Chapter 2

[thenine]

Who: OTA
Where: Quad
When: Week 2, Day 5 - Week 4, Day 6
Summary: Chapter 2 prompts!
Restrictions/Warnings: Violence, blood, et cetera. For anything surpassing 'R' on a rating scale, please create your own log.
Notes: Please title your subject line in the following format -- Open / Closed | Date. OOC event information can be found here.

Quick Navigation
The Nine
The Company
Westies
True Leithians
Leith
Resistance
The RAC

The Nine: Poisoned Well

With the heir delivered and Lady Derrish returning to health, balance has been maintained amongst the Nine. Swift and efficient - and, some would say, unbelievable - medical attention administered may have steadied the Lady's life, but for those in the ruling houses, the atmosphere of tenuous peace only grows thicker. Land Kendry has launched an investigation - with particular focus on Land Hyponia - into the source of the 'attack' on Lady Derrish's health. Of course, that is only the surface, and some suggest, with hushed voices, that there may be more to Land Kendry's goals than to weed out an assailant. Land Hyponia has long since been in support of maintaining the Seventh Generation Accords, which it defends staunchly against any opposition. One of the most agitated among those in disagreement with the Accords is Land Kendry. Now is the perfect opportunity for them to rearrange the pieces in their favor, and with the information they've fabricated, they'll be able to replace the head of Land Hyponia with someone who is - at least hopefully - more pliable to their agenda. The Derrish have their own suspicions, the cure surfacing all too conveniently timed to have been a coincidence. When Land Kendry's investigation procures evidence pointing to Land Hyponia as the culprits, inflaming the crime with implied - yet vague - ties to the resistance, the Derrish publically accept the accusation. Behind closed doors, the solution seemed to have come as uncannily easily as the cure, and suspicions only rise. But for now, the two houses remain allied - ready to use one another for their own interests. For those among the nobility, it's the time to reevaluate alliances, assuring the old and gathering the new. The more support you have, the safer you are - unless, of course, you chose the wrong friend. Some turn to other members of the nobility, some to the RAC for hired guards, some to the Company to mandate investigations unsuitable for Killjoys, and some may even turn to the underbelly of society to accomplish anything necessary to stay on top. Or to simply stay alive.

The Company: Cleaning House

There will be no accolades, and no rest, for the hard working Company officials following the response to the True Leithan attacks. Assignments shift from one thing to the next, moving from bureaucratic nightmare to bureaucratic nightmare. While there’s always busy work to distract from the intrigue behind the scenes, it’s not liable to be any safer. Some officials will be charged with maintaining peace and order on Leith, as the outbreak of a pandemic slowly spreads over the moon. From helping the afflicted find their way to a place of treatment, to safe and efficient body disposal—burning corpses by the hundreds—to attempting to track down the source of the virus, it's best anyone assigned here take heed ‘lest they find themselves falling ill as well. Westerley, on the other hand, is a different kind of headache. With Harvest Week in swing, most company officials will be reaching for a drink of their own at the end of their shifts. Rowdy workers celebrating their time off, spending their hard earned Joy frivolously, and citizens whisked away by the atmosphere of celebration all mingle throughout Old Town. Property damage, fighting, less than subtle illegal activity, and crowding all become more of an issue than they usually are during this time. It's the perfect setting to lay down the law, or to not be noticed by it. On top of it all, each and every member of the Company's workforce can expect to have their documents double and triple-checked. Those with any suspected ties to Leith are likely to undergo a more serious investigation. One-on-one interrogations become common practice, and whether you're trusted or suspect, you may come face to face with a companion in your duties. True Leithan sympathizers are what the Company review is after, but anything else unturned will surely not be ignored. Cover your bases.

