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Futuristic 𝓝𝓮𝔀 𝓛𝓲𝓫𝓮𝓻𝓽𝔂

Characters
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The Chairman
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Location: VIP Lounge
Interactions: Jhin Jhin , shadowz1995 shadowz1995



The Chairman walked through the suite, parallel to the window, slowly, as he listened to the Director's words. He felt calm and no particular emotion flashed through his mind, at least not before Vincent's analogy. Castell's words amused him a bit. He allowed the emotion to trickle through the separation between internal and external that he so carefully mastered over the decades in this line of work, and let a small smirk appear on his features. He eyed the interaction between Castell and an aide blankly. He felt curious about the performance that the Director had roped the poor xenogenic girl into, and looked forward to seeing it, as much as such things could move his feeble reservoir of interest.
What Amhson was rooting for tonight was for the little terrorist groups affiliated with their captive to happily dance and try for a rescue or whatever else they would concoct. Amhson walked towards the conference table adorning the room as he moved to seat himself. Amhson knew, people who joined anti-establishment groups rarely, if ever were motivated purely by self-interest. They were often motivated individuals who believed in their cause with their whole being. He believed that potential recruitment of such type would be unlikely to look at an attack aimed at a charitable event, such as the one Director Castell has set, favourably, notwithstanding few that were sufficiently cold-blooded and perceptive. So, Amhson viewed the possibilities for tonight as favourable for the Directorate and unfavourable to their opponents. Either they successfuly use and discard the captive, use any attempted rescue attack to slander the terrorists in a PR move or both, though he believed the latter more likely. The whole reasoning that Amhson went through was not something new, really more of an impression of thoughts, something that he idly rehearsed with some contentment for a moment. Vale nodded in reply to Vincent's assurance as he leaned back. "Hopefully they will not dissapoint." He said, with reference to the terrorists. As he observed Vincent outward demeanor change, a spark of interest ignited in his mind.
Vale regarded Vincent calmly. He was empty of anything aside from calculation. The man before him he viewed as brilliant but widely misdirected. Amhson took his musings for a moment to the past. He and Castell had been acquianted for many decades. Vale remembered his first impression of the older man (when Vale himself was younger and much greener in the city's politics), and as he looked at Vincent then, his mind perceived a pasionate, smart, and destined for doing great things for New Liberty individual.
He viewed the fact that a personal lose turned the direction of Vincent's views towards the destruction of the Xenogenics as an unfortunate development. Xenogenics needed strict control and had a dispropprtionately greater utility; this type of tools was to be handled with care rather than thrown in a trash bin. Thus, when Amhson had looked at Vincent Castell today, in this moment, he saw a fire, that had to be extinguished, or else it would damage things too valuable to lose. It was true that the older Board Member didn't start the fire plaguing the minds of the mindless populace. Such fire was brewing from the bottom of the pit, the middle of the pit and the top of it, from many imprudent people who called themselves human and yet let their silly fears dictate their lives, rather than opportunities; but Amhson saw Vincent as someone who had came and doused that fire with extreme amounts of fuel. Amhson was as hopeful, with his own, special brand of hope, about the future: he wanted the current radicalist views disbanded, Xenogenics reined in with newer and better tech and the pests of crime plaguing the city made a non-factor. Despite their goals and plans being different, Castell's words indicated to Amhson that the Director could still be of utility, despite their ends apparantly and widely different. Amhson's calculations didn't show up in his body language and he replied after a pause in affirmation. "Of course, Director Castell", he said with a nod, making sure his tone was sincere and serious as he locked eyes with Vincent, projecting an image of agreeableness. "I believe that'd be a wonderful bill. They, the Xenogenics, require such control, and much more.", he said, making sure to add an echo to the prevalent prejudice.
A moment later a guard entered the lounge. Amhson's eyes traveled away from the Director towards the man in curiosity. The guard looked like a Long to him and his words caused a spark of excitement go through Amhson's veins. He nodded in understanding. So, it has begun, the fuel for the future smearing campaign the Directorate would feed the media. Aside from the anticipation, his mind remained impassive, the Chairman not at all worried about the situation. He stood up and nodded at Vincent, acknowledging the interruption to their conversation, which he supposed was wrapped up anyways. "Well, I guess we shall be going, then", he said, as he got ready to evacuate the room. He briefly scanned the CCTV feeds through his cybernetic implants, feeling curious about what was happening inside the facility. Unfortunately, his curiosity was not to be satisfied. How irritating. He supposed it was fair enough, why would the rats want them to see what they were up to? Inwardly and uncharacteristically petulant, Vale was.
 
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Kyoko(City1).png



Kyoko Hinode
Unemployed Civilian C̸͉̮͆̎̋̉͜͝ỉ̴̫̙̈́̽́̂p̷̹͕͊̈́́͐ͅḥ̸͈͕̃̎e̶̦̖͔͗͌̒̑r̷̈͛̑̏͜

Interactions: The Rebels ( Jhin Jhin Deegan Deegan )
Location: Civic Center -> Insomniac's Late Night Cafe
Mood: Focused


The sound of her footsteps echoed through the hallways as she sped walked to the back entrance. Judging by the sounds of several extra pairs of footsteps getting fainter and fainter down another hall and the state of the guards at the back entrance, it seems that more of her contractors had entered the building. With some android dog on her trail, there was little point in playing some high risk game of hide and seek in the building when she could fulfill her end of the bargain from a safe distance and let the "professionals" handle the dirty work.

Dashing out of the building's back entrance, she made her way to a nearby dark alleyway. Finally she could get this stupid wig off her head, letting her natural hair flow in the night breeze, not to mention the contacts. As for the uniform, she made her way down the alley until she reached the back entrance to a building. The place was a small business just until recently when it closed down and the building was cleaned out and put up for sale. Climbing through a window she made her way through the interior until she found the bag she'd stowed away prior to going into the den of the beast containing her change of clothes, motorcycle helmet, and laptop. A little while after she entered the building clad in the Directorate's security uniform, she left the building the same way she entered in a grey tee, black jeans, and a black leather jacket while also wearing her motorcycle helmet. It was much more comfortable to wear, but when your object of comparison is a Directorate uniform literally anything is more comfortable.

As she continued to stroll down the alley, she threw a lighter into the bag that now held her disguise and then the bag into a dumpster as she spotted her motorcycle. Now the Directorate would have 2 dumpster fires to deal with tonight. Jogging over to her ride, she rode off before the fire could really begin to grow and attract attention.

New Liberty was certainly a large enough metropolis to not have much trouble finding a public place with a decent internet connection open late. Indeed, a couple of miles away from the Civic Center, Kyoko pulled her motorcycle into the parking lot of a late night cafe, neon lights indicating the place was appropriately named Insomniac's. Stepping into the cafe itself made it clear who exactly the target demographic of the establishment was. Most of the tables were patrons sat were absolutely littered with books, papers, electronic pads, and laptops, not to mention an abundance of empty coffee cups that outnumbered the patrons, who looked like they were on the brink of insanity, 3 to 1. Among the pained faces of New Liberty's supposed brightest students at a local private university, Kyoko spotted an empty table near the back.

Some of the conversations she heard on the way to the table were interesting to say the least. "Why the heck... These results aren't making any sense..." "Bro what? You completely messed up the simulation, dumbass! Why the fuck did you connect the optic wires to the cerebellum?!" The future of cybernetic surgery ladies and gentlemen... Passing the apparent nepo baby and his friend arguing over a group project, she took a seat at the table, her back to the wall, before taking off her helmet and laying it on the table. Not long after she sat down, Kyoko heard a voice. "Hi, welcome to Insomniac's, what can I get for you ma'am?" Her yellow eyes darted over to the waiter. "A latte, extra shot of espresso." "Long night, huh? Whatcha study?" Kyoko narrowed her eyes as he asked that question. "None of your business." "Ah, umm... right then, err, we'll get that out for you in a bit." As the guy finally left, she pulled out her laptop, navigating to some complicated looking electrical diagrams for show before pulling out her phone where the real work would begin.

She looked over the highjacked cam feed from the Civic Center as she connected an earbud to her phone to listen to the audio recording devices the Directorate had installed in the center. As she was tuning through the camera and audio feeds, the distinctive sound of a gun being cocked was heard and a subsequent commotion as she tuned through the VIP room's feed.
Looks like some of those dogs actually do have brains. "Alrighty, here's your latte ma'am." She her phone face down on the table and eyed him as the waiter approached her table again. As he placed her drink in front of her, he glanced over at her laptop. "Electrical engineering, huh? Good luck." He left with a polite nod of the head as he said that, to which Kyoko didn't respond, only really paying attention to the audio feed. As soon as he was out of sight, she quietly spoke into her communicator. "Looks like the dogs have picked up something, won't be long now."
 
Sylvia Valentine
Mood: Scheming
Location: Directorate Civic Center, Main Bar
Interactions: Klown Klown TheRealAngeloftheStorm TheRealAngeloftheStorm

The offer to postpone the interview hardly came as a surprise to the journalist, she knew how this sort of situation tended to shake out. With singers like Seraphina image was everything, the second she lets that facade slip, answered a question too genuinely, got caught giving a less than perfect opinion, her whole career could come crashing down in an instant. It's why news outlets like Liberty Music were the only people who could score regular interviews with her, big time outlets that operated under the impression of sincerity and a genuine love for the music industry while having sold out to the megacorps years ago. In that way the media served as just another form of advertisement, another way to push her image, with carefully tailored questions and fabricated 'candid' interactions. It'd be a cold day in hell before she'd actually get that interview.

Not that Sylvia really seemed to mind, she still had a more important story to chase, though all this attention the pair seemed to draw certainly wasn't helping with that. She was just about ready to give up finding a quiet way in and fall back on plan B. "Oh yeah, sure, we can talk about it later, no pressure" she said, letting the opportunity slip through her fingers. What a time to meet an idol. Why did this sort of thing always have to happen when she was working a story?

The raven haired woman seemed to just apparate out of the crowd like a phantom, like she'd always been sitting there, watching them. The clinking of ice in her glass alerted Sylvia to the woman's presence, the redhead casting her an inquisitive glance. "Hey hey" she said casually, giving a little wave of her hand. "Good to meet ya" she sat back against the bar and gave the pair a chance to talk.

From here it felt like the situation was mostly out of her hands, she'd stick around for a little while longer, just long enough to make sure this woman was someone Seraphina actually felt comfortable with, but as far as Sylvia was concerned she'd played her part. Sylvia cast her gaze out towards the crowd, her thoughts returning to the task at hand. Now that she thought about it, the performance would probably make for a decent distraction for her to work under. Security would have to shuffle out to watch the stage, and the VIP area would probably be a lot more sparse, it might just be her best shot at this.
 
Tashi Dolma
Daybreak
Directorate Civic Center
Excited

Embarrassment. It was a rabid beast clawing at his insides, gnashing its teeth against his pride. His hands balled into fists at his side, the pressure of his nails against his palms was the only thing grounding him. The situation was slipping through his fingers like granules of sand. He felt diminished, insignificant; he was a young child cowering behind his mother's skirt. He stood there, stiff and awkward, as Cipher controlled the situation. Her voice became a drone in the background—white noise.

Cipher’s hand on his shoulder was a grounding force. The chaos receded, the fog lifted. He shook his head, a rough jerk to clear his mind. A nod. A sigh. Then a quiet "goodbye" slipped from his lips, barely audible above the drone of the crowd. There was no need for more. He turned, stepping away from Cipher. There would be another opportunity to prove himself.

Refocusing his mind, he began cycling his breath as he stepped through the crowd. He attempted to wear the same facsimile of authority he had grown used to. As the crowd thinned, the echoing din of chatter and footsteps dwindled, leaving in its wake the stark contrast of silence. With a final stride, he joined Hanabi and the Fuego maverick. Underneath the weight of his stolen uniform, his heart pounded in an unsteady rhythm of apprehension and determination. This was just another step in the journey, another moment in the fight against the tyranny of the Directorate.

“Blaze,” he greeted, his features shifting to a warm, genuine smile. His gaze then slid to the Fuego operative. His nod was curt, a brief acknowledgement of the other's presence. He was the first to move toward the final stretch of their shared journey. As they reached the blacksite's steel doors, a hush fell upon them. The facial recognition software hummed to life, bathing their faces in a cold light. Recognition confirmed, the doors swung open with a hydraulic hiss.

"Too easy..." Tashi muses silently. It's unsettling, this seamless infiltration, the way their faces register on the system, almost like being welcomed. No blaring alarms, no screeching horns. But, he knew better than to dismiss it as luck. They've worked hard for this, planning and strategizing every step of the way. The plush, red carpets and golden chandeliers felt like a world away, replaced with the unforgiving bite of steel underfoot and bright fluorescent lights that stripped away any illusion of warmth. The corridors were narrow and endless, winding like a metallic snake, their cold scales gleaming under the harsh, white light. It's a maze designed to confuse, to intimidate. And it works.

Footsteps. They echo like a distant heartbeat. Something was off and the air around him had grown as taut as a coiled spring. The footsteps were multiplying, their rhythm growing erratic and frantic, bouncing off the narrow walls. He turned and locked eyes with Hanabi, it was a simple, unspoken command: get ready. They were vulnerable in the open, the bright lights leaving no place for shadows to offer concealment.

No sooner had the thought formed in his mind than the guards materialized, turning the corner with the choreographed precision of a practiced team. In the split second, as their gazes locked, one of the guard’s eyes flared with suspicion, his fingers tightening on the trigger of his weapon. But before he could act, Tashi had already stretched out his hand. A palpable chill enveloped the guards, their firearms freezing in their hands and the triggers turning stiff and immobile under the cold.

