, commiserating and talking as they were. No barriers to scale, no walls to bar the other.

Even now, the thought of drinking was unappealing. Something in her eyes had caught the bartender’s attention - cowed as he was by something - and he’d slid a glass of water, of all things, to her. Iced, too. Their eyes locked again, and she raised it in thanks.

As she settled in, she registered a few things. The wild-looking chrome-hound, boasting about him being some sort of problem solver. Which was… a fair way to put your job description as a hound. And the manlet from earlier - Silver or whatever - with a fragile little smile on his lips as he talked to someone. There was a familiar spark of something in his eyes and the slight curl of his lips: contempt.

Far from her to point out such callous behavior when she was guilty of it herself. Everything in the upper crust of society deserved nothing but contempt. But against a man who was at least trying to earn himself a living? Preposterous.

She shifted her gaze back to Libby. There was a mop of red hair bobbing next to her, looking at the two of them.

Elena offered her a wan smile and raised her glass with her fingertips. The ice clinked.“Just a friend of hers.”

Libby looked tense. Very tense. Her shoulders were squared, wings dimmed, and a multitude of emotions looked like they were about to break out into open warfare on her features. They were there, but as an undercurrent; lines stretching skin into some expression or the other.

“So,” Elena said, taking a slow, measured sip of her glass, the water tasting sweeter than it should be, “big trouble in little paradise?”
 
DIRECTOR VINCENT
Campaigning Governor
Directorate Civic Center
interested
interactions

Klown Klown Alisutte Alisutte

A deep, warm chuckle escaped Vincent, in his hand he now held a drink that held the rich aroma of bourbon. He swirled the drink in his hand, the ice clinking against the crystal glass. "Chairman Amhson, a pleasure," Vincent started, his tone holding the charm of a Southern raconteur.

He gave a pointed smile in return for Ahmson’s praise. "Now, don't go selling my skills short, Amhson. The night is still young, and the best part of the show hasn't even kicked off." He raised his glass in a toast-like gesture, the corners of his lips twitching into a self-assured smirk. "It's like baiting a fish, you see. We've got to let the singer squirm a bit before she realizes that she's hooked."

With a firm nod, he turns his attention away from Amhson and towards a young attendant standing near the suite door. "Let Henrik know," he says, his voice just loud enough to reach the attendant's ears, "It's time."

He took a casual sip of his drink, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat. "As for our little guest downstairs, all's quiet on that front. He’s locked up tighter than a Sunday school teacher's liquor cabinet. Rest assured, when the time's right, he'll do just as we've planned." Vincent took another sip, and as he lowered the glass, the amber liquid caught the light. He paused then, looking out the window where the city's lights sparkled like a million distant stars. Turning back to the Chairman, his demeanor hardened into the granite seriousness that had earned him his place in this cutthroat world.

"Chairman," he paused, his glare momentarily pointed downwards as he contemplated on choosing the right words. "You and I, we've been in this game a long time. We've seen fortunes rise and fall, we've seen power shift and twist like a snake in the grass." His eyes held a glint of reminiscence, a brief escape into their shared past. But the moment soon passed, his gaze returning to the present. He locked onto Amhson, the question was unspoken but obvious. “When the time comes, can I count on your support?" he asked, finally giving voice to the question that he brought him here to ask. Leaning forward, Vincent steepled his fingers and regarded Amhson."There's a bill up for vote soon," he declared. "I'm proposing mandatory chip implementation for all Xenogenics," Vincent continued, the implications were vast, and he let the weight of his statement sink in.

"The proposition is straightforward yet critical—a compulsory bio-digital integration protocol. A mandatory augmentation, if you will." He gestured with his hands, as though visually presenting the concept. "Think of it as... applying a systematic, hardware-based regulatory system, coded directly into their unique biology. A symbiotic microchip, designed for real-time data assimilation, management, and most importantly, oversight. But it requires support. It requires unity among the Directorate members," Vincent added, his tone steelier than before. "And that's why I need to know... Can I count on your support, Chairman?" The question was put forth, the die-cast and all that remained was for Amhson to respond.

It was not only about control. The chips were also about protection. Protection of the Directorate, the humans, and ironically, the Xenogenics themselves. Without control, chaos ensues, a truth as old as civilization itself. They needed to be protected from their own untamed powers, from becoming threats to themselves and others. At least, that's how he justified it. His peers: traditionalists, sympathizers, skeptics—all stood in his way. This was about the future of mankind, the delicate equilibrium that held society together. The path to progress is often lined with difficult choices.
 
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Legend Saunders
Code by Serobliss
•
Location: Directorate Civic Center
•
Mentions: N/A
•
Interactions: Clockwork_Magic Clockwork_Magic | Zedalith Zedalith
•
Mood: resentful
•
CS
Dion

Dion heard her call pierce through the control room before she appeared at the entrance, her dignified voice befitting her figure. He noticed her assess the situation, cybernetic eyes reading irritation on her face as she dashed for her partner, grabbing him by his shoulder and leading him away from the control room. However, he could not discern the boy’s features as he allowed himself to be steered away. Their movements were quick, with furtive glances in his direction. Blue, glowing eyes never strayed from their backs until they disappeared entirely from sight. One tense second passed. Then two. Then, he got to work.