Westies: Harvest Week

Harvest week is in full swing throughout Westerley - visa workers have been shuttled back in droves from their time on Leithian farms, many of whom were willing to take some of their observations to information brokers for a price. Most had superficial information to sell (the state of unease on the average farm due to the impending Accords, the increased suspicion that the migrant workers were forced to endure, the fear of retaliation by the rebellion for the True Leithian attacks), others with reports of increased security and weapons caches on the farms of those whose sympathies lie with the “heroes” of the attack in Old Town. Old Town, however, is even more of a chaotic mesh of humanity with the mass influx of returning bodies. Bars stay busy day and night, the hokk and ale flow almost faster than most can keep up, and many Enforcers and Killjoys alike can make a good bit of extra joy (or free drinks) by moonlighting as security at the more popular locations. Despite all of the fun to be had, there is still the undercurrent of unrest, because Company checks have increased even more and Intake has become a revolving door of petty criminals being held for the smallest infractions. Everyone is on edge as the Resistance grumbles and the Nine search the shadows for something or perhaps someone. The unrest only worsens once Leith is placed under quarantine. And through it all, criminal activity is on the rise. Somehow, despite the strict regulation and transport of migrant workers, there is an increased access to Jakk and Bliss. Norn has an ever growing market, and weapons dealers are in high demand both in Eulogy and by private buyers alike. Something is brewing beneath the revelry, and no one wants to be caught unable to defend themselves, it seems. Not that any amount of firepower can defend against disease when P43X shows up on W3D7--but it can certainly make the symptoms worse.

True Leithians: Second Stage

Wounded and pressed to a corner, the beast rears its head and bares a maw of teeth and ruthless pursuit. The True Leithian organization does not take pause to mend wounds left in the wake of last week’s retaliation, no. They do not seek the comfort of safe haven and recovery. Instead they turn their anger and fear inward, sacrificing their own for what they believe to be the greater good. On Week 2, Day 6, three individuals slip into the crowds of Leith, mingling with the revelers and the families celebrating Harvest Week. They share smiles and laughter, they share conversation and drinks, but most importantly, they share infection. Each of the three is responsible for disseminating P43X, a viral bioweapon designed by Zan Nikora on behalf of the military in years past. During its conception, the aim of P43X was simple: to create a weapon which could demoralize and destabilize an entire population within a matter of days. To create madness that builds in the blood and eats into the brain, spreading through every tier of society. And though its use has long been out of commission, its engineer has lingered. Zan Nikora, kidnapped and held under threat of death not to himself but to those he holds dearest, is made to choose between the lives of his family on Westerley or the strangers on Leith. His choice is obvious, though far from easy. Reassembling the buried curse takes time, supplies, and testing. He is provided amply with the last two but scarcely with the first. But still he complies. When his madness maker is complete and his existence becomes a potential loose end, it’s not freedom that Zan Nikora tastes, but the poison of his own medicine. Only once the voices in his head have risen above whispers and turned to screams, when his mind can no longer hold secrets worth sharing, does he see his family again. It takes six days*. Six days and Zan Nikora stumbles through Old Town, eyes unseeing, mind riddled with disease—infection spreading. Mod Note: *W3D6. Cure and vaccines will be developed and disseminated beginning on W4D3, but will not be fully administered to all locations until W4D5.