The guard's eyes widened in surprise, his fingers scrabbling futilely against the icy metal of his weapon. Tashi met his startled gaze with a look of grim fury. Without missing a beat, Tashi triggered his cloak. His figure shimmered against the sterile walls, before vanishing entirely. The guards hesitated, reaching for their secondary weapons only to find that their target had vanished. They swung their guns, their eyes wide with adrenaline and fear.

Meanwhile, unseen and unheard, Tashi closed in on his target, the nearest out of the four men. The guard was hefty, the muscle beneath his uniform straining against the fabric. Fear didn't suit him, Tashi mused, as he reached out with his power. The air around the guard began to chill, an unnatural frost clinging to the man's clothes and skin.

The guard gasped, his eyes growing wider. His lips began to turn a deathly blue, and he staggered, clutching his chest. His breath came out in white puffs, the air around him frigid and harsh against his warming skin. He dropped to his knees, shivering violently, his gun clattering to the floor. His comrades looked on in horrified confusion, their barks of orders quickly turning into desperate pleas for help. But it was to no avail. As the guard collapsed, now frozen into a rigid form, they could only watch as their worst nightmares unfolded.
 
GENESIS OLIKTORO
location: directorate civic center ; the stage
mood: depression
tags: TheRealAngeloftheStorm TheRealAngeloftheStorm Nogoodname Nogoodname

She breached the crowd; the first breath of fresh air Genesis had felt since departing for the event. Genesis greedily swayed into it. Her gaze tied to the tall woman whose blue eyes held one of the angel’s many secrets as she sat at the bar. The holographic wings that illuminated Genesis with a soft, ethereal warmth folded against her back.

Crystal Delight. An ostensibly refreshing drink, crisp and bubbly and golden. Served best in a dewy glass with spheres—not cubes—of ice. A poor man’s liquid gold. A drink offered to her the night of their first meeting. The moment its bitterness washed over her tongue, every muscle across Genesis’ pristine features puckered with disgust. A visible shudder rippled through her body as it anticipated the foul beverage tainting her blood stream. She championed a little less than half of the can before surrendering it to its donor—whom Genesis aptly dubbed, Crys.

“You brought yourself.” Genesis hums sweetly, a taste of cunning hanging off each vowel as she tilts her head. “That’s enough for now.” It was more than Genesis could have asked for. Addressed by neither her birth name nor her stage name, yet she felt more herself in Crys’ eyes than anyone else who’d looked at her in the past decade.

Her anxiety over the supposed journalist had become less of a stake and more of a small, prickly thorn by virtue of the redhead’s relaxed and casual demeanor. Soothing, if not for the star’s irking paranoia. That dangerously disarming charm. Did she ever introduce herself? That train of thought is promptly derailed as Crys steals her attention once more.

“It’s…” More than big trouble. Monumental trouble. Wishing she could carve apart her chest to escape her own skin kind of trouble. But all Genesis has to show for it is a rueful smile. “Complicated.” Maybe expressing her grievances would be easier if she broke out into song. Conversation clearly wasn’t her forte. She worries her lower lip between teeth, nibbling on the words she wishes to say as if tasting something foreign.

The thought goes unsaid, disturbed by a trill and toxically polite, “Ms. Seraphina.”

A woman stands there, every inch of her appearing as if pressed under a hot iron. Not a wrinkle nor hair out of place. She had bright, white teeth and a giant plastic smile. From a brief glimpse of her attire, Genesis recognizes her as part of the staff hired to attend to her.


“We’re ready for you in the dressing room if you would please follow.” She gestures towards the entrance of the VIP lounge where the vague shape of Henrik waits, arms crossed. Genesis can feel the weight of his stare crushing the back of her head. There’s a discernable tightness in her jaw as her body slides off the stool.

“Find me after the show.” She parts from Crys with a gentle touch to her arm under the guise of steadying herself as she stood. Waves goodbye with a polite smile towards the redhead and Orpheus, then is whisked away.

The rest was a blur. A flurry of hands and praise as she’s pampered with makeup and hair accessories, as well as a change of clothes. Henrik was ranting, she did not care. The volume of the words she would be inevitably presenting took precedence over everything else.

We have seen the horrors that lurk in the shadows, the devils who wear the skin of the Xenogenics.

Her reflection stares back at her, an ornate halo crowning her head, wings spread as if she’s ready to take flight.

“The stage is ready.” She’s escorted out.

There’s nothing but a hot, blaring light and a sea of shadowy figures. The raucous hiss of excitement swells onto the stage; Seraphina basks in the hollow adoration. An incandescent star plucked straight from the heavens. Her hand wraps around the stem of the microphone like its second nature, her deliberate gaze sweeps over the faceless crowd, and then the angel spills the devil’s words like they’re honey.


"Remember, we are New Liberty. We are strong. We are united. And together, under Vincent's guidance, we shall cast these demons out and reclaim our home." A poison so sweet you'd realize too late that it was killing you. There's an inspiring decadence to each word, a plea to those who listened. She envisions her mother sitting on their tattered old couch, watching her daughter's betrayal through wet eyes. She envisions her father's ghost, disappointed at what he never got to see his daughter become. “…God bless you all,” She's sick to her stomach. “And god bless New Liberty.”
 
NICK LORD
Directorate Civic Center
Vigilant
mentions

Klown Klown

A hand, lifted to an ear. Sudden stiffness to shoulders in a tailored suit, the white flashed around eyes that roved the room. Alerted- Plain-clothed soldier, too far and too embedded in background noise for Nick to hear. But he read the movement of lips. Merlin is Green… Is everything okay, Bossman?

The smile never shifted from his face. Easy, his thumb moving soft circles on the silk in the small of Zulena’s back. A grounding touch, for her. “That’s clever.” Dark blue gaze focused back on the older man. His speech, steady, “Sounds like you makin’ real strides. What you call them… Water bears?”

“Their cell structure is resistant to radiation.” The man’s features brightened, unable to hide the breathless rush of excitement in his speech. “It’s integration with the human genome has some remarkable implications. Xeno’s won't have the monopoly on evolution anymore.” Passion,pride and a captive audience in the shine of his eyes.

“Fuck off, Pullman.” Zulena scoffed, the flick of her hand, dismissive. “You’ve always been a corporate whore, but I never thought you’d take Vincent’s Xenophopic fat one like a bitch.”

His brows shot into his hairline. “It’s darwinian! Nothing like a little natural competition to encourage natural selection.”

“I’m sure that’s what Hitler said when he marched into Poland.”

The rhythmic movement of Nick’s touch paused.

“Christ, now I remember why we stopped inviting you to dinner.”

Resisting the urge to turn his head. The door to the executive suite in periphery. Had he heard something?. No clear words, but a tone-

“Please,” Zulena sighed. “I stopped coming. I-”

The lights suddenly lowered, accompanied by a hush and stillness across the hall. “Oh!” Zulena’s fingers dug pressure into the dense muscle of his arm. “Come! Come!” She drew him of their seats, weaved eagerly towards the very front and center. The glittering mass of crystal above, darkened. A spotlight, dazzling the stage.

Nick watched, but not ahead. The unison of movement made it easy to pick each stride, each body, against the flow. Three… Four? Trained. Spaced out, and subtle but fast. Moving for an exit… He wouldn’t be the only one to notice.

“Darling?”

Nick turned to her, and leaned closer. Her lips grazed his cheek. “Get me a drink?”

“Course.”

She squeezed, and let him go. Shifting between bodies as Genesis commanded the light.

Every eye was on her. Every face, turned towards the glow that radiated from the iridescent shimmer of arched angels wings. The tips of her feathers burning tracers of light in the dim. Nick brushed past a man, who paid him no mind. Her voice. Vivid. A fine tenor hung against the hush. Pulling hearts with the gravity of a star.

The floor was sticky under Nick’s feet. Stopped at the bar, intentionally distanced from the man in dreadlocks and a battered coat. Drunk, if the haze on his face said anything. The barman leaned close to take Nick’s whisper with polite professionalism.

It was hard not to listen. Even as he scanned the raptured crowd with his mind turned outward. Were those her words? Squeezed out. The draw of her breath, the faint and tender tremble, speaking clues so much more than the rehearsal of words that were spoken.
 
Hanabi(City1).png



Hanabi Kage
Blaze, Leader of Daybreak

Interactions: Tashi ( Jhin Jhin ) | Chaz ( Deegan Deegan ) | Tsukiko (Shade)
Location: Directorate Civic Center, Blacksite
Mood: Energized


That was certainly a question to receive from a guy she'd never seen before in her life, but whatever, at least he knows his way around the place. It's not like the question needed a serious answer anyways. It wasn't a long time after she and Tsukiko started following the Fuego guy that they heard a fourth pair of footsteps approach behind them. "Ah, Ash." Turning around, the redhead greeted her comrade with a warm, radiant smile. "'Bout time you showed up." Shade's tone was a little rough around the edges compared to Blaze's, but from what Hanabi could tell from the little smirk on her face she was also glad to see their comrade.

Blaze was a little skeptical when she heard that Fuego was going to be contracting some hacker for the night's mission, after all a contract doesn't necessarily translate to loyalty when another person can just offer more, but she ought to give credit where credit was due when the heavy security door opened with ease, not to mention the fact they hadn't been swarmed with security yet. And then a message came in from said hacker. The voice invoked a strange vague sense of familiarity in the redhead, but now was not the time to dwell on where she could have heard the voice before for the content of the message was much more important. She looked over at her comrades and ally, the look on her face conveying a clear message: let's get this done and leave as soon as possible.

Walking through the soulless metal hallways, Hanabi's ears perked at the sounds of footsteps coming down the hall. Tashi must have noticed too, as he turned to look to her, a serious expression on his face. Nodding in response, she turned to lock eyes with Shade, who gave a slight nod herself as the readied their suppressed sidearms.

"The lights, techie, hit most of em!" She whisper-shouted into her earpiece as one of the guards began suffering from a bad case of hypothermia. The poor thing, maybe should have worn a few more layers. "...The heck did you just call me...?" That under the breath utterance was the only thing Blaze heard in response to her request as the lights in the hallway began to shut down not long after, leaving only a couple of lights still glowing. It was just enough to see but more than enough for Shade, her lips curled into a smirk as she quickly extended her hand in the direction of the guards.

A patch of shadow behind the guards began swirling restlessly. With the flick of the wrist from Shade, a sharp tendril shot forth out of the ground, impaling the rearmost guard, a few gurgles escaping from the man as the life drained out of his body. The sheer fear and panic on the remaining two guards faces was apparent even in the dim light setting as their little formation's front and rear were compromised, their pleas that someone would come rescue them being even more frantic. A pity no one could hear them, though. Well, let's not have these poor souls suffer for too long, job needs to get done after all. As the desperation began to set into the 2 remaining guards, Hanabi opened fire with her sidearm, aiming for the left most guard's head to give them a comparatively merciful death.
 
DIRECTOR VINCENT
Campaigning Governor
Directorate Civic Center
interested

Vincent’s body reacted with admirable calmness to the intrusion. There was no involuntary recoil, no wide-eyed shock to be seen. Vincent's reaction seemed almost as though he had been waiting for this moment. The word "compromised," rather than stirring alarm, seemed to affirm something he had known would come. If there were any indication of his preparedness, it lay hidden in the slight curl of satisfaction at the corner of his lips, detectable only to those well-versed in reading the nuances of human expression. He gave Hathom a brief nod, his voice carrying across the room with unruffled calm, "Of course, Hathom. Please make sure everyone exits safely."

Bang! The first chandelier hit, the sound resonated, reverberating through the room's expanse. The scream, Zulena's scream, rang clear and sharp amidst the chaos. It shook him, jarring him from his thoughts. Crack! The second chandelier gave way. The sound was slightly muffled, softened by distance and the heavy drapes of the room. Even so, he could almost visualize it, the terror-stricken faces, the scramble to safety, the slow realization of impending doom. And then, the silence. An unexpected hush fell over the crowd.

As the cries resumed, louder and more desperate than before, his grip on the glass tightened. The look of shock found its way back onto his face. He rehearsed his performance in his mind, the quivering lips, the shaky hands, the terrified glances—all part of his act. Another sip from his glass and he rose to his full height. "Sir, we have to go now!" The voice of his lead security officer, a stout and stern man by the name of Granger.

The dense crowd had turned into a surging tide of panic, people indiscriminately pushing and shoving, scrambling towards the exits. Their eyes were wild, their faces pale and horrified. "Ahmson, stay close," Vincent instructed, his voice barely audible over the clamor. He could feel the heat of the explosions, the acrid smoke filling the hall.

"Evacuate!" they shouted, their voices hoarse from strain, "Move towards the exits! Now!" People stampeded towards the exit doors in a desperate bid for safety. High-heeled shoes were abandoned, and expensive gowns got torn and trampled underfoot as fear overrode the dignity and decorum once abundant in the room. Guards frantically waved the panicked guests towards the numerous exits. They tried to instill some sense of order and prevent guests from trampling over each other in their mad dash to safety. "Move! Move! Move!"

As Granger and his men cut a path through the crowd, Vincent followed closely behind. Their pace was urgent but measured. Panic, he knew, would only lead to mistakes. And in this chaos, mistakes could be fatal. Their private evacuation tunnel entrance was hidden behind a concealed door in the west wing of the civic center. As they neared, Vincent could see more of his men, standing guard and clearing the way for them. The crowd swelled, chaos bloomed and the lifeblood of the city turned to ice. There, amidst it all, Vincent stood, cool and collected, ice in his veins.

