Chapter 3

[thenine]

Who: OTA
Where: Quad
When: Week IV, Day VII - Week VI, Day VI
Summary: Chapter 3 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. Calendar information/dates can be found here.

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

The Nine: Promises Unmade

Using the increase in unrest, as so many opportunists do, those within the Nine who seek to pursue their own agendas - whether that be family prestige, personal gain, or systematic upheaval - will find bountiful footholds to secure their positions. Land Kendry continues to assert itself as a leader in these troubling times, with Land Derrish falling in tow. Their first target, Land Hyponia, is shaken, careful not to make any mistakes that could crumble the already cracked mortar holding them together with the nobility. Aggressive though Land Derrish may have been, their sights have moved elsewhere, now focusing on driving forward oppressive legislation to replace the Seventh Generation Accords, rather than further eroding the power of Land Hyponia. Kendry is looking to control a functioning oligarchy, not cause a war over the territory that would be up for grabs should Land Hyponia fall. With the announcement of the Seventh Generation accords confirming already widespread rumors, those within the Nine are careful to place blame for the decision on the activities of the Resistance. For many, this is a believable conclusion, as the attacks by the True Leithans shook society at its core on both Westerley and Leith. Being a radical group, their intentions have been conflated with those of the Resistance in the eyes of many. Discourse on the subject isn't uncommon, but any within the Nine who seek a different target of blame best do so quietly, as dissent from within could quickly have one labeled a sympathizer of the unjust cause of the Resistance. On the surface a harmless placating measure taken by the Nine, the new PDDs being distributed through the Quad are touted as the pinnacle of communication technology. While some higher ranking Company officials and members of the nobility may already have access to quick and reliable network connection, these capabilities are now universal with the installation of the Meshwork. The Meshwork will enable all characters to interact in real time via text, video, or voice, but it isn't without side effects. For some reason, characters who frequently use their PDDs or who are in areas of heavily concentrated network use may suffer from headaches, nosebleeds, blurred vision, and/or dizziness, with more severe side effects including temporary blindness, loss of balance, short-term memory loss, and hallucinations. Connection of these symptoms to the PDDs is not the most common diagnosis, as many think the afflictions are a result of the aftershocks of P43X.

The Company: Balancing Act

With clean up from the P43X attack not yet completed, all Company officials should expect to have no singular responsibility, and little time for sleep, as they find the expectations levied upon them to only grow. Frayed nerves can create a hostile working environment, though anyone could be on the receiving end of any outbursts. The streets have returned from their throes of death with new life, but the city's usual clamor is being overtaken by the roar of protest. Some are peaceful demonstrations; some are violent riots, every display a reaction to the repeal of the Seventh Generation Accords. …At least, that’s what it says on paper, the docket that many Company officials receive outlining simple but brutal crowd control and suppression tasks. Whether a bar has been taken over as a hub of dissent, a street corner filled with unmoving protestors, or a Company affiliated storehouse raided, there's plenty to do for those tasked with keeping the peace. You may simply wish to make arrests, or you may welcome the chance to get your hands dirty - the law is on your side, and all voices daring to oppose the order of things need silenced. Those who don't take to the streets will likely find themselves on border control duty, checking the identification and supply dossiers of all incoming and outgoing ships. No one gets in, or out, without the proper clearance. Ship-wide searches have become standard practice, producing storerooms overflowing with contraband. Some may welcome the chance for banal organization, while others may take some 'bonus compensation' for themselves. With the tightening of rules comes the increase of bribery, and Company officials looking to line their pockets will find their opportunities in surplus. Get caught, however, and there's no second-chances. Although the Company audits have concluded, tensions only grow, and anyone found helping those with diverging agendas will be punished swiftly, cast in with the rest of the dissenters.