The machine connected to his comms, speaking in a low, grave voice to the other security detail. “Two guards, both suspect, leaving the Control Room and en route to the back entrance. Going to approach and request backup.” He waited. Nothing. He blanked and tried again, phrasing his last part as a question instead. Still, no response. Alarm bells rang in his mind. As the minutes passed in a period of disquiet, he registered that something must have been tampered with; otherwise, why wasn’t he being directly answered?

Like a torrent of water, he trailed toward where the two had disappeared, his face betraying his anger, a seething mountain with murder on his mind. That scrawny kid in hand-me-downs had undoubtedly been distracting him, offering his meek performance in the guise of childlike innocence, and Dion fell for the bait. But there was no use in mentally berating himself. He had a job to do. He angled his gun, preparing for anything as he closed on their location, his pace that of


He was on the floor, clutching his head with both hands. When had that happened? He hadn’t noticed the skip in time, but now his biomonitors blared warnings into his mind, over his vision, with warnings of heart failure. Notifications of terminating systems. All of it glaring red. Panic coursed through his being, little jabs of needles that traversed his entire body. It took him longer to register that he was blind, but once it did, the little needles transformed into knives, as if the metal that lived under his skin demanded release. Not again, never again.

It was finally happening, he thought bitterly through the haze. My body is rejecting the chrome. Sooner or later. It was inevitable.

Skip.

Time escaped the man. The machine. He would die here. He would die here before getting the chance to get in touch with his family. It could have been mere seconds, minutes, or even hours. He did not know how long he writhed nor how much time he’d lost. As if awakened by that thought, another voice, the other side of the coin, pierced through the coil.

It has to be sabotage, Legend said. Same as the comms. Maybe you feel like you’re dying, and your systems say they are failing, but they are not. Get control of yourself.

“Reset,” Dion gasped. “Reboot everything.”

And his body listened, responding to the soft power cycle like holding his body underwater for a minute before reemerging to the surface in a daze, barely registering his body lying on the floor, his gun a reasonable distance away. He didn’t remember dropping it. After retrieving it, Dion gave himself a quick inspection. Systems active. Heart rate normal. No glaring messages except for one:

Scanning... Malware detected. Initiating removal.
 
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Hathom Long

The air of stone had been maintained even while the glow of gold illuminated his eyes from the message he had just received. A report of confirmed friendly casualties was the worst news an officer could receive. His eyes quickly flicked over the vitals of the security and went over the surveillance feeds. No irregularities. No changes.

What was going on then? Was it a malware attack?

The war vet lifted two fingers to his ears and quickly but firmly called in for a head count. "Team 1, I need a sit rep."

Silence.

"Team 1." He repeated.

Nothing.

Switching channels as he went, he tried to hail the other teams, "Team 2, head count....."

"3?"

He checked the security systems again for the 9th time this evening and found nothing seemed to be out of place. Everything was feeding in normally.

But clearly something was amiss. What happened to their comms? Why was nobody responding?

Hathom's table mates were obviously within earshot of him barking orders. The growing concern and confusion beginning to touch even his neutral expression. His eyes were darting left and right as he read the information being fed to him as all clear before hailing his private team over their neuro-comms.

'I need everyone to report in. Now.'

'Condor's here.'

'Gamma, reporting.'

'Here, Boss.'

'All good, L.T.'

'Marlin is green. Is everything okay, Bossman?'

The former lieutenant's thoughts raced a breakneck speeds, the stares of the richfolk at his table barely even registering as his mind went through the possibilities. Something was wrong. As with all things, his gut had never led him astray but on the off chance this was nothing....

A few days of bad PR would mean nothing if it turns out his fears were right and he did not act.

Hathom shot up from his chair, jostling the table and spilling a few drinks in the process. The movement may have disturbed the wealthy men and women in his immediate vicinity under normal circumstances had they not been wide-eyed with growing fear.

"Mr. Long? Is everything okay? Did something happen?" One of the women asked.

His hand reached for the firearm within his suit with practiced ease. He racked the slide and its iconic sound cut through the chatter of the room, bringing everyone but the most naive to silence.

"Try to call your rides. There's been a security breach." He replied without looking up.

Immediately, he turned and crossed the short distance over to Vincent's position in the private rooms. The Directorate's guards were already on edge from the Long man's sudden unholstering and quick but purposeful movements.

'All units, make your way to secondary extraction route. It's possible the first one has been compromised. Communications have potentially been bugged and I can't raise general Sec team. Draw weapons and get ready for a potential fight.'

'Copy, Sir.' Came the resounding reply.

'Zatara, on me.'

"Vincent." Hathom barked aloud as he got close to the Directorate's table. He wasn't yelling but the authority and respect his voice commanded carried far. Even at acceptable volumes.

His tone didn't leave room for argument, prompting the Directorate's private security to also draw their weapons in preparation for a firefight. "We've been compromised. We need to get everyone out immediately. Comms are down and I have reason to believe we already have casualties. My team is securing exfil route bravo."

The older gentleman then turned his back to the Director and faced the fearful gazes back in the VIP room, "There's been a breach in security. We are going to be escorting everyone out of the building immediately. I ask that everyone maintain their composure and give us your full cooperation while we get the situation under control."

This is why he wanted to do this in full combat gear. It was always better to be overprepared. Because you never knew when shit could hit the proverbial fan.

@ everyone in the VIP room?
 
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