"Eyes needed below."

There was a quiet finality in sending that message. No flourish, no emotion. It was as cold as the device it was sent from, as precise as the fingers that typed it. He cast his eyes over the panicking masses, the city blinded by fear and confusion. But soon, they would see. They would know. The tide of ignorance was about to turn. The hour of enlightenment was near.



This mental landscape was as much an enigma to Mischa as it was to him. He was trapped in the remnants of what he knew about a man he respected but had never truly known. There was a curious wonder in how Mischa's mutation had shaped this place, how it used the fleeting mentions and vague descriptions he had of Vega's home to recreate it. The way the leaves rustled, the dappled shadows, the distant sounds of hidden animals—they were all fragments of an unseen puzzle. The forest was real, tangible, yet it was a place he’d never visited, a place he knew only from the scant anecdotes Vega had shared.

Despite their years spent together, Mateus realized that he knew precious little about Vega. He had shared meals with him, fought by his side, and listened to his ideals and his dreams. But those were mere facets of the man Vega was. This place, this jungle, was not his world, not his life. It belonged to another, Vega. But his mind—the mind she pranced in, probed, and intruded on, was his. Resist, endure, hope. The hope that stirred within him was faint but stubborn. It was a small spark against her deluge, yet his to own, his to nourish. A hope that he could shield Vega from her intent.

A sudden crack shatters the serene echo of the jungle, like the breaking of glass in a silent chapel. Gunfire. For Mateus, it's a sound he dreads, a sound he knows too well, yet can't truly comprehend its source. It isn’t his, but Vega’s. A memory, a fragment, another tale he’d heard in passing. It seems she’s finally found one, a memory.

A room, dimly lit. A silhouette stands by a window, tall and broad-shouldered, a dominating presence that demands attention. Vega. His features are obscured by shadow, but it is unmistakably who she is searching for. There, approaching him is Mateo. In the memory, Mateo speaks, but his words are hushed, an undertone to the main conversation.

Vega talks of battles fought, strategies developed, and plans for the future. Offhandedly, he mentions something that may spark Mischa's interest. He speaks of guns. Of how he’s known them since he was just a boy, his fingers tracing the silhouette of an unseen firearm. A fleeting insight into a past skill, a nugget of information about a time in his life he rarely speaks of. A piece of the puzzle that was Vega.
 
NICK LORD
Directorate Civic Center
mentions


The flash left spots dancing on his vision.

And chaos erupted.
Like a wave, bodies coiled back from the splintering crush of the chandelier. Crystal shattered, in a shower of a million pieces. Shock, in the brief silence.

Then the screams. Horror, ripped from the vocal cords of a woman, her hands clawing at her contorted face. From the wounded. From onlookers. Frozen by the sight of bodies pinned under twisted metal and glass.

Amongst them, a figure in green.

Nick's heart should have pounded. But it ran steady, and slow. Forty two beats per minute. The acrid taste of smoke, thick, as he took a deep breath. Chest expanded. Knowing that every second was recorded. Captured. Knowing, that he'd look at this all again on screen.

Knowing, he wouldn’t need to. Zulena, in the middle of the chaos. The spreading pool of blood beneath her. Scorched into the vivid scoreboard of his memory. .

Another slow breath expanded his chest.

He should leave. Like the Directorate and his faithful.

Her eyes, bright and sharp as diamonds.

The mods and medicine were good, but it could not stop age.

Radiantly young, breathless, in love struck beauty. But her body, lean tan limbs as he carried her across the room, was feather-light in the fold of his arms.

Frail.

Lain in sheets like rare porcelain. Her fingers, raked tenderly in his hair. Lips parted on his name. So much trust in the molten touch of her gaze.

She would die. Even if she didn't… There would be consequences.

So much trust, in the linger of her look.

He should walk away. Now.

“Fuck!”

The flood of adrenaline he let free was nauseating. A crash through his system as he launched into a run. Dodging through the crush of people that fled in the half dark. Glass skittered under his boots. He almost slipped. Dropped to a crouch beside her. The floor, slick. Shards gleamed in the growing pool of blood that spread beneath her body. She gasped, a wet shudder. “Nica?’ Fear in the high thread of her voice, her eyes, trying to lift her hand towards him.

“Don’t speak.” He shook his head, his palm hovered in the air above her figure. Where the fuck did he start? A tall, jagged piece of crystal jutted through her shoulder and into the marble underneath. The crumpled metal ring of the chandelier pinning her lower body.

“Nica, I need to-!”

“It’s alright. I’m here.” He touched her face. It sounded like he meant it. “It’s gonna be okay.” Smooth, and reassuring. Even if he didn’t feel a word of it. He needed to get this shit off her. Now. No matter the internal damage, the risk. She’d bleed out. Here. Suit-jacket, the one she picked, shrugged from his shoulders. Nick twisted it around the jagged frame, body and shoulder braced beneath, to lift. Blood rushed to his skin with strain, teeth grit.

It shifted. An inch, the pressure lifted off her figure. But would not. Could not. Move. Too fucking heavy! “Fuck! HELP!" His shout, cracked. Drowned amongst the chaos. "Help me move it!”
 
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Sylvia Valentine
Mood: What in the fuck-
Location: Directorate Civic Center, Main Hall
Interactions: SteepVision SteepVision

With Seraphina gone to the stage, Sylvia had made her excuses and went to leave the bar. Typically she didn't mind the attention, but tonight was just not the time. After a myriad of distractions she basically had nothing to show for herself, no new intel, not even a rumor. If only she could get back to where Vincent and his goons were held out. Sylvia didn't trust herself to talk to the man himself, not without hard evidence, but maybe if she could get her hands on any of their equipment, laptops, tablets, phones, anything, she could poke around a bit, find another lead. The journalist had a knack for pulling on threads, there must be something.

Her thoughts were cut short by the commotion down in the main hall, turning just in time to spot the source of it. The large Chandeliers that hung over the hall swung like a pendulum, starting slow and quickly picking up speed, causing the reinforced ceiling that held them in place to crack and splinter from the sheer force being exerted.

This was wrong, something had clearly gone horribly wrong, there was no way the decor should move like that under their own power, and yet...

Sylvia caught herself entranced by the movement, felt like she was watching a train wreck about to happen, just couldn't tear her eyes away from the inevitable. The Chandelier swung back and forth like a hypnotists watch, leaving Sylvia sitting there, wide eyed, waiting for the drop.

That first panicked shriek caused something to stir in the young journalist, finally gave her the good sense to get out of the way. With quick thinking she hopped up over the bar and got down behind it, putting some hard cover between herself and the collapsing ornament. The sharp melodic ring of shattered glass precluding a torrent of panicked screaming made her stomach turn, made the redhead tremble in terror from her hiding place.

When the dust began to settle, Sylvia finally lifted her head to observe the fallout, the sight made her blood run cold. So many people... crushed by the weight of the falling chandelier or the ruble that'd come down with it, their flesh rended by glass shrapnel, bodies mangled in the wreckage. Some had died immediately, some still clung to life while friends, family and loved ones desperately tended to their wounds, and all around her people were panicking.

She stood there in a daze, the color drained from her face as she witnessed the catastrophy ahead of her, her own limbs refusing to budge as terror gripped her like a vice. Her heart pounded in her chest, hands trembling, eyes wide, desperately commanding herself to do something, anything, but all her body allowed her to do was just stand there and watch. Until she heard something, a singlular cry for help piercing through the chaos. Sylvia looked in its direction to spot a man desperately attempting to wrestle the mangled ring of the chandelier off of another woman. Suddenly she was free to move again, if anything she couldn't stop herself, quickly shoving through the crowd to get at the man's side.

"Ah, shit! Let me help!" she said as she approached, getting her hands up under the ring and starting to pull before she felt the glass embeded in its frame dig into her palms. She uttered a curse and followed the man's lead, pulling off her jacket and using it as padding to help her move the piece of debris, getting up under it with all of her meager strength.
 
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GENESIS OLIKTORO
location: directorate civic center ; the stage
mood: a fucking wreck
tags:

God was a vacant word. An empty promise. The myth of pressing your ear to a shell and hearing the ocean but what was really the hollow hiss of something abandoned. He was a name written plain; an unremarkable arrangement of three letters. Genesis’ relationship to God—meticulously interwoven with Seraphina’s image—had always been a prop. It could have stayed that way indefinitely; perhaps it would have.

The first explosion was enough to startle her into a crouch, her arms immediately hugging her head to cover her ears. She thinks she screams but can’t hear anything above the raucous slam of her heart, the pulse numbing her ears. A thought occurred to her, as fleeting as the lights flickering above, that the wrathful hand of God had come to scorch them for abusing his name. For a moment, the only language she understands is atonement. A dozen apologies for each sting of a cut felt against her arms and back from raining debris.

Hands pulled her up onto her feet, an unfamiliar voice next to her ear urgently asking if she was okay. Genesis answers with a trembling lip and doe-wide eyes. The guard doesn’t waste a second rushing her off the stage. They melt into the current of bodies all trying to make their way to the nearest exits. The hysteria-laden atmosphere deafening her own head.

When the first chandelier falls, Genesis sees it in the faces of those turned opposite of her. Their eyes bulged in shock and incredulity, jaws hanging open as if their terror-stricken screams were delayed in their throats. The air ran thick with a stifling silence. The kind that followed a flash of lightning anticipating the startling boom of thunder.

It was in that second strike of chaos that Genesis lost her balance in the crowd. A ragdoll between panicked bodies as they ran like crazed ants whose hill was rained on. She loses sight of the guard, her tenuous grasp on the situation elevating as she’s flung against the side of the stage which she’d never made it far from, landing precariously on her hand. She yelps at the stab of pain from something shifting uncomfortably in her wrist. She manages to stand again, basically shoved into it by the frantic people running past her.

“Genesis!” It takes a moment for her name to register, but the voice she recognizes immediately. Across the stage from her is Henrik, waving his arms in the air. Despite everything, Genesis allows herself to feel relief at seeing him, to feel relief that he’s calling out to her using her name. It’s short lived, much like Henrik. The second chandelier falls, and he goes down with it. Genesis blanches. A flurry of contradictions wrecked her from the inside.

She waits for the debris to settle, to make sure nothing else is at risk of immediately falling atop her, and she stumbles towards Henrik with a morbid desire to witness his fate.

His lower half is trapped underneath the massive light fixture, legs mangled beyond repair. There’s a massive crystal shard protruding from his side, blood soaking his once impeccable suit. She falls to her knees beside him, he’s still breathing.

“Fuck. Get me out of here!” He barks out painfully, grimacing with each draw of breath. Genesis watches the blood spread around his legs, hands trembling as they reach down. “What are you doing?!” Her body moves ahead of her reasoning, delicate fingers plucking a shard of glass from the floor and inching it towards Henrik’s neck. His bloodied palm clasps around her wrist, feebly slowing its steady approach. “You crazy fucking bitch! Stop!”

Genesis’ wide, fretful eyes lock onto Henrik’s hand. A hand she’s had the displeasure of recognizing its every iteration of force, whether bare or holding a blunt object. The sizes of the bruises it could leave behind, how easily it could command someone to hide them away.

When she buries the glass into Henrik’s throat, it’s quick and merciful. More than he deserves, but it’s more for the sake of her own sanity. His bloodied, glass-crusted hand had wrapped itself around her neck which she hadn’t realized until it dropped limp onto her lap. She could already feel the blood drying, the shape of his fingers staining her skin.

Her breath comes out in quick, short bursts. Her lungs too small for all the air she was desperate to take in. Henrik’s dead eyes knowingly staring back at her. A sob wrenches out of her, tearing out of her throat as the sick satisfaction of what she’d done dawns on her. It’s liberating, harrowing. She thinks to herself if something were to fall and kill her right then and there, that would be fine too.
 




://ORPHEUS_004//




filler



filler



filler



filler



filler






  • home (filler tab)



































balcony sunrise



sunset drive








://SHOWTIME_004/

The bar cleared quickly, leaving Orpheus alone with drink in hand. He had been gulping back a mouthful as he missed the beautiful redhead move away, feeling his heart clench tight. He spun the glass around in his hands looking dejected, a man defeated by his own feelings.

You fucking idiot…

His attempt at mental self harm distracted him and the glass he played with rolled from his hand and onto the bar before falling to the floor. In a moment the glass hit the floor, a massive cloud of dust and large shards of glass lashed at him.

What the fuck?

He looked over his shoulder to see the room behind him turned into a scene of devastation. Bodies and limbs lay exposed beneath concrete and massive chandeliers, the amount of blood a clear indicator that many had died.

Bollocks…

He activated his adrenal implant and the comforting hug that was a drunken haze faded into a hyper focused reality. He could see and hear everything but he was only interested in one thing…

Where is she?!

He spotted her, her beauty was unmistakable even amongst the thick concrete dust. He bounded across the obstacle course of destruction and stopped next to her. He said nothing as he stood next to her, simply gripping the chandelier in his hands. The servos of his cybernetic limbs engaged and slowly but surely the chandelier began to raise. He was oblivious to the man next to Sylvia, more concerned about her safety than anything else. Eventually he had raised the chandelier above his waist.

"Get something to prop it up with!" He yelled through gritted teeth. A group of lucky souls began running over with various bits of rubble, stools and chairs to put under the massive metal ring. Once it had been secured he let go, leaving it to sit on its new supports.