Leith: Pocket Posies

Harvest Week in Leith marks a period of joy and relief. Bazaars are open longer, the ordinary bustle of the business day replaced with celebration and festivities throughout the evening hours. Vendors offer games for adults and children alike, the sky is a constant wash of soft pinks, purples, and greens from holographic firework shows, and music fills the air from different stages. All walks of life are welcome to join in the merriment, just so long as they have the right to be there. Anyone suspected of an invalid visa or citizenship papers are dealt with harshly, but quietly. Tucked away into the darkness of a holding cell like all of Leith’s more problematic elements. It is a time of peace and relief, this week, and they will not abide disruption. But within the hallowed days of celebration, a sickness grows, incubating. Spreading. First, it begins with an ache deep within the muscles. The body tires too quickly, the flesh burns with a blanket of rising fever. Whispers skirt at the edge of hearing, unintelligible but audible, filling the audio cortex with illusions and lies. Food loses its appeal, though the body yearns dearly for energy it cannot hold, and breathing becomes tighter, harder. Next the tide of high fevers, of lethargy. The brain devolves into paranoia and mania, the mind races with delusions and hallucinations. Pain follows, a pain that seems to emanate from every nerve without relief or pause, seeping through the muscles and aching within the very bones of a person. Some may wish for death, and for many, that wish will be granted in an unending sleep when the fatigue pulls darkness across the mind, plunges the last thoughts of a person into static slumber. But not all will succumb so readily, and therein is the weakness that ultimately shelved P43X during its initial creation. Its impacts are not uniform—while much of the population suffers dearly, most are sustained with timely medical interventions, and many others recover with the prowess of their own immune system. For Leith, bountiful in money and supplies, most of P43X’s more fatal properties are circumvented or delayed. But even in this lush world of affluence and peace, there are the poor, the underprivileged, and the weak. They are not afforded the same haste of care, the same salvation. Instead, they’re given graves of sanitizing fires, and their bodies turn to ash.

Resistance: Sleeping Dogs

The chaos of the festivities that go along with Harvest Week provides the perfect cover for the Resistance to begin moving once again. New cells need to be formed in the wake of so many executions and new members need to be recruited. Info brokers with Resistance-leaning sympathies have an opportunity to make a little extra joy by putting the disconnected sympathizers in contact with one another, aiding the vetting of Company insiders that need new handlers within the organization. For Resistance members already embedded within, they need to work now to find new locations to store what supplies remain and to begin rebuilding the stockpiles of weapons and supplies re-confiscated by the Company. Some may have heard of abandoned mines or facilities that can be retrofitted out in the Badlands while others are needed to track down rumors of Company made fallout shelters located within the under-city tunnels. For this, Company moles are essential - the only hope of accessing these shelters is with long forgotten Company passcodes. And the Scarbacks, well. Everyone’s heard rumors that there are many within their ranks willing to help with recruitment and contraband transportation, though there’s little the Company can do to restrict their movements at this time. Because of this, Scarbacks may also be the only ones that have a chance of getting into Leith once the quarantines go into effect. Those already aligned with the rebellion will be tasked with coordinating supply movements, making a deal or three with the devil on behalf of those unwilling to back down from the promises of the Accords. Caution and purpose should drive their movements because if the True Leithian attack is any indication… those nationalists are not going to let go of their precious land and status without a long, bloody fight.

The RAC: Holding Pattern

Warrants still flow in with a regular consistency - enough to keep the average team or agent quite busy. Every harvest season there are visa jumpers that need to be caught and low-level warrants claiming petty theft from farms by Westie migrants. The increasing number of disturbances and crimes in Old Town guarantee a plethora of local warrants to capture criminals across the moon or those that managed to escape an Enforcer’s arrest. Some, however, have either been requested by Seyah Kendry herself or volentold by their seniors within the RAC to conduct investigations into the attack on the Nine. And not all of these investigations are on the Lady’s behest. Some of the Nine aren’t quite willing to take Land Kendry’s word as law and have quietly requested their own investigations into the attack in Old Town and the Land Derrish misfortunes. (MOD NOTE: There will be a comment thread for teams to sign up for the specialized plot related warrants on the monthly warrant post, located HERE. Once teams have posted for a plot warrant, the mods will give them a location and focused assignment.)

Comments

CLOSED | julius, week three day seven.

[sunderings]

[ Long before the number of those lost to the pandemic rose, the Company had begun to dig, enforcers putting shovel and spade to Leithan greenery in order to accommodate ten, fifty, then a hundred some dead. Among them, Sion stood as a lone note of dissonance, passing over corpses and knowing them as men, women, and children, all deserving of so much more than this—a mass grave hollowed out as a fire pit.

Where his men keep their distance, fearful of contracting the infection, Sion is made dauntless by the knowledge of his own synthesized biology, made to withstand both injury and disease, as well as the simple action of pressing a lily into a child's hands before the body is delivered into the grave alongside the rest.