Westies: Tidal Force

Bereavement weighs heavy in the wake of the P43X attack on Westerley. Burdened by being both the last location of infection and the last to receive medicinal aid, Westies are entrenched in the solemn task of burying their fallen while the merciless machine of the economy marches on. Whether it’s the result of a lost loved one or the continued illness of primary caretakers, the end result is the same: families all across Old Town struggle to feed their children and make ends meet. It’s always been a guiding principle of Westerley—if you can’t work, you can’t eat—but with so many who can do neither, the situation in Old Town begins to grow dire. But there’s hope, albeit in the form of a double-edged blade: with the newly distributed PDDs and Meshwork installation, nonprofit organizations are able to conduct themselves on a wider scale, drawing in more donors from outside of Westerley. While their efforts are ultimately but a drop in the ocean, the renewed spirit of community and altruism provides relief—as well as nourishment—for many who might very well die without it. That same tool which allows the people to come together is also used to rend it; rumors begin to circulate through encrypted bulletins about the emergency meeting held on (Week IV, Day VII). Some of the rumors are wild speculation and fanciful daydreams, but in the mire of them, a grain of truth slips through. The Accords have fallen, they say. Be ready. Most people disregard the rumors, writing them off as the idle machinations of conspiracy theorists. They cling to their hope that soon their children will walk a planet that is bountiful in food and sunshine, that the land promised on Leith will deliver them from the hell they current endure. It’s those people who shout the loudest when the official announcement confirms the rumor. The Accords have been repealed. (Week V, Day III) At first, protestors gather in small, grumbling groups, little more than angry drunks. But as more and more people take to the Meshwork, the wrath of the few awakens the desperation of the many, and over the course of the night, the peaceful protest swells into an unruly riot. Workers strike, but without any legal protection, they swiftly find themselves rebuked by unemployment. Now with nothing to lose and everything to gain, the riots expand, filling the streets of Old Town with anger and tension. Company personnel become popular targets, and within the next day, all travel permits to and from Westerley are temporarily revoked. The moon closes its docks in an attempt to smother the flames of the rebellion. What starts as a movement for change shifts into a violent cataclysm, homes and businesses burned down, families torn apart by dissent within and outside of themselves. The Company seems content to let Old Town destroy itself, to let them “get it out of their system”, but all too soon that stance changes as well. With the death of a distant cousin of the Derrish, Company orders shift. Lethal force is authorized, and all too eagerly, used. Once the death toll begins to climb, the protests decline. The riots soften, though they do not disappear outright. Company and Westie optimists take to podiums in a desperate attempt to bid their fellow compatriots once more into peace. But something else awakens in the fires of those riots. Something far more dangerous than the chaos of anger: something controlled, methodical. They call themselves Hyperion, and they are the new faces of the Resistance.

True Leithians: Rested Laurels

For this faction, the time to scatter is nigh. Their work is complete: the Accords are no more, and the militant leaders order the reintegration of their soldiers into civilian life. Leith’s rightful owners retain the precious land that was once threatened, and although their methods were extreme, they are justified by the end result. But while the True Leithians see this as only a rested pause in their work, their benefactors—those who provided the resource and information that allowed their wicked deeds to see fruition—see this time as the closing of a chapter. Loose ends that might later lead to Qreshi officials or even potentially the Nine themselves are dealt with severely and harshly, albeit quietly. Several prominent figures of Leith’s highest echelon of society simply disappear, and curiously, those around them don’t seem to remember that they were ever there in the first place. Their benefactors are not the only group that would see the True Leithians burn. Among the first wave of missions delegated beneath the Resistance is the assassination of known True Leithian sympathizers. Unlike the Company, the members of Hyperion are ordered to perform their tasks loudly, to send a message written in the blood of the True Leithians. The citizens of Westerley will no longer be the gutless pawns of the Quad. They will strike back, and they will uncover the source of the True Leithian’s funding and information. If the True Leithians thought themselves ruthless, they’ll soon learn a new measure of savagery when Hyperion converges on their trail.