He turned to Sylvia to check on her, casting a glance over her injuries, seeing the blood dripping from her hands and mixing with the pools already on the floor. He moved to take her wrists to begin first aid before a familiar voice…that voice…came through the small earpiece he was wearing.

Sods fucking law…

"Eye's needed below," the voice said. A simple instruction that meant Orpheus' unique talents were soon going to come into play. He had an obligation, a duty and a call of a deep seated urge for revenge…he had to go.

He looked at Sylvia in the face and expected little but he had to shoot his shot. His sincere expression was a far cry from his drunken stupor from earlier but what would happen would be entirely up to her.

"I have to go, I've been asked to help the VIPs. You need to see a doctor about those hands." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a card with his contact details, tucking it into the pocket of her now somewhat shredded jacket. He stared at her beauty for the briefest of moments before leaving, rushing off towards the VIP area.

The VIP area had already cleared as one would expect during such an incident, it just made things easy for Orpheus. With a simple thought he was gone, leaving behind a small wisp of smoke that dissipated quickly. The room was once again empty and the man from West Bridge was gone.

In the place between, as he called it, Orpheus triggered his Haywire Matrix. A unique and very special cybernetic implant. He paused for a moment floating in the nothingness of the place between, focussing his breathing and reaching inside himself to the place that his darkest self lay resting.

It's time to play…

His face turned and contorted with such a twisted visage that he did not even look the same person. The cruel, devilish smile across his face was that of a man with no remorse, no sense of life's value and someone who reveled in the pain of others.

With another quick thought he found himself back at the civic centre, deep within the structure, exactly where Vincent had ordered him. He leant on the wall at the back of the room and watched as Mischa conducted her magic trick with Vincent's guest. It was a great party trick of course, but it was slow compared to the tried and tested methods of medieval torture.

Orpheus strode across the room and reached around Mischa, embracing her tight around the waist and whispering in her ear.

"I'm sure you're having fun melting his brain, but we have other guests on their way and I'm sure Vincent would be most upset if I let anything happen to you."





♡coded by uxie♡
 
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Chairman Amhson
Sully_a_hyper_realistic_strong_male_with_dyed_crimson_hair_and__51774298-f684-4459-a0b4-2a8bc0...png



He could hear the sound of the songstress's voice reverberate through the civic centre while the commotion caused by the alleged danger in this lounge had begun. And just after Seraphina finished the speech, Amhson was surprised to feel an impact of an explosion vibrate through the area. He looked up at the ceiling as he saw debris and the innards of the building's structure for a moment before the dust obscured the view of it all.
'A distraction?', he questioned with bemusement. Well, he certainly didn't expect whatever the terrorist cells would put in action to be so flashy. For a moment he took his assessing gaze off the beginning of chaos for quick look at those in the lounge. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary in the reaction of the occupants, their expressions indicating various levels of alarm, worry or confusion, some more composed than others, Vincent perhaps being the only exception.
'It would seem that Vincent was the only one had internalized the fact that the odds of something like that occurring were high and remained calm, even though most of us had assumed that something like that. And yet, look at all the faces of apparently geniune concern the others had doned'. The thought was amusing, at least to him. Amhson's eyes returned to the ceiling on which a random chandelier was periously close to - and it collapsed at that moment, as the chaos continued festering. For a moment a particularly pitched cry somehow broke away from all the other, allowing itself to be heard to the man in distinct separation from the rest. He walked close to Vincent as they proceeded to push their way through debris - some human in nature - and the sea of peace that filled Vale's mind was slowly getting poisoned by the growing irritation dje to the cacophony. It seemed the man's mind wasn't enjoying the furor of noises, smokes, screaming, clunking and breaking. He scrunched his nose at the toxic smell, covering his lower face with an arm. He could see plenty of casualties already, bloody and crushed under objects fallen from the ceiling, some with chunks of crystal in their bodies, as well as growing fires, a closest one a burning and crushed table, what must have been a food point.
'It certainly appears that there is going to be some displacement after tonight. How bothersome', he mused as he allowed himself a moment to glance around at a subtle urge of what seemed to be an unplacable feeling. The visibility was low, and through all the obstacles moving around, the only distant thing he could make out in the moment was a figure near the stage in a golden dress - that must have been the Oliktoro, crouching nearby another clump, probably of a person lying under under a fallen chandelier. He registered no special significance to this momentary image, not aware of the event taking place there, his scanning glance not lingering on the spot which was soon hidden from view by one thing or another as his eyes moved on, but they didn't find what they looked for. What could possibly be the reason for his gaze, the intention of which, though not broadcast externally, was undoubtedly, in his mind, a searching one?
'Must have been curiosity,' was what Vale himself settled on after a moment's thought. Some glass shards made a crunching sound as his foot stepped on when they were closing on what was the evacuation route. Vale moved hiz gaze downwards as Vincent paused as the older man typed at the device, sending a signal.
Since the beginning of this whole fiasco, the chairman had donned an outward countenance of tranquillity seeming to acknowledge danger, a move calculated to calm and make less likely to act foolishly, to be a sort of a presence or a beacon of peace amidst the chaos, if you will.
 
Kyoko(City1).png



Kyoko Hinode
Unemployed Civilian C̸͉̮͆̎̋̉͜͝ỉ̴̫̙̈́̽́̂p̷̹͕͊̈́́͐ͅḥ̸͈͕̃̎e̶̦̖͔͗͌̒̑r̷̈͛̑̏͜

Interactions: The Rebels ( Jhin Jhin Deegan Deegan )
Location: Insomniac's Late Night Cafe
Mood: Irritated -> In Shock


Techie? What kind of stupid shit is that? A sigh escaped the hacker's mouth after taking a sip of her latte. Stupid names aside, it only took a few taps on her phone to comply with the rebel's request. Though… something about her voiced seemed a bit familiar somehow. The thought circulated in the back of her mind as Kyoko continued to cycle through the cam and audio feeds, just in time to see... is that an angel taking the stage? Golden hair, halo, wings, yea there's no other way to slice it, that was an literal angel, or someone dressed as one at least. Must be that performer that old Directorate dog was talking about, otherwise why else would someone wear that getup.

Kyoko didn't keep up much with today's music industry, but that doesn't mean she lives under a rock. Given the amount of publicity and news around Seraphina's activities on the net, someone would have to live damn near the core of the Earth to not have heard of her. It wasn't a surprise that she'd be at a charity event and it sure as hell isn't a surprise why Kyoko didn't really listen to her music as her speech progressed. "Tch..." The look on Kyoko's face must have been quite the sight, Kyoko catching a few people giving quick glances in her direction with a hint of concern in their eyes, only to quickly go back to minding their own business when she met those looks with a glare of her own.

As she continued to watch the speech through her phone, she took another sip of her latte. Figures that the most popular performer is just another Directorate suck-up. "Guardian and servant of God" my ass! All that's missing is outright calling Vincent the Messiah and you'd have a cult sermon! Thankfully it looks like her migraine would go away soon enough as it seems that Seraphina was finishing up with that regurgitation of Directorate lies. Though when the speech finally ended, a wave of confusion washed over Kyoko as both the camera and audio feed went to static. The hell? She cycled through the feeds again. Directorate technicians weren't usually this fast in responding to her infiltrations, maybe that machine-hound had a few tricks up his sleeve after all. That working theory was soon tossed out the window, however when she found that she still had access to the building's systems. She should still have access to the cameras and audio recording devices too, but whenever she tried to cycle through the main hall systems all she was met with was static, so what the hell was going on?

She'd get her answer soon enough as she finally found a main hall camera that was still working. "What... the... fuck..." She muttered to herself. Where there were once fancy and neatly organized tables and decorations now lay rubble and carnage. She sat there for a time, slack jawed at the video coming in on her phone and the screams coming in through her earbud. Sure, Kyoko didn't give a damn for most of the people in that building, why would she for a bunch of bigots, but none of her contractors said anything about this! Why even bother hiring her when the building was going to blow sky high anyways?! She had to get answers, discretely speaking into her communicator once more, the activity of the cafe around her masking what she could be saying to outside listeners. "What the hell... was that any of you?" Her voice as quiet as the first transmission when she got here, but her tone sounded confused and serious at the same time, reflecting the gravity of the changing situation.
 
ELENA GRAHAM
LISTLESS DREAMER
DIRECTORATE CIVIC CENTER
[MOOD STABILIZING]
interactions

Klown Klown
mentions

Nogoodname Nogoodname

The reality of things was always a cruel reminder for the citizen of New Liberty. Even in a social setting like this, the eyes of kings and vassals watched them both,

Libby’s face had been long. That little edge of desperation in that tone. Vincent must’ve asked something of her. Something grave that gnawed at her considerably. Muscles taut, lips twitching into a facsimile of a smile as enamel ground against flesh. Big trouble in little paradise it was.

But Elena had no time to offer any consolation to Libby. The little veil that had settled over the two of them was lifted instantly, with nary a moment to themselves. Like a ghost, one of Libby’s own handlers appeared, wisp-like features stretched into artificial perfection. A servant of her betters. Elena followed Liberty’s gaze, eyes landing briefly on the form of Libby’s master. Briefly, she recalled his name was Henrik.

Years of practice stopped her mouth from curling in disgust. There was defeat etched in his frame, even as he lorded over her companion. Just another servant, with delusions of being something more.

She felt the touch faintly, and Elena had watched her go, back straight and eyes forward as if marching into some inglorious end.

The truth revealed itself soon enough. Words that were so very put to paper by men who cared very little for what they had to make her say. Empty promises of prosperity to the commonfolk that worked themselves to the bone; a rallying cry to unite for a cause that no-one truly believed in. Merely another move in the great game played by the Directorate and the corporations that ruled over them all.

And she could see that anguish in Liberty’s eyes, even with the distance between the two of them. Anger, shame - it was burning the other woman, but she could not allow herself to lose control. Not in front of those who tugged at her strings. Not in front of her master’s vassals.

After, Libby said. And if things hadn’t gone to hell, then Elena would’ve gladly taken up that offer, Henrik be damned.

She’d frozen when the chandeliers dropped. Everyone moved as if they were moving through molasses. The world shrunk from the entirety of the Civic Center to the chandeliers as they swayed dangerously. A pendulum swinging from side to side, before they dropped into the audience: a mockery of a bell’s toll, ringing in her ears again and again.

The silence was replaced by the thunder and din of reality, and the world expanded. Her legs moved before her mind caught up, jerking back from the stampede of fleeing socialites as everyone sought to run. Dimly, Elena’s mind wandered to her handlers - only for her to stop short as one of them ran past her, eyes wild.

Not even coin could make them stand against death.

Her thoughts were grim. Regenburg had disappeared, most likely caught up into whatever work she was doing for the Civic Center. Elena hoped she was fine. But Liberty- where was she?

She strode through chaos with a purpose, people running around her as Elena rose to her full height. She shoved past them, gaze wandering briefly to that red-haired girl at the bar helping others. Elena tore her gaze away, maneuvering past the dead and dying. Their moans and screams pierced her ears, but she kept going, even as her cybernetics warned that she was rapidly approaching the threshold for mood stabilization.

Father be damned. Brother be damned. She wasn’t going to let Libby die like this.

A foot slammed against the stage, and Elena hauled herself up with a grunt-

-only to stop, horror mounting and crawling up her spine.

[EMOTIONAL INSTABILITY AT MAXIMUM THRESHOLD. APPLYING STABILIZATION.]

And just like that, it was washed away in a chilling wave that ran down her body. Nerves alight with burning chill, Elena walked over. Each beat of her heart was like a gunshot in her ears, each footfall a peal of thunder.

“Libby.” she breathed. “What did you do?”

 
NICK LORD
Directorate Civic Center
mentions

Sweat broke across his back. Feeling the lick of heat and flames that gulped air out of the room. Thick plumes of smoke blended with the jolt of cortisol. Heart, thundering. His fingers, white, around the bar. A harsh grunt dislodged from his throat when his heel threatened to slip. Sinking.

He couldn’t hold it. Prepared to drop the jagged chandelier onto his thigh when-

Fine hands grasped the metal. A flash of red hair in his periphery. His jaw tight, clenched. Huffed, measured breath through his nose. Forcing the strength into his arms as they pushed together. Inched upwards, metal grating on stone.

Nick almost flinched when the third figure crashed between them. Battered jacket, dreadlocks and that face he'd steered clear from. The second he felt the weight lifted, he let go. Stepping clear. Chest and arms, burning. Turned to rapidly search for something, anything, to hold it up.

There.

Dishes and glass shattered on the floor. Nick threw the tablecloth aside and braced his hands against the table. His weight thrown behind it as he and onlookers pushed screeching metal legs across the marble to wedge it tight beneath.

He dashed sweat from his face. Eyes, stung and bloodshot with smoke, that fell to Zulena.

Her entire body shivered and trembled. Shock. A coldness sinking into his stomach, but he refused to away from the wound, the jagged fray of her clothing. Matted flesh and the jut of white bone. Shattered pelvis, internal bleeding- Her chest, hitched in shallow breaths. A trickle of blood stained her cheek from the corner of red lips. Her dark eyes, wild in fear. But it wasn’t Nick they sought. Her arm, reached desperately across the floor, fingers stretched and reaching. For the red-head. The tips of gold nails almost almost grazing her ankle.

”I have to go, I’ve been asked to help the VIP’s.” The stranger's back was turned to Nick. Fucking oblivious. And he was glad of it. Scanning the man’s profile. The shape of his face as he dropped a card into the red-heads pocket. And left.