"We are waiting for your mark, sir." someone urges, and Sion catches sight of their silhouette from the corner of his eye as he rises, wordlessly granting the request to proceed with a nod of his head, his gaze turned skyward as the dead are doused with petrol, the smell of it masking the scent of death and the early stages of decay.

(There are so, so very many dead.)

He turns, then, to an enforcer—Julius, who is not under his jurisdiction, but shares this assignment all the same—who stands solemn; who carries a flare pistol in hand. ]

As soon as the area is clear. [ Then, the petrol may be lit. Then, there will be a new pit of bodies.

A bow of his head: ] May they find better fortune in rebirth.

[tousei]

[ For the most part, Julius had played the role of stability amongst the agents working here. Most of them were afraid even underneath their containment equipment - some making it obvious, some hiding them beneath masks and goggles, yet there was a certain stiffness to their actions that lent suggestion to their true feelings.

He stands amongst them, a lone Enforcer figure dressed in black and gold, grey eyes intense yet somehow vacant. There were too many dead, and the only way he could steel himself was to detach his soul altogether. Unlike what his demeanour suggested, he shares much of Sion's thoughts - yet, still unable to express them lets his entire facade shatter like glass. ]

May they, indeed.

[ A salute is offered, the only sign of emotion that he allows himself to express before he raises the gun and fires. The flare traces out a short arc in the air, glittering until it impacts and fills the pit with dancing flames.


And so it ends. ]

[sunderings]

[ From beginning to end, he does not look away—the enforcer's salute (veneration for the dead), the bright arc of the flare (a guiding light in its shape), and the inferno which gives rise in their wake bleeding together into a nightmare that eclipses his vision, and still... still he stands, commending the dead with a stance which is proud, and eyes which will never forget the image seared into them—

(The fire burns, flesh blistering over to black, its heat immense, and in the flames Sion glimpses a landscape which can only be worlds away: the color of the sky shifting from green to grey, he recognizes the place as a battlefield, fraught with bodies, good men and women who still lived, still breathed, but were maligned by a curse, twisted into some grotesque shape.)

—nor the magnitude of the loss.

There are no more words, no prayers to say, only tears which streak down the Director's cheeks as he staggers, sways much too close to the flame, his golden eyes reflecting only the great blaze.

(And as the curse spread indiscriminately throughout enemy and allied ranks, a King recognized the need to erase them, those humans who had been made into sacrifices, carriers for the curse and its plague. Rather than lose more to its clutches, the King then decreed that all those who lost the ability to reason, their minds gone and their bodies forfeit, be burned by his flame.

Because the had been such a need.

Because it had been something which must be done in order to progress.

The King «Sion Astal» he--... )

]

They did not die meaninglessly. [ Blinking the waking dream back from his eyes, he turns to Julius with tear-trails upon his cheeks, saline collected along his jawline. Shattered, he may have been for a moment, but in being so, he has found his strength; strength, for those who no longer could rally for themselves or the loved ones they'd left behind. ] Someone will answer for this.

Justice will be done.

[tousei]

[ While Sion dreams, he keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the bonfire now roaring before them. The smell stings only a little against his eyes, grey looking forward and through the dancing flames towards an indeterminate point to the horizon. Already the features of the dead are becoming hard to make out, mangled and melded together in the fire - a fire of purgatory, a fire of erasure.

And not for the first time her voice rings in his head.

"Cleanse this filthy world... my son, my one and only, raze it all to ash."

So it's with a measure of surprise that he turns to listen to Sion speak - surprise at the other's tears locked from his expression but not his eyes, the barest lift of his eyebrows before he settles into his previous solemn expression, his figure cut black against the flames and Sion's shining white. ]

Justice will be done.

[ He echoes the other's statement - voice quiet in contrast, yet still firm. So many have died, and it's easier to focus on the task ahead than on what's happened. He only prays that he will still find the strength to do so, when all this is over.

