Futuristic 𝓝𝓮𝔀 𝓛𝓲𝓫𝓮𝓻𝓽𝔂

[Archie]

...

Tulkar

Tulkar Zhul-Sen
Location: Sewers
Interactions: Nogoodname , Zedalith Clockwork_Magic Klown

Tulkar continued stumbling to the basement tunnels with the help of his human crutches as gunfire rang around them. His undead were dropping like flies, but he had no time to resurrect them and continue the fight - the battle was already underway, and the distraction complete. Turning before he reached the entrance to the tunnels, he was happy to see the reporter had followed him, though disappointed to see that Nick had not as well. He knew almost nothing about Vega's mysterious lover, and figured there was a reason for his abandonment of his colleagues in the basement.

"Good!" Tulkar called back. Just then, four guards dashed from the other side of the hallway towards the group. Tulkar froze, knowing that neither he nor his resurrected waiters had guns to fight them with. However, they were not focused on them. "Get out of here! Evacuate!" the guards shouted to the guests before turning the corner into the corridor leading to the tunnels. Tulkar heard gunshots. Turning the corridor, he saw that all four of them were on the ground, two of them still alive - protected by their body armor. The two guards Tulkar had resurrected earlier to pose at the doorway had opened fire on them. One approached the surviving guards, and executed them with a bullet through the head.

Tulkar raised his right arm. The corpses twitched, then crawled back onto their feet.

"Is this some kind of plan B Vega didn't tell me about?" Tulkar asked Sylvia. In his concussed state - and with the limited information he had on Vega's organization - he simply assumed she was a rebel.

"And where is he? Is he coming now that everything's gone to shit?"

Entering the tunnels, Tulkar sensed death in the air. If he had to give the sensation a color, it would be green. A smell? Metal. A feeling? Pain. Many people had died here.

"One second" Tulkar said to his new companion. Punching the wall with his right arm, there was silence for a few moments. Then, a chorus of moans and screams could be heard throughout the tunnels, followed by gunshots. Vega's group likely thought the "beggar king" controlled his minions directly - that he could see what they saw, feel what they felt. Some even tried talking to them on occasion, hoping Tulkar would get the message. But he could only give instructions - they could report nothing back to him. The situation in the tunnels was just as chaotic and unknown for him as it was for the poor man who was serving as head of security for this event.

"You two, find the extraction team and bring them here" he ordered two of the recently resurrected corpses - the ones without bullet wounds in their heads disfiguring their faces. He did not need to give orders vocally, but figured the dramatic flair was worth it so that the "Fuego cell member" he was traveling with knew they were trying to help her colleagues.

But how do we get out? Tulkar thought to himself. In his rush to action, he forgot that Vega never told him how the extraction team would exit. For Tulkar to be in the basement was never part of the plan. But Tulkar knew the tunnels under this city well, for they were his home. He knew that the anterior wall of the Civic Center was connected to the subway ventilation shaft, and from there one could make their way into the sewers.

"You might want to take cover for this" he warned the reporter.

Tulkar watched as one of the two guards he had just resurrected handed his pistol to one of the waiters, and stumbled towards the wall. It knocked on the wall in a few places. The group could hear one knock return nothing, another knock return little, and a third knock several feet away return a large sound. Tulkar released his attendants and dropped to his knees, as the two of them turned their backs so as to shield him from what was about to happen. The other wounded guard moved to Sylvia, to shield her as well.

The reanimated corpse near the wall hugged it at the spot which produced the most echo, unzipped its kevlar vest at the front, then exploded. Blood, guts, and bone rushed everywhere. Tulkar's reanimated corpses used the dwindling power of their spirits to shoddily repair themselves, like a car that had broken down but was constantly being jury rigged and jump started to go another fifty miles. But the power of their spirits, if expended all at once, could produce far more forceful and unpredictable physical effects. Corpse explosions were something Tulkar had always theorized about, but never used. Bone made for poor shrapnel, and it was not very useful for killing or seriously injuring his enemies. However, the concentrated blast of a corpse's abdomen, focused by a kevlar vest, could make a hole in a poorly supported wall.

The attendants turned towards the wall again, their backs covered in blood. In the midst of four severed limbs stood a gaping hole in the Civic Center wall. Behind the group, the sound of gunshots got closer and closer. No doubt, the guards were winning the fight against the zombies, who were poor shots. Tulkar didn't have much time left - the extraction team would either make it to this point, or they wouldn't. His attendants propped him up again, and took him through the passage.

---

There was silence until the group made it into the sewers. The sole reanimated guard still with the group turned on his flashlight. Down two flights of stairs, through one corridor and a right turn - Tulkar knew these routes like the back of his hand. When they reached the sewers, the guard went first. His light shone on a group of youths who looked to be in bad shape. One was carrying a strange box. His concussion fading, Tulkar reasoned that no guests to the party would be this poorly dressed, or have come into the sewers, as the only access to them was from the Civic Center. But, he had never personally met anyone in the resistance except Vega and his top people, so he did not know any of them. His appearance was even more confusing to them. Almost no one had seen the beggar king in person, and for some VIP-looking person to be showing up with a guard was not good news.

Fortunately, reinforcements clarified Tulkar's identity quickly. The rumbling of an engine could be heard in the distance, then it got closer, and closer, and closer. A black inflatable motorboat, traversing the sewage, appeared behind the resistance members. Its driver seemed in the darkness more sharply angled than a human. The zombie guard turned his flashlight on the boat, and revealed its driver to be a skeleton.

"Get in" Tulkar said, breaking the silence.

"Don't mind the smell. There are showers at home"

 

[Nogoodname]

Sylvia Valentine
Mood: A somewhat less enthusiastic "fuck it, we ball"
Location: Sewers
Interactions: Archie

Sylvia was quick to join the man she knew as Nabil's side, jogging up to keep pace with him, lest she got left behind in the chaos. It seemed as if everything around her was going up in flames, and now she could see people with grivous wounds who had picked themselves up off the floor when they'd laid dead just moments ago, she didn't even have time to question the situation as she just rushed out after her lifeline. The man seemed happy to have her company at least, calling back to welcome her just before the pair of them made for the tunnels together.

Suddenly, she heard shouting from across the way, looking up to see that Nabil had frozen, with a group of guards trying to usher both of them into safety. She was about to ask the man if something was wrong before the guards went down ahead of them, followed by the sickening crack of gunfire. Sylvia felt her heart sink, turning that corner along with the strange man to see all four men on the floor, with another pair of 'guards' standing over them, swooping in to execute the survivors. The journalist could only look on in abject terror as the downed guard was executed, splattering blood onto the front of her shirt.

The worst had hardly come to pass though, as Nabil raised his arm, the fresh corpses beginning to twist and convulse in reaction, beginning to pick themselves up again despite their grievous wounds, she could still see the blood leaking out of one of them like a sieve...

She took a step back, wanting more than anything to flee, to get to safety somehow and leave all of this behind her, but already Nabil was starting to ask her questions, leading her down into the corridor that fed into the tunnels. It was far too late to back out by now, she'd committed herself to this.

"Got no fuckin' idea" she complained, the tremor in her voice helping sell the act. "I'm just a grunt, Vega doesn't tell me shit." it was a weak excuse, but it was the best Sylvia could hope for, she had no idea what this group's plan actually was, and hardly had the time to come up with a proper backstory, all she could really hope for was that Nabil would be more interested in escaping rather than interrogating her cover story. At least she had a vast archive of heist movies in her brain to pull from, in Sylvia's experience the most important part of a lie was strong conviction and a good poker face anyways, actual, verifiable facts were sort of a secondary concern.

Nabil seemed to buy it, at least he didn't question her as the pair stepped into the tunnels proper, a sickly scent hanging in the air that Sylvia couldn't really identify. She hung back as she was told to, watching as Nabil slammed his fist into the wall, a beat of silence hanging in the air before the cacophonous moaning and sound of gunfire could be heard further up the tunnel. Sylvia felt like she was going to be sick.

The man uttered a simple command to the corpses, and they complied, a fact that Sylvia was slowly beginning to come to terms with. He then told Sylvia to take cover, an order that Sylvia was far too eager to follow as she watched a resurrected guard shamble over towards the wall, beginning to knock against the smooth concrete, trying to find the section of wall that produced the clearest echo. Sylvia looked on in confusion for a moment, a couple of paces back behind the hardest cover she could find. Like watching some sort of freak accident in slow motion, Sylvia could only look on in horror as the guard stepped up to the wall, unzipped his jacket, pressed up against it, and then exploded violently in messy detonation! Sending gore and concrete flying!

Sylvia resisted the urge to shriek in terror, her legs trembling as she got up to join Nabil again as they both stepped into the narrow passage.

---

The pair of them walked quickly in the dark, saying nothing to one another as they moved down the stairs and through another corridor, Sylvia having completely lost her bearings in the labyrinthine tunnels at this point, completely reliant on her guide for direction. Eventually, finally, the pair of them stepped out into the sewers, looking around until they were met with another group of rough looking people that Nabil seemed to recognize. Sylvia felt a slight sense of relief wash over her, happy to be in the company of a larger group of people and not corpses, though there was little time for a meet and greet, the motorboat cutting through the murky sewer water to pick them up, taking them off to who knows where.

Sylvia hesitated for a beat, looking from Nabil to the small group in front of her, before stepping down onto the boat, ready to ship off into the unknown.

 

[Zedalith]

ACT 1 — CONCLUSION

"Good evening, I'm Karina Sanchez."

"And I'm Michael Lee. Tonight we look back on the event that shook our city, and indeed the world, exactly one month ago. A tragic attack that has left scars on the minds of all those who experienced it."

Karina nodded solemnly, "The 23rd of July, a date none of us will forget. The night of the Directorate charity event turned into a night of terror." As she spoke, images of the destruction filled the screen behind her: the Civic Center in ruins, the urgent flurry of emergency personnel, the injured, shocked faces of civilians, and the solemn photo of Director Vincent and Director Ahmson, survivors of the tragic incident.

A grainy security footage appeared on screen, capturing the initial explosion of the event, the collapsing of a chandelier onto a crowd, and the chaos that ensued. “Michael," Karina turned to her co-anchor, a distinguished older man with a serious expression, "what have we learned about the perpetrators behind the attack?"

Michael took a moment, gathering his thoughts before responding. "The rebel organization known as Fuego, which stands in radical opposition to the Directorate, is now known to be responsible for the attack."

He continued, "Director Vincent, who remarkably survived the attack, has not taken this action lightly. Using information extracted from a formerly detained member of the terrorist cell, his team was able to track them down. With notable efforts from one particular operative, they carried out an impressive operation to detain the suspects."

"The immediate and decisive response from Vincent's team has drawn significant support from the public," Michael elaborated. "The push for heightened security and the swift approval of new legislation to support it has seemingly solidified Vincent's path to becoming Governor."

Karina nodded, her face serious, "Yet, not everyone agrees with these measures. There's growing concern among civil liberty advocates that the haste in implementing these security measures could impede our fundamental rights. It's a story we will continue to follow closely."

“In the aftermath of the Directorate Civic Center attack, we've seen the rise of a particularly militant protest group. They call themselves Seraphina's Angels. Can you fill us in on their recent activities?"

Michael nodded. "Seraphina's Angels, named after the internationally renowned singer, emerged following the tragic death of her manager. Since then, they have been at the forefront of some quite significant, and at times, violent protests." A montage of footage appeared on the screen: a sea of protesters holding banners adorned with Seraphina’s face and angel wings.

Karina interjected, “A prominent grievance of Seraphina's Angels and indeed, many in the city, has been the Directorate's response to the Xenogenic issue. Critics are increasingly vocal about their belief that the Directorate isn't doing enough to address the perceived threats posed by the Xenogenics."

A video clip rolled: Protesters brandishing placards that read, "No to Xenogenics!" and "Directorate, Act Now!"

"Very true, Karina," replied Michael. "The government’s alleged leniency towards Xenogenics has ignited much debate across the city."

The screen switched to a pre-recorded interview with a man clad in a weathered baseball cap and denim overalls."They've got us all worried 'bout these damn chips when it ain't the chips we need to worry 'bout, it’s them Xenos!" he exclaimed, pointing at the camera for emphasis. "We got these freaks living among us, and the Directorate is just sittin' back and letting it happen. Screw chips, we need to kick those Xenogenic bastards out!"

The feed cut back to Michael and Karina, their expressions grave. "Strong words there, echoing a sentiment we’re hearing more and more," Karina noted. "We must stress that these are individual opinions, and we're here to ensure all perspectives are aired in this ongoing dialogue.”

"Indeed, their grief and anger have become something more tangible," he continued. "Just a few days ago, the group seized control of a Horizon Biotech facility and has been there since. Despite the city's best efforts, they have resisted all attempts to dislodge them."

Karina sighed. "And all this against the backdrop of a city still reeling from the terrorist attack. The division and tension only seem to be escalating."

Michael nodded sternly. "Indeed, Karina, it's a complex situation, one that calls for careful handling and understanding. The events of the last month have triggered a catalyst of reactions that this city, and indeed the Directorate, must contend with."

"As always," Karina concluded, "we will continue to bring you the latest developments as they unfold. But for now, let's move on to our segment on climate research. Over to you, Siara..."

---

Coated in a veil of darkness, shadows rested below their steps, falling in crisscrossing patterns at their feet. The scent of old leather, polished wood, and the iron smell of tech bled in the air. Languidly reclined in an armchair, sat Vincent.

A spindly figure, that held a look conveying icy indifference, sat across from the Director. As the brunette opposite Vincent operated a compact device, a holographic projection sparked into existence, cutting through the dimness. The faces of a young man with moonbeam-white hair, two red-haired women, and an older man with an imposing stature and dark hair floated in the air.

"I have extracted these images from your men’s cyber optics," announced the Russian, his words edged with a thick accent. "Shall we release your hound to chase after them? Paint the city with their wanted fliers?"

Would it not be a compelling sight? Wanted posters decorating every corner of the city, headlines blazing with the news, his men ruthlessly hunting down the people whose images now floated before him. Yet, Vincent held his words. This game of power demanded patience, precision, and at times, silence.

Vincent studied the images silently, his expression unchanging. Finally, he shook his head. "No," he said, his tone firm.

The Russian raised an eyebrow, curiosity apparent in his frosty eyes. "And why not, Director?"

Vincent’s gaze remained fixed on the floating images. "We may have a use for them soon," Vincent answered, leaning back in his chair. He could feel the icy chill of the Russian's gaze, but he held it unblinkingly. A thin veil of dissatisfaction flickered momentarily in the Russian's face, his brows knitting together in the briefest display of discontent.

"Hmph, Seraphina's Angels..." The Russian began, his voice saturated with the honey-thick sound of mockery. "Led by one Dr. Marianne LeClaire, no less, a former golden child of Horizon Biotech." A research prodigy once celebrated for her work in the world of biotechnology. But her star had since fallen, the researcher now reduced to leading a band of misfits. Yet her reputation, her past, lent credibility and a dangerous edge to her ragtag group.

"Quite a funny coincidence, don't you think, Director?" The Russian's sarcastic smile was barely visible in the subdued light. "Her lot taking up residence in the husk of her former glory?"

"And then there's our mutual friend," the Russian continued, his tone sounding more cautious. "I wouldn't put it past him to have left... a trinket or two at the facility that he wouldn't want to see the light of day."

"I don't think Dr. LeClaire picked that place out of mere sentimentality," The Russian added. "She's too smart for that. What if she obtains something... inconvenient?"

Vincent let a thin smile settle on his face, the corners of his mouth tugging slightly upwards. "That's not my problem," he responded, a dismissive edge in his voice. "It's an internal affair, they're free to tear each other apart if they wish." The Russian scoffed at Vincent's words, before he stabbed a button on his device, the holographic figure fading into nothingness.

"I do hope you know what you're doing, Vincent," he said. "Because if you don't, it's not just your head on the line, but mine as well." The Russian got up and exited the room, the door sliding shut behind him, leaving only silence in his wake.

The Illustrious Veil

 

[Zedalith]

ARC 2

Fatal Fête

Desolate streets sprawled out around the Biotech facility like veins, cutting through abandoned structures and waste-filled lots. Late afternoon light cast a somber glow over the streets, surrounding the facility now claimed by Seraphina’s Angels. Patrolling them were the men and women of the Angels.

They were a collection of all ages, armed to the teeth with a motley assemble of firearms whose aged and battered surfaces boasted slogans that read, "Xenogenics are not our future.” The graffiti smeared across the building held similar sentiments, splashed in colors across the surface. "Genetics is Our Heritage, Not Our Plaything!" and "We're not your lab rats!" were statements among those hastily scribbled.

Haphazard barriers of scrap metal, wire mesh, and wooden planks lined the streets, forming a makeshift defense system. Most fascinating of all was the silhouette of a bipedal mech patrolling the facility's perimeter. Although its paint had faded and rust was gnawing at its joints, the mech lumbered on. It was an aged relic, harking back to the bitter days of the civil war. Its metal frame was dulled by the scars of countless battles, etched with burns and pitted with bullet holes.

Within the confines of the facility, an entirely different atmosphere pervaded. In one of the long, silent hallways, Dr. LeClaire paced restlessly. Pausing in her pacing, Dr. LeClaire turned to one of her men, a tall figure with a sharp jawline and a hint of old war scars peeking out from under his rolled-up sleeves. A seasoned soldier, his stance was that of a man who had seen too much and yet stood ready for more.

"Marcus, we’re expecting a visitor today. One that goes by the name 'Stellar'. When she arrives, make sure she isn't greeted with a hail of bullets. This facility has seen enough violence for one lifetime."

His response was a crisp, "Understood, Dr. LeClaire."