“Hey, hey-” Nick sank to his knee next to her. Ignoring the crush of glass under his knee. Her lips were moving, fighting breath, fighting to say a word with savage determination. One he couldn’t make out. “S- Sah- Sah-” Her gasp wet, and pitched in agony ”Sylvia!”

“Sylvia?” Nick’s brow knitted, blue eyes spun on the redhead. Who the fuck-. “Zulena, what-”

“Listen. To me! The directorate-” Zulena choked, her body hitched. He saw the thick tears that welled in her eyes. Her face crumpled. So full of pain and sudden fear. A look, pleading, flashed to him, and back to the woman. “I need to- You need to listen! P- please!”
 
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Sylvia Valentine
Mood: Confused
Location: Directorate Civic Center, Main Hall
Interactions: SteepVision SteepVision CaptainSully CaptainSully


It was no use, even with a second person added to the mix the ring was just far too heavy. Sylvia grunted heavily as she tried to get up under it and lift it off of the wounded woman, but the two of them could only do so much. The journalist felt her muscles scream out in anguish, her vision blurred by the dust and debris scattered in the chaos, a stinging pain in her shoulder as the jagged edge of the ring dug into it. And then, suddenly, the ring began to move, lifted up suddenly as if it was weightless, a group of helpful partygoers who could still move and assist came over to build the makeshift support and help drag other poor souls to safety. Sylvia looked to the side for the source of the strength required to lift the ring, her eyes settling on the man from earlier with a mixed expression of relief and utter confusion.

"I-" she started to stammer out some sort of thanks before the man spoke up again. "I have to go, I've been asked to help the VIPs. You need to see a doctor about those hands." he said, handing the small card over to her. She pocketed the card, once again reminded of the sharp pain in both of her palms where glass shards and the rough edge of the ring had buried into them. Sylvia wiped the blood off on her shirt, in the grand scheme of things she'd be fine, the damage was mostly superficial, and there were far more people in need of help. She looked back up to see that the man was already walking off, calling out a quick "Hey! Wait!" but it was no use, he was already gone, and there was a wounded woman to tend to. At least she had the card.

Sylvia quickly turned her attention back to the stranger and the wounded woman, kneeling down to look over the woman's wounds, hoping against hope that she was stable enough to move. The two began talking, and Sylvia didn't really pay much attention, instead focused on tearing up her jacket piece by piece into something that could work as makeshift bandages to hopefully slow the loss of blood. That was, until Sylvia heard the woman speak her name, the redhead perking up to look at her with a quizzical expression. "How do you..." she trailed off as the woman continued to speak, told her to listen, that it was important, something about the directorate.

She could feel her heart skip a beat, realization setting in an instant as she sat closer to listen to what this Zulena had to say. "Wait, you were the one who left the tip?" her eyes widened, and she started to work a lot more quickly with her makeshift triage, hoping to stabalize the woman for just long enough to allow a proper medic to arrive on the scene. "Save your strength, you're losing a lot of blood, we've gatta get you out of here" she ordered.
 
GENESIS OLIKTORO
location: directorate civic center ; the stage
mood: a fucking wreck
tags: TheRealAngeloftheStorm TheRealAngeloftheStorm

Noise, all of it. Cacophonous and incoherent. A smattering of warping, swirling paint in which the figures were only distinguishable through varying degrees of shades. There was no difference between the thunderous pulse of her heart, her shallow panicked breaths, or the chaos flaring around her. It was all intrinsic and entwined. The shimmering, fine diamonds inlayed into her golden dress are dimmed with the deep scarlet guilt of what she’d done. Maybe if she rubbed hard enough it would scrub away the draw of Henrik’s final breath caressing her skin.

There’s someone next to her. She feels them watching, she vaguely hears the question. Genesis only recognizes them as a shadow and, for a second, fears Henrik’s ghost has come to exact his revenge. Of course he wouldn’t be done with her that easily. Never in his life had he ever allowed Genesis power over him, and she couldn’t imagine it being any different even in death. But after blinking away the big, full tears blurring her vision, she sees its only Crys.

Genesis’ lips tremble open with the intention of speaking, but all that she manages are feeble little croaks. The words crumbling before they even reach her tongue.

What did she do? What did she do? Had it been obvious? Had anyone else seen it? Did Crys know?

Her arms wrap around herself; they squeeze tightly.

“I…I didn’t…I didn’t do anything.” Quiet, shaking. Barely audible over the chaos rioting around them. She reaches with her hand for anything to support her as she stands, blindly feeling around for the stage. She hauls herself up, her legs putting in absolutely no effort. They felt like trunks with massive, gnarled roots that had dug into the ground. “I didn’t…do anything.” She whispers again and continues to repeat it like a quiet mantra. Should she say it enough times it’ll be true.

“We—we have to go.” The hand that intended to take Crys’ arm stops before it can make contact. Stopping like the woman had burst into flames, or a wall had slammed between them. Afraid to touch her. Afraid the vision of her crime would show itself clearer in Crys’ eyes should they so much as brush hands.

“Ladies!” A guard hollers from the bottom of the stage. “This way, get a move on!”

Genesis hesitates for a second, then balls the fabric of her dress into tight fists, lifting it slightly to better maneuver off the stage and follow the exiting crowd with her head low.
 
Tashi Dolma
Daybreak
Directorate Civic Center
Excited

Tashi barely registered the explosion at first, a sudden, bone-rattling boom that echoed through the sterile corridor. He stopped dead in his tracks, his pulse thundering in his ears as his mind worked to process what had just happened. His eyes widened, and he turned his head toward the origin of the sound. Has something gone wrong? Or worse, had there been a trap? His gaze turned to his allies, their faces mirroring his own shock and confusion.

Still hidden in his cloak, Tashi responded to Hanabi’s question in a hurried tone, "I'm sure it wasn't, but we still have to move." As the final guard fell to the ground, he stepped over the unconscious bodies. His hand outstretched, reached for the sidearm that lay ominously next to the fallen figure. His fingers curled around the grip, a sense of unease settling within him as he felt the weapon's cold metallic surface in his hand. Every second counted, the sterile walls of the blacksite seemingly closed in on him as he hastened forward.

With a sudden burst of motion, the Fuego maverick stepped forward. He charged and the door to their destination yielded beneath the impact of his shoulder, swinging open with a loud crash. His suit roared to life. Metallic plates crawled outwards from his spine, sheathing his body in armor. The resounding crash echoed through the sterile corridors. Tashi seized this auditory cover, his cloak still weaved around him.

As Tashi infiltrated the room, his eyes instantly settled on their objective. Encased in a sterile, eerily lit environment, their target sat, seemingly unmoved by the commotion outside. Adjacent to him, a man with a halo of dreadlocks stood, his silhouette emanating an aura of danger. His stance was relaxed, yet there was an unmistakable predatory grace in the way he held himself. A cat, coiled and ready to pounce, his face an unreadable mask. Before all else, there was the woman. She had dark hair that was like a raven's wing, casting shadows that only deepened the hollows of her face. Her eyes, they glittered with an unsettling vacancy, as though all light and life had been siphoned from them long ago.

Emerging from the shadows, Tashi closed the gap between himself and the woman, his cloaking cybernetic now drained of power. The cold metal of the gun barrel pressed firmly against the back of her head. "Don't move," Tashi's voice was low but laced with a deadly warning. Then, with a tone of urgency, he commanded, "Untie the hostage. Now." Across the room, the Fuego maverick took his stance, his eyes locked onto the most imposing of the Directorate figures. His nanobot suit glinted ominously in the harsh fluorescent light as he waited, muscles coiled and ready to react to any movement.

He expected Shade to take point outside the door, to guard their backs against any flanks. The chill of the gun was firm in his grip, yet the sensation seemed distant, almost detached. A strange contradiction to the reality of their circumstances. His focus was on the woman and their hostage, yet he couldn't help but be aware of the unnatural tremor that shook his hands.
 
...

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Tulkar Tulkar Zhul-Sen Zaid Nabil
Location: Main ballroom, headed to basement
Interactions: SteepVision SteepVision Nogoodname Nogoodname


The beautiful, visibly headached twink looked annoyed by Tulkar's advances. "Can I help you? I am sadly a bit in a hurry at the moment, but I will try my best regardless", the model asked. Tulkar sighed. At least the supermodel was being polite. He opened his mouth to respond, but stopped when, in the corner of his eye, he saw a tall, unusually aged man with tanned skin, and a black suit.

Tulkar's head snapped in that direction, and the adjustable twink took the opportunity to recuse himself. Silly me Tulkar thought. Someone as cute as that has already found a Poundr hookup among these guests.

He couldn't think for very long, however. The tall suited man locked eyes with him, and powerwalked in his direction, pushing his annoying red-headed assistant from earlier out of the way as the man tried to have a word. Tulkar matched his stride and came towards him with a feigned smile. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, the lanky official seemed to repel all the guests around him, who nodded to him - always unreturned - and backed up to keep a respectful distance from his path of travel.

"Commissioner Liao, what a pleasure. I do apologize for keeping you waiting, I had diahhrea but was planning to see you now". Tulkar said. Liao Shen-ying, the ironically titled Commissioner for Public Safety changed his icy visage, and assumed a friendly smile.

"It's nothing, friend. Or, at least, we will become friends", he said, forcefully patting Tulkar on the shoulder.

"Thank you. I am honored you came downstairs to speak to me" Tulkar replied, extending his hand for a handshake, but it was not returned.

"Oh, I did not come here for you, Mr. Nabil" Commissioner Liao replied. "Genesis Oliktoro is about to make a speech. A very ironic one, given her... situation. Please, come join me, and we shall talk shop"

Tulkar followed the Commissioner to the center of the room, directly under the twin chandeliers attached to the roof through heavy chains. He could see Genesis making her way to the stage, and her annoying manager who had once bickered with the PFC ownership over the cost of a charity performance, which defeated the point of charity. The celebrity singer, for her part, seemed none too happy to give the address. The pair continued speaking through her remarks, Liao lowering his voice so as to avoid eavesdropping.

"Mr. Nabil, you and I are similar. We are political exiles in our own country, who have come here and made a fortune"

"Yours more impressive than mine" Tulkar responded

"I will not deny it" the commissioner responded.

"But yours may grow, if we work together" he continued.

"Three years ago, I brokered a truce on pain of familial extermination between all the gangs of the inner city. They have since resorted to drugging out homeless people and inducing them to conduct political assassinations. Whenever I confront them about it, they insist they are not involved. There must a be a homeless gang leader, a hobo king" Liao declared mockingly.

"It must end, or I will kill them and replace them with more amenable people. Like I did five years ago. Communicate that to all of them, tell them to stop lying to me, and inform them that each of them owes me fifty percent of their trafficking profits made over the past six months as compensation for their dishonesty"

Tulkar's heart was racing. He had no contacts with the gangs, at least not most of them. He was fighting them, robbing them. He was the hobo king, and would have laughed at the idea that the Public Safety department denied his existence if Liao was not so unnerving. He was at a loss for what to say next: every word had to be carefully chosen, lest Liao - already committed to a ruthless course of action - discover the truth.

"It will be relayed"

"Good. If you broker a deal, like you've been brokering all these money laundering property renovations, I will reward you with Sterling Hotel. If you do not succeed within three weeks, you will die" Liao said, clapping Tulkar on the back again.

Tulkar laughed to conceal his terror. "But, John Sterling IV owns Sterling hotel" he said, gesturing to a half-drunk, womanizing but not particularly handsome youth 30 feet to his right.

"Oh, him? He will commit suicide tomorrow" Liao stated.

"Donated to Ahmson's opponent last election" he continued, scoffing in mockery of New Liberty's highest act of stupidity for a member of the elite.

Tulkar nodded. "One mistake I will never ma-"

His sycophantic assurances were cut short by a loud explosion that rocked the ballroom. Several guests fell around them and Tulkar stumbled, but Liao remained standing as a rock. The Commissioner sighed and shook his head.

"Sir, we-" Liao's assistant beckoned, before he too was interrupted by a loud noise: this time the fastenings of the chandelier above them shattering as it crashed down onto the crowd. Tulkar tried to dash out of the way of the plummeting candelabra, but was blocked by the slowly parting sea of people gathered around him. He felt a sharp pain on his left shoulder, and soon felt his face plant on the ground. Everything went dark.

When Tulkar awoke, he saw a sea of corpses around him, and a river of blood. He tried to rise, but felt himself pinned by something on his left arm. For that matter, he couldn't move his left arm, or feel anything from it at all. His eyes widened as he swiveled his head in that direction. One of the arms of the massive chandelier had totally crushed that appendage. Getting to his knees - for he could not stand - he saw that two chandeliers had fallen, the crowd was in panic, and the guards were trying to manage an evacuation.

Was this part of Vega's plan? Or had the plan gone wrong, and this was plan B? Or, was this staged by Vincent to convince the public that the resistance were terrorists who killed innocents? No matter who was responsible, that third narrative is what the public would believe. It was time for the gloves to come off. There was no point extracting the team in the basement quietly anymore. If public saw the rebels as terrorists, it was time to meet expectations.

Gritting his teeth, Tulkar placed his feet against the chandelier and pushed suddenly with all his strength, once, twice, and a third time. The first time he grunted, but the second and third times he roared in pain. His arm severed from his torso at the elbow, and a river of blood rushed out of it. Rising slowly to his feet, he could see two civilians look at him in awe and shock, but the rest were too busy screaming and fleeing to pay him any attention. Even the other two civilians returned to their bustling after a few seconds. Good Tulkar thought, not only because he wanted to retain his cover, but because those civilians would have had nightmares for months if they saw what happened next.