Leith: Olive Branch

The atmosphere of Leith is one of both hope and mourning. Recovery on Leith proceeds more efficiently than that on Westerley, their infrastructure and resources better able to accommodate those that were felled in the P43X attack. But although agency has the streets of Leith cleaner and the surfaces shining, the spirit of the moon itself suffers a devastating blow in the wake of the attack, the people of Leith unprepared and unseasoned to deal with the psychological ramifications of so much death. But they are not yet hardened by the experience, drawing together in the spirit of cooperation to restore not just the physical aspects of their homes, but the mental fortitude of their people. Charity drives and galas proceed in extravagant fashion, as if by the display of their assets they might rebel against the somber circumstances on which they’re hosted. For most on Leith, the fall of the Accords arrives as welcomed news, the citizens of the moon long since opposed to sharing their land with those of Westerley. But although the sense of satisfaction with the ends is high, there’s also an undercurrent of regret for the means which provided it. Unlike the True Leithians, most of the citizens of Leith are not radical or extreme, and they offer their sympathies—but only their sympathies—to those Westies in their midst. News of the riots results in tighter security around the Westies still stationed on the moon, and for the days that the violent storm on Westerley builds, Leith in turn becomes markedly quieter and more conscientious. Moderates come together over the Meshwork and propose a Peace Summit, a meeting of both delegation and charity, once the riots and dangers of traveling have passed. The summit is sanctioned by Leithian officials, as well as the allocation of surplus resources to aid their sister moon in her recovery. While many citizens of Leith eagerly await the news of lands once lost to their families for the Accords, many more donate their time and hands as part of the newly created Good Will Corps, a coalition of both political pundits and regular people devoted to strengthening the connection between the moons rather than sowing division. Volunteers—and some individuals who are voluntold, join the Good Will Corps on a trip to Old Town where the Peace Summit is scheduled (Week VI, Day III), lending their time, their labor, and their technology as a gesture of good faith. But whether or not that’s sufficient to see the Peace Summit garner any steps towards system stability is another matter altogether.

Resistance: Sacred Grove

The people of the Quad barely have time to remove the packaging from their new PDDs before a new voice of dissent begins to worm its way down the feed. Encrypted messages, quick flashes of imagery begin appearing at random on open networks and closed channels alike, pitting the harsh realities of the suffering, suffocating Westerley against the excess and decadence on display by both Leithians and the Nine, showcasing the disparity in the starkest of lights. All of it aimed at one purpose, to spread one solemn truth: the branches of the Mother Tree are burning… and the Nine seem to be holding the matches. The name whispered, the one goading dissent, echoes through the Quad - Hyperion - followed slowly with the murmur of hope. Of an intellect so profound that not even the Nine themselves will be able to stop it. With an artful ease, this new force begins to reach out, to commandeer the discordant efforts of the Resistance and reforge it into something stronger, faster. Deadlier. It starts with a select few receiving instructions directing them to safe houses already stocked with equipment and supplies, each with tech tailored to that cell's purpose and loaded with dossiers far too complete to have been compiled by the average citizen. Some of the background information appears to come directly from the records of the Company, or the Nine themselves, while still more from planets outside the Quad. Some even hint at records long since sealed by the RAC. Nothing points to one faction over another. Nothing reveals the how or why this Hyperion has decided to play these particular cards now, but one thing is quite clear. There's a deep laid plan being set into motion, and neither the Company or the Nine will see it coming. All these leaders have to do is gather their forces...

The RAC: New Grade

The citizens of the Quad were not the only ones affected by the P43X - the upper ranks of the RAC's field agents is notably thinner - and with tensions shifting yet again between the moons, they cannot afford to be ill-prepared and understaffed. In order to bolster their ranks, the decision comes down the pipe of a new assessment system: Peer Evaluations. Many of those that have been in their current ranks - those between Levels I - III - will be eligible to receive a two-part assessment of their capabilities to operate efficiently at the next level through successful completion of live warrants. These field evaluations can be conducted by any Level IV agent and turned into Central Command for compilation and rank change approval. Unlike the lower level agents, Level IV assessments will still be conducted by RAC's Central Command, once all of the subordinate assessments have been completed and processed. These agents should take note - part of their own evaluations for Level V will be the efficiency with which they're able to evaluate those below them. During this time, warrants will still flow in and agents sent to answer - especially once the travel bans go into effect on Westerley, as those agents alone bearing active warrants will be able to enter and leave the atmosphere, though their docking point will be limited to the Prisoner Intake facilities.

Comments

sion astal | ota + closed prompts

[sunderings]

( as usual, feel free to contact me @ avichuus or over yonder if you'd like a starter! i also love wildcards, so come at me!! ♡ )

OTA | Westerley, W5D4

[sunderings]

[ The second day of protests comes to a crest, threatening to spill over into insurrection as a bottleneck of civilians forms at the centre of Old Town where vendors would canvas their wares, where Scarback Monks would offer their blessings, and where the hollers and shouts of rambunctious children met with the shuffle of the increasing numbers of the destitute and homeless. Habitual, the cacophony of congested streets, budding with the sound of life in all its forms, but today the resurgence of Old Town's spirit is manifest in burgeoning cries for justice, for reparation and for aid, the clamor carried to the ears of Company Enforcers, officers who held a line in riot gear. Shields are employed to to push back the crowd in the square as many desultory groups coalesce into one—

"Tʜᴇ Aᴄᴄᴏʀᴅs ʜᴀᴠᴇ ғᴀʟʟᴇɴ! Wʜᴇɴ ᴅɪᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴏᴠᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜɪs?!"