In silence he retrieves a handkerchief out of one pocket and offers it to the other. It's a piece of plain fabric, though its texture will immediately identify it as one of expensive make. ]

[sunderings]

[ Though the Enforcer's voice falls soft as ash, the echo of his shared sentiment is resonant, profound like the offering of a handkerchief, the fabric extended to the Director with a measure of (humanity) understanding not often seen within the ranks of the Company.

Strange, that when Sion reaches out, it is almost as though he is the one offering comfort, his fingers curling about Julius' own with a gentle-strong grace so that the other man might hold fast to the square of fabric, knowing that the gesture had been appreciated (and perhaps undeserved), but that also--...

That handkerchief is not for Sion to take. ]

Will you walk with me, instead? [ Despite all appearances and his ever-regal, ever-proud stance, Sion's heart thrums like a thing alive in his chest, his thoughts in tumult, still, from the vision which he'd glimpsed. Hallucinations are a marker of the infection which had claimed the lives of all those wreathed now in flame, but Sion knows better than any: his body cannot catch ill. He has never taken sick. (So then, what had it been...?) ] I dare not dry my eyes, for I...

[ For just a moment, the liquid gold of his gaze shifts from Julius to the pit of flame, the smell of flesh, the stink of smoke, and the acridity of the fire seeming to stick to every inch of him.

(As though he bore some responsibility; as if he had been the one to decree that all be burned.) ]

Do not wish to lose sight of them. [ He releases Julius' hand with a parting squeeze of his fingers, falling back a step as he considers the man standing before him: a solemn expression, a stoic countenance, and something guarded; something which held his own heart protected. ]

You have my thanks, Julius.

[ Julius, he pronounces with surety, for he has processed the man's clearances before. That they've not met for more than a moment's passing in the field is by and large due to circumstance—perhaps, they were always meant for more than idle discussion in the Company's tower. ]

[tousei]

[ Julius holds his posture unmoving as Sion speaks, only letting his arm drop back to his side after the other lets go. The Director seems to be having a moment, and it's nowhere within his rights to interfere. Not when his own thoughts have not been sorted out yet. ]

I will. Let us walk.

[ He doesn't feel confident to offer any consolation, at least with verbal means. What he can offer, however, is his company, and his stoic unjudging quiet. If it will help at all, then he will give it; even if it's for someone he's barely met.

Any small help that can be given should be given. Perhaps one day, these small acts will cleanse the blood from his hands a little. ]

[sunderings]

[ Julius is the clear grace of still water against a backdrop of flame, his solemn quiet tempering the windstorm—a great tumult of things—which brewed in the Director's body, manifest now only as tears. Saline, welled at the corners of golden eyes gone glassy and over-bright with the poignancy of loss and heartache for all those left behind, the people who would see the billows of black smoke rising high into the Leithian sky and know what it meant.

Somehow, it is difficult for him to walk away. As though his feet were rooted into the earth, well into the space where everything is linked together (everything before and everything after), he is slow to take his leave, his footsteps heavy with mourning.

Julius, in his silence, is a kind man. Were he left to his own devices, the Director may have very well been driven to do something heedless and impulsive, making his cry for answers known.

(And in their agony, perhaps some would have followed. Joined in his crusade for justice. But now is not the time for such things—not yet.) ]

Tell me, what do you make of this? [ As an Enforcer, someone with blood on their hands. A man who, perhaps, does not yet know he is not defined by the things he has done in the past, but by the reflection he casts in the present. ] What is there to be gleaned from so much death?

[tousei]

[ Others might question the calm with which Julius holds himself - a figure black and silent, cut against the whirl of colour and tumult that he leaves behind - too calm, too obedient, much like a machine. But beneath his veneer of composure is something similar to that of Sion's heart, except much more dangerous; for if he ever let himself give in to his emotions, he knows that he would descend swiftly into the madness in his blood.

Much safer to adhere to logic and facts. ]

Some wish to hasten the death of those here. To make space, perhaps, for themselves.