Tulkar's eyes rolled into the back of his head. His right arm and left stump rose in unison, like he was being crucified, his stump still leaking a faucet stream of blood. As if he were the conductor of a macabre orchestra, dozens of corpses rose in unison with Tulkar's arms, growling, cackling, and moaning. A new chorus of screams echoed through the chamber as relatives weeping over their falling loved ones saw them rise in horrifying form.

Two of the least damaged undead - a pair of waiters who could pass as the living, rushed towards Tulkar, their gait more even and less stumbling than the rest. One tore off his white shirt, doused it in a puddle of alcohol from a cracked bottle, and wrapped it around Tulkar's stump, while the other undid his belt and applied it as a tourniquet by the upper arm.

The other undead had more menacing orders. At once, like animals released from a cage, they dashed at the nearest guards, grabbing smashed champagne bottles to impale them, wrestling them for control of their guns, or tackling them and biting them in the neck. The handful of security personnel who had died in the terrorist attack rose as well, firing inaccurately at their former comrades, but often hitting civilians. From the corner of his eye, Tulkar could see commissioner Liao shrug off bullets, smashing in the face of one guard, then raising his right arm as part of the smashed chandelier raced through the air and impaled another reanimated corpse through the chest. A metallic skeleton and magentic implants were a terrifying combination, and Tulkar turned the other way, determined to get as far from that murder machine as possible.

Leaning against his resurrected aides, Tulkar saw two familiar faces in his path. That reporter from earlier, with.... Nick? Nick!?

Tulkar was only a daybreak partner - a shadowy figure who aided Vega when needed - but Vega's old lover Nick was one of the few people he knew of in the organization. The resistance had to have become desperate if Vega was sending his beloved into the jaws of the Directorate Civic Center... or perhaps they were no longer dating. Nevertheless, Tulkar stumbled in that direction with the help of his human crutches.

"Nick!" he called out. The man was grieving over his fallen date, but Tulkar was too concussed and too desperate to salvage the team downstairs to remember his manners.

"The plan's clearly failed. We need to get to the basement and save the extraction team, if they're still alive. You too!" he yelled, looking at Sylvia - and this time not speaking to her in that fake Arabic accent. Nick had never properly met Tulkar, though Daybreak knew of the true, necromantic nature of the "beggar king" who often worked with Vega, so Tulkar expected only momentary confusion. He, too, did not know Sylvia, but in his concussed state simply assumed that the reporter was in on the rebel plan, in the process blowing Nick's cover and his own.

Having no time to measure their response, Tulkar turned abruptly, power-stumbling towards the entrance to the basement tunnels.
 
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DIRECTOR VINCENT
Campaigning Governor
Directorate Civic Center
interested
interactions

Alisutte Alisutte

The tunnels roared to life with the sound of gunfire, the acrid smell of discharged rounds filling the air. Bullets thudded into unflinching flesh, halting the advance of the undead. "Aim for the head!" One of the guards—an older man who was something of a veteran among the team shouted. A young guard's voice, a note of fear creeping into his tone, sounded over. "What's happening, boss?" Vincent's answer was swift, allowing no room for argument. "It's the work of a Xenorat, I’m sure. Don't question it, just keep firing.” Amid the terror, Vincent's team did what they were trained to do. They held their lines. The halls became a battleground, filled with the deafening cacophony of gunfire and the figures of the reanimated dead.

With precision, Vincent's elite team cut through the swelling ranks. The team moved as one, a cohesive unit despite the circumstances. Bodies fell, taken down by swift bullets to the head, only to be replaced by more of the undead. Yet, undeterred, the security team advanced, their movements synchronized and fluid. "Keep moving, keep firing!" Vincent commanded, his voice barely audible among the chaos.

As they navigated the winding passageways, the sounds began to recede, swallowed up by the thick stone walls. The ballroom, with its frenzied screams and gunfire was behind them. Now, the only audible noise was the rhythmic thundering of their boots against the cold floor. Vincent led the group, his mind focused solely on their escape. The tunnel was dimly lit, casting long, eerie shadows that flickered in rhythm with his steps.

At that moment, their silenced communication lines sprang back to life. The backup channel was far less sophisticated than their primary line of communication. No fancy digital encryptions or ultra-wide bandwidth. It was a simple, analog radio frequency, relatively easy to intercept and susceptible to interference.

The reassuring hum of connectivity was like a lifeline thrown in the midst of a war, pulling them back from the edge of isolation. Static crackled through their earpieces, and then voices—voices they recognized—started flooding in. “Bravo team in position," a voice announced, amidst the background noise of brisk footsteps and the occasional burst of gunfire. "Proceeding with an alternative evacuation route."

"Charlie team rerouting," another chimed in. "Encountered resistance at exit point three."

At the end of the corridor, there was an advanced security gate complete with fingerprint and retinal scan capabilities. It let out an affirmative beep as they disengaged the lock. The surface split apart with a whir, retracting into the walls and revealing what lay beyond. A military-grade hover vehicle, its body plated with reinforced titanium alloy, sat waiting for them. The matte black paint absorbed the stark white light of the underground garage, making the vehicle seem like a shadow in this artificial daylight.

The roar of the hover vehicle's engine filled the corridor, a powerful purr that vibrated through the air and echoed off the walls. "Mount up!" Vincent ordered, his voice echoing in the space. One by one, his team compiled, each member finding their place in the hover vehicle with well-rehearsed precision. The reinforced doors shut with a hiss, sealing them in.

The hover vehicle's engine growled in satisfaction as it lifted off, sliding smoothly out of the underground garage. A wave of heat greeted them as they emerged into the chaos outside. The blaring of alarms was deafening, a constant, unyielding barrage of sirens echoing through the streets around the civic center.

Reporters and journalists swarmed like locusts, clamoring for a glimpse, a soundbite, anything they could relay back to the masses watching in horror at home. But the guards, stressed beyond their limits, reacted with brute force. Men and women wielding tablets and cameras were shoved roughly away, many receiving blows that sent them sprawling, their pleas for information drowned out in the sound.

Medics worked feverishly, pulling the injured from the wreckage and the debris. There was a relentless stream of victims—some shell-shocked and bruised, others bearing injuries too ghastly to look at directly. People who moments ago had been enjoying the charity event were now missing limbs, their clothing torn and stained red. The lucky ones were quickly bundled into waiting ambulances, while those less fortunate were laid out on the ground, the medics doing what they could, even as they knew it wasn't enough.

Vincent's gaze swept across the scene, his face impassive. Yet, within his eyes, there was a glimmer of something colder, something more determined. He knew they needed to regain control, to quell the panic. The chaos outside the civic center was just as dangerous, if not more, than the disaster within.

Vincent, finally tearing his gaze away from the chaos outside the vehicle, glanced at Vale. “Amhson, have you ever considered what it truly means to serve the public? Is it our duty to lead them towards the safety they crave, or to challenge them to face the fear and uncertainty that comes with freedom?"

Vincent leaned back in his seat, looking out the tinted windows at the receding chaos. Tragedy and opportunity, two faces of the same coin. It was a cruel truth, one he'd learned to exploit years ago. Terror, fear, violence—they were not just agents of chaos, they were tools, if wielded correctly. As the city's panicked cries echoed in his ears, he saw not only the horror of the attack, but the path it had inadvertently laid out before him. His bill—the sweeping security measure that had garnered opposition from so many corners of the Directorate—would meet no resistance now. Not after today.

His mind played over the upcoming council session. Their votes would line up neatly behind his proposal, their hesitation eradicated by the spectacle they'd all witnessed. As the future Governor—the leading body of the Directorate, his position would be unassailable. The promise of security, the promise of a steady hand at the helm in these turbulent times. It was a siren's call that few could resist. The Governorship was his for the taking. His heart didn't quicken at the thought, instead, it maintained its steady pace, as if to underline the inevitability of his impending victory.
 
Vale Amhson
5153806-1191101160-304.png
Location: Outside Civic Centre
Interactions: Vincent Castell ( Jhin Jhin )

Despite the general chaos and poor visibility, the guards did a suitable job of protecting the higher-ups who were thus able to move through the corridors relatively unperturbed. Even the addition of a new element of what seemed a periphery of people who were dead suddenly and aggressively attacking everything in sight didn't seem to disturb them much, though it certainly gave their security another mechanism of exercising their skills. Vale's surprise, though buried deep within his mental landscape, was none the less real. Dead bodies coming back to life probably wasn't something one would expect to happen at any given day.
He piped in, hearing Vincent's utterance as Vale looked at the guards fighting the people who were indisposed off minutes previously. He adjusted a nook on his collar as the group slowly made their way through the barrage of attacks.
"That's a new one. Xenogenic powers sure come in many shapes." The Directorate's chair, for their part, were practically salivating at the sight of the dead rising. It was a powerful reminder to him of how varied abilities caused by xenogenic mutations could be. If the Directorate would crack the puzzle of what made them tick, this could lead to being able to arbitrarily encode any ability and even give a glimpse about underlying nature of reality that could benefit them in other regards. Envisaging the amount of power and control New Liberty would be able to harness.
After breaking through the living obstacles, the only thing that disturbed their path was the return of connection. The rhytmic sound of steps provided a stark contrast to the chaos in the hall previously. As they finally left the civic centre, Vale observed the crowds surrounding it and the disarray for a moment. Vale held his gaze on Vincent as he considered the Director and his question with curious eyes. It seemed that Castell was moved to philosophizing due to the events occurring recently. The public didn't need anyone to serve them anymore than children needed their parents to do that. They needed safety to thrive, and unless they wanted to develop into mindless oafs, they also needed stimulative sparks of chaos. Amhson opened their mouth, saying, as they used their two hands for a gesture, lifting them up slightly with open palms. "Certainly.
I'd always viewed the public as a whole much like individual persons in times of childhood, stability and safety along with freedom to explore being important for a productive population. Our job as regulators has always been to keep the people from rotting away to inaction and burning themselves due imprudent actions they are ought to take."
 
NICK LORD
Directorate Civic Center
mentions

Zulena's breath hissed. Blood in her airways, white pain washed across her face as the red-head tried to bandage her wound. "Stop!" Long fingered hand, gleaning gold, grasped at the woman's wrist. "L-listen. Vincent. He p-plans to-" Her stuttered speech broken as she gasped.

Even dying, even as the pool of blood stretched beneath her, that fierce light shone behind her eyes. She'd never just been a socialite. Walked like them, talked like them, but never been one of them. Her vapidity, glitzy wealth and gossip, a screen for the silent agent. The advocate, moving pieces in the background. Because she believed. Clawing to her last breath for the truth.

"He plans to chip Xeno's. Like fucking- Dogs!" Red misted on the words she spat. Her body- trembled. Vehemence and passion, broken by a whimper. "He's funded by Biotech. He-"

Biotech? The company responsible for the vaccine? Nick grasped her hand. "Zulena."
Cold and rigid in his grasp. "How do you know?!"

"I need to-" Fighting for air. Her skin, bleached pale. "I need-" Her dark eyes turned on him, but her vision faded. The spark. Blinked out. A final sigh slipped between her lips.

Dead.

Nick's throat was tight. Swallowing harshly on the pit in his chest. The sudden, blaring bark of gunfire running shock through his body. He flinched, and took the red-heads arm. Gentle, but firm. His palms marked with telltale gun calluses that did not match the polished suit and shoes.

"C'mon." He needed to talk to her. Whoever the hell she was. His eyes flashed across her fine features. Zulena had seen something in this woman. He needed to see it too.

But a movement made him falter. A twitch in Zulena's corpse. Suddenly struggling, like a pinned beetle. Sick realization set in when his name was boomed across the room.

Tukar..

Fucking amateur! Nick didn't look. Didn't respond. Drawing the redhead further away from Zulena's twitching corpse. He needed to get the fuck out of here.

"Listen." His tone was low, and urgent. "What you did? That was brave." Not like dreadlocks. Too easy, to play hero when your body wouldn't break.The fact he'd helped only to give the girl his number the type of toxic and sick Nick knew far too well.

Aware, in that moment. He was no better. His hand slipped, uninvited, into her pocket to flash the business card. The details recorded, and committed to memory. "If you're who Zulena thought you are… Call him. Find out who he is. Daybreak17EastDawn. Take them what you know."

No explantation, he let go of her arm and stepped back. His implant working to suppress his heart rate, but the sick feeling of cortisol still polluting his blood.

Chaos. Smoke, the rank wet stink of fresh death. There was no salvage for this clusterfuck. The very reason Vega had sent in Daybreak, and not his own. A god-damn suicide mission.

"Follow him." Nick nodded towards Tulkar. He could see it on her face. She didn't need prompting or permission. Maybe a warning. "You might not come back out." She deserved to know what she got herself into.

With that. He left. Lost in the sweep of screaming civilians and paramedics. Just another blood-splattered victim as he entered the cold night air.

The sounds faded, and Nick vanished into an alley. Threading familiar streets, past a scorched dumpster, until he linked up with a shadowed figure in a doorway, beyond the reach of surveillance. A bundle of clothes changed hands, the suit shed in the grimy dim for battered jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. The figure, linking an arm around his shoulder.

Vega said nothing. He didn't need to. They both felt it. Walking side by side till they reached a corner. Parked vehicle. Nondescript, the door pushed open from inside. And climbed in. Beyond the city's bounds within the hour.

Fuego, retreating underground.