"Oᴜʀ ғᴀᴍɪʟɪᴇs ᴀʀᴇ ʜᴜɴɢʀʏ, ᴡᴇ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ᴀғғᴏʀᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴀᴛ!"

"Tʜᴇ Cᴏᴍᴘᴀɴʏ ɪs ᴛᴏ ʙʟᴀᴍᴇ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜɪs! Wʜᴀᴛ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀ, ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴊᴜsᴛɪᴄᴇ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴜᴘʜᴏʟᴅ?! Tʜᴀᴛ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ Nɪɴᴇ's ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴇʟsᴇ's!"

—their voices edged with desperation, frustrated with hours of demonstration to no avail. Unwilling to be cordoned off for any longer, they surge forward and together as one, swelling against the line held by the Company, fueled by anger which rises and expands like thunder until a single civilian breaks through. Company officers immediately move to subdue the man who lashes out, made fierce by his purpose, but in the instant before the Enforcers are able to bring the protestor to heel, a barrier forged of solidified light separates both parties, the gleaming construct keeping civilians safe from harm even as it bolsters the Company's uniformed barricade. ]

We hear your voices, but this cannot continue! [ In the lull momentarily borne of surprise and of awe, in the collective gasp of the protestors and the continued silence of the Company, Sion's own voice rings out, resonant and clear as a bell: ] There will be difficult days ahead, and many questions about Westerley's future remain unanswered, but--

[ But Sion forgets he wears the Company uniform, bearing the crest of his rank upon his shoulders. So focused on parting civilians from Company officers, he forgets to guard himself, the Director who stands as an outlier; who is the obvious cause for the strange partition used to keep the people of Old Town from fighting for the justice they are so deserving of.

(And almost, he forgets to cover the entrance-wound of the bullet after he hears, staggers back from, but does not feel the shot. Where had it originated from? The Director seems undeterred, reassuming his posture, his right hand pressed to his abdomen as glimmers of gold blood well in the cracks between his fingers.)

Still, he speaks, determined to hold his position, unwilling to let the wall of light flicker out.

("Cᴏᴍᴘᴀɴʏ ᴍᴏɴsᴛᴇʀ!" someone shouts.) ]

--I am confident that we will be able to find those answers together. But we cannot aid you, not like this.

[ Not without both sides first ceding ground.

But this will not happen so easily—certainly not in one day, and not with a second shot lining up as civilians clamor, their anger now heightened by fear. Fear escalated by the bids of several Officers for the Director to fall back to safety.

It seems that Sion himself will have to be forcibly removed from his post. ]

[stressors]

[ they're getting swallowed up by the crowd.

and the mob is not responding to sion's rationality, his appeasements, his level-minded bid for civility during all of this unrest. despite the speakers, his commanding, fluting voice booming over them, the people seem to hear very little of him. they look at his clothes and they want him dead. the accords have fallen, but the angry masses seem bent to take as many of the company's dogs down with them as they can.

it takes a while for shiro to wade through the barricade. there are the company's enforcers in their riot gear, and he's weighed down by the heavy shield he's hauling, that he's forcing into sion's space as gunshots ring out in the evening clear. sion doesn't need the cover, has never needed cover with his impressive tech and glittering barriers -- but there's a first time for everything. ]

Sion, you need to fall back.

[ because the majority here is of the opinion that they're monsters now, and he's no stranger to what that mindset does to a person. they'll talk and talk until their lips turn blue, and all the people will see are beasts howling at them, showing off their rows of pointed teeth. ]

These people want to be heard right now. Even if that's exactly what you're saying, they're not going to listen to you.

[ i arrive at the riot.

accords: fallen
people: angered
pro-resistance sentiment: out

sion is forcibly removed from the premises.