[ It's evident who he speaks of, yet his voice doesn't carry hatred - only a guess. ]

Whoever caused this used these people to further their own twisted agenda.

[sunderings]

This cannot continue. People cannibalizing their own for the sake of land. Highborn or low, no one wants to sow this sort of terror; this misery.

[ —much like Julius himself, Sion's voice carries no hint of malice, only heartrending faith. Faith, in people, above all else; those who would reject this sort of existence (a world where hundreds perished, serving as stepping stones for others; a world with unequal status among its people; a world which oppressed the weak and waged unending conflict) and find a light of hope, knowing that beyond this ugliness and cruelty, there would be a day when all would join hands for the sake of change.

(For a world where everyone could smile foolishly, laughing as he had when he'd escaped his boyhood troubles, running hand-in-hand with a girl, golden-eyed and bold beyond her years, into the farmland of Leith on a midsummer's day, the tall blades of grass parting way.) ]

Whomsoever is at the heart of this is someone whose back has long since been against a wall. Desperation makes even the best of men see the world in black and white, but...

[ He looks to Julius, then, his black-garbed silhouette, and knows the man is not to be defined by his stoicism. Sion Astal is not like other men; he knows what it is to feel so profoundly that one must bury their heart, lest they be consumed by it. ]

If kill or or die is the only choice left, it is time that we expand our options. We are better than this. For no longer can we feed into the monsters of terrorism and greed, lest we lose the great beauty of the Quad – it's people – to them.

[tousei]

[ Sion is a man who believes justice still exists. For Julius, his heart has lost the capability of such firm faith. There are sinners in this world, but there are also the innocent. He, who had stubbornly refused to believe the extinction of the latter, had his stubbornness slowly but surely worn away.

It's then with a measure of respect that he regards the Director, a man who can still hope. ]

What will you do?

[ It's a honest question. He's sure that Sion has a plan, unlike him (who can only follow orders). ]

[sunderings]

… Find allies.

[ Footfalls slowing to a stop, Sion gives pause, golden eyes searching the Enforcer's face, and finding only honesty; a reserved manner of integrity which would earned the Director's trust if it had not been won long before, in the moment when Julius had extended him a handkerchief.

Always, Sion has worn his heart upon his sleeve: he is a man comprised of regret and hope, of faith and sufferance, of light and dark, and perhaps that is why—even if he is no longer innocent, guilty of violating his own morals time and time again for the sake of protecting those most in need of a champion—he is able to speak with such effortless conviction.

(With a smile so very human in its flickers of sadness, bereavement, and belief that the world is so much more than this.) ]

With the way power is currently distributed in the Quad, nothing will change; the hearts of the people will suppress it, for they themselves have been suppressed for so very long.

[ "You're rather kind, aren't you? I have no interest in things like other people's hearts, on the other hand." ]

To change that... we need a light of hope. Even if it is only a rumor, the people simply need to believe salvation exists, for there to be a light of hope.

[ Silver lashes hooding over gold, the Director seems pensive for a moment, perhaps two, before arriving at a conclusion so seamless, so effortless, so natural that it seems impossible to deny: ]

In you, I see that light, Julius.

[tousei]

[ So he intends to change it. Perhaps, a sign that Sion allies himself with the Resistance, but it matters not to Julius. He would not root the man out, for he is someone with a heart that seemed to fall on the side of justice. Julius' own judgement may be flawed, but he thinks he can put his trust in him. But he cannot put that same trust in himself, so it is with evident surprise shifting into subdued uncertainty that he responds. ]

I... am not worthy of such an honour, Director.

[ His gaze falls to his hands, a gesture enough to give insight into what weighs on his mind. Hands stained with blood not just on their surface, but to his very core. A man destined to become a monster, to destroy.