"How on earth did she get her hands on a keycard like that? The black market, yes, but even so..." A single keycard. Not just any, but one with the power to unlock even the most guarded corners of this facility. "We could expose their secret, unlock the truth, and bring it all crashing down. Is this the turning point? Are we finally ready to take a real swing at Biotech?"

"You're thinking pretty loud there, Doc," Marcus chuckled.

"Yes, let's not get ahead of ourselves," she cautioned herself aloud. "A lot is riding on Stellar's visit today. Let's hope she's as good as they say."

She sighed, removed her glasses, and began the process of cleaning and maintaining their weapons. The feel of steel under her fingertips, the motion of dismantling, cleaning, reassembling—it was almost meditative. She may not have been a soldier, but every firearm she nursed back to health was her contribution to their struggle. Tonight, with the arrival of Stellar, she hoped they'd finally have the upper hand they desperately needed.

@BaldDragonGuy Nogoodname specters Clockwork_Magic

---

"Well, aren't we just the jewel of all eyes tonight, cherie.”

One of them, a statuesque blonde named Tessa, laughed, "Only in your dreams, Soli. The world's too obsessed with their reflections to notice."

A knowing smile appeared on Soli's lips as they retorted, "Ah, cherie, but it's my job to make them look—and when they do, it's my creations they see."

With their platinum blonde hair styled in a perfectly tousled updo, they were adorned in an exquisitely tailored suit of shimmering sapphire and emerald, pairing it with a ruby choker that screamed avant-garde. Soli Beauchamp was the embodiment of living art gone awry.

Lush velvet curtains framed the backstage area, a whirl of sequins and silks, rhinestones, and ruffles. Dozens of people bustled about the scene, idle chatter indistinguishable from the ambient music. Makeup artists skillfully stroked brushes laden with color onto the models' faces, while hair stylists were put to work. Then there was the runway itself: a luminescent stretch of polished obsidian, studded with embedded LED lights.

One of the models, a tall, ethereal beauty with alabaster skin and raven hair, leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Tell me, Soli, is it true?" she asked, "Seraphina, attending our show? I've heard she's become quite the recluse this past month."

Soli chuckled, the sound both melodious and mischievous. "Darling, if it were anyone else, I'd say the odds were about as slim as your waistline," they retorted, "But you know how I can be persuasive." The rumor mill had been churning with tales of Seraphina's self-imposed isolation since that fateful incident, the singer's trauma had seemingly dimmed her star. It was a setback, but in Soli's world, setbacks were simply opportunities for a greater comeback.

"Believe me, my dear, if I have to move mountains or talk a hermit out of her shell, I'll do it. After all, what's a Beauchamp show without a touch of intrigue?" Soli winked, their eyes twinkling with a self-assured audacity that was nothing short of infectious. "Our own Sylvester has taken it upon himself to ensure our palates are pleasured tonight."

With a dramatic pause, they added, "And the dessert, well, it's said to be simply absurd. Picture, if you will, a masterpiece to dwarf even the Sistine Chapel, made entirely of sugar and cream."

As the last traces of laughter died down, Soli rose, their opulent attire glimmering under the spotlights. "Remember, darlings," they announced with a charismatic grin, "Tonight, we create history. And fashion waits for no one." With a dramatic flourish of their coat, they turned and left the room, leaving a trail of excited whispers and nervous laughter in their wake.

Nogoodname Klown Archie Clockwork_Magic Naril Eteri

---

The Horizon Apex. This is the nerve center of Horizon Biotech and tonight, it will play host to the Directorate. They are invited to celebrate a partnership that will revolutionize the world. There are rumors, that more than just a celebration is in the cards for tonight. Talks of future deals, expansions of their existing contract, and even tentative ideas about the next leap forward in genetics.

A steady stream of elite guests flowed through the holographically-illuminated entrance. Above, drones hummed as they navigated the air. The building's entrance was illuminated by bright lights and flanked by robotic sentinels. Visitors were greeted by holographic hosts, their ethereal forms shining in greeting. The structure itself was an architectural marvel. Constructed primarily from a high-strength transparent alloy, it reflects the city lights in a scattering of blues, violets, and purples.

Impeccably dressed executives overran the area. Conversations bubbled around them, with enthusiastic gestures towards the interactive holographic displays. The impending arrival of the Directorate board members was the pull around which the evening's agenda orbited. Everyone's attention was geared toward their impending arrival. Every suit in the room was primed to seize the fleeting moments they might share with these figures. This was the game, the subtext of each professional interaction, and today, the stakes were high.

Arnold Palmer, the Chief Technical Officer, had an unmistakable presence. His sun-kissed skin and dignified gray hair were a shock among the crowd of younger, less veteran faces. Facing him was Marianne, a junior but experienced executive chosen as the guide for the tour. Her eyes had a mix of anxiety and ambition, contrasting with Arnold's cool, seasoned gaze.

"Today needs to run like clockwork, Marianne," Arnold stated. "You were picked because you know our operations like your own heartbeat. We're not just showcasing technology, but our company's spirit. Our relentless dedication, our drive for advancement."

Marianne nodded, meeting Arnold's gaze head-on. "I comprehend the stakes, Mr. Palmer," she replied, her voice firm despite the undercurrent of nervousness. "The Directorate will see not just Horizon’s accomplishments, but the passion that fuels our progress."

A thin smile found its way onto Arnold's face. "That's the spirit. But remember, it's not only what they see that matters. It's the impression we leave behind." With a final nod of affirmation, Marianne turned on her heel, mentally preparing for the monumental task.

Alisutte @Inuzori @CaptainSully

 

[TheRealAngeloftheStorm]

ELENA GRAHAM

LISTLESS DREAMER

WALTZER STREET

NERVOUS

interactions

NONE

mentions

Eteri

The chill of the air did little to soothe Elena’s frayed nerves.

Regenburg had been the one to reach out in the aftermath of the bombing. Swamped with work as she was, though, it only came at the tail end of the month. Elena accepted.

And the month had been hectic. The world had almost left her behind, days blurring back into that familiar gray haze. There were no drugs or drinks to waste it away; just the distant thunder of explosions and the sound of taut chains giving way.

Dressed in what she desperately hoped was casual dress, Elena’s fingers idly traced the rim of her cup. The haute couture dress she’d worn at the Civic Center had been trashed by her dash to the stage. Now here Elena was, dressed in a black coat with a white turtleneck peeking out. Denim pants that had lay in the bottom of her drawer since her malaise, yanked out with some desperation. Some designer shoes that had she’d bought, too, hastily scrubbed clean.

She’d given herself the barest look in the mirror and despaired that her color palette only seemed to be black, black, and more black. With a dash of white. Elena never really gave thought ot her sense of fashion - her father’s army of servants saw to that.

Her fingers wrapped around the rim of her cup. She took a pull.

Waltzer Street was a surprisingly quiet place. There were people chatting in the tables and inside of the cafe. No-one shot so much as a second glance at her. Gleaming azure orbs did not turn behind her or around her. There were no eyes watching her this time, no handlers to tug at her leash. There was something about it that felt liberating. Even if the company’s security forces were keeping an eye out.

Her father had been less than enthused about her bodyguards’ performance and had them all promptly sacked. Mark Graham had been uncharacteristically furious, and the verbal lashing he gave to the survivors was loud enough that even his secretary could hear him through the walls of his office. In fact, one of her handlers had been caught on camera having some fun times in a bathroom with a socialite’s daughter during the event. Ainsworth Defense Technologies had no problem with handing him over as ‘recompense’ for the ‘psychological damage’.

No handlers it was. The merchant of death had been displeased by the sheer idiocy, the astounding incompetence on display, that he’d thrown his hands up in defeat. Company men and women it was, keeping their faces out of sight and out of mind.

It was a victory. A meager, hollow victory after a decade of listlessness, but a victory, nonetheless.

Elena sighed. Whatever I can get.

 

[Clockwork_Magic]

ARC 1.5

Flashback: Prelude to Action

Tulkar’s disgusting sewer motorboat stopped twenty minutes from the Civic Hall. The group went through another tunnel, past a weighted door that led upwards into a warehouse. Inside the ground floor of the abandoned warehouse lay what seemed to be a collection of dead bodies, though given what the group knew of Tulkar, that appearance was deceiving. Piles of materials, fuel, and rubbish were in the corners of the warehouse. A freight elevator down the rear wall of the building. Its skeleton operator stared at the group as he took them to the upper levels. Only at that point was the location apparent. From the top floors of the structure, the entire skyline was visible. This was the old Morton Grain Elevator, abandoned by the Jones river for more than ten years. The towers of the grain elevator had been renovated, and were cozy apartments reminiscent of first class rooms on old ships, complete with windows and curtains.

The building, officially owned by the Hyderabad Land Bank, an entity with no official connection to Zaid Nabil, was actually managed by Tulkar through a corrupt deal with the bank’s US portfolio manager. It was a perfect safehouse- luxurious, even. Each of the seven apartment units had beds, restrooms, running water, and electricity, and the hallways were guarded by the fragrant skeletons who had clearly been sanitized, and had all their decaying flesh removed.

Tulkar stumbled to his room, abandoning his human crutches. Looking in the mirror that faced the king bed, he grimaced at the sight of his missing arm. Shaking his head - knowing what he was about to do would cost him a dozen minions - he laid down, opened the drawer next to the bed, extracted a cyanide pill, and bit into it.

---

The dining room was located on the second to highest floor of the grain elevator. Unlike the apartments, its views were three hundred sixty degrees, and immaculate. There was a long oak table in the middle, set professionally with silverware, and old, damaged paintings on the wall which were clearly stolen.

Tulkar sat at one end of this table, his left arm having grown back during his brief “death” the night before. A skeleton dragged one of its fallen kin out of the room as the rebels entered, for he was one of the minions Tulkar had to sacrifice to regrow his limb.

Other skeletons brought in a crude meal of sausage, eggs and mashed potatoes with too much lemon seasoning. The vegetarian option was spanakopita, while Tulkar himself received a sour, pungent milk and what looked like - and was - the leg of a horse. At the other end of the table sat a computer screen. Tulkar hoped, possibly in vain, that Fuego’s hacker who had supplied him with all his fake documents would log in.

“I tried reaching Vega last night” Tulkar started, breaking the awkward silence that had permeated the group of strangers who were only presumably on the same side.

“No luck. He’s underground”

He paused, sipping his horse milk before deciding to address the elephant in the room.

“I have a confession to make. I don’t know any of you. Like, literally any of you.

So, uh, let’s do introductions? I’ll start. I’m the so-called hobo king, but my real name is Tulkar Zhul-Sen. Yes, that Tulkar Zhul-Sen.

And my followers, as you can tell, are not homeless people, they’re… well…” he gestured to the sanitized skeleton in the corner of the room, holding a pit of coffee in order to refill the cups of anyone who was running short.

At that point, he fell silent and looked at the stranger to his right.

The room was spacious, still warm with the scent of a recently cooked meal—it contrasted with his mind, still fixated on the cold, grim, memories. Hanabi and Tulkar flanked him and while the memories still lingered, he was confident that they’d be buried by the bittersweet passing of time. He was the first among the three of his group to respond, “My name is Tashi, and this… is daybreak. I usually go by Ash over voice coms.” He took a plate into one of his hands, provided by one of the skeletons. Tashi took the opportunity to admire the creature, while he held it in proximity, before placing the plate on the table. He took an apprehensive bite of the potatoes before his nose scrunched in distaste, “Pretty good, but maybe you should ease up on the lemon seasoning.”

“And nobody knew Vega. It didn’t keep us from working with him, I guess that was our first mistake.” He lifted a fork to his face, garnished with both eggs and sausage, before taking a bite. “You have a lovely place, Tulkar, even the skeletons smell delightful. It’s a much better setup than what we have going on—no offense, Blaze.” There was a comfortable stillness that came with sharing a meal: the clanking of utensils, the rustle of dishes being passed around, and the ambiance of the space. It was not something he enjoyed for some time, not since leaving his mother’s nest.

“The question that lingers in my, and I think Blaze’s mind, is this: what do you want to do next?” He set down the utensils, and the jitter of metal bounded off the porcelain plate. “You’ve proven yourself capable. And Daybreak never stays down for long.”

“Ah, and let me introduce you to our mutual friend here, Kit. She couldn’t help us during the charity event, I believe she was a little occupied.” He turned to her, a soft smile still plastering his face beneath his weary eyes.

“Detective Ortegas,” Kit said. She put a cigarette to her lips, then brought her lighter up. “So long as we’re being polite. Don’t worry, I’m on your side.” The lighter clinked shut, and she took a long drag. The plate in front of her, once stacked with breakfast, was clean, the fork and knife set daintily in the centre.

“You know they’ll blame us for it. The explosion. I’m sure it wasn’t Vega—something like that was much too loud for them.” His glare lowered into his plate of unfinished breakfast and his fingers curled tightly into his fist, “But just loud enough for the directorate. I have no doubt that those bastards would kill their own just to hurt us.” The question that also lingered in his mind surrounded the appearance of that bloody box. And why Hanabi found it useful.

“You’re not wrong,” Kit blew out a stream of smoke, “Vincent’s the loudest, but he’s not the worst. There are people inside the Directorate that’d pull a false-flag operation, but…” She tapped the filter end of the cigarette with one finger, thinking, “I don’t know. Most of them don’t think that way - a terror attack is the kind of thing you’d do after a very public assassination. Put the idea in first, then hammer it home, see? All the same, they’re going to put this on XGs. They’ll just have to use a different playbook.”

As Tashi and Kit were doing their introductions, the other 2 Daybreak girls were taking bites out of their own meals as he went on, the acidic bite of their dishes making them pucker ever so slightly as the sound of metal cutlery scraping against porcelain dishes filled the room. “None taken, Ash.” The redheaded rebel responded as she settled her utensils down to speak. “This is quite the setup you have here, definitely not what to expect from someone called the hobo king.” She took a sip of water before continuing. “Blaze, you probably already guessed that from the way Ash addressed me. I’m the leader of Daybreak. And since we’re doing real names…” She paused, appearing to silently debate with herself for a bit before speaking. “Hanabi, but you might as well treat Blaze as my real name, I’d like to stay dead in the Directorate records thank you.”

Hanabi gestured over to her remaining comrade. “And this is…” The black haired girl put down her utensils. “Tsukiko… just call me Shade though.” “Now, as Ash said, you've shown yourself capable back there. The escape definitely wouldn’t have gone as well as it did without the help of you and your… servants.” Her eyes glanced over at the skeletons in the room as she said that before letting out a heavy sigh.

“Yea… I have no doubt about that, Ash.” Her lips curled in disgust as various images flashed across her mind. Missing people reports pushed to the margins of newspapers and sites. Brutal murder cases that go cold in only a few days, far sooner than any other. Unfortunate accidents that seem that everything that could have gone wrong did. The common denominator? Every victim was a xeno, without fail. “The bastards have been killing our people in droves, I wouldn’t put blowing up their own center beyond them…” She curled her hand into a tight fist. “All the while they have the fucking audacity to still play victim, guardian angles to the populous.” She looked over to the box Tashi had brought with them, the remains of the hostage still contained within. “We’ll show the people the true nature of their so-called ‘angels’ soon enough.” Tsukiko’s expression lit up, looking at Hanabi with a combination of surprise and realization.

Hanabi then turned to the other redhead in the room, locking eyes with her. “Tell your boss to not drag us into any more shit shows the next time you see him. We don’t need Fuego’s help.”

“Aha.. it’s funny you mention that…” said the redhead who’d grown increasingly timid as the group went about their round table introductions. The meal in front of her had gone basically uneaten, her nerves far too rattled to even pretend to have an appetite. Her jig was all but up, there was no way she’d be able to keep up the persona she’d adopted up until this point, especially when a certain Detective Ortegas addressed the rest of the group, a fact that flooded her mind with far too many questions, none of which had easy answers.

“I guess while we’re doing introductions, it’s nice to meet everyone, my name is Sylvia Valentine, of the New Liberty Press.” A small beat of silence hung in the air as she processed just what to say next. “I’m uh, not actually a friend of this Vega person, sorry, I’m just a journalist, though I think we can still help each other out.” She was quick to jump on a way to make herself useful to the group now that her lie was out in the open.

At the sound of “journalist,” Tashi’s hands involuntarily clasped together, his body becoming more rigid. His mind turned back to propaganda-filled news stories and their ever-convenient twisting of truth. He took a moment to come up with a course of action, allowing his eyes to dart back to Tulkar.

“I came to the charity event to follow up on a tip about some shady business that the good Director might be up to, but I’ve hit a wall, and I don’t know how else I can follow up on this story without your help. If you could help me with my story, I might be able to provide you with some information that’d be worth your while, and I can try to use some of my contacts in the media to help clear your name. I’ve got no reason to believe anyone here had a part in what happened, so I’d like to do what I can to help, so, whaddya say?” she offered, her words hanging in the air with no small amount of uncertainty.

Hanabi could feel the tension in her temple building when the other redhead in the room introduced herself. She looked at Tulkar, a bit of her wanting him to say that she was joking, but when she turned back to Sylvia she sure did seem like she was telling the truth. The look she shot the hobo king relayed one message loud and clear without uttering a single word: “why the fuck did you bring this girl here with you?!”

Tulkar’s eyes widened when he heard the journalist’s introduction. He chugged what remained of his coffee to conceal the furtive look on his face.

“She…” Tulkar started, thinking about how to defend himself, and not look like a complete moron. No he thought, that ship has sailed. “She was with Vega’s boyfriend” he continued, conveniently leaving out the part where he simply assumed, without confirmation, that she was a rebel. “He told her to follow us here” he managed, before gladly accepting a large glass of water from one of his skeletons, and gulping that down too.