. . . or he would've been. shiro hasn't quite realized that all of that gold is actually blood and not some... strange fabric detailing along sion's uniform. ]

[sunderings]

[ Though it is a familiar voice which reaches his ears; a presence beside him belonging to a man which the Director can only think to call friend, when he turns to face Shiro, hears the words fall back, Sion seems not to stare at the Enforcer, but beyond him instead—

("Yᴏᴜʀ Mᴀᴊᴇsᴛʏ! Dᴏɴ'ᴛ sᴛᴀʏ ʜᴇʀᴇ ғᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ. Pʟᴇᴀsᴇ ғᴀʟʟ ʙᴀᴄᴋ!" a soldier shouts upon a battlefield mired by the blood and bodies of both friend and foe alike. The air is thick with crackling energy and the bone-deep rattle of large scale magic, but the King «Sion Astal» holds his position upon horseback, golden eyes alight and intensely focused upon the combat at hand.

"Tʜɪs ʙᴀᴛᴛʟᴇ ʜᴀs ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴡᴏɴ! Yᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘʟᴀʏᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏʟᴇ ᴏғ ᴀ ᴅᴇᴄᴏʏ ғᴏʀ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ! Tʜᴇ ᴇʏᴇs ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀᴛᴛᴀʟɪᴏɴs ᴀᴅᴠᴀɴᴄɪɴɢ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏʀᴅᴇʀ ᴏғ Rᴇᴍʀᴜs Eᴍᴘɪʀᴇ!"

Before the King, men and women fall, the remnants of Remrus' defensive line who do not cry out upon being struck down, and as the thunder of magic fades, the atmosphere shifts; the landscape before his eyes changing in an instant as though it had been repainted in lurid intensity.

"Did you feel it, Lucile?"

"Yᴏᴜʀ Mᴀᴊᴇsᴛʏ...?"

"Just now, the color of the world changed." )

—before the sound of gunfire sees Sion returned to the present, the second shot meeting with the one thing standing between the protestors and their oppressors: the barrier of programmable matter, glittering still. The gleaming wall of light flickers, splinters with fissures where the bullet had been caught, but it does not fall—this, a testament to the Director's stubbornness. Rather than manipulate programmable matter by way of a tool, it is Sion himself who is conduit for the technology; the biological circuits within him marking him as 'valuable'.

Still, it is only a matter of time before barrier sustains enough damage to shatter, the construct weakening as he bleeds out, the gold—vitriolic and bright, as though something had gone putrid inside of him—staining the side of his uniform seeping down to the waist. ]

We have to try. [ A shake of his head; a recovery from the waking dream he'd glimpsed before. ] Someone has to try.

You know as well as I what will happen, should this continue. [ Violence borne of misunderstanding, atrocities committed by each opposing force that neither side would be able to justify. It is this thought alone which twists Sion's expression into something pained, his eyes searching Shiro's face, silently beseeching his cooperation. ] The Company will see their voices silenced by any means necessary, and I cannot allow for innocent people to be harmed.

If they will not listen, we will cede the square to them. [ The protest heightens, the voices of the people growing ever-louder in their anger and in their dissonance—action must be taken, and soon. ] If you are the one to relay the order, the other Enforcers will take their leave of this place and reform the line elsewhere.

[ It is only a temporary solution, but an immediate one—Shiro is a good man, well-liked and respected by those he interacts with, rather reminding the Director of himself in the days before he'd been isolated by the promotions granted to him by virtue of what he'd been made to be.

So--... ]

In the meantime, I will alter the shape of the barrier to provide cover for an exit.

[ ...it's go time, right??? Y/N? ]

[stressors]

[ what else can they really do at this point.

their world is overthrown by hate, by hope crumbling to pieces all around them, and the people's foundations are shaking with all the broken promises that there could've ever been a better life than this. the dirt-water sloshes under their military-grade boots, and the smell of blood clots thick in the air, and nothing makes sense in those crowded instants where screams curdle the stagnant atmosphere, where triggers are pulled, and sion's barrier shines like the only bright thing in all this darkness.

sion tells him all the right words to say to the audience. shiro's a military man. he's been bred to follow orders. whatever grievances he might have with the company do not belong in this moment, with his blood running hot on adrenaline, a split-second decision charging every nerve-ending to action. he doesn't have the proper authority to order an immediate withdraw, but it doesn't matter, he could care less.

companymen and citizens alike have fallen in the mayhem. if it means he could prevent another unnecessary death, another goddamn bloodbath, a city burned down by bombs, then overstepping his bounds is worth it. ]

Under the authority of Director Sion Astal -

[ there's volume enough in his lungs to shout above the angry voices, and he's booming over the screech of the crowd, the people pushing through their lines and pounding their fists against sion's screen, the shields that their men are holding. his tone is steady, so loud it rips his throat to shreds, but -- sion is right, at least, that shiro's likable enough, that his speech doesn't earn the dismissal of his peers. or perhaps this faction has been looking for an excuse to withdraw from the very start. it's insane. ]

We're pulling back, right now. Men! Regroup at the Old Town checkpoint.