 
Sylvia Valentine
Mood: Fuck it, we ball.
Location: Directorate Civic Center, Main Hall
Interactions: SteepVision SteepVision Archie Archie

Sylvia worked quickly to wrap the strips of fabric around the woman's wounds, hoping against hope that it'd be enough, that it'd stop the bleeding, even for a little while. All she really needed to do was keep Zulena stable long enough for help to arrive, and she wasn't about to prioritize her information over a woman's life, Sylvia just couldn't let herself do it. And then she heard the woman shouting, felt the grip against her wrist, ripping the journalist away from her work. Sylvia froze, her heart sinking, her hand dropping the makeshift bandage as she was forced to confront the inevitable. With a tentative gaze she met the woman's eyes, listening closely to what would be her dying words.

Zulena's words were curt and to the point, cutting right to the heart of the issue that she'd sent Sylvia to investigate in the first place. But the journalist almost couldn't believe what she was hearing. She looked upon the dying woman with trembling eyes, wincing from the clear pain in Zulena's expression as she forced herself to continue speaking. "...What? There's no way, the people would lose it..." she argued weakly, though even Sylvia could hardly believe her own words. With the momentum that the anti-Xenogenic movement had been gaining lately, spurred on in no small part by Vincents own actions, this plan almost felt like a natural stepping stone for a man like the director.

And Biotech was funding it all from the shadows. Out of everything Zulena had told her thus far this was the one piece of information that'd truly thrown her for a loop. Why would the company that'd created the vaccine in the first place be invested in cracking down on the Xenogenic population. Even from a monitary standpoint it just didn't make sense, what was thair aim here?

She wanted to ask more questions, and she tried, quickly chiming in even as the woman began to fade. "Wait, h-hold on, how do you know this? How can I-" she started to ask, but the light in the womans eyes faded fast, and before Sylvia knew it she was already passing on, that final sigh escaping her as she released her grasp on life, laying dead before the two of them.
The redhead stared down at the woman's corpse for a long while, feeling a weight in her limbs that kept her sitting there. She felt like she was watching the scene play out from far away, like she wasn't inhabiting her own body, but witnessing the event play out in third person like some impartial specter, mindlessly observing the events around her, completely numb to the world.

Sylvia only snapped out of this disassociative trance as she felt the tug on her arm, the man beside her bringing her back up to her feet with a quick tug. She shook her head quickly to clear her thoughts and came after him, happy to be getting out of that situation, to have a chance to clear her head and work through everything that'd just happened, and above all else she wanted to say something to the man before her, the two had clearly been close.

None of those wishes really manifested as the man began talking again, speaking fast, laying out everything he wanted her to do next before she could even ask for his name. The redhead didn't even flinch as she felt that card get pulled from her pocket and flashed before her own eyes, reaching out to take it again with a shaky hand, her objective clear. "R-right" she finally spoke, piercing through the haze in her mind that'd built up to protect her from the trauma of the carnage around her. "I'll do it" she confirmed with a bit more enthusiasm, stuffing the card back into her pocket.

His next instruction came with a warning, pointing back to the man she'd met earlier, that hulking figure that she'd spoken to at the bar, then again when he'd approached nick and her about an extraction in the basement. 'Follow him,' the man had told her, 'You might not come back out'. She could tell he was being genuine, following that man represented the crossing of a threshold, a point of no return, wandering out into the unknown with no real promise of a return. It was enough to send a shiver down her spine.

And then he left, abandoning Sylvia to make her choice alone as he vanished into the distance, out into the streets of New Liberty.

The journalist drew in a slow breath and turned to look at Tulkar again, her breath trembling, hands shaking, the redhead practically paralyzed by fear. This was too much, she was officially going too far, she'd already managed to survive this initial accident, why not just go home while she could? She could publish a sad piece about the accident with some of the prime footage she'd gotten already. The check she'd get from the story could pay her rent for months! Meanwhile trying to follow Tulkar was purely a liablity, a complete unknown, it'd be Sylvia jumping at another thread with zero promise that it'd actually lead anywhere with a very real chance of her getting badly hurt in the process. When she considered the options side by side, the latter almost felt akin to suicide.



There's a little thought experiment that the journalists at the New Liberty Press like to talk about. They call it 'Your Last Story'.

The premise is actually fairly simply. See, everybody knows that the media is corrupt to hell and back, the journalists, writers, editors, they're all keenly aware of this fact. And yet they go along with it anyways, not out of any sort of malice or evil, just the pure, unfortunate fact that the people who work in media are still fleshy humans that need to eat food to live.

Publishing a story that puts a powerful person in a bad light is practically a death wish in New Liberty, their lawyers will come down on you like the hammer of Thor. Even the most noble bleeding hearts in the industry know that the windfall just isn't worth it most of the time. It's just a lot easier to play ball.

Sure, your stories will look almost unrecognizable in the final print after the rube goldberg machine of lawyers, editors, and corporate fact checkers are through with it. Facts get tweaked to fit the companies narrative, punches get pulled, information gets retracted, but at least you get to eat, right? It's not a great trade, but it's the best you can hope for, and everybody keeps their job.

There's a catch, though.

As a journalist working in the industry, you eventually start to put together a list of connections. You gather a following on social media of people who like your content, you make connections with with other journalists, earn a couple of favors with people in the editor's room. That's just the way the industry works, you scratch someone's back, they scratch yours, and everything works smoothly.

Knowing this, it's very possible that someone who's been working in the industry long enough could, in theory, go behind the backs of their bosses and publish an article in its rawest form, untouched by the editors, lawyers, and company fact checkers, with the whole truth completely intact.

Once.

You'd be fired almost immediately, of course, blacklisted from the industry in seconds, barred from so much as standing within 100 feet of a video camera. Not only that, but if the story is spicy enough, your career is probably the least of your worries. The megacorps and the Directorate don't like to be made to look like fools, and they'll follow you to the end of the earth for retribution.

But you'd get the story out there.

So therein lies the question, what kind of story would be so horrible, so unspeakably cruel and unforgivable, that you'd be willing to risk everything to get the truth out, the whole truth, with zero redactions?



Sylvia needed evidence, hard evidence, proof beyond unreasonable doubt if she'd ever have a chance at breaking this story about the director and getting people to actually buy it. And the simple fact was, that the only way to find her proof would be to go deeper, pull the thread and see what came out, follow Tulkar, investigate Orpheus, see what happens. She owed Zulena that much, the woman who'd risked her life just to get this story out.

The journalist felt her hands ball into fists, overtaken with a renewed will to push forward, strengthing her resolve and giving her the power to make that first step into the unknown, before quickly darting back in Tulkar's direction.

"Hey!" she called out after him, approaching quickly. "Hold on! I'm coming with you!" she shouted, making her way down into the basement tunnels.
 
ARC 1

The Luminous Veil

As Daybreak was finishing off the last of the guards that stood in their way the ground beneath their feet shook, shortly followed by a loud boom and a bewildered question from their contracted hacker. “Wasn’t any of ours.” Those Fuego guys were so adamant about Daybreak not employing their usual tactics, so when the unmistakable tremors and shockwave of what sounded to be a pretty powerful explosion, all that ran through Hanabi’s mind was “What the actual hell?” If this was some sort of plan B by Fuego, they could have at least told her about it!

Whether that explosion was Fuego or not, one thing was certain: the element of surprise had been lost and there was no use in sneaking around now. Blaze holstered her pistol in favor of her SMG, with Shade doing the same with her shotgun after she dismissed the shadow tendril impaling the guard, letting his corpse fall to the ground, the distinctive metallic sounds of guns being chambered echoing through the hallway.

When their Fuego partner rushed forwards, Blaze and Shade were right behind him, the former charging into the room right behind their armored ally while the latter took point outside the room near the door, around which more restless spots of darkness spawned more shadow tendrils ready to cut up any Directorate reinforcements that may come their way.

Meanwhile, inside the room, the redhead took the first cover she found, keeping her gun sights trained on the man with dreadlocks. If her gut was right, the guy was as dangerous as he looked, no normal person would have such a relaxed posture in a situation like this. That and it looked like Ash had the Directorate lady, from the looks of her proximity to their hostage the interrogator, under control. She at the very least didn’t seem as dangerous as the man at the end of her sights. The tension in the air seemed to exponentially increase as the standoff continued, Blaze ready to start shooting if any sudden moves were made.



Orpheus stood staring at those that entered the room, a wry smile stretching across his pale face. The corner of his mouth curled up wickedly and not hiding the pleasure that he had some new people to play with.

"Are you lost?" He teased. "I can help show you to the exit."

He shuffled between the new arrivals and Mischa, keeping an eye on the barrels pointed square at him. He had found Mischa's reaction to his arrival funny but then he did like to torment her whenever he could. She was uptight and a stickler for work but even so, he wasn't going to let the terrorists do anything to her.



The feeling of cold metal meeting the back of her head was not reassuring. Neither was the sudden appearance of what she assumed was the rebel group responsible for the trembles of the explosion that rang at the surface. The answer to her earlier question to Orpheus resolves itself pretty much.

Mischa eyed the intruders. The threatening presence of the weapon and the demand from behind her were forgotten for a moment. One, two…three, four. None of them looked like the person she saw in the hostage’s memories. Where was he?

She then glanced at Orpheus. Regardless of how she felt about him as a person, her faith in his ability was not something she questioned. Otherwise, he wouldn't have stayed in the position he currently occupies for so long. The only question remaining was how exactly they could maneuver this situation with the fewest losses, as Mischa knew that she wouldn't be much of a help if a fight broke out. Obviously, she was taught the basics of self-defense but there wasn’t much she could do in the face of a bullet to the head.

"No need for haste," she casually muttered as she slowly approached the hostage to reach for his bindings. The glint of the weapon, quite literally, always at the back of her mind.

Stop playing around,” Tashi barked, his tone harsh. His eyes were fixed on the woman, his glare sharp and accusing as she began to untie Mateus. He was still trying to process the sound of the explosion and the shift from a calculated mission to unpredictable chaos. These people’s nonchalance in the face of danger grated on Tashi’s nerves, while his own heart still pounded in his chest. All he could do is watch as the woman worked to free Mateus, his own body rigid with tension. As the hour grew longer, the bindings around the still-reeling Mateus began to slacken.

The look in Mateus’ eyes wasn’t all there and the sight provoked Tashi to turn his focus back onto the woman, “What did you do to him?” That vacant look on their hostage’s face, despite their sudden presence, made his worry surge. There was no way that the man would be able to leave here on his own. With one hand holding the gun, still trained on the woman, he moved to Mateus. “Nothing that a little sleep can’t cure. He’s a big boy after all, isn’t he?” Mock slipped into her voice as Mischa kept her hands busy with slowly untying the ropes, her eyes occasionally flitting upwards to the approaching rebel and the three keeping watch from a distance. When he reached the hostage, she retreated. Stepping away a few steps into the direction of Orpheus. Tashi’s hand worked at untying the knots, fingers working swiftly yet carefully against the tight coils. As the final knot gave way, Mateus slumped forward.

Freedom was a sudden and disorienting shift—instinctively Tashi’s arm wrapped around him as the man stumbled. One step at a time, they moved towards the exit. “We don’t have time for a fight. Let’s move.

Orpheus watched the rescue party walk out with the hostage and when out of earshot, excitedly rubbed his hands together. A maniacal smile grew on his face as he looked at Mischa.

It’s time for the fun to begin, are you going to be okay to get yourself somewhere safe? I don’t want the boss blaming me if his mind reader gets hurt.

Yes,” was her quick reply. Short and to the point, but still slightly absent from the whole situation as Mischa was desperately trying to keep hold of the few glimpses of memories she obtained. She had to remember the exact facial features and attributes and deliver them to the right person or at least note them down before they slipped through her head and consciousness, lost in the void.

Though that still didn’t stop the critical glance she threw into his direction as she recognized his familiar crazed look. A clear indication that the act of a gentleman was gone. But it would do no good if Orpheus lost himself in the maniac of his mind and missed the chance to catch the rats when they were already dancing in front of his nose. “Don’t play around with your food too much, alright? Their escape will be on you.” Her last warning to him before she made her way to the door the rebels just disappeared through. She feared that he was already too deep in his hunting instincts to understand her words, but it was better than doing nothing. Awaiting for a moment to hear if everything seemed clear outside of it, she stepped through. The door fell shut behind her.

With one problem solved, Orpheus bid her farewell with a sarcastically slow, almost scary wave. In a blink he was gone, leaving nothing but some wisps of smoke where he had previously stood.



As Tashi stumbled towards the exit, Hanabi was right behind him covering his flank, her gun trained on the man with dreadlocks as she backed out of the room. For a moment, her eyes went to the other Fuego operative still standing off with the dangerous-looking man. She had no idea what he could be planning, but if he’s not gonna come with them then might as well leave him behind to do his thing. It’s hardly the situation to get slowed down by one person that she hardly knew.

Tsukiko went over to carry their target by the other arm as soon as the group stepped out into the dimmed hallway. “Let’s get out of here.” The redhead said as her comrades advanced, covering their back flank. As the group made their way through the dimly lit corridor, Tsukiko made way for their advance, several stirring blotches of shadow from which razor-sharp flailing tendrils emerged appearing a few feet ahead of them and disappearing as they approached, clearing a path for them like a combine harvester through a field of wheat.

Despite the way things were going as smoothly as they could have hoped, something still didn’t sit right with Hanabi. It seemed almost too easy.