A heavy sigh escaped Hanabi as she tried processing the situation. First, the entire operation that they were dragged into by Fuego went to shit without anything to show for it and now one of their associates brought some random presswoman into the hideout?! “Right, so let me get this straight… you just… followed him here? And YOU didn’t question why she was following you?!” She rested her head on one of her hands as the migraine began to set in, rubbing her temples and muttering to herself. “That’s just great…”

“Well then, Miss Valentine, the Directorate pulls so much shady business it’s just regular business for them, just ask the Fuego guy the Directorate butchered like an animal in that box over there. So then, pray tell what is this tip you have for us?” Her annoyance about the entire situation was conveyed very clearly through the tone of her voice.

The skeletons were weird. Kit had seen a lot of things in her life, and caused quite a few of them, but this was a step beyond. The rest of the group seemed entirely unbothered - but, she supposed, there were other things to worry about. So the man could command the dead; Kit realised she had no real leg to stand on in that particular News of the Weird. Still, she watched a fleshless hand clean away her plate and drop a lump of sugar into her coffee, and couldn’t help watching, ignoring almost everything else. How did the fingers stay together? How did they stay attached to the hand? Did it matter?

She shook her head, refocusing on the conversation. The last few minutes replayed, courtesy of her subconscious. Kit realised that her cigarette had burned to the filter, and before she could decide what to do with it, a skeleton plucked it from her fingers, clicking away with what she would swear was a sense of mild distaste.

“Let’s…hang on a moment,” she said, “You’ve got some operational security problems, but that’s a later problem. For what it’s worth, I’ll vouch for Sylvia.” Kit nodded at her, “In terms of unauthorized personnel, you really couldn’t do much better. I’d argue it worked out, but you fucked up, and you know it. Do better next time, and move on.”

“And you’re going to have to do better, because I’ll tell you this much: My bosses do want to know who you are.” Kit leaned forward, elbows on the table, “We’ve got orders to interrogate any suspected XGs about Daybreak if we bring ‘em in. The truth is, most of us on the street have enough things to worry about, and the Board’s notes change every day, so it’s only really the true believers making that kind of effort right now. But that’s going to change. You’ll want to keep your heads down for a while. So far, they haven’t caught anyone who matters out of Daybreak. Don’t let’s change that just yet, yeah?”

For a moment, Tashi’s world is tilted on its axis. “Butchered?” Tashi repeated, the words barely audible. The box he had been carrying—its weight now held an entirely different meaning. His hands, still resting to the side of his breakfast, became white at the knuckle from the curling of his fists. He closed his eyes, swallowing hard, trying to steady his breathing. “Let’s all just take a moment,” Tashi’s voice cut through the mounting tension. “We’ve all got stories to tell, a lot of truths that need to come out,” Tashi said. “But, we need to trust each other first. Perhaps... we can start with this, this box.”

Hanabi’s annoyance at the situation died down as Kit and Tashi spoke, with Tashi having discerned her intent for taking the ‘gift’ from that madman. She always liked that about him, that initiative and quick thinking mind of his, it certainly saves time with the explanation. That added to the fire of dedication in their cause she can see in his eyes and his ability to keep a level head, she was grateful to have him in Daybreak.

Sylvia winced slightly, the reception to her admission had gone over just about as well as she could have guessed. There was a lot of yelling, a lot of people quickly jumping in with something to say, and that box… she made a face as her eyes settled upon it. A morbid curiosity nagged at her, pushed her to try and get a look inside, but the more rational part of her brain won out, she didn’t need to see that.

“We can’t let this atrocity be hidden, swept under the rug like so many other things the Directorate does.” This box was gruesome proof of the Directorate’s methods… It was a powerful tool, one that could turn the tide in their favor. And for that, Stellar was their best chance. She had information and the will to expose the Directorate for what they truly were. “Why don’t we take it to Stellar, maybe she could do something with it. I’m sure there’s a story there, wouldn’t you say, Sylvia?”

Before the journalist could respond to Tashi’s offer, Hanabi cut in. “That’d ideally be the case, yea, but Kit’s right. It’s best if we lay low for a while, the Directorate’s dogs are probably all on high alert after that shit show at the Civic Center. We should hold off on delivering the head for now, besides we don’t even know where they are.” She reclined back in her chair before continuing.

“Let’s assume that the Directorate didn’t bomb their own people, like you said Kit. So, who did it then? If we’re gonna send this head off to Stellar, it’ll rile the people up but that itself isn’t gonna clear our name from the bombing. If we had proof that it was another party that did it, that should do the trick, wouldn’t you think so Miss Valentine?” Hanabi stared intently at Sylvia, sizing her up as she awaited a response. It’s not like they could just let her go after she just waltzed along with Tulkar into the safe house, but maybe this headache could turn into an opportunity after all. Having a connection in the media would certainly help spread their message to the citizens, all that is needed to see where this journalist girl’s loyalties lie and how strong those loyalties are.

The journalist raised an eyebrow at the mention of a familiar name, looking at Tashi and Hanabi with an expression of sheer confusion. “...Stellar huntings? The information broker?” Sylvia asked, almost certain she’d gotten her wires crossed. “I mean, sure, I know her, I could give her a call and see if she could use the info. But she sells information, she doesn’t just spread it for free. I’ll reach out and talk to her for you, but don’t hold your breath” she shrugged.

Sylvia shook her head quickly. “Either way, Blaze has the right idea, a dead friend is sad, but it isn’t strictly evidence. And I can’t really make any promises either, but I might have something. Take a look.” She pulled out a personal tablet and tapped the slot on the left side of her neck, the thin wafer of a data chip popping out. She plugged the data chip into her tablet and a video display quickly loaded up, beginning to play some hazy POV footage of Sylvia’s arrival onto the venue.

She paused the footage, scrolling through to a specific timestamp and letting it play, the scene changing now to Sylvia alone at the bar nursing a drink. At some point, for whatever reason, the journalist looked up briefly, the corner of her vision giving a view of the main hall’s ceiling. “There!” she said, pausing the footage and zooming in. The grainy footage and camouflaged nature of the subject made it difficult to see what was actually in the picture, but if you looked closely you could see it, the cobalt-aquamarine chassis of some sort of spider drone crawling its way up the wall.

“I spent all night checking the footage” Sylvia certainly looked the part, she seemed exhausted, like she hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep all night. “These things were everywhere, I don’t know how I didn’t notice them at the time, but the footage shows them clearly, they were all over the ceiling before the chandeliers came down. I think this is your smoking gun.”

“I see why Nick put so much trust in you” Tulkar noted, jumping at the chance to defend his uninformed choice to bring the reporter to his safehouse. In truth, he had no idea what the dynamic between Nick and Sylvia had been before he yelled at them to follow him, but his new colleagues didn’t need to know that.

“Fuego worked with a hacker on the last event. Despite how it all turned out, she was very good. She can probably get some machine learning bot to crawl all the city’s CCTV footage for those… things” he said.

“Find the people who seem to always be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and we have our suspects” he concluded.

“But just exonerating ourselves isn’t enough. We lost Vega in the last operation, and without Fuego, the resistance’s organization is in shambles. We need to go on the offensive and rally everyone to a new banner. Achieve something to restore our morale after that disaster”

He paused, taking a bite of his horse meat as he thought of an attack the resistance could pull off without damaging their reputation further.

“Seraphina. That wolf in sheep’s clothing who started that terrorist group attacking Xenogenics. If we can get information out of her about the group’s other leaders and take them down, that’s low hanging fruit compared to directorate targets”

Hanabi nodded. “That’s certainly true, and with her popularity, they’re certainly going to be a thorn in our cause as long as they’re around. We’re gonna need to take them out of the game as soon as possible. If you’re gonna vouch for that hacker, Tulkar, then perhaps we can commission her services again.”

Tashi’s brows knitted in thought, staring at the box with morbid contemplation. The reality was grim—using Mateus’ remains could backfire, instilling fear rather than inciting rebellion. If it were to be of any use, they would need to build a solid case. It was useless—for now, but the person behind this murder, surely Stellar could find out something about them. “Perhaps I’m looking at this the wrong way,” Tashi finally said, his gaze shifting from the box to his comrades.

“We don’t need to use Mateus like…like an object. We need to use his story.” He paused, glancing back at the box, “We need to keep this as evidence. Macabre yes, but we need to think about how to preserve this…for when the time comes.” His thoughts went back to his killer, the hair was a peculiar feature, especially among the ranks of the directorate. “There’s got to be someone who knows his killer. Dreadlocks, pale, about 6 feet tall… it’s not something you see every day.” The cruel laughter, the joy he seemed to derive from his heinous act—these were not traits of a regular directorate soldier. This man was different, twisted. Those differences could be their ticket to unearthing his identity and ultimately, to exposing the Directorate’s true nature.

Sylvia felt the color drain from her face, turning away from the group with a pained expression. A man of that description was hard to forget, the journalist knew this well, because she had met a man like that at the charity event. The business card in her pocket suddenly felt like it was trying to burn a hole into her thigh. ‘I’ve gatta make that phone call’ Sylvia thought to herself, keeping quiet on what she knew for the time being. The group had more important matters to attend to at the moment, and Sylvia needed time to verify her information.

“The guy’s a literal demon, no human would do that to a person and laugh into the night after doing it. If we can find some way to tie this to that animal and he did it on behalf of the Directorate, that should make any citizen that has an ounce of free thinking remaining doubt the actions of their ‘angels.’” Hanabi mulled things over for a moment before leaning forward on the table. “If we let this out right now, it’s not gonna do much for us. Like Ash said, we need to tell a story, humanize Mateus and show people the side of the Directorate it doesn’t want people to see. So for now… Ash, Tulkar, Kit, Sylvia. You guys see what you could dig up in regards to the bombing and the box. Shade and I will see what we could do about those Angel terrorists.”

As the meeting wound down an air of determination lingered in the room. They’ve surely got their work cut out for them, but even so the flames of rebellion against the iron fist of the Directorate yet burned in their chests, determined to see that flame spread throughout the hearts and minds of the people of New Liberty until the Directorate is consumed whole.

 

[Nogoodname]

Fashion Show, Front Entrance

Code by Serobliss

Sylvia/Kit

The sky was clean and blue and the air almost sweet, this high above the city. Bright glass gleamed to every side, the lighting accents were tasteful, and the advertisements were the kind that reassured you of how wealthy you were, rather than a constant reminder of your own poverty. Kit stood on the balcony, cigarette in hand, watching the aircars flit from spire to spire; the great and the good moving about without having to sully themselves by touching the earth. When she was young, this had been her world, though her father made sure she could never enjoy it. Always a speech, always rules about how she had to act, what she could and couldn’t say. A part of her wondered if this had ever felt like home - or if it ever could. She looked down at her cigarette, took another drag, and turned at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Isabel - or, forever to Kit, Isa - swept onto the balcony. There wasn’t another word. Kit’s younger sister moved like the colors of sunset, every long, slender limb making the simple act of walking a mesmerizing dance. Between the two of them, Isa had gotten the height - and the subtle traceries of gold and silver implants against her skin suggested there might be more to that than simple genetics. She had a drink in each hand, something that caught the late-afternoon sun and seemed to glow with amber light from within. One had a paper umbrella, which she handed to Kit.

“Solo Number Five, I believe,” Isa said, handing the drink over, “Mother would be…well. Mother, about it, if she knew I kept it in the house.” Her voice burbled and rolled with the timbre of their father’s accent, her tone rich and surprisingly deep. She smiled, her teeth perfect.

“She would say I’ve ruined my taste buds,” Kit said, tapping her cigarette out in an ashtray, “I mean, you know.”

“If she spoke at all, of course,” Isa said, waving one hand, “Come on, the sunset is lovely, and you can tell me about this fashion show.”

---

The old grain elevator was surprisingly well furnished for a place that should’ve been abandoned years ago. Working power, running water, a well-furnished room, out of all the places to end up under house arrest, Sylvia had to admit this was one of the finer options. She leaned up against the balcony just outside her room, peering out at the open skyline, the city center distant on the horizon, taking all of its problems with it for a while.

A small sigh escaped the redhead as she peered down at the cigarette in her hand, hesitantly lifting it to her lips and sparking up a flame with the cheap plastic lighter in her off hand. She took a slow drag from the glowing ember, then hacked up a thick cloud of smoke, hunching over the balcony for a moment until she felt like she was able to right herself. This was hardly Sylvia’s vice of choice, but she needed some sort of chemical in her right now, something to help conquer her nerves, and she wasn’t sad enough to start drinking this early in the morning.

Tucking the lighter away, the journalist tugged her phone out of her pocket and stared at the blank screen, letting out a soft exhale. She clicked the power on and started to flick through her contacts, scrolling slowly until she found the name she’d been looking for, her thumb hesitating, before tapping the call button and bringing the phone to her ear. She took another slow drag from her cigarette as she waited for the connection.

The pickup was almost immediate, an older woman’s voice on the other end spoke up quickly. “Sylvie!?” the woman asked, her tone hopeful, yet understandably nervous. “…Hey mom” the redhead said weakly. Despite her nerves, the familiar voice on the other end had a way of setting her mind at ease, even when the next response rang out in a shrill tone. “Where are you?! I saw what happened on the news… are you okay? Did you get hurt? I’ve been calling people nonstop to try and figure out what happened, nobody knows anything!” The questions came out in a rapid-fire manner, leaving little space for an answer.

“I-I’m fine mom” Sylvia finally got a word in. “Look, I can’t really say too much, and I don’t have a lot of time… but I’m doing okay. I’m not hurt, I’m somewhere safe, and I’m with people who are taking care of me. I should be home in a few days…” she trailed off apprehensively, knowing full well that she’d be away for far longer.

The cryptic answer didn’t seem to go over well with the voice on the other end. “Sylvie, this is serious, where the hell are you? You had me worried sick!” The voice complained, earning a gentle sigh from the redhead.

“Look, I know this is weird, and I’m really, really sorry, but things are kinda complicated right now. I really can’t say anything else.” Sylvia lowered her head a little, slouching against the railing, her gaze shooting downwards. “I promise I’ll see you soon, okay? You’ll just have to wait a little while longer.”

The voice was hardly satisfied, but it relented, a sigh ringing out from the other end. “Alright… Just… promise me you’ll come home soon?”

“I promise, mom.”

“And you’re safe right? You’re not hurt or anything?”

“Yeah, I’m alright.”

“And your meds, did you take them with you-“

“Mom.”

“Sorry! Sorry… Can you blame me? I haven’t heard anything from you in two days! I was about ready to whip up a search party and come get you myself!”

The pair shared a soft laugh, a single bittersweet moment in the midst of so much chaos. At least there was one less thing for both of them to worry about, even while the future of the city was still up in the air. Sylvia pulled the phone from her ear for a moment to take another quick inhale of nicotine and collect her thoughts, hearing her mother's voice chime in just a moment later.

Sylvia chuckled dismissively as she brought the phone back to her ear.

“What? Smoking? C’mon mom.”

“I haven’t done that in years.”

---

“I haven’t seen him in years!” Isa’s voice was wistful, her eyes focused somewhere in the past, “Oh, now I’m jealous, Kit. Soli Beauchamp, the madman. I remember his show in Florence, one of the models…well. You would have thought they were Orpheus at Thrace.”

Isa took a sip from her drink, the last rays of sunlight tracing her skin in liquid shadows. Kit followed her gaze out to the horizon, where clouds flared into colors of fire. She stretched on the lounge chair, letting her head fall back against the spun-fiber cushions that held the day’s warmth. Her own glass, already empty, sat on a carbon-web table held aloft by an invisible dance of magnetic force; the effect more magic than magic. Kit looked up, past the tops of the nearest commercial towers, and sighed. She wouldn’t be here long enough to see the stars, the real stars, but she could remember what they looked like.

All of this - the penthouse, the balcony, the furniture - belonged to Kit’s parents. From the outside, you’d only see the clothes, the perfect teeth, the healthy skin, the expensive furnishings. Even from within, it was hard to see the leash. Mother and Father built Isabel to be their golden child, their perfect daughter, and it was a part she played flawlessly. For long years, Kit had wondered if Isa could see how small her world really was - but then she had started arranging these half-clandestine reunions. Kit didn’t know if Isa would ever try to leave her golden cage, but for the moment it didn’t matter. She had a sister again, and that was enough.

“Don’t tell me you’re going alone,” Isa said, breaking Kit out of her reverie, “That wouldn’t be like you.”

“No,” Kit said, clearing her throat, “But - no, not like that. There’s a journalist, she invited me.”

Isa turned her head, her expression flat, “Katherine.”

Kit winced at her full name, “Look, I-”

“She invited you?” Isa said, her voice rising, “To a Soli Beauchamp show? Tonight?”

“On a press pass!” Kit protested.

“No,” Isa rose, setting her glass down on another hovering table, “Uh-uh. No, no, no, no.” She stepped to Kit, grabbing her wrist, pulling her out of the chair, “No. Katherine Maria Ortegas, what were you planning to wear, hm?”

Kit gestured down at herself, “I mean-”

“That is a cop suit,” Isa’s expression took on an air of disgust.

“Hey, watch it,” Kit replied, “I’ve never worn this one to work.”

Isa tutted, started pacing in circle, eyes critical, “And yet somehow, every line screams ‘I’m with the police.’” She picked at the lapel, “The cut, the drape, the material, the color - no, no, no.” Isa patted Kit’s shoulders, her hips, “Well…maybe not the cut. But everything else, no. I can’t let you disgrace the family name like this.”

“Isa…” Kit’s voice held a tone of warning.

“All right, not the family name.” Isa met Kit’s eyes, “Listen. I have a while before one of Father’s men comes to ‘check’ on me. I don’t get to do anything in this ivory tower, let me at least make sure you won’t embarrass yourself.”

“You’re twenty centimeters taller than I am,” Kit said, “I promise you don’t have anything that I’d fit into.”

“No,” Isa agreed, “But I’ll admit that the last person who spent the night was about your size. And they left in a hurry.”