[ the rush is strange, the split-second pause of hesitation. there are black armored bodies already turning around at his order, driven by the authority in his voice, the credentials that come with the name, sion astal.

but he's reaching out for sion in the end. come on, he says -- and doesn't quite realize that his hand's grabbed for the nearest part of him, that his knuckles are grazing something sickeningly warm, grotesquely familiar, blood, his mind frantically puts two and two together.

. . .

what the fuck, it's not fucking red, or even blood orange, what the actual fuck - ]

[sunderings]

[ By Sion's authority and Shiro's acting command, all Company officers take to the path created by the Director's hands, the sea of civilians split by twin partitions of light, forcing them apart; forcing them back. Some protestors are lost in the undertow (losing their balance before toppling, never to be seen again as they are buried beneath the crowd which surges and roils in great waves), and others step forward, testing their strength against the inorganic construct which allows their oppressors to escape, but Sion is focused solely upon the backs of armored enforcers in their retreat, all other senses given to maintaining the integrity of his barrier—

(It will not fall, this is what he'd been made to do, he cannot fail, he will not.)

—until the moment when he realizes there is still one (the man who'd seen his gambit through to success, proving that it'd not been so foolhardy a hope) left behind, and that the Enforcer's hand is covered in (colored by gold) blood. ]

You're--... [ Were the situation not precisely what it is (a barely-contained crisis with tensions rising by the second, civilians clamoring to face the Company cowards who would dare to flee as each and every blow against the partition the Director has raised become something keenly felt in the twist and burn of bio-circuity in his body), Sion might have laughed, good-natured and bright, at the other man's dumfounded expression. It is funny, because Shiro is a military man, and it is the Director who holds a desk-job who reaches out (his bloodied hand encircling Shiro's wrist), and makes to drive forward, through what remains of the barrier as it begins to give way behind them. ] ...dallying, Shiro.

[ Heh.

And then: a true burst of speed, a blitz out of the square as the partition collapses, the crowd of protestors coalesces, and Sion—wounded though he is—does not tire, does not stop (nor does he release the manacle his hand has become about Shiro's wrist) until they've reached an area untouched by the chaos.

Never in his life has Sion been so thankful for the shelter provided by Old Town's back-alleys; by the fire-escape which he leans against in the moments after he relinquishes his hold upon Shiro's wrist, gold eyes flitting over the other man in an appraising glance.

Good, then. Shiro is well, able to continue on where Sion cannot. Or rather, the man will be able to, after he's caught his breath, leaving Sion to his own devices. ]

Speak to no one about my condition, and join the others at the checkpoint. Use my name again if need be, but--...

[ Perhaps too easily, Sion gives directive, seeming to forget the fact that he's bleeding out. That between breaths quickened and shallowed by a sprint, and the exertion from maintaining a barrier by far larger (and longer) than he's ever before attempted, he must sound (and look) like a man on death's doorstep.

Still. ]

Be careful, for I fear the same trick will not work twice.

[stressors]

[ there's a surreal sort of shocking brightness in the moment. there's gold all over his fingers, lingering with its shiny, otherworldly glow, and it's seeping into the lines of his gloves, stark against the ghostly pallor of sion's skin as they go vaulting into the night. he runs, but it's almost too much to process at once. there's blood dripping from dead bodies propped up against the walls in the aftermath of the mob. the dirt road sinks beneath their boots as they keep on running, as sion continues bleeding, and the world continues to sway dizzily on its axis.

gold blood, gold eyes, and shiro's suddenly standing in a line that feels a little like death's row with a dozen faces, with some of them alien, and they're all staring at him, horrified. he's holding a blade half his size, and he's cutting down a boy that reminds him of the prisoner he still thinks about, still fights for, because he's been fed half-baked promises he doesn't really believe in anymore, not after everything.

i want blood!

take care of your father.

and then he's standing with sion in an empty alleyway, with the screaming and violence blending into an anxious din in the backdrop. he's trying desperately to catch up to everything sion's saying, everything that doesn't make sense, and his chest rises and falls with the breathlessness of the run, his brow furrowing. ]

And leave you here?