More footsteps resounded from a distant crevice within the hallway. Tashi gave a look of concern to Chaz, his myriad nano machines still abuzz around his silhouetted form. The brute splits off from the group, pulled like a magnet toward the approaching clamor of guards. His ego, as massive as his stature, always demands an audience. “Don’t worry your little head over me, cloak boy. And don’t wait up!” A sense of anticipatory excitement rolled off him in waves as he departed. And just like that, Chaz was gone.

A crazed laughter echoed through the long, dark corridor with the sound of skipping footsteps accompanying it like some twisted backing track. A silhouette approached the group and from the shadowy shape alone, they knew exactly who it was. How he had got in front of them was a mystery but it was far more concerning that he was nonchalant about being so heavily outnumbered.

1, 2 - Freddy’s coming for you…” Orpheus taunted mid-laughter. “3, 4 - better lock your door.

He continued to skip towards the group, his voice beginning to twist and contort with every word. Deeper, harsher…more intimidating.

5, 6 - Grab a crucifix…” he continued, picking up speed as he skipped towards them, his voice increasing into a roaring crescendo of volume, “7, 8 - GoNnA sTaY uP lAtE!

Hearing the voice of the deranged lunatic get louder, Hanabi dashed in front of Tsukiko and Tashi to fire a burst of her SMG, deafening in the confined space, while Tsukiko sicked a pair of shadow tendrils at the man.

And then nothing. The voice, the skipping…it all stopped. Orpheus disappeared into a puff of smoke before the group. Neither the shadow tendrils nor the bullets hit their mark, only serving to dissipate the smoke left behind by the man.

With his shoulders hunched and form lowered, Tashi braced himself for the rumble of Hanabi’s firearm. His grip tightened around Mateus and adrenaline coursed through his veins. This bastard must’ve been a Xeno, how else could he get that ability? After many encounters with the directorate, he had never encountered this kind of tech. A tight knot began to form in his chest. Breathe. He feels Mateus’ weight against him, a somber anchor in the chaos. His responsibility. But the mysterious man, the Xeno… How do you fight a man that isn’t there?

The hallway was eerily silent for a time as the only sounds that reached the group’s ears were the distant, muffled sounds of chaos from above and their own breathing and heartbeats in their ears. Hanabi looked around the group, aiming her gun at the dark corners of the hallway to try and locate where the man had gone. She reached down to the casings of her spent rounds, running her hands over each one of them. It very much looked stupid to any onlookers that didn’t know the redhead’s capabilities, but to those who did know exactly what she was doing.

Small, somewhat dense, it took little less than a second after she’d made contact for them to turn from harmless bullet casings into little ticking time bombs ready to explode at a moment's notice. The best part? You wouldn’t even know it was an explosive until it burst, the changes in the molecular structure being impossible to observe by human eyes, cybernetically enhanced or not. Tsukiko, meanwhile, put her head on a swivel after more patches of shadow came to life around them, seeking out where to direct her shadow creations. That thing may be able to disappear into thin air, but the dark was Tsukiko’s domain, shaped and given form by her will.

A whisper could be heard behind the majority of the group, into the ear of Mateus’.

9, 10 - Never sleep again…” The hostage was yanked from the supporting shoulder of his friends and found himself in the arms of Orpheus. The man, if he could be called such with his almost inhuman appearance, grinned a wide taunting smile.

Tashi could barely react. The air popped and whirled—he felt emptiness where Mateus used to be. His eyes shot open, searching wildly for any sign of the hostage. It took another second for the reality of the situation to sink in. The shock held him in place as he failed to respond. It felt like a nightmare.

A wave of dread washed over Tsukiko as the weight of the man propped between Tashi and herself suddenly vanished, drawing her shotgun and looking around similar to Tashi. In the darkened hallway the shadows became restless as she prepared for the worst.

Oh dear oh dear…” He taunted, “Whatever will you do now?! You came all this way and he’s just back in my arms…it’s so unfair!

He was mocking the rescue party, clearly taking enjoyment from his pathetic games. Hanabi scowled as she turned and pointed her gun at the man. The guy’s mockery was akin to a schoolyard bully playing with his victim yet got under her skin all the same. But more than that, there was another feeling besides annoyance behind her scowl, a result of a realization. Appearing out of thin air in front of them, disappearing into a puff of smoke, suddenly appearing behind them again. There’s no way around it, the guy must be a Xeno. A Xeno who blindly worked for the Directorate, a traitor to their own people to serve their oppressors. And for what? Money stained with the blood of his own kind?

Her eyes burned with hate as she looked down her sights. It’d be easy to detonate the bullet shells right now, though then the mission would all be for naught if she did that, not only taking the hostage down with the man with dreadlocks but also the Daybreak trio. There was no choice, the casing trap couldn’t be used, each bullet casing evaporating into dust, as if they were never there in the first place.

Tashi’s breath felt trapped in his throat as the figure taunted them. Panic’s burning embrace began to burst from his lungs. His mind was screaming at him to breathe, but his body would not obey. The sound of gunfire erupted in the hallway and it did not cease for what felt like hours. His mind raced, predicting the inevitable. Silence. Then nothing. Chaz. The image of the man flickered across his eyes, sharp as a bullet. Reality settled on his shoulders, Chaz was likely dead. Yet Tashi had no time to dwell on it.

Which one of you clowns is going to try and save him?” He eyed each of them as their guns were pointed at him. “I wouldn’t shoot if I were you, imagine killing him and having to live with that guilt for the rest of your life? I can promise you that he won’t be subject to any torture and he certainly won’t be getting mindfucked by Mischa anymore either. So why don’t you turn around, leave and I promise you that you’ll see him again soon. I mean look, I don’t want to kill all of you because trust me, I could…I’m just on the payroll, trying to get by like everyone else in this fucking city.

His smile had faded leaving a scowl that was nothing short of evil, as if staring deep into the souls of those before him.
Leave now…I will not warn you again.

His words were clear, simple, and chillingly final. The absence of Chaz, the dwindling numbers on his side, the walls seemingly closing in on them—it pointed to one undeniable conclusion. Tashi could taste the sour sting of defeat on his tongue, but he knew there was no alternative. Fighting against the tide was suicide. They’d be mowed down without a second thought, just like Chaz. Casting one final look, he clenched his fists. There would be a time for anger, for revenge, but now was not that time. Swallowing his pride he signaled to his comrades, his eyes showing his intent. They had to retreat.

With a hardened look and a finger addressed towards Orpheus, “This isn’t over,” he said. “We’re falling back for now, but we will see you again.”As his gaze shifts to Mateus he feels a pang of guilt. Mateus’ wide, unsteady eyes reflected the hallway’s harsh lighting and the sight twisted his insides. He was still helpless, disoriented, and in the hands of one of the most deadly men that the directorate had to offer. Eyes still set on the horrific figure that ended it all, the group of rebels made their retreat. With their arms freed of Mateus, the group was able to gain distance at a superior pace.



With the footsteps gone Orpheus dropped Mateus to the floor in a head, the man unable to support his weight. His arm crumpled beneath him, accompanied by a sickening crack that likely signified an injury.

“I can’t say that I’m not disappointed, it is always so much more fun when they fight back…but alas, they left you. Your friends, the heroes of this fine city, left you because an absolute scruff of a man like me got in the way. What are they ever going to achieve if I am enough to make them leave one of their dearest friends behind?” He spat on the floor next to Mateus in disgust at the thought of ever leaving a brother behind. “I may be fucked in the head but I have my priorities right, you don’t leave someone behind…especially with someone as fucked in the head as me. I’m not going to torture you…and Mischa certainly won’t be mindfucking you…instead you’re going to play a part in my great scheme.

Orpheus drove a boot into the shoulder of Mateus to roll him over onto his back. He mounted his chest and looked down as his weight began to push the air from the hostage's body.

Don’t worry…you’re going to be fine…



Their footsteps beat rhythmically in their stride, the defeat still strong in their minds. They had an extraction point to reach and they could not let their defeat impede them any further. A reprieve washed over Tashi as they made their way out of the expansive corridors. Hidden among the shadowy corridors and pristine walls, their escape route was concealed. The hatch was inconspicuous, almost indiscernible if not for the faint outline etched into the floor.

It was sealed shut, nearly impossible to open without heavy-duty hardware. Thankfully, his mutation would prove useful here. As the cold began to set in within the hatch's core, the metal began to contract. Slowly, with the shape no longer set within its holster, Tashi was able to wrench it free. “Come on, let’s get out of here,” defeat was laden within his voice—yet there was something more, hidden beneath his low timbre.

At the extraction point lay a box, pristine as if gift wrapped ready for Christmas by a doting parent, but this box was no gift. On top of it read a scrawled note, scribbled in almost indiscernible handwriting if not for the fact it was all capitals, ’ TO THOSE WHO FLEE, A PRESENT FOR THEE.’

A Christmas present was at the bottom of the list the Daybreak trio were expecting to see when they reached the light at the end of the dark tunnel. “The hell…” Hanabi mumbled under her breath, looking over at Tsukiko, gesturing for her to check it out. Now, when you see a Christmas present ominously displayed at a random place where it normally shouldn’t, the answer is almost always that it was a bomb or some other trap of some kind that triggered when the lid was lifted. Naturally, you wouldn’t want to approach such an object much less open it, but luckily for Tsukiko, she didn’t need to approach it to open it.

Out from the darkness emerged a long, skinny human-like arm cloaked in shadow, lifted the lid of the box ever so slightly above the body, holding it in the air for a few seconds as the group waited for something to happen, but it never came. Tsukiko let out a sigh as it seemed the box wasn’t trapped and approached it, the shadow arm dissipating and letting the lid fall loosely back onto the box.

For the unfortunate soul who would open it, they would find the crimson ribbon sticky with blood, while the pale white lid lifted with ease. Within the box was a message to say that everything they had done, everyone they had killed and everyone they had lost, was for naught. What lay before Tsukiko was the fleshy, skinless expression of Mateus, looking up at them from his severed head. On the underside of the lid was a further message, written in the blood of the now deceased hostage, ’ I NEVER SAID I WOULDN’T KILL HIM! I KEEP MY PROMISES!’

A gasp escaped Tsukiko as she started gagging at the sight, dropping the lid to the ground. She was no stranger to beheading people with her shadows, but this… this was something else entirely.

Shade!” Hanabi rushed over to her comrade, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Shade, you alright? What’s-” She didn’t get the chance to finish her question as she laid her eyes on the contents of the box. A similar feeling of nausea washed over the redhead, covering her mouth with one hand and averting her gaze.

Fucking animal… Betraying your own kind just wasn’t enough huh? Feelings of disgust and hatred towards the man, if you could even call him that, only intensified through his little “gift” to them. But still… perhaps they could yet use his gift.

It should come as no surprise that the media in New Liberty was nothing but a bunch of Directorate propaganda, only used to fuel the fears of the wider populace of the other, the Xeno. They made them out to be devils and themselves infallible angels. A lie the populace has bought into for decades, but what if they were shown what their angels did to those that disagreed with them in its full gruesome detail?

Tsukiko’s breathing slowed as she gradually regained composure. “Y-yea, I’m fine… just caught me a little off guard…” She said as she looked up at the redhead who gave her a comforting little smile and shoulder pats in response. “Shade… you think you could put the lid back on?” She didn’t need to be asked twice as another arm emerged from the darkness and fit the lid firmly back onto the box.

Ash!” The redhead called over to her other comrade. “Grab the box and let’s go! And for the love of God, don’t look in it!” Tsukiko was taken aback by the command. “Blaze?!” Hanabi placed a hand on Tsukiko’s shoulder once more. “I’ll explain later, we need to go.” She said to her as she started up her pace again.

The box was heavier than he'd expected. It seemed to carry a kind of gravity that had nothing to do with its physical weight. As if the very object was imbued with a sense of foreboding that made his skin crawl. The blood-soaked ribbon was sticky and warm against his hands. The temptation to lift the lid and discover its contents was powerful, but he fought it back. He'd been around long enough to know that some things were better left unseen. Whatever was inside, it wouldn't change their current situation, it wouldn't bring back their lost allies.

A loud cackle echoed throughout the area, seemingly moving as erratically as its source. Orpheus had to get one last laugh in before disappearing into the darkness, his laugh following soon behind. Then, something began falling through the air like a twisted feather, landing with a splat within reach of the group. Contorted and stretched, it was still identifiable exactly what it was…it was his face. Mateus’ former visage lay in a heap of discarded skin on the cold, hard floor. Gaping holes where his eyes once were, now only showed the darkness of the night as they gave sight to the shadow underneath the fleshy mass.

As the grotesque object fell from the sky, landing with a sickening splat, he couldn't hold back the nausea that surged up his throat. The sight of the discarded skin, the once familiar features of Mateus distorted and hollowed out, was like a gut punch. He clamped a hand over his mouth, his knuckles white as he fought to keep the bile from spilling over. His eyes were wide and horrified, yet he couldn't tear his gaze away from the horrific sight.

Hatred flared in his chest, burning hotter than any fire. The Directorate, their puppets like Orpheus, were true monsters. They were the enemy, and they would pay for their atrocities. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, fueling his legs to move faster, away from the macabre sight. Tashi and the remaining members of the team found refuge in the dim light of the sewer. They stayed still and silent, ears straining for any sounds that might signal the arrival of their surviving comrades.

The world outside was distant, the chaos of the building, the haunting laughter—they were detached from it all, cocooned within the underbelly of the city. A cruel calmness wrapped around them, like an eerie quiet after a storm. There, in the dimly lit tunnel, their shadows loomed large, merging with the darkness. They were a part of it yet distinct, just as they were—a part of the world, yet standing against it.
 
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