Isa grabbed Kit’s wrist and hauled her into the penthouse by main force, stifling any protests Kit might make. They walked past the exquisite, minimalist living room, down a hallway lined with art that cost more than Kit’s monthly rent, and Isa shoved her sister into her bedroom, where Kit landed on the bed with a thump. The younger woman walked to a closet, touched a control panel, and the door folded away like origami, revealing a display more organized than Kit had seen in the retail district.

“Let’s see, let’s see…ah, here.” Isa unhooked a garment bag, “We can start with this - don’t worry, I had it cleaned. They never came back, so…well, I suppose their loss is your gain, hm?” She walked to her sister, eyed her up and down, “...We definitely need to have the tailor let it out…especially in the chest,” she said to herself.

“You have a tailor?” Kit sputtered.

Isa turned that flat look on Kit again, “Of course I have a tailor, Kit; human and artificial. All of this doesn’t just happen. We’ll use the auto for now; Father doesn’t see the help, but the auto will be faster, and this shouldn’t be that difficult. If we have to use him, I’ll make something up for Kiril so that he won’t have to lie to Father. Now, stand there, and hold your arms out a little.”

Isa swung a scanner down from the ceiling, touched a few buttons, and machinery whirred. She tapped a screen out of Kit’s sight, then craned her head to look at Kit. “...I’ll need your shirt, too. That’s the only thing that’s close to presentable.”

Kit opened her mouth to reply, then sighed. She tossed her jacket on the bed, her artificial fingers clicking on the horn buttons of her shirt. She tossed it to Isa a few moments later, then snatched a robe that cost more than her entire wardrobe off the bed. Her arms didn’t reach the end of the sleeves while she wrapped it around herself, and the fabric puddled around her feet.

Her sister nodded, then undid the garment bag. She hung Kit’s shirt on the hanger with care, then tapped a wall panel. A complicated looking gantry slid out, and Isa hooked the collection of garments into an intricate series of latches. Another touch on the wall panel and the machine slid back into the wall with an almost eerie silence. A moment later, something whirred, and the sharp sound of blades sliding against one another permeated the room.

“Isa…what are you doing?” Kit said.

“Don’t worry,” Isa grinned, “Now, come on. We have to do your hair. You haven’t been using that thirteen-in-one again, have you?”

Kit muttered and turned her head away.

“Sorry?” Isa said.

Kit gritted her teeth, “It’s actually cheaper to get separates now. That company moved upscale.”

“Saints preserve us,” Isa sighed.

---

The warm water of the shower felt nice against Sylvia’s pale flesh, soothing the redhead’s aching muscles and washing away all of the dirt and grime that came with city living. The act of washing herself had always been a sort of meditative part of her morning routine. Her hands knew what to do, leaving her mind to drift off to who-knows-where as she lathered her carmine locks with some sweet-smelling shampoo, a shocking departure from her usual thirteen-in-one.

This past month had been surprisingly mundane once they’d all gotten over the initial shock of her arrival. Admittedly she’d been terrified that first morning, sitting at a table surrounded by a group of people demanding answers, with more than enough power to take her out then and there if she made any sort of slip up. It was perhaps the most dangerous situation she’d ever willingly thrown herself into. Well, the most dangerous situation so far... Still, after that first day things started to settle down quite a bit. The rest of the rebels had gone back to their business, doing research and making plans for the coming weeks. Sylvia had even found a few ways to make herself useful, though they were still carefully monitoring her internet activities, and leaving the hideout was strictly forbidden.

Daybreak had been quick to make the connection between the spider drones and a small handful of suspects that’d been at the wrong place at the wrong time, making plans to meet and investigate every one of them individually. This first round of investigations was set to take place at a local fashion show, where three suspects were meant to be in attendance, a nice way to kill three birds with one stone. The mission would also serve as a way for Sylvia to prove her loyalty to the rest of the group, to earn their trust along with her freedom, just a few weeks out…

Hurry up and wait…

Sylvia cut the water and stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around herself and running a brush through that mop of red hair. Well, the day was here now, and the journalist could hardly be any more nervous.

In some respects, Sylvia still hadn’t gotten over the attack on the civic center. The memory of the event was still fresh in her mind, seeing those first chandeliers come down, the panic, the screaming, watching the life drain from Zulena’s face while she knelt there, powerless to stop it. Sylvia had laid awake most nights just playing that memory back over again in her head, watching her own point of view on her tablet, trying to find more information, to make meaning out of so much senseless death.

After everything she’d just been through, the thought of going to another highly public event so soon after the last disaster was not doing great things for her mental state. Her heart rate picked up just thinking about it. But Sylvia didn’t have much of a choice, she came here to get her story, and that meant earning Daybreak’s trust, showing weakness in the eleventh hour was a surefire way to get kicked to the curb, and Sylvia had already come too far to give up now.

The redhead made her way out of the shower, the cool air of the hideout hitting her as she walked across the room to a small closet, examining the contents within. Unfortunately, Sylvia had not really come prepared for this little extended sleepover. All she’d shown up with were the clothes on her back and some of her recording equipment, not even a toothbrush to her name.

Lucky for her, Tulkar had managed to pull through. As it turned out, the man had a wide variety of spare clothes just wasting away in a storage unit, all sorts of styles, in all shapes and sizes, just, you know, don’t think too hard about where they came from…

It’d taken forever for Sylvia to sort through and find all of the clothes in her size, and then an extra hour to make a second pass, tossing anything torn or moth eaten, eventually reducing her options to a svelte handful of combinations for her to choose from.

She decided to go with something simple, a white button up, with a black suit jacket and matching pants, with the most comfortable dress shoes she could find. The goal here was to blend in, after all, be boring and fade into the background so she could get her sleuthing on. Besides, after the disaster of that last charity event, Sylvia wanted to make sure she was wearing something she could be comfortable running in.

That decided, the redhead checked the time, thirty minutes out, just enough time for her to fidget with her hair and check over the scant few recording devices she was bringing in with her, a spare camera and a thin stick of plastic that acted like a discrete audio recording device. She checked the battery on both, made sure they worked right, doing everything in her power to avoid thinking of the event right up until her phone alarm went off in her pocket, alerting her that she had 10 minutes until the designated pickup time. Letting out a weak groan, Sylvia got up and made her way down to meet with Kit. Time to get this over with.

---

“Can we get this over with?” Kit turned to look at her sister, or tried to - the younger woman grabbed Kit’s chin and pointed it back to the mirror. In deference to Kit’s repeated insistence, the makeup was minimal, just a touch around the eyes and lips, so that she still recognized the woman looking back at her. A subtle spray of color, just enough to be seen when the angle was right, highlighted the nearly-invisible scars around her left eye; an artistry that Kit had to admit she didn’t fully understand, and was almost resentful at how good she had to admit it looked.

Behind her, Isa finished scrubbing a towel over Kit’s hair. She picked up a brush, taming the unruly tangle in smooth, even strokes. The bathroom lights picked up the new streak she’d dyed in, a gem-bright streak of amethyst that almost seemed to glow in the white-gold lamps. Kit grunted as the brush caught a particularly tight snarl. Isa patted her shoulder in an unconscious ‘you’ll get used to it’ gesture.

Isa pulled out a couple of tubes and bottles, and ran her fingers through Kit’s hair in slow, gentle motions. Kit sighed, and leaned back in the chair, closing her eyes for a moment. She needed a cigarette, but the smell of smoke in Isa’s rooms would only raise questions that neither of them wanted to entertain. And, even though this process brought up memories that were at best uncomfortable, she had to admit there were parts of her that didn’t mind this. Not the primping and preening - Kit had spent decades in a wash-and-wear kind of hair care routine - but in the closeness, the quiet intimacy. Isa was the closest thing to someone that Kit could be comfortable around, the only family that would pick up the phone if she called. There were gulfs between their worlds that maybe no bridge could cross, but this, at least, felt a little like home.

“You got the good hair,” Isa said with a laugh, “We’ll hardly have to do anything to it.”

“At least I got something from Dad,” Kit said, smirking..

“Ah, yes. Speaking of that…” Isa finished running some kind of product through Kit’s hair, then took a step back to admire her handiwork, “Mmn. Well, that will turn a head or two.” She pointed at the garment bag at the back of the room, freshly returned from the auto-tailor, “Now, try that on. I’ll be back.”

Isa stepped out of the room, and Kit heard her feet padding down another hallway. She stood, walked to the back of the room, and pulled the zipper down on the bag. Kit blinked, reached forward with her artificial hand, and felt a lapel. Carbon black, with subtle detailing and highlighted in lapis, she fingered a tuxedo jacket. She unhooked it from the hangar, and raised her eyebrows.

A few minutes later, Kit stood in front of the mirror. The jacket’s sleeves were the perfect length, the waist pulled in exactly where she liked it. It may have been a little tight, but on moving her arms, Kit realised she expected there to be room for her gun, and its absence did change the fit. The pants, too, were just on the verge of being too tight between her waist and thigh - but a little bit of stretch in the fabric kept the seams where they needed to be, and she found she could move more freely than she might have expected. The heels, low and delicately strappy, hugged her feet without discomfort, which she found astonishing.

“Now that,” Isa said, coming back into the room, “is not a cop suit.”

“And what am I supposed to do if I have to lean over?” Kit gestured at her shirt - or, rather, the near total lack thereof.

Isa shrugged, “Don’t. Or don’t mind that they get a view.” She looked her sister up and down, and grinned, “Now I’m jealous twice.”

“Don’t you start,” Kit tried to sound stern, but it came out with a smile.

Isa held a box out to Kit; leather and wood and about the size of her palm. Kit took it, flipped it open, looked down at the contents.

“Isa, I can’t take this,” Kit said, her voice a little distant.

“I’m not telling you to take it,” Isa replied. Her long fingers fished in the box, pulling out a fine silver-white chain, a long spear of lilac-colored gemstone wrapped in platinum filigree dangling from the links. She set the box aside, “Father said the purple complimented my eyes. I wore it once, and then the colors in the company’s branding changed, and he’s never mentioned it again.”

“And lucky for you,” Isa walked behind Kit, fastened the chain around her neck. The gem fell to the center of her chest and caught the light. “It compliments both your eyes. And...something else.” She grinned, and stepped to admire her handiwork.

“Now,” Isa said, “You brought a car, yes?”

“I…” Kit sighed, “Isa, I was planning on getting a cab.”


---------------


All things considered, Isabel hadn’t lost her temper that badly. She had only lapsed into Spanish for half the sentences, which was good, because Kit’s grasp of her family’s language was rusty at best. There had been calls to saints and devils, threats of Kit losing her other eye and, of course, the routine of leaving the room, then coming back in a moment later with a continuation of the ongoing tirade. Kit hadn’t felt threatened by a single moment of it; Isabel didn’t mean a word. In her own way, she cared, and she cared deeply, and she only wanted Kit to be safe.

Once Isa calmed down, she helped Kit understand the gravity of the situation: It was a fashion show, yes, but the people there would matter. It wasn’t a question of dressing to impress, she had to look like she belonged - because if she didn’t, she’d attract the kind of attention that would ask the wrong sort of questions. Questions where her police credentials would be exactly the wrong way out.

In the end, Isa had hurled the keys to “the 22” at her sister, and told her to get out. Kit rode the elevator down to the garage, her chest prickling in the cool, dry air, and walked through the garage lanes until she found the car that chirped when she hit the button. For the first time that evening, she really smiled. Two and a half tons of steel and enough power to warp reality hummed to life at her approach, and Kit settled behind the wheel. She tapped the dash to life, grinning the whole time. It wasn’t a low, fast rocket - this was one of the heavy executive cars, the kind of thing that usually came with a chauffeur who knew their way out of an armed car chase.

A message popped on the dash, “The auto-drive will take it back to the garage at midnight. Let me know if you won’t be home before then.”

Kit blew out a chuckle. Apparently, she shared rules with Cinderella, which felt…appropriate.
She pulled the car out of the spot, the motors humming at each corner, the tires making soft squeaks on the pavement. She left the garage, and brought up Sylvia’s number.

“Hey, Red,” Kit’s voice had a smile in it, “You ready to paint the town?”

---

After a quick call and an exchange of pleasantries, the luxury vehicle pulled up along the cracked asphalt next to the grain elevator, much to Sylvia’s surprise. The journalist stepped up quickly as the passenger’s side door popped open, slipping inside and admiring the lush upholstery, turning to cast a grin at her friend. “God damn Kit, the department finally give you a raise?” she chuckled, pulling the door shut behind her.

Perhaps even more surprising than the car itself was the sight of her friend, Sylvia’s jaw practically hit the floor at the sight of Kit outside of her usual ‘cop’ aesthetic. If anything, she felt a slight pang of guilt at the disparity between their choice of outfits. If Sylvia had known that her friend would be going all out like this, she would have tried a lot harder to look presentable.

“Seriously though, you look great, thanks for agreeing to do this with me on such short notice.” The look of genuine relief in her eyes was palpable. There was a certain sense of comfort that came with the knowledge that Sylvia wasn’t in this alone, that she’d be working alongside someone she could really trust. It definitely helped the journalist keep her cool on the long drive back into the lion’s den.

Kit made a point of looking Sylvia over, then threw her an exaggerated, lecherous wink, "You don't look so bad yourself," she drawled with a grin, "As for all this, well. I would say it involved a fairy godmother, but the truth is that my sister has some very strong opinions, and I made the mistake of having a drink with her this afternoon."

“Hah, you’re kidding” Sylvia laughed lightly, turning away from that wink with a flustered smile. “You look like you’re about to get up on the runway yourself. I look like a lesbian who begged to wear her older brother’s suit at the wedding.”

She canted her head to the side, taking another long look at her friend. “You sure she’s not a fairy godmother? I mean, new look, new chariot… Did I miss a memo or something? Because nobody told me prince charming was gonna be at the party tonight.”

"Looking for Prince Charming, hm?" Kit feigned offense, "What, I'm not enough?" Kit tapped the center console, putting the car in drive. The tires crunched over broken concrete, rocking the car a little.

Kit's grin faded a little while she focused on the road, "I...my family..." She trailed off, "My sister is Isabel Diaz-Ortegas. This is thanks to her." Kit glanced at Sylvia, "I love her, but if she's a fairy, the rest of my family are the kind of Fae you don't give your real name to. They've just changed forest glens for steel towers."

Sylvia winced, casting her gaze downwards. “Ah, shit I’m sorry…” she murmured, a small knot forming in the pit of her stomach. “I didn’t mean to bring it up. Guess that explains why you don’t really talk about your family.” She went silent for a beat, giving the information time to digest before she finally spoke up again. “But, hey, that’s their loss.” She looked back to Kit with a small smile. “Just means I get more time to drag you into these dumb fashion shows and charity events and… wherever the hell else this story’s gonna take us.”

Kit turned her head, her mismatched gaze meeting Sylvia's for a moment. Her smile returned, touching the corners of her eyes. "Nah, you've got nothing to apologize for. It is their loss, but...well. If Isa's going to play dress-up with me, we may as well make it a night to remember." She hit the accelerator, and the car surged forward with a gentle surge of g-force, joining a line of lights toward the city.


---------------


The drive from Tulkar’s safehouse to the fashion show was a long one, giving both of them time to prepare a strategy for the next couple of hours. Sylvia used that time to lay out Daybreak’s plan in the broad strokes.

“So, the rest of the Daybreak gang is gonna be investigating the bomber, they’ve got a couple of suspects attending tonight’s show, so it’s the perfect chance for them to cross some names off their list. That also leaves us basically on our own for this gig.” Sylvia explained, admittedly she was more than a little glad to be let off the leash for tonight. She felt like she could breathe easier now that she was away from the rebel’s watchful eye, also Blaze still kind of terrified her.

“Our goal’s a little different, we’re going after Seraphina. This’ll be the first time she’s shown her face in public in over a month, and Daybreak wants to know what she’s planning on doing with her angels.” There was clearly a more personal slant to this gig than Sylvia was letting on. She’d never exactly been subtle about her admiration of Seraphina and her music, so to witness the angel’s proverbial fall from grace like this was… more than a little crushing. On some level the journalist still held onto hope that she was merely playing the role of a reluctant mouthpiece. It certainly wouldn’t be out of the ordinary with the state of the modern music industry. But Sylvia was already prepared for disappointment.

“The plan is to try and get her alone so we can get her talking. We want long term plans, safe house locations, the names of key players, their hierarchy of leadership… any information we can extract from her is a win, so just keep piling on questions.” By far the most difficult part in this plan would be getting Seraphina alone. They’d need to improvise somehow, though with the two of them working together Sylvia was sure they could think of something.

“See, what’s funny is, she actually promised me an interview about a month ago back at the Civic Center, just before the attack happened. I’m hoping we can use that to our advantage somehow, maybe seeing me again will rattle her hard enough to disrupt whatever smoke screen she’s got planned for us.” The journalist shrugged, they’d be walking a tightrope here no matter how they played it, give her too much confidence and she just starts lying, make her too nervous and she might clam up on them. The artistry in a good interrogation is to strike a fine balance, build rapport and establish authority in equal measure, and whatever you do, keep them talking.

By the time they pulled up to the venue, the place was already packed to burst. Sylvia could see swaths of people flocking to the entrance, that same buzzing energy of the charity event hanging in the air as they pulled into an open parking spot. “Anyways, smile for the camera” she grinned, blinking twice, the limbal rings of her eyes beginning to glow a dull yellow, before flicking to green. She blinked a third time and the light went dormant, marking the beginning of a fresh recording. Sylvia wasn’t going to miss a second of this.

 

[Clockwork_Magic]

Kyoko Hinode
Just Another Face C̸͉̮͆̎̋̉͜͝ỉ̴̫̙̈́̽́̂p̷̹͕͊̈́́͐ͅḥ̸͈͕̃̎e̶̦̖͔͗͌̒̑r̷̈͛̑̏͜

Interactions: No One
Location: Fashion Show; Banquet Hall
Mood: Why Did I Agree to Come Here?