"This is your final trial, my dear Julius... you will discard your m̡̤̩͇̠oṟ̠̩̞͜t̩̗̯̼a̩̦̟͎͈͕l̲͈̪̪ ̰̭͘s̻͈h̗͕̜͜e̳̖̹̲͎l̛̺l̰̝͓̤̣͈ͅand ascend to become the k͍̫͉͎͈̦i̳̦̼͓͖̪̺n̫̩̻̟̟̰̜g̞̹͚̝̀ of a n̙͍̗͎e͚͕̦w ͓́gr͢á̹͔̩ņ̱͍̬̞͓̩d҉̱͙ o҉̼r̦̳͔͟d̴̖̼̜̼̣ḙ͇̼̠̥̜̻r̭̲͖͔̬̹ upon this world."

A role he did not want, a role that would eat at his sanity until he gives in to it or to death. ]

It is a noble cause, but I would not deserve to be at the helm.

[ Not a refusal out of principle, but a refusal out of a lack of his own worth. ]

[sunderings]

[ Honor, Julius says, his gaze falling downcast, to hands which the Enforcer may have deemed unfit to hold a great many things (hope and dignity, beauty and faith), but still were used to reach out to someone in need; a man like the Director, whose golden eyes have dried, even if his silvered lashes should remain damp with tears.

And so: Sion returns the favor, reaching for Julius to take his hand in a way different from before, willowed fingers lacing together with the Enforcer's own in a gesture of strength and quiet acceptance, a bone-humming surety resonant in his words when he speaks— ]

If you are not worthy, then no one is.

[ Even the Director himself, who seems to be radiant and just is--...

(A monster, but a monster by choice. Made and modified to destroy, but determined save all those he is able with the power granted to him before it consumes him whole.) ]

Everyone casts a shadow, Julius, be they Company or civilian; whether their actions are noble, or if they should simply be humbled by the illustrations of others. [ Gingerly, gently, he raises the link of their hands, for they stand on equal footing; on similar ground, and the Director will not let Julius forget it. ] And it is only in the darkest of shadows that true light is found.

If you rise and stand with me, others will have courage enough to follow. All of those who thought themselves to be beyond help, forgotten and alone, will find their own light, glimmering just as brightly.

[ For a light of hope is not just one person, it is a movement of the people. A reminder of how, even in times of great hardship and despair, it is the civilians of the Quad who possess the strongest power and the greatest faith; the ability to save one another, if only they were to stand together. ]

But... [ His fingers curl once in a parting squeeze before his hand draws away, returned to his side as he begins to walk with slow and steady steps. ] ...that path, like any other, is one you must choose for yourself.

[tousei]

[ It's all very dramatic, an invitation now no longer simply hinted at but actively implicit, an invitation to be part of a force that reached out to others - tempting, so very tempting as a way to perhaps wash off the stains on his hands -

- and yet, it would never wash the curse entwined into his very genes. ]

Thank you, for offering. [ A path that spelled possibility, yet one that his heart would not let him accept. ] I do not believe I have the right to accept this, for now. Perhaps in the future, I may earn it yet.

[ It's not a refusal, but it's not an acceptance either; mirrored in how he keeps pace with Sion but still half a step behind. ]

[sunderings]

Then...

[ It is a delicate thing, isn't it, Julius' uncertainty, his hesitancy which is borne from self-doubt, the sentiment standing as testament to the Director's expressive speech, proving the words to be far from simple rhetoric, for...

As he said: the people's hearts will suppress change, for they themselves have been suppressed for so very long.

(And Julius, the man the Director has found himself both intrigued by and fond of in so very short a time, has perhaps spent his entire life shacked to but a single notion, the idea that he is unworthy—unfit—to walk alongside those who are no different from himself.)

Stalling once again in his step, Sion takes care to match Julius' pace, his voice gentling with promise; with a vow of solidarity and support— ]

Until that future should come to pass, I will be the one stand at your side.

[tousei]

[ It's an offering of companionship, which might have been what he needed more than anything else - and yet, and yet - ]

I am honoured.

[ He cannot take it, not in its full complexity. So he merely gives a polite nod, manner unchanging. ]