[ he knows his orders. he knows that going against them could mean lost lives, lost time that they do not have to spare. usually, sion wouldn't care enough to pull rank.

but he doesn't know what to expect from him, now. ]

I don't know what all of this - [ and he's holding out his gold-covered hands. ] is. But you've gotten shot.

I'm not going to leave you here to bleed out.

CLOSED | Giovanni, W5D2

[sunderings]

[ He takes Giovanni to a place beyond the congestion of Old Town's streets, the industrial city-sprawl of mining, business, and factory facilities tempering first into districts of ramshackle housing, then into the remnants of tent-city clinics erected in response to the P4CX attack, the structures kept in serviceable condition for addressing the infection's aftermath, and more than that. Few and far in between are RAC certified doctors and Company physicians on Westerley, rendering clinics such as these a necessity, the supplies delivered to them by the hands of the Company essential for survival.

And, at times, it is not only the distribution of supplies which is essential.

Today, the clinic is overcrowded, rife with not only those recovering, yet, from infection, but residents injured in a housing collapse, the tiered structure giving way beneath their feet. Of course we will help, the Director had said, offering his training as a field-medic in the military, and all at once, he'd found himself treating a child with a broken leg, the bone badly fractured.

Beneath the watchful eyes of his security detail, Sion has soothed the child (with kind eyes and sweet assurances), administered an analgesic, and fashioned a splint from the board and plank available to him. Now, there is only--... ]

Giovanni. [ From his place at the child's side, Sion looks to the other man, gold eyes seeking out red. Funny, how only a handful of days ago, they'd been brought together to inflict pain upon another. Now, Sion hopes that they may move together to alleviate it. ] Have you set a fractured before?

[ofobedience]

[This kind of work-- it's not what he's best suited to. It's something at least, the opportunity to stretch his legs, get out and about as it were, but there's a placidity to it that leaves him restless, the jitter of violence ever present in his bones like an itch that refuses to abate. Despite this, he walks the respectful two paces behind his Company charge, as expected, surveys the poverty and poor conditions that only increase the further outside of Old Town they go with a quiet kind of indifference. It means nothing to him, all of this, and where there seems to be a well of compassion inside the man he's accompanying now, he has no such feelings himself.

Regardless, he continues to tail the other man with the composed calm expected of him in such situations, his face a blank and impassive mask, the thrumming energy underneath held in careful check. When the request for assistance comes he merely stands to one side - close, but with that same submissive distance held between them - watches the other man work whilst a significant part of his awareness is kept honed on their surroundings, the possibility of attack. Not that he expects it to come, not from these people. Injured and crippled and - perhaps, a few of them - destined only for death.

It would be easier, he thinks, simpler, if he were just to put them out of their misery. A quick shot from his gun, or the hardfast twist of his hands about their throats. It'd be over just like that, and there'd be something satisfying in it.

Of course, unless ordered to, he'll do no such thing.

The child Sion is doctoring quiets eventually (mercifully-- the noise of the initial high-pitched wails had stabbed at his sensitive hearing, left him vaguely on edge) and instead there's the soft sound of Sion's voice and the deft movements of his hands. Funny indeed to think that those same hands had been put to quite a different use, the last time they'd been together like this. Something altogether harder.

Giovanni perks into subtle alertness at the sound of his name, meets Sion's gaze, and when the question comes he gives him a quick, sharp smile.]

I was made to break things, not fix them.

[But just like that, he shrugs.]

However, if you instruct me, I'm sure I could manage.

[Which is to say no, he never has, but if it's what Sion asks of him then of course he will do it.]

[sunderings]

You will do more than just manage. [ An automaton brought to life by an enchantment—the sound of his name—Giovanni no longer stands as a sentinel, but instead colors the medical tent with the flash of a smile (there and then gone), a gesture which Sion returns with a soft huff of sound (well-intentioned but exasperated, likely chiding, but only by a touch), and an inviting cant of head; a loft of brow. ] Please, come here.