---

Among New Liberty's finest dressed in the banquet hall, chatting it away about frivolous things and partaking whatever snacks and refreshments laid out on the table stood a woman in a plain yet elegant black dress accented with gold trims that complimented her hair and eyes remarkably well. A sigh escaped Kyoko as her eyes scanned over the crowd. A pair of eyes crossed her direction and despite the noise from the mass of people talking in the room she could just about able to what they were saying when they turned back to their little pod. "Poor thing, her date must've stood her up." "Looks like no one told her the theme wasn't gonna be 'funeral.'" "I wouldn't want to be her date anyways with such a sour resting face." Typical behavior for people in high society, anything to hear more of their own voice until they mindlessly moved onto the next object of ridicule following a childish bout of laughter.

To say that she was entirely unbothered by such comments would have been a lie, that funeral comment hitting a little too close to home. This mass of snooty aristocrats out of touch with the reality of what life was like below their ivory towers only served to revive a headache that had begun earlier that morning.

Waking up with headsplitting headache could probably have been taken as a sign of the day to come. Ever since that dumpster fire of a night at the civic center, you could hardly browse New Liberty's net for 3 minutes without coming across some self-righteous yahoo decrying "XENOS WILL NOT REPLACE US" or preaching about the sanctity of the un-mutated human genome. Naturally, someone would have to teach a lesson to these bigots that clearly paid no attention during the 20th century part of their world history classes. After spending a good chunk of gathering countless CCTV records and classified incident reports for those Daybreak guys, running them through a data sorting program, and sending the results over to them, she decided to unwind a bit by going on a "little" spree of doxxing, swatting, and shutting down vile blog pages. Did she get a little carried away? Probably. Was it satisfying? Abso-fucking-lutely.

She'd thought that was the end of her little contract with those Daybreak guys... until they made her go attend some fashion show, something about "another pair of eyes" on a few people on the list she sent them or some crap. At the time it seemed like a pretty good deal, getting paid to go somewhere low risk. It's a regular civilian event where she'd not be doing much except watching so she could probably ditch a disguise this time, though having to ditch her red and cyan dyed hair to not draw any unwanted attention to herself. Unfortunately for her, she severely underestimated how many snobs would be at the event, not being to well versed in these kinds of events. Whatever... just need to hang around for a bit until the end and I could go home. She thought before taking a little stroll around the banquet hall, occasionally checking her phone for the time or to browse the net for a bit. Hopefully this entire affair wouldn't feel like an eternity.

 

[Zedalith]

DIRECTOR VINCENT

Campaigning Governor

Horizon Apex

Interested

interactions

None

Shards of muted sunlight pierced through the windows of his private chamber. His image in the full-length mirror delineated against the soft glow of the afternoon’s conclusion. Drawing in a deep breath, he began to dress—adjusting the cuffs, straightening the lapels, fastening the buttons. Turning away from the mirror, he gave his suit a final inspection. Everything was in order. Taking one last look at his reflection, Vincent straightened his tie and headed towards the door.

Granger, a man with a face weathered with years of service leaned against the door frame. He watched Vincent with vigilant eyes.

"Sir," he projected across the room, his voice gravelly. "Our transport is ready. We should leave for Horizon Apex soon."

"Of course, Granger," Vincent returned, the edges of his mouth curving up in a half-smile. "We wouldn't want to be late, would we?" As he approached Granger, his eyes caught the flicker of the news report on the screen across the room. He halted, his gaze locked onto the projected images. Images of wreckage, of chaos. His half-smile grew to full length. Was it nostalgia? Perhaps. Was it regret? No, far from it. It was chaos, yes, but chaos that birthed order.

Making his way to the vehicle, he slid into the supple leather interior, the familiar scent of a new car and subtle cologne wrapping around him like an old friend. Granger followed suit, filling the limo as he took the seat across. "Granger, have we received confirmation on the arrival of the board members?" Vincent asked, his gaze falling on the cityscape whisking past them.

"All on schedule, sir," Granger responded, consulting the digital interface embedded into his wrist.

As the limo hummed forward, a sudden flash of light reflected in Vincent's glasses. A police vehicle was aflame on the side of the road, thick plumes of smoke spiraling into the evening sky. The arsonists were no more than kids really, emboldened by some misguided bravado. Turning away from the window, Vincent sighed, a sound that barely brushed past his lips but resounded loudly in the silence of the vehicle. A nearby police drone swooped in. Within moments, the scene was quelled. The culprits were laid flat by a barrage of non-lethal deterrents.

"It all seems so pointless. This constant...struggle, doesn't it?" He turned away from the scene, a sour taste settling in his mouth. "That's all this violence is. Senseless. Pointless."

Granger shifted in his seat, meeting Vincent's gaze. "It's the nature of rebellion, sir, it's not always guided by reason or purpose."

"Maybe," Vincent mused. "Or maybe it's a symptom of a society that's lost its compass.”

As the limousine gently descended onto the landing pad of Horizon Apex, excitement surged over the crowds gathered outside the facility. The doors swished open and the rush of cool air swept into the interior. Their reactions were mixed, ranging from awe and admiration to resentment and apprehension. As Vincent continued forward, a sea of faces and voices rushed toward him. "Director Vincent, have you considered the potential of neuro-enhancing software?" A woman with too-bright lipstick gestures wildly with a pamphlet.

"Vincent! Have a moment? I've got this idea about personal shield technology, it'll revolutionize security," a young man with eager eyes practically bounced beside him. "Director Vincent! We've created an AI that can predict crime before it happens! Our model is 98% accurate, just imagine how it could help..." Another voice beckoned.

"Director, if I could just get you to look at these drone blueprints..." a voice trailed off as they were swallowed by the crowd. The cacophony of pitches and pleas was like a flock of seagulls squawking for the same scrap of food. They were quickly muffled when a distinguished older gentleman approached.

"Director Vincent, I am so relieved to see you in good health," His voice was calm and collected. "My son and I prayed for your safety during that...unsavory event."

"After the incident at the Civic Center... My son, insisted we light a candle for your safety. He held this belief that our prayers would guide you back to safety. So, you can imagine how overjoyed we were when we heard you were safe. My boy...he believed he'd made a difference. That his prayers had reached you."

His gaze held Vincent's, raw with earnest emotion. "I know it's a small thing, perhaps even trivial. But to him...to us, it was the world."

"Your concern is much appreciated," Vincent replied, with a nod of acknowledgment.

"The charity event was a success, thanks to you. I hope you know what it means to those kids," The old man added, a faint smile appearing on his otherwise serious face.

Vincent smiled, "It's important work. We're all doing what we can."

"Indeed, Director. Shall we move away from the chaos? A private room has been prepared, where our tour will begin shortly when the rest of the board arrives." Vincent agreed, appreciative of the opportunity to extract himself from the onslaught of pitches. The crowd parted to let them through, their discussions resuming in their absence.

The seclusion of the private room was a welcome change. Underneath the lighting, an impressive collection of wine bottles rested on a tastefully decorated table. Vincent picked up a flute of pale, effervescent liquid. He admired it briefly under the light, watching the bubbles dance and rise to the surface before bringing it to his lips for a small sip. The wine, however, was a touch too sweet, a poor impersonation of the exquisite vintage he was accustomed to. The taste fell flat on his tongue and he spat it back into the flute with a grimace. "Bourgeois decadence," he muttered to himself, setting the flute down with a note of disdain.

A flicker of movement from above drew Vincent's attention, the overhead display showcased a fashion show. A tinge of amusement painted Vincent's expression as he watched the spectacle. The frivolity, the shallowness, and the complete disregard for the world's stark realities that these events displayed were a study in contrast. Vincent looked up, watching the spectacle unfold with a frown. "The triviality of it all," he mused, shaking his head at the display. "Grown adults playing dress-up and calling it culture, it's laughable." He raised his hand, making a swift, dismissive gesture. The projection blinked and the scene vanished instantly.

 

[specters]

stellar huntings

the informant

Biotech Facility

Cautious

outfit here

interactions

interactions come here

"Stellar, Stellar, Stellar..." A voice, deep, monotoned, taunting. It bounced off of the walls of a dimly lit alleyway, graffiti littered on the otherwise bland slabs of concrete that enclosed the space. Empty cans littered the ground, shattered glass as well, a note made by Stellar when the sound of a heavy boot crunched the shards beneath its heel. This alleyway was connected to one of the busier streets of New Liberty, and yet it was hauntingly empty, save for the beast of a man, two lackeys, and Stellar.

From her perch atop a fire-escape hovering just above the alley she could see the trio growing evermore angry and confused. She was quiet, breath held and eyes focused and peering through her AR goggles which overlayed a HUD onto her vision. A flashing red dot could be seen at the bottom left hand corner of her HUD, on the right were two numbers, 2 | 5, an indication of how much ammo she had remaining in the revolver that rested in her right hand. Only half an hour ago, the other 3 had been fired at the goons that this guy had led straight into her investigation. She'd been on the trail of a corporate mercenary group that had been put to task on stealing three high tech humvees from a rival corporation so that they could reverse engineer it and build their own versions.

Usually a corp job was one Stellar would have avoided, but her bank had been low and you couldn't feed yourself with pride and principles. "Where the hell'd she go?!" One of the lackeys was getting impatient, twitching and swinging his shotgun around. "Shut up. She couldn't have gone far, Biggs, push forward and clear the alley, Tanaka, backtrack and cover the entrance." The big one barked out. Strangely though, he would stay put, imposing figure swiveling in place as his comrades moved to obey his commands.

Several moments of silence passed before he would move again, though with a huff he sped down the rest of the alleyway in pursuit of Biggs, apparently satisfied with his search efforts. Stellar let out a breath of relief and relaxed, hopping from her balanced position atop the bars of the ladder and down onto the street. She wasn't one for a fight, make no mistake, she could hold her own if needed, but she preferred to avoid a face-to-face conflict because she wasn't the most skilled warrior. Before doing anything else she would sneak towards the entrance the alleyway to check for the other corp merc, though apparently he'd been called back to his buddies because Stellar saw no sight of him.

She quickly exited the alley and moved to the main street sidewalk, evening her pace and blending with the crowd of walking pedestrians. She made a swift motion with her hand as she walked and her goggles stopped recording. Another motion brought up a menu of contacts and she clicked on one in her recents and dialed the number, a few moments passed and couple of rings in her ear then a soft, timid voice, "Hello...?" They said.

"Job's done. Make the transfer and the video you asked for is yours, but not until I get the receipt of transfer." She was sharp-tongued, and quick with her words. "Okay... and done." A notification pinged in her ear and she swiped on her HUD to see the receipt of transfer. "Pleasure doin' business." She said with a grin, downloading a copy of the video to her personal device before sending the original file off to the buyer. After all, corp warfare would be a decent story for Cloud Verity.

She'd just been getting ready to head to her apartment when another notification pinged across her HUD, stopping her in her tracks. Pedestrians around her grunted and groaned as they scooted by her and bumped into her, though all she could do was smile. An opportunity had come her way, and a pretty big one at that.


The scene she arrived at was certainly one to make note of. It wasn't pretty, but hardly anything was nowadays, so she couldn't exactly fault them for that. AR goggles flashed as she grew closer and she swiped to open a message from Franklin. Got your message, Stell, you sure you know what you're doing? She scoffed and shook her head, typing quickly on a keyboard that wasn't actually there. Yes. I will be fine. But... just in case I'm not, if you don't hear from me in 12 hours then ping the device I gave you, its partner is less than a quarter mile from my current location. She responded before swiping the HUD away and removing the goggles. She shoved them into a bag strapped across her chest and pulled out a simple black card, something so valuable and yet it was so unassuming. She held it tight and pressed forward.

coded by natasha.

 

[Nogoodname]

Horizon Biotech branch facility, New Liberty Outskirts

Code by Serobliss

Leo/Roarke

Far off in the distance, camped out high up in an abandoned building with a decent view of the facility, a rough looking woman in a leather jacket peered down at the protesters below, carefully following the patrols through the lens of an old scope that’d long since lost its rifle. The woman sat sprawled out in the frame of a window, one leg up against the ledge, the cherry of a cigarette burning away between her lips. “Lotta bodies out in the yard, though I’m not seeing anything in the windows.” the mercenary woman spoke up in a low, gravelly voice, breathing out a plume of smoke, her unwavering gaze fixed forward on their quarry.

She panned that scope across the barricaded streets, peering over the sneering faces of armed protesters as they marched in groups along the perimeter of the facility. “Intel said about 30 to 40, right? We can go halfsies, with a heap of scrap for dessert.” she chuckled, sweeping her view across the way to set her sights on the towering old behemoth of a mech, slowly lumbering along, falling in line with the rest of the protesters. Security outside seemed tight, though Leo
questioned their tenacity, these were frenzied protesters not trained soldiers, they had strength in numbers sure, but a swift display of force was sure to crush their resolve. Even the mech felt more like a show of force rather than a legitimate threat, after all, there was a reason they’d fallen out of use after the civil war.

Leo set the scope down in her lap and looked out with a soft sigh, jobs like these always felt like busywork, no excitement in it, maybe the mech would keep her occupied for a while, but the rest? Felt like pest control. She really ought to talk with her fixer about fetching her better gigs… Something exciting, a heist maybe, or at least a gang with some bite to it. Then again, what could Leo do about it? Rent was due, and everyone’s gatta eat.

Roarke grumbled a bit from his spot up against the wall in their penthouse perch. His back was towards the streets below that Leo was looking at, but the old tablet in his left hand had a wire running into his temple, which connected it to the image his eye was seeing of the streets below. The eye which was currently tacked to the windows’ frame and pointing downwards, held in place by the finger width divot Roarke had pressed into the thin metal for the very purpose of holding his eye. “More bodies is a good thing right? Aren't you into that sorta thing?” His response was low, little more than a mumble, or rather as close as he could get with his artificial voice box.

The smoke she was billowing out occasionally did little to bother him, quite the inverse in fact. Reminded him of his barracks and the days back in the fire department prior to becoming a rich man's juggernaut. “Screw you im taking the dessert for myself…you have as many of the little snacks as you want.” He didn't know why they were talking in food puns all of a sudden but he went with it, as he often did, these younger Hounds had their own way of operating, and old as he was, he was still learning. That saying about dogs must not apply to the mechanical variant. He chuckled a bit, both at Leo's blatantly obvious boredom, and his own musings. The sigh was a pretty obvious sign of her lack of enthusiasm at their coming task.

His still slotted eye focused its red glow on the image of the fellow hound, “What is bothering you?” He asked flatly with little elaboration. If there was one thing he had picked up in his time on this world, it was that less words were often better. The less you say, the harder it is for one to twist the meanings of your words.

“Ah, it’s nothin’” Leo shrugged, climbing down from the window and plucking the cigarette from between her lips, tossing it down to the floor and stamping it out with her boot. “Just never been a fan of goin’ after small fries, yaknow? I mean, just look at these guys, betcha ten bucks about half of em have never even touched a rifle before, it’s boring.” She complained, shaking her head dismissively. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll get over myself, ‘sides we’ve still got a job to do.”

The hound scooped up her SDR-3 "Strider" from its place propped up against a nearby wall, a fancy little rifle that she'd bought brand new just for the job, serial numbers already shaved off. She tugged out the magazine and checked to ensure she had a full load, before pushing it back into place with a satisfying click. “So, what’s the plan?” she asked, deferring to her partner’s wisdom and experience. Leo herself was more of a troubleshooter for these kinds of situations, she wasn’t really a planner, more like the person you throw at a problem to brute force solving it.

Roarke followed Leo's example and raised himself with his knees letting out a slight whine as he rose. He plucked his eye from the slot in the window and put it gently back in his face, testing the reconnection by shifting both eyes to Leo. “You’re right, Way I see it these are fanatics hopped up on some crazy ideals… we may not even have to kill them all.” When he paused he pulled the cord that ran from the tablet to behind his ear.

After securing the tablet and cord into his back pocket he took his own weapon, the old relic shotgun of his, and broke it open to check his shell inside. The black triangle assured him that it was a slug and he closed it again. “The mech should fall first, hopefully it will crush their morale.” A smirk spread across his face as he began trudging towards the door. “If you're bored we could always take bets. Hundred bucks says you can’t handle the big bot by yourself.”

Leo gave a faint chuckle. “Oh you’re on, big man” she grinned, quickly following him out through the door and headed for the stairs, starting to make her way down.

---

The guards standing watch along the outermost barricade were the first to notice as the raven haired mercenary approached, striding casually up the path towards them. The Chrome-Hound was visibly armed to the teeth, a shotgun slung across her back, with a pair of pistols strapped to her, one holstered at her right thigh and a smaller sidearm tucked away under her left armpit, with spare ammo and grenades hanging from a bandolier across her front. She flashed a wolfish grin as she got closer, one hand on her rifle, letting it hang from her shoulder on a sling like it was some sort of trendy handbag.

“Good moor–ning New Liberty~!” she called out towards the small crowd. “I’m here to talk to your boss, if someone could kindly take me to em~” she continued, confident as ever.

In the next moment Leo could feel every firearm in the vicinity train on her, multiple armed men barking at her to put her hands up, to which she casually complied, with a cool indifference that was all too unsettling given the circumstances. A leader of the group kept his gun trained on her, quickly ordering another pair of men to move around the barricade and restrain the gun-toting lunatic.

Leo feigned a sighed, that cocky smile never fading. “Hey hey, is that any way to treat a guest?” she asked, shaking her head dismissively. At least she’d given them the chance to parlay, it helped ease her conscience for what came next.

The effects of her mutation could be felt almost immediately, manifesting in a hot flash, a certain tingling sensation lingering in the air, the taste of copper in your mouth that let you know something was about to go very wrong. A wave of nausea came next, settling over the small group of protesters, sending those affected into a state of dizziness and confusion that left them all too vulnerable before the mercenary with a cheshire grin, the sudden onset of fatigue was the final nail in the coffin for most, causing protesters to drop like flies as their legs suddenly lacked the strength to keep them upright.

The barricade in front of them began to creak and groan from the stress of the force against it, letting out a loud pop and a bang as the crumpled scrap metal sheared off in chunks, sending the entire chest high pile of scrap back towards the group of armed protesters like a wall of shrapnel, shards of metal and thick, jagged wire scythed through the crowd with the sickening crunch of pierced flesh and shattered bone.

Before the dust even had time to settle Leo was already moving, keeping low and shouldering her rifle, dashing for cover as the survivors of the initial attack began to pick themselves up and regroup, laying down a hail of counterfire on the mercenaries' position. The hunt was on.

Talking seems to be going well Roarke mused to himself as he trudged several yards behind Leo. His red eyes shifted from corner to debris to bodies scanning for whatever movement they could spot as he followed behind the black haired butcher. She had created such a scene with blowing the barricade out that the attention of the bulk of the survivors was on her. Giving Roarke enough time to identify which of the remaining men had a communication device in their ear.

When he did find his mark it was only a few more moments before he had closed the distance between the two. The man must've been listening to something on the comm unit because his hand was up to his ear until the last step brought Roarke within arms reach. As the man whirled, Roarke delivered a swift and mechanical jab between the man's eyes destroying whatever features his parents had given him and putting him out in a moment. Before he slumped, Roarke caught his collar between two fingers and plucked the man's ear piece, slipping in into his own ear.

As expected they had been calling people to their location. Fun. He thought as he spotted some of the dusty and bloody looking men piling up behind a concrete barricade. He began to lower himself like a linebacker on the line of scrimmage. Once his center of gravity was sufficiently lowered his pistons fired and the men who took cover thinking it would save them from Leo's destructive force, met a whole new kind of destruction as Roarke collided with them shields up, propelled by pistons and gravity. Neither the men nor the concrete would stop the momentum, but would slow him down enough to catch his bearings and turn his glowing eyes to the next group of men. “I've got ears on them now. Reinforcements inbound.”

 

[TheRealAngeloftheStorm]

ELENA GRAHAM

LISTLESS DREAMER

WALTZER STREET

RUMINATING

interactions

Eteri

mentions

NONE

“Traffic.” Elena repeated. “That bad, then?”

She’d seen the ‘traffic’ on her way here, under the watchful eyes of an Ainsworth driver ferrying her from the spire to Waltzer. Those who rose up in the aftermath of the tragedy at the Civic Center. Supplicants to a lady who they barely knew, yet dared to speak for. In those gazes she saw a glimmer of fanaticism; a deep seated desire to hurt, to savage those responsible for marring the Angel of New Liberty.

It was viciously ironic. An entire group founded after the death of Seraphina’s manager at the hands of Xenogenic terrorists - when Seraphina had been the one to kill him.

Elena had received that message on a particularly slow-moving day. Even as the world blurred into that familiar haze, with time’s hands lipping forward into eternity, she went through her routine. The monotony, the deluge of words that spilled forth from every message, the incessant silence of her own prison helped take her mind off what she’d seen at the Civic Center.

Death. The violence at the event was her first taste of it - and it was a bitter taste indeed. On some level, she understood that violence was merely a fact for the city. Lesser men and women lived and died under the gazes of New Liberty’s aristocracy, ruling from steel towers and guarded by their bannermen. The chrome-hounds and the ones who held their leashes were an aberration to civil society. Yet they were always loose on the streets, heeding orders from their masters and spilling blood in their name. And the rebels, those who sought to topple their kings, engaged in acts both clandestine and overt for the sake of their lofty ideals.

To see it with her own eyes had made her retch. Oh, the emotional stabilization was great for warding it off. But even in her addled, wretched state, Elena realized the folly of it. It was the easy way out. And that creeping feeling of wrong wrong wrong that skittered down her spine like a spider every time she used it…

No better than a drug. And Elena, with great difficulty, had cast it away. The temptation lingered in her mind still, a devil whispering in her ear.

The message was simple. Genesis had ‘difficulty’ with finishing drinks. An invitation.

Father had demanded information from her as a price for the ferry, but Gregory had interceded, noting that such blatant poking would yield nothing. Elena had been touched but was wary; her brother never did anything for her for free. Favors and promises were his ken; the heir to Ainsworth Defense Technologies would be a fool to do anything out of goodwill.

Elena’s journey into the Angel’s abode was telling. The shock of it had nearly destroyed her. Mirrors shattered. A sea of bottles, shattered and whole, strewn across the place. And Genesis herself, the mask finally off and baring her real self for all the world to see.

Any other person would’ve been touched. She only saw a reflection of herself, reflected in cracked gold and splashes of crimson.

Elena exhaled. That talk bore much to think about.

It was not the time to dwell on it, though. Regenburg did not come all the way for her to gawk at open air, lost in thoughts of the end and the death.

Elena’s lips quirked upwards. “Better is relative. But I am holding up well.” She gestured with another hand. “Now, you said this place had a bookstore?”

This was not Elena’s first brush with her lessers. Her lovers before and after the malaise had set in were all women from different points in society, from starved heiresses looking for a brief fling to those who liked the thrill of laying with a beautiful woman descended from their seats beyond their reach. She’d traveled across the length and breadth of New Liberty to take in its sights; and nothing spoke to her more than the seeming simplicity of those less fortunate.

Maybe, she thought, this will end without me being dragged into a hotel. It would be a waste of a good day.

 

[Soviet Panda]

It had been fairly easy to enter the fashion show, all he had to do was somewhat look the part of some pompous nobody and stay close to a gaggle of haughty imbeciles with to much money and not enough sense. And just like that, he was through the doors. Of course, he wasn't the only one there, several more of his flock had procured a way in of their own, mostly as staff members. He should have gotten in in a similar fashion as his flock, but he needed to be seen doing what must be done. What he planned would be a statement, and not just one of him standing behind a podium announcing the obvious truth of every Xenogen's divinity, but an act to prove it. For there was one person that the birds and rats of the world have told him would be here, a face for those that despised his kind. That face would be taken from them tonight, and the next put on display for the world to see, cleansed by his flame. It would attract attention, far to much and of the wrong sort, but he knew in his bones, his soul, that this was the right thing to do and the right time to do it.

 

[Klown]

ＧＥＮＥＳＩＳ ＯＬＩＫＴＯＲＯ
location: fashion show ; banquet hall
mood: trying her best
tags:

A room swarmed with enough color to satisfy a nation into never needing it again. Replete with heaps of garishly wrapped boxes. An assault of polka-dots, stripes, and sequin. They bore a striking resemblance to the nighttime city view beyond the wall-encompassing window. Tall, resplendent buildings that yearned for the sky—or in this case, the ceiling. In smaller armies, gift bags of all sizes claimed whatever nook they could find stable footing on between the pristine floors and mounds of presents.

In this imposing fiefdom of gift boxes, bags, flowers, and balloons, an angel sits at a desk swarmed with cards all inked with wishes for her to live a long happy life, congratulating her for making it another year. Hopeful for future joint business ventures.

Twenty-one. A ceremonious age, ostensibly. One worth the celebration. Seraphina had spent it cradled in the palms of endlessly flowing praise and blessings from people whose faces were fog in her memories, and whose names were incoherent sounds.

The party was grand. Nothing less for the angel. Everyone was allowed to overindulge in champagne while she was given an alcohol-free cider. It was infantilizing, honestly. Twenty-one yet not allowed even the one thing twenty-one-year-olds are so excited for when turning that age. Henrik had been a hawk the entire night, ensuring not even the tip of her finger swayed towards an open wine bottle.

“Did you want the left-over cake in here, miss?” A mousy assistant—both in cadence and appearance—shimmied through the bramble of balloon string, detangling herself with the care of someone who’d crossed a spider’s web and felt guilty for it. Her hands carried a plain white box holding the remnants of a once-massive cake. Genesis’ birthday cake. Seraphina’s birthday cake.

“You could’ve left that in the kitchen.” Offered with the scathing frostiness of winter air; noticed by both parties. The whole evening sharpened the star’s edges. Grated her with superficial pleasantries and hollow blessings. Whatever compassion Seraphina bled onto the guests was spent, leaving a raw and exhausted Genesis. The assistant visibly startles, the center of her brows pulling into a remorseful furrow, mouth quivering as if revving a thousand apologies.

“But uhm—” Genesis falters, guilt provoking a rushed amend. “Here is fine, too.” She sweeps the birthday cards aside to make space. One final stretch of sympathy wouldn’t be damning. “Sorry.” She stutters out with the same expectant insecurity of someone about to be struck.

“It’s alright, you must be tired after such a long day. I should have known to leave this in the kitchen.” The assistant smiles apprehensively, almost asking for permission, as she sets the cake box down where cleared. Genesis wished she could remember her name. Her eyes fruitlessly flicker across the lapel of her suit for a nametag. “Is there anything else you would like of me, miss?” She bows her head.

“A spoon?” Genesis smiles like it’s a foreign entity attacking her face.

“Of course.” Silence fills the space the assistant abandoned. With an exhausted huff, Genesis slumps in the chair and glances at the box on the table. She slips the lid open, the half-melted candle staring back at her beside the pastry. A raw reminder of how much time has passed. All the birthdays she’s spent with people alien to her, and whose praise only extended to the part of Genesis that was a celebrity.

Air seeps out of her like wind drifting through something hollow. An overwhelmingly cavernous emptiness inside of her. Like all the contents that made her were violently shaken out until there was nothing left to rattle inside, except for maybe a pathetic modicum of pride.

This marked the sixth year in a row without a word from her mother. No card or present. Not even a visit, though that wasn’t unusual. Once Genesis turned fifteen, the birthday letters—every letter, email, or text message—completely stopped. Genesis committed each line of that final letter to memory. Each year, before going to sleep, she would read it like it was received anew.

“My little starling, how you’ve grown…”

“Didn’t have enough cake?” A prey-animal instinct inside of her lurches at the voice. Heart racing, eyes wide, joints rigid. The hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention, and each decisive click of Henrik’s dress shoes jolts every nerve in her body with a desperate plea to run. She sits fearing that any flinch of movement might trigger an unpleasant reaction. She doesn’t dare to look at him until he is at her side, sliding a spoon over the table.

“Where’s the assistant?” Genesis watches the spoon, expecting it to jump out at her.

“Sent her on her way.” Nonchalant, dismissive. Picks up a handful of bags and pulls them off the chair they occupied so that he could take up the space instead. “Quite the party, right? The venue cost a pretty penny, but I’d say it was worth it in the end.” The venue was more for Henrik’s self-aggrandizing agenda than for Genesis’ benefit.

Genesis scoops some cake onto her spoon and lets it melt in her mouth. “It was well organized, thank you.”

“That’s all? The team broke their backs to make it something truly spectacular.” Something spectacular not meant for her.

“And it was.” A more apprehensive bite of cake. She’s aware of Henrik’s keen glare burning through her back. The silence that followed was stifling. It wasn’t about what she said, but what she hadn’t. She’d stepped on a landmine and was waiting for the inevitable catastrophe. The atmosphere was stagnant. She distracts herself from it with another spoon of cake.

“What is it that you’re not happy with then, huh? Not enough cake? Not enough presents? Not enough people?” The singer was familiar with Henrik’s anger. The silence was the preamble. He let his rage fester and grow until it was destructive enough that he could use it to hurt. A deep, loud bark; if she was lucky—oftentimes she wasn’t—there would be no bite.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t happy with it.” She puts the spoon down and closes the box knowing what follows won’t leave room for enjoying another piece.

“Clearly something is bothering you, so out with it.”

“It’s just…” Her nail flicks the corner of the box. “My mom—”

“Again with your mother?” Genesis flinches, anticipatingly ducking her head. “Dozens of people showed up today, and you’re upset because one person couldn’t make it?” It was his incredulity that angered her the most. Henrik of all people should know how important her mother was to all of this. If not for her mother, what was the point in any of this?

“Well I’m sorry for wanting to hear my mother wish me a happy birthday!” Her anger pulls her onto her feet and turns her towards her manager.

“You’ve gotten thousands of birthday wishes all day from all over the world.” He hadn’t said the word directly, but Genesis could still hear it in the way he spit out that sentence. Selfish. You have everything and you still want more. What’s it going to take to satisfy you?

“But I don’t know those people! And none of them know me!” Her voice shatters in his throat despite her best efforts to keep it steady. Trembling hands curled into tight fists to hide just how hard they were shaking. “They all said Happy Birthday to Seraphina, not me!”

“Who are you, then?” They’re both standing now, Henrik’s chest expanded as he leers over Genesis. “Who are you if not Seraphina?” There’s a warning in there somewhere, but Genesis is too heated to obey it. He’s waiting for her to stand down, to submit. Apologize for her behavior and fall back into her role of perfect little star. She glares at him, standing her ground. Refusing to play the part. Henrik doesn’t like to be challenged.

In the span of a blink, his hand lunges out towards the angel’s face, manicured nails digging into her cheeks as he forces her jaw open. Genesis gasps on instinct, immediately regretting it as something crams itself down her throat. Thick silver rings click against her teeth, and her jaw clicks painfully. Her body heaves painfully, seizing as she gags and bucks away from Henrik. The side of her hip slams into the desk behind her while her head is thrown forward, spewing whatever she’d eaten that evening onto the floor.

“What are you—!” A horrid yelp follows the sharp, scathing sting against her scalp and the slight pop in her neck as her hair is wrenched by a vengeful fist. Tears sting her eyes. She swats at Henrik’s chest with one hand, the other trying to detangle his fingers from her hair. “Stop!” She wails, only for her mouth to be promptly squeezed shut.

“You’re not Seraphina, right? Then what are you doing eating her cake? What are you doing in a room full of presents for her?” His pupils are as thin as needles, void of light. His breath stinks of alcohol and cigars. The tears are fully running down her cheeks now, her breath ragged and aching as it goes through her throat. “If you’re not Seraphina then I guess you can go back to the piss-stained shit hole you were born in. Go back to your poor, penniless mother knowing you were too weak to make it in the industry, and a disappointment to all those that thought you were worth a damn thing!”

Genesis can’t breathe. Her heart twists in her chest and she feels that same ache travel across her arms and fingertips, like the anguish it felt seeped into her bloodstream and extended into her veins. Henrik waits for the flame to extinguish before removing his hand and wiping it with a handkerchief he pulls out of his suit pocket.

She flinches when his hand returns to her, this time with a sickening gentleness that nearly makes her throw up again. His fingers carefully brush her hair into place, tuck it behind her ear, like arranging a doll for display. Then he cups the side of her wet cheek with his hand.

“I’m sorry. You know I only want what’s best for you.” He kisses her forehead, Genesis sobs as if hit a second time. “Now go wash your face. I’ll call someone to clean up this mess.” He pats her cheek to bring her back to her senses.

She remembers wishing a hole would open beneath him and swallow him whole as he left the room. Plunge him into an eternal abyss where he could do no more harm. Where she could be free of him. Grab the keys of the birdcage and finally let herself out. But even with Henrik gone the cage remained sealed shut. Genesis wasn’t even sure there was ever a door at all.

Her luxurious cage. Gold and off-white. Smooth surfaces and flawless curves. Caked in shadow like an overgrown weed latching onto concrete. It was in that darkness that Genesis stood in one of the many guest bathrooms in her home. An audience to her shattered reflection in the mirror. The hiss of running water pushing to the forefront. She cups it in her hand and rinses her mouth, ridding it of the acidic bile that had surfaced along with that awful memory.

The most she can stomach these days is water or broth with not much to chew. Sometimes she’ll go days with neither and just sleep until she can’t feel her stomach eating itself anymore. Her mornings are fairly routine. Wake up at some point in the day, never aware of what time it is. Shower, if she’s not sleeping. Eat, if she’s not sleeping. Ignore most of her social media accounts and news outlets. It was by sheer luck that she found an article on Seraphina’s Angels. Maybe not so much luck. The article did nothing but feed into the awful slog of thoughts convincing her she shouldn’t have made it out of the Civic Center alive.

Venus glued herself to Genesis’ side upon her arrival. The other four idled close, but don’t have AI as attuned to reading emotional states like Venus. They were her only comfort, with the exception of Elena. But that had only been for one night, and Genesis hardly remembered it on account of all she drank.

Nearly all month was dedicated to the shadows of her home. She’d intended it to last longer, unsure she could face a world where people mourned Henrik’s loss and not scream at the top of her lungs. Fate orchestrated different plans for her, however, and an invitation to a fashion show landed itself on her lap. Soli was persuasive. Being someone who Genesis didn’t completely hate did favors as well.

Seraphina’s team swept in to pick her up that morning to get her dressed for the event. A buttoned blouse with an exposed back for her wings. Around her neck draped a thin scarf, tied into a bow. Additionally, a pencil skirt with a sinched waist to accentuate her curves. Her hair, pushed to one side and tied in a loose ponytail, cascades down in thick, golden tresses.

It was the brightest she’d ever seen herself all month.

Arriving at the venue was daunting even without Henrik at her side. The ghost of his expectations haunted her as she stepped into the banquet hall, forcing as much a smile as she could muster.