[ To the side of the cot where the child lies still in the absence of adrenaline, hushed save for recurrent pleas for a mother, a father, an elder brother, family whose whereabouts remain unknown. And what Sion murmurs next—you will see them soon, should you be able to keep still for awhile longer—is not a lie, but a steadfast hope, one which sees the child eased, and the medical tent brought back to a quiet marked by both urgency and an undercurrent of warmth; the benevolence to be found in one man, given to kindness and to mercy, and another...

...willing, at least in part, to to help. ]

It is inherent to us, to build, to break, then build again. [ Satisfied with the condition of the makeshift splint, Sion sets his sight upon fabric—old bedding to be repurposed into bandages—and takes to portioning the material, ripping it precisely along the selvage edge. ] This is true, even for you, Giovanni.

[ Two strips of fabric, three, then four. ]

It would be of immense help to me, if you apply traction to the leg. If you pull in the same directional plane as the bone, it will ease the break back into place. Meanwhile, I...

[ Five, six.

(Breaking, to build.) ]

...will secure the splint in place. Together, we will fix this.

[ofobedience]

[He hears the softly murmured words, meant as hope and reassurance yes but is that the reality of it? Vaguely, Giovanni has his doubts, both in regard to the tactic and the sentiment. He wants to shake his head, click his tongue, but even with this man who he knows will tolerate more from him than many Company higher-ups would, he restrains himself all the same, bites back the words. It's not his place to voice such opinions (to have opinions at all) and more than that, he doesn't care enough for the fate of those missing family members (or, indeed, the child itself) to make any mention of them. To think too long on where they've ended up.

Instead, he moves as requested to the other man's side, listens attentively enough.]

You're wrong about that. With respect, hahah. Those kinds of traits, they're not meant for things like me.

[But regardless, he's reaching to grasp the child's thin leg between his palms-- hands that can punch through flesh and bone with a sickening kind of strength now resting there mildly, all the sparking brutality in him held, temporarily, in check.

He glances, briefly, into Sion's face. Just for a moment, and then his gaze returns to the broken appendage lying beneath the pass of his hands.]

How much force should I apply, Sir?

[Not too much, he thinks. Like reassembling a gun rather than a movement meant to cause harm.]

[sunderings]

Do not think of it as force, but as a slow stretch instead.

[ Where Giovanni would search the Director's face, Sion thinks only to observe the other man's hands, noting their placement upon the child's broken limb, the bend and flex of wiry, slender fingers boasting an undeniable potential for violence and yet--... Their strength will be used for a different purpose, today, if only because Giovanni himself is subject to the Director's order; Sion's will to aid these people who for too long have been considered as little more than the filth they struggle through, day in and day out, just to live.

It is a bleak place, Westerley, and Old Town is a sinking ship, but even so those who people it boast extraordinary resilience—they are the lotus flowers Sion had once glimpsed upon Leith, rising up from the mud to bloom out of the darkness and radiate into the world, and Giovanni...

One day, it is Sion's hope that Giovanni might help to nurture something so very beautiful out of his own manner of impulse-borne volition; that will which the Director glimpses in sparks (flashes of convictions withheld, viewpoints gone unvoiced) coloring eyes red as blood. ]

After a break is made, the surrounding muscle contracts, protecting the bone, but so too rendering it all the more difficult to set back into place. [ Laying the strips of cloth along the edge of the cot so that they might be retrieved at the ready, Sion makes short work of folding the excess fabric, murmuring as he does: ] The body... has rather peculiar ways of defending itself, doesn't it?

It is rather stubborn, in some ways, but— [ He looks to Giovanni, then, a faint smile playing upon his lips. ] —we will overcome it. When you pull, remember that you are simply relaxing the muscle until the bone may be straightened and held with the help of the splint.

[ The splint which the Director prepares with fingers which dance delicate and deft, his focus upon having all materials in place for the moment when the child's leg is set back into place. The child who shifts and stirs in discomfort addressed by a gentle hand placed atop the head, dulcet intonations, and an apology: it will hurt, what happens next, but I will be here with you to help.

(And it pains him to think that, with the limited analgesics available to them, that 'help' will be the offering of additional strip of cloth—something to bite down upon instead of crying out during the application of traction.) ]

No more than two kilograms of traction, as we begin. You may gradually strengthen the pull as the muscle of the leg gives.

[ With a decisive nod of head, he voices his confidence in the other man— ]

After that... think on how your own body heals. [ As rapidly as it does. ] You will know what to do.

[ofobedience]

[Giovanni listens with quiet and attentive obedience