 

[Clockwork_Magic]

Hanabi Kage
Blaze, Leader of Daybreak

Interactions: None
Location: Biotech Facility
Mood: It's Go Time

---

One word could be used to describe how the last month went for Blaze: tiring. While the other team was busy going over the list that hacker sent them and investigating the names on it and their other members around the city laying low until the heat died down, Hanabi and Tsukiko had the task of dealing with that group of "Angels" and figuring out how to track down that blogger girl. The latter led them on a wild goose chase of sorts through New Liberty's shadows, back alleys, and underworld trying to find some lead that would lead to the blogger's whereabouts. Thankfully, it didn't take too long for them to actually get a hold of a promising lead that was the perfect opportunity to kill 2 birds with one stone, leading them to camp out on the third floor of an abandoned building nearby that Biotech facility where those anti-xeno terrorists were holed up.

If their contacts were correct, that Stellar girl would be at this facility on business, though what exactly they didn't know nor was it necessarily important to their task at hand. If Hanabi were to spin a guess, perhaps some kind of deal or meeting with those Angels, otherwise why else head into a place full of their armed thugs? The redhead peered out the corner of one of the building's many shattered windows using a pair of binoculars, with Tsukiko doing the same a few windows away. For a group of people calling themselves Angels, the amount of firepower they're carrying around is as ironic as it was a threat. So much for just being messengers for a higher power. After a few more moments of scanning the area, Hanabi laid her eyes on just who she was looking for. "I got eyes on her. Those brokers were right on the money this time."

"Blaze, far side barricade." As the red head turned her binoculars towards the location Shade called out as the relative serenity of the moment was broken by the sound of combat in the distance. If you could ignore all the guns, the scene was vaguely akin to the scene of a pair of giants assaulting some township in a fantasy setting, at least in Hanabi's mind. Except she wouldn't exactly call those "Angels" the good guys in this tale, instead she'd it'd be more accurate to describe it as a camp of bandits getting their well deserved comeuppance. Cathartic feelings aside from seeing those damn bigots get what they deserve, the arrival of those 2 were concerning in and of itself. "Damn!" She cursed under her breath. "Guess we shouldn't be surprised that the Directorate sent their dogs in." The presence of those 2 hounds certainly complicated things, but yet perhaps it also provided the perfect opportunity. The attention was being drawn away from other parts of the building thanks to their """friends""" which gave them as good as an opportunity they were gonna get to slip behind their lines.

"Let's go. We just need to find that blogger girl and get out of here before those Hounds get her in all that crossfire." The two dashed their way out of the building and made their way through the desolate streets weaving from cover to cover until they reached the side of the barricade furthest from the fighting. As Hanabi peered around the corner of the building they were hiding behind up at the barricade, she didn't spot any guards in the vicinity, most likely courtesy of the chaos the dogs were throwing over there. Seeing it safe, she ran over to the base of the barricade, turning back away from it while lowering her stance and cupping her hands. "I'll boost you up." "What about you?" "I'll make it over. Take point, try not to draw too much attention."

Without wasting another second, Tsukiko began running over to Blaze and as the redhead braced herself. Once she felt the weight of Shade's foot press down on her palms she heaved and launched the girl upwards and over the makeshift barricade, Tsukiko making a run for the nearest cover once she landed. Her comrade now safely on the other side of the wall it was time to join her. The redhead backed away from the wall before sprinting towards it at full speed, She leapt into the air just before she reached the base of the barrier once more, almost clearing the hurdle entirely thanks to her cybernetics though she wasn't finished yet. Hanabi grabbed hold of the top of the barrier and in one smooth motion flipped her legs and lower body up and over her head in quite the display of acrobatic skill before sticking the landing on the other side. As she hit the ground, she rushed back over to Tsukiko's side in cover. The scene within the compound courtyard was as chaotic as one would expect with the place under attack, with the rank and file goons rushing about in a state of confusion and what seems to be a hint of panic while their superiors attempted to bring back order and coordinate the movements of the mob. Among all this chaos, Blaze was focused on the entrance to the facility, her mind calculating how to get over there with minimal risk to herself and Tsukiko.

 

[Alisutte]

Chairman Amhson

Location: Main Biotech Facility
Interactions/Mentions: Zedalith​

---

On an off chance that something interesting would happen, Amhson spent the majority of the past month glued to the data. For the most, his interest consisted in eliminating all the possibilities in the frame of reference. For instance, in the various pacifying and calming conferences and the smearing the Directorate made up were made for the highest good of them. Indeed, in the majority of cases, nothing out of the ordinary would indicate an important figure of any degree. For the most part, nothing too unusual happened, namely, he got a call from that estranged sibling of his, which was a surprise which should not have been as such. Indeed, in a variety of circumstances other than current ones, Vale would eliminate them due to interrupting his work.
The car sped up nicely through the busy streets. He entertained himself by watching the windows of the nearby buildings pass by. Vale was not a person who could be considered shallow by any means, but even he liked seeing his expression in the mirrored surfaces of daytime skyscrapers. He smiled, and saw the practiced movement flying on the reflections copy him. What a copywright violation. The pathing to the Eighth Street Horizon Biotech Facility was simple enough. As he unboarded, he looked to see the crowds - expected, if not unusual for the determined expression many of them wore. Vincent was the first to arrive, ever the punctual man. It appears that others would follow soon. Indeed, he could hear another car land behind him. Jack Holler was the third, and the like. With the New Liberty Board Members in attendance, it appears their guard elements made quite a crowd in themselves. Amhson waved to the public assembled behind the fences and those who stood at a distance, a charming, he supposed, smile. The crowd reacted just as expected, which was a bunch of excited voices and a few dissidents who were instantly silenced by those nearby and if not for the precision vision, he would certainly have missed it. His smile broadened. It was already an entertaining visit, the events past made some of those unsatisfied with syaye of afdairs giddy for action. This was merely a rabble inside a larger, entushiastic crowd. He greeted Director Holler as the other man caught up.
"Fancy seeing you here, Chairman.", he said cheekily. Amhson merely shook his head in humourous amusement. He greeted the man in return. It was almost a shock seeing Holler in such a good mood, but Vale knew it was merely transient. Holler rarely expressed such sentiments
Almost immediately as they entered, Amhson discarded the attention on the fellow board member and looked around the suited people clamoring for more attention. Most of them boasted, unsurprisingly, of promises beyond capacity and merely two minutes have passed before Vale joined Vincent in the private room. Director Holler seemed to be caught up in something of a converational nature, lagging behind.
"Vincent, it's a pleasure to see you here", he said, sitting beside a glass tube that looked to be an art piece of sorts if one squinted.

 

[TheRealAngeloftheStorm]

PENELOPE GRAHAM

HANDLER OF HOUNDS

FASHION SHOW

VIGILANT

interactions

NONE

mentions

Nogoodname Naril Klown

She’d had many brushes with opulence, with decadence, in the aftermath of her departure. It was merely part of the job; many clients were nouveau riche, those privileged souls who stood above the rest of the proletariat. In steel-topped spires, clients all bared their wealth for all to see. They reveled in it. Expensive clothing; fleets of imported, top-class vehicles; luxurious furniture; fine silks and jewelry.

It stank of a need to prove themselves better through flaunting their material wealth. An inferiority complex writ large across an entire strata of men and women. They were better because they had more money. The fallacy never really crossed their minds.

This fashion show was nothing more than silly bourgeois decadence. Still, Penelope was glad to swipe their money from their hands. She’d had a laugh to herself when the contractor had to physically crane his neck to look up at her.

The aftermath of the Civic Center bombing had caused a dramatic spike in demand for chrome hounds to provide security services for beleaguered men and women of high status. Each client was the same; convinced that they were next, that those damn dirty rebels were going to strike at this or that asset. Others sought safety from the wrath of the Angels. The handlers across the city were more than happy to provide; competition had grown fierce as a result. Rumors of low-intensity skirmishes between different offices were growing increasingly common.

It was the work of connections that landed her this particular job. A tug here, a whisper there, and Penelope had been put forward as the primary candidate. From there, it was relatively smooth sailing into getting settled in as the night approached.

Relatively.

She was merely supplementing the increased security with her own hounds. There was a certain level of trust that clients afforded to mercenaries. How could you trust someone that could be bought out by someone bigger than you? That trust had been detrimental to actually trying to secure the building; Victor, ever observant, had pointed out a number of flaws with patrols and coverage. Penelope forwarded it - and was dismissed with a wave of the hand and a ‘we’ll take care of it’. They’d been shuffled off into other positions in the banquet hall and the entrance, with only Penelope being allowed in the runway room itself.

Deeply immature of them, really. Someone hadn’t liked being told that they were wrong, and now she and her employees suffered for it. But if they were going to play fuck-fuck games, then by all means - she’d do her job, and they would do theirs.

Of the three original recruits, only one had come with. The rest of the assembly were all recent signups. Untested pups, eager for a taste, so tantalizing and invigorating, of what life was like up there. Victor was busy elsewhere in the city, providing bodyguard services to some wealthy socialite’s daughter. Ying had graciously subbed in to handle work at the office.

That left James.

“I hope you aren’t taking this as an opportunity to get yourself laid, James.” Penelope rumbled, voice like thunder across the comms.

“Relax,” James chuckled, a deep and gravelly thing, “I wouldn’t be so irresponsible. That’ll be after the show.”

She imagined that half-smile he’d given her when they first met - the one he hoped would’ve turned her into a blushing, stuttering mess. “At least try to keep your eyes up and not staring at the next great pair tits you see.”

“Speaking of which,” he cut in, “there’s a great rack coming up now. Red hair too - very nice. There’s one next to her who looks absolutely ravishing as well. Just a little lean down and she’d be giving me a great view.”

Deep within the heart of the show, Penelope’s fingers tapped against synthetic flesh. Ying had been outright horrified when she announced her intent to come fully armored. Victor and James had voiced their disapproval - very loudly - and she had no choice but to relent. A suit it was, finely tailored and fitting. It wouldn’t provide much protection against bullets, but her body was strong enough to shrug off smaller calibers anyway.

“Lecher.” Penelope said with no heat. “Anything suspicious?”

“Nothing so far.” James replied, that little laugh in his tone melting into professionalism. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if someone slipped past us already. They put us here late because someone upstairs didn’t like being told off for being a raging incompetent. Oh- Seraphina just pulled up.”

Seraphina. The woman had been completely closed off for the month following the charity event’s spectacular ending. And now she was attending a fashion show out of the blue? Something was up, but it wasn't her place to say anything. Victor and Ying would no doubt be ruminating on the subject regardless; drama and gossip were their favorite things, and Victor had a few contacts with informants from his days as a ganger.

Penelope's fingers twitched. A stray memory. Ainsworth Defense Technologies had declared for Vincent. They had been present at the Civic Center…

Her lip curled.

Gregory was a mystery to her - she didn’t know what he was planning, engaging in some cloak-and-dagger bullshit to send her updates for possible clients. She accepted it, but kept her younger brother at arms-length. Too much risk.

But Elena? Lost Elena, busy drowning her sorrows in women and wine? Easier. The apple of their father’s eye, once so elevated above her - but stars that rise are eventually destined to fall. And Elena’s fall was calamitous indeed. Her other half had been once so kind, so charismatic. But the weight of the world pressed on her shoulders, and her feet were not made of steel, but clay.

Weak.

Penelope sucked in a breath, great and greedy and filled with a hundred conflicting emotions, and expelled them with a heave of her lungs.

It was no place to be dwelling on things that were.

“Penny,” James’ voice came through, “Seraphina’s making her way up the entrance. She’ll be entering soon.”

“Tell Nick and David in the banquet hall to keep their distance and watch out for any limpets that look rotten.” Penelope bit out. “If the rest of the security guards won’t play ball, then we’ll pick up the slack.”

 

[Zedalith]

ARC 2

Fatal Fête

In a room filled with glitter and fabric, Soli moved with a grace that rivaled the models themselves. Their eyes were fixed on their goal: Genesis. Soli closed the distance, their figure cutting through the crowd until they stood right before Genesis, their radiant smile illuminating the room. “Well, hello dear!”

"Aren't you just divine," Soli cooed, their words dripping with admiration as they circled Genesis. Every inch of her was meticulously designed, an art piece embodying everything that Soli’s collection represented. "Truly, my dear, you are the embodiment of elegance, the epitome of grace," they continued, their eyes gleaming with barely concealed delight. They took Genesis's hand in theirs, their long fingers draped in expensive rings, and raised it to their lips.

"And now that Henrik is...unfortunately out of the picture," Soli continued, their voice dropping a notch, "I expect you to demolish the banquet. It's one of my models who's footing the bill, so don't you dare hold back."

As the last syllables of Soli's previous statement still hung in the air, their manicured hand rose, fingers curling inwards in a beckoning gesture. The room became quiet, all eyes gravitating toward them. "Ladies, Gentlemen, and esteemed guests, it is time. Let us adjourn to the Banquet Hall to begin our feast."

The announcement hung in the air for a moment before the crowd began to disperse, myriad voices rising in excitement as they made their way to the banquet hall. Soli remained rooted in place, their attention firmly on Genesis. "How have you been holding up, darling?" Soli asked, their voice softer now. "If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask." A small smile graced Soli's lips as they began to guide Genesis toward the banquet hall.

With a gentle guiding hand, Soli led Genesis to a table, adorned with ivory linen and an array of crystal stemware. Slowly, Soli pulled out a chair with an inviting gesture. "Do sit, Genesis, dear," they said, their voice cordial. "I insist you try the Coquilles Saint-Jacques," Soli suggested, nodding towards a plate of beautifully presented scallops, seared to perfection and drizzled with a rich, creamy sauce. "It's my addition to the banquet. A little indulgence never hurts, hm?"

Klown Clockwork_Magic Archie Naril Nogoodname

---

The air is thick with the scent of iron and gun oil, a scent that is oddly comforting to the doctor. The quiet clicks of her hands reassembling each firearm create a gentle ambiance in the surrounding tension.

Abruptly, the door creaks open with a metallic crack, and a figure becomes silhouetted at the entrance. The room’s ambiance shifts palpably. The whispers die down and eyes flick towards the newcomer. But LeClaire, her attention focused on the weapon she’s maintaining, doesn’t immediately look up. Stellar's reputation precedes them, but LeClaire refuses to afford them any immediate attention.

Slowly, she lifts her gaze to meet Stellar's. Her eyes betray no emotions, only cool, detached appraisal. Then, setting aside the weapon she had been cleaning, she stands up, wiping her hands on a nearby cloth. “Hello, Stellar. Glad you could make it,” she acknowledges before stepping forward. With an inconspicuous flick of her wrist, LeClaire signals one of her men to collect something, the soldier nods his head and disappears through a side door.

"Your reputation precedes you. One doesn't earn the status of a top-tier info broker without possessing exceptional skills.”

With a sweeping gesture, she indicates the room around them—the state-of-the-art equipment, the meticulously maintained weaponry, and her men absorbed in their tasks. "All of this," she asserts. “It thrives because of people like you, Stellar.”

"I've always believed in the principle of just reward. The risks that information brokers like you take, the efforts you make... they should not go unrecognized. Rest assured that your contributions will be well-compensa—“

At the sharp, unmistakable staccato of gunfire echoing through the facility, LeClaire's head snaps towards the source of the noise. Her men exchange quick, alert glances, their postures instantly shifting to combat-ready stances. Orders fly just like the bullets, sharp and clear. "Secure the perimeter!" "Team Alpha, on me!" "We have incoming, I repeat, we have incoming!" Then, a rumble echoes through the ground, building up like the prelude to an earthquake. The stomps of the facility's mech reverberate through the walls—the heavy thuds quicken, heading toward the intruders.

At the first echo of gunfire, LeClaire's instincts take over. In swift strides, she closes the distance to Stellar's side. "Looks like you've arrived at an interesting time," she says, dry amusement coloring her voice. Her fingers move over her handheld device, her eyes not leaving the screen until a satisfactory chime rings out. "Here's your payment. Just as we agreed. With a little bonus." LeClaire takes a step back, her boots echoing with a hollow thud against the floor. The low hum of machinery and the sharp clatter of weapons being readied by her soldiers mix with the more distant sounds of the ongoing skirmish.

"It's not safe outside, Stellar," she states, with genuine concern. “You need to come with me."

The mech lumbers towards the heart of the commotion. Guided by its targeting system, it identifies the position of a female among the invaders. In a fraction of a second, several small compartments slide open on the behemoth's body.
A volley of projectiles springs forth from the mech, their fiery plumes lighting up the evening sky as they streak toward their target.

With the gunfire growing louder and the urgency building, LeClaire's focus sharpens, her gaze flicking towards a nondescript corridor diverging from their current location. "Stellar," she calls, her voice just audible over the sound of the missiles, "in your professional opinion, who would stand the most to gain from an attack on this facility?" Ahead, an unmarked door blends into the corridor's end. The pathway descends, its gradient increasing as they draw nearer to their destination—the basement, the heart of LeClaire's operation.
Nogoodname Clockwork_Magic specters

 

[Clockwork_Magic]

Hanabi Kage
Blaze, Leader of Daybreak

Interactions: None
Location: Biotech Facility Interior
Mood: Adrenaline Rush

---

Things in the courtyard around the main building only got more hectic as the seconds ticked by. The thumping of would could have only been that worn down, yet still deadly, war relic joined the ever growing cacophony of gunfire as the golden sky was lit up by the giant's armaments. It was an oddly captivating sight, almost like watching fireworks, though you best hope that you're not on the receiving end of its trajectory and luckily for Hanabi and Tsukiko, it didn't appear they were. With the battle in the other sector of the compound escalating and more guns being drawn to fight the hounds, it was a good a time as any to rush over to the building itself. Hanabi peered around their surroundings, eyeing the path towards the building's doors. Not yet... not yet... Now! The redhead dashed out of cover sprinting towards the building at a full sprint, with Tsukiko following behind her.

“HEY! WE G-" The Angel's cry was silenced by a short burst from Hanabi's PDW. The redhead briefly looked over at the man's body as it crumpled to the ground. A young man, several years younger than Hanabi from the looks of it, possibly around Tsukiko's age even. To think someone as young as him would take up arms for a cause so hateful. Precisely the reason why the truth needed to be shown to the people of New Liberty. There will never be peace so long as the Directorate was in control. Its very core was built upon a foundation of exploiting the masses' fear of 'the other' to maintain their iron fisted rule. Sure, 'the others' right now are the xenos, but after them then who would that unfortunate label fall upon next? Where would it end? Knowing the current people in power, they're surely going to keep passing that title around until the end of time, and with it continuing the cycle of persecution, fear mongering, and murders.

Now was hardly the time to mourn the death of the enemy, however. Young as he was, he chose a path paved with bigotry and paid the consequences. Not to mention, they'd surely lost the element of surprise now. The two women took up positions on either side of the doors, exchanging a quick nod before Tsukiko burst through the door, Hanabi covering her flanks as she too entered the building.

Now it was time for the second hardest part behind not getting shot: actually finding where that blogger girl went in this facility. Their footsteps echoed through the halls they ran through the building, slowing and coming to a stop as they approached a corner hearing another set of footsteps rapidly approaching just beyond. As a trio of Angels rounded the corner, they were immediately greeted by a hail of gunfire, the 2 frontmost Angels getting blasted by Tsukiko's shotgun at point blank range while the remaining Angel was cut down by Hanabi. After the duo replenished the rounds they just spent and after Hanabi grabbed their spent casing and shells, the two would continue making their way through the facility in as a methodical and careful a manner they could given the time crunch they found themselves in. Given that the whereabouts of the blogger was as of yet unknown, the duo made their way towards the building's primary electrical room, it was a tad bit too bright inside the building for their liking. Hopefully that wouldn't be too far from wherever that blogger was after they finished their business there.

 

[TheRealAngeloftheStorm]

PENELOPE GRAHAM

HANDLER OF HOUNDS

FASHION SHOW

BORED

interactions

NONE

mentions

Klown

Two of her people were closing in on the banquet hall. James was still positioned outside, and would be staying there until this show was over. With the walkway over - or paused as the guest of honor arrived, Penelope couldn’t really say - she moved from the stark room to the glittering opulence of the banquet hall.

There she saw her two hounds, Nick and David, skulking around at the edges of the assembled crowd. With no identifying markers beyond the simple black suits they wore, they blended into the background, lost in the teeming masses of humanity making their way to the banquet. Each of them were dressed in outfits and swathed in finery more expensive than the sum of both their armaments and cybernetics. Her hounds gave her the barest of nods as she stalked into the main hall.

Her eyes swept across the room. Long legs of steel rather than flesh fell like a hammer. It was loud in her own ears and lost just as quickly. Amid the fracas of the elite beginning to indulge themselves in their vices, their luxury as afforded to them by status and wealth, very few bothered to look. And when they did, they turned away just as quickly. Her lips pulled themselves into a thin line.

Soli was giving some sort of speech as they took the Angel of New Liberty along, excitedly chattering about something. She barely gave them a glance, eyes settling on Seraphina for a fleeting second, deep azure taking in flawless features marred by something, before turning away.

Why here? Why now?

There was a thread there, something that Penelope could pull on. Unraveling the great question of what New Liberty’s darling star was doing in the aftermath of the Civic Center’s closure. But she was merely a guard. Hired muscle. Interacting with Seraphina was out of the question, and a mark on her mostly unblemished record as both agent and facilitator.

It’d eat at her until more was revealed. But like with her younger brother, it would be the work of years.

“Had enough of the dog and pony show, have you?” David said over comms.

“Maybe.” she grunted, letting herself lean against the wall. Her height let her pick out particular individuals amid the throngs of humanity milling around. “But it is what it is. A job’s a job.”

“And you don’t have to like the people to do your job.” David laughed. “I don’t know about you, but I can just imagine myself here.”

“Wearing outlandish outfits and baring yourself for perverts?”

A snort, with a hint of outrage. “No, of course not! I’ll be the one in the seats, appreciating the view.”

David wasn’t much. A young hound out to prove himself, barely out of his teenage years. She’d given his file a look; mostly combat augmentations, with a very pricey pistol from Ainsworth that he definitely looted off someone far better off than he was. And like all young hounds, he dreamt big.

Penelope tugged at her collar, her gaze wandering to the lights. “Sure. If you want to get to those front row seats, keep your eyes open.”

A grumble was the answer she received.

 

[Klown]

ＧＥＮＥＳＩＳ ＯＬＩＫＴＯＲＯ
location: fashion show ; banquet hall
mood: trying her best
tags: Nogoodname Zedalith Naril TheRealAngeloftheStorm

The opulence of the room cut through the eyes like bright, white daggers. After cowering in the dark recesses of her home for so long, being thrust into an exorbitantly luxurious event hosted by one of the most exorbitantly luxurious people was a staggering leap. If she was at all struggling to find her footing in the myriad of stimulation, it did not show.

Genesis allowed Soli to guide her, whom she’d allowed herself some relief upon greeting. In a space filled with people she didn’t know or care much for, the designer provided the comfort of a familiar face, if nothing else.

“Thank you, Soli. I appreciate it.” With a delicate touch brushing the top of Soli’s hand, Genesis sits herself onto the chair pulled out for her. Her palms smooth her skirt of its invisible creases before taking in the bountiful feast atop the table. The smell was overwhelming. What someone else could be eagerly drooling over, Genesis found utterly unappetizing. The scallops couldn’t have looked more perfect, but the mere thought of putting anything in her mouth made her tongue coil. She smiles through it, not wanting to offend Soli. “It looks—”

Red hair flickers across her vision. A second take at its startingly recognizable hue allows Genesis the chance to see the face along with it. She blinks as if expecting the figure to disperse into air like a phantom, but this was no trick of the light. The supposed reporter woman from the bar at the civic center. The civic center…

Visions of shattered glass, mangled bones, and deep puddles of red forces Genesis’ attention away. Her eyes fixate on the empty plate in front of her. It takes a second for her to realize there’s no band playing an unsteady drum and it’s only her heart restless against her chest. The ghost of Henrik’s hand tightens around her throat, blocking the air she stole from him that night.

“I-I’m sorry.” She holds her hands firmly together to keep them from quivering. “I need a moment alone.” Everything felt too loud and too bright. She wished she had a thick, dark blanket to pull over herself and hide away from everyone. Pointedly avoiding the reporter’s gaze, Genesis offers an apologetic smile towards Soli before disappearing into the hall.

The restroom wasn’t the blissful escape she was wishing for. The sight of her reflection nearly startles her half to death. Her back is swiftly turned towards it; then she allows herself to breathe for a handful of seconds.

What are the odds she’d see that face again on her first day out in a month. Maybe it was punishment for what she did. Maybe this was God’s way of saying he’s not going to let her forget about the civic center that easily. Tears swell her eyes; she tilts her back, forcing them to stay and dry before they can fall. Not here, not today, not now.

A few more long, deep breaths and she’s as ready as she’ll ever be to head back into the fray. In her head, she rehearses things she can say to Soli or the redhead, if she ever decides to talk to her. Anything to avoid having to think in the moment. Hopefully the food won’t be too hard to stomach.

Upon reentering the banquet hall, another surprise leaps at her unexpectedly. She didn’t catch her immediately. A shape lingering in the corner of her eye that she unthinkingly focused on, and felt a leap at her core upon seeing. That was—

“Elena,” Her body moves ahead of her words. Hand reaching for the woman’s arm but stopping just short of it. “I didn’t know you…were coming…” A cold, disappointment bleeds into her stomach as the slow realization makes itself known. The resemblance was uncanny. From the eyes to the nose to the hair. All the blatant details screamed Elena, but the longer Genesis looked, the less of her friend she saw.

Her mouth hangs slightly agape as she stares at the near-spitting image of her drinking buddy.

“I’m so sorry. I mistook you for…someone.” Was it presumptuous of her to assume they were siblings? Elena never mentioned the sort. Granted, they didn’t know all that much about each other’s personal lives.

 

[Zedalith]

Tashi Dolma

Daybreak

Soli’s Fashion Show

Excited

interactions

Clockwork_Magic

Tashi looked a far cry from the ragtag rebel he truly was. His hair was now tamed and styled. Combed back, and secured with a gloss of pomade, it shone under the spotlight. A single strand hung loose on his forehead. As his hands ran through his hair unconsciously, the strand swayed but never strayed far.

As he stood among the glitz and glamor, a mental note struck him—he’d gotten better at this. The laughter and pretentious conversations were less daunting. He had learned to laugh when the crowd laughed, to clap when they clapped, and to raise his glass in celebratory toasts even if the humor or the occasion eluded him. He found that a friendly nod and a well-timed smile could camouflage his discomfort, making him appear as one of them.

His eyes chanced upon a familiar figure: Cipher. Her simple yet elegant black dress was a contrast to the over-ornamented figures milling around them. But the vibrancy of her dress couldn't mask the discomfort that was so visible in her demeanor. Her posture was too rigid, her scanning gazes a touch too frantic. He observed the small signs—the strained tilt of her head as she listened to another bout of laughter, her fingers swiping at her phone with a sense of urgency—all clear indicators of her unease. He understood this feeling well himself.

With a nod to himself, he decided to step in. "You seem comfortable," he said as he approached her. His tone was gently teasing, a touch of humor to take the edge off. "How about we attack that banquet? There's nothing like good food to ground you in a situation like this." He motioned towards the spread of delicacies on display, each more extravagant than the last.

There was a vibrantly adorned seafood platter, glistening roast beef with golden potatoes, and a tower of assorted canapes, each one a little artwork in itself. "Take your pick. Indulge a bit. I don't think either of us has eaten this fancy in quite a while."

As he drew her attention to the selection, his own focus shifted subtly, landing on the blond model called Tessa. Her aura was inescapable, she held an ethereal presence that demanded attention. But there was a flicker of disconnect in her gaze, an unfocused stare that suggested her mind was elsewhere. Casually, he nodded towards Tessa, his voice low and discreet. "See the blond, Tessa? Once we've got our plates, let's try to grab those empty seats by her. Her mind seems to be off somewhere."

Tessa's eyes, now a bright cerulean, met his. For a split second, their glow seemed to radiate like a lighthouse beam on a foggy evening. Her lips twisted into a playful, flirtatious smirk. It was predatory, full of an implicit, inviting danger as if she was the spider, and he had just wandered into her ornately spun web. Tashi felt an unexpected jolt, like a wave of fire that rippled through his senses. The feeling of her gaze devouring him was unsettling, tantalizing, and utterly nerve-wracking.

An unexpected rush of warmth crept up his cheeks, tinting them a subtle shade of red. Without a word, he subtly nudged Kyoko towards the banquet, his eyes shifting away from Tessa. He maintained an air of casualness, but the intensity of her glare had spurred him on with an unspoken haste. "Come on, let's grab something quickly and find our seats." His voice was steady as if nothing had transpired, but his brisk pace told a different story.

 

[TheRealAngeloftheStorm]

PENELOPE GRAHAM

HANDLER OF HOUNDS

FASHION SHOW

FURIOUS

interactions

Klown

mentions

Elena.

A thousand different thoughts and feelings broke the surface of her mind, all dredged up by one word. One name. And with it came something else, a fire that had been smothered roaring to life anew.

She dipped her head, looking down on the diminutive woman before her. Eyebrows furrowed, lips curled, Penelope spoke.

“Elena.” she repeated, dragging out each syllable. Her hands in her pockets curled into a fist. “Elena Graham, huh? How could someone like her know someone like you?” Penelope’s slouch straightened, the movement bringing her her up to her full height. She stepped forward, the familiar tic of rolling her shoulder coming to her naturally. Idly, she noted the sheer gap in height between the two of them.

“Last I heard, my sister was busy making a fool of herself by fucking the woman of the week in the wrong places.” She peered into Genesis’ eyes, searching them for something. “Don’t tell me she managed to ensnare the Angel of New Liberty with her slovenly charms? Someone like her?”

It was astounding that such a woman could know her sister. Was it seduction? Elena’s coping strategies with how the world really worked involved seducing whatever woman struck her fancy. Or drinking. But the former had caused her to top headlines for a brief, ephemeral moment of New Liberty’s lifespan, before she was obscured by the next scandal, the next scoop. She had the connections, the pull, to be able to worm her way into Seraphina’s good graces before taking her fill.

She would be abandoned soon enough. And her stupid sister would top headlines again.

Artificial teeth ground against each other. With a sigh, Penelope pulled herself together. She could feel that familiar sear of frustration, running like a fire up and down pathways digital and physical. As with all things relating to siblings, there was just something about her sister that set her off. But there was no point getting angry. Seraphina was blameless. People fucked all the time to blow off steam. Whoever Elena decided to bang was her own problem.

But it’s her. My own fucking sister. When will it be enough?

The sting was still there, years after her betrayal. After Elena decided to just- just give up. A little bump in the road, and that was all it took for her to fall apart. The fragility of the upper class, exemplified in her other half. Promises broken, falling away in an ocean that swallowed everything it could and dragged them to the depths.

Of all the nights, it had to be while she was on the job. And of all the people she had to hear it from, it was from someone indescribably important. The woman with a thousand eyes on her, watching her every move. Someone who may have links with a group bearing her epithet. An angel dredged up from the gutter and given wings to fly above the masses.

Fine, Penelope thought, eyes still firmly staring into Genesis’ own, I’ll play the game. I’ll get to the bottom of this.

 

[Nogoodname]

CODE BY SEROBLISS

Leo Chevalier

HORIZON BIOTECH BRANCH FACILITY, NEW LIBERTY OUTSKIRTS

The sound of gunfire rattled against Leo's cover in a ceaseless drumming, stripping off chunks of scrap metal and whittling concrete into a fine powder as bullets skimmed swiftly overhead. The mercenary caught herself grinning, sitting still just long enough to feed a fresh magazine into her rifle before getting ready to move again. She could feel the adrenaline coursing through her, bringing her into that heady, high-minded state of hyperawareness that the mercenary absolutely lived for. It was the kind of high you just couldn't get with money, manifesting in an icy chill settling over her nerves, a sudden unerring clarity of the mind, and the quick pounding of her heart firing on all cylinders.

The chaotic soundscape of the battlefield had a rhythm to it, a certain ebb and flow, providing the perfect backdrop to a song and dance Leo knew all too well. She took the first step with a well tossed grenade, swinging out of cover upon its detonation and laying down a quick burst of gunfire to clear out the stragglers as she made a mad dash for her next piece of cover. Leo moved fast, and while her special blend of magnitism had little effect on something small and fast like a bullet, it could turn a near hit into a near miss, and sometimes that was enough to tip the scales.

Leo swiftly moved from cover to cover, keeping the enemy at range for the most part, using the gap in expertise between her and the enemy to her advantage as she effortlessly picked off targets from a distance before quickly dashing in to clean up the leftovers, a wave of her hand sending another barricade tumbling through the air in a mortifying explosion of splintered wood and twisted metal.

She perked up at the lumbering sound of the mech's approach, a cocky grin spreading across her face as she turned away from the remaining rebels to watch the behemoth trudge its way towards her, utterly dominating the battlefield from its sheer size alone. It was still an older model, sure, but it'd do just fine for Leo's needs. At the very least it'd serve as a nice distraction from the cannon fodder she'd been clearing her way through up to this point. With a soft laugh, she eyed the machine cautiously, just waiting for it to make the first move...

That first barrage from the metal monster tore into the sky overhead, swooping down at her like a rain of hellfire, though this opening battery was easily intercepted by the mercenaries' mutation. Leo couldn't stop a bullet, but a missile? That was far easier. As they came screaming down towards her their targeting data was lost in the first wave of EMP, causing them to tilt away and hit the ground around her as her magnetic field acted as a sort of barrier against the attack, leaving Leo more or less unscathed, though far less could be said about any angel that decided to get close.

With the mech's opening attack disrupted, it was Leo's turn now, quickly hunkering down behind something hard and letting out a spray of gunfire, aiming up towards the sensor modules that dotted the machine's chassis. With the kind of armor a mech had, Leo's rifle stood almost no chance of penetrating, but she could knock an eye or two out just fine. And from there she could improvise some sort of counter attack. ...Maybe, who knows? Leo's just acting on impulse here.

 

[Klown]

ＧＥＮＥＳＩＳ ＯＬＩＫＴＯＲＯ
location: fashion show ; banquet hall
mood: trying her best
tags: TheRealAngeloftheStorm

The pressure of the woman’s glare squashed Genesis down to size, staring up at the startlingly familiar eyes with a wide-eyed gape akin to that of doe facing an oncoming vehicle. Any other day, Genesis might have not even batted an eye. Henrik had taught her all the shapes anger could take and had no reservations making his lectures hands-on. But between everything that has happened—with Elena and otherwise—those contrived defenses have weathered significantly.

There’s an uncomfortable squeezing in her chest. The only thing that saved her from shutting down a second time was how this woman spoke Elena’s name like it carried a foul taste.

To Genesis, Elena’s reputation had always been conspiratorial whispers exchanged behind the futile walls of people’s palms and meagerly concealed glances that spoke volumes more. Her ambiguous understanding of it is owed to their preference of meeting outside the public eye. On the off chance that they did cross paths publicly, Genesis was often too focused on Elena to care about the underhanded comments of others.

Now it was a glaring sign erected at her feet, by Elena’s sister no less.

“Someone like her?” Genesis echoes incredulously, wrapping her arms around herself and straightening her back. She couldn’t appear taller, but she could at least look like her tail wasn’t tucked between her legs. “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but Elena and I are—” Oh, the word died out on her tongue so fast. Friends? Were they still friends? Would Elena want to be friends with a murderer? The word stung fiercely. “Acquaintances.” She settles and tries not to frown.

“We talk on occasion, so you can relax. Whatever you’re worried your sister and I are doing isn’t your business anyways.” She gives a smile wrought with forced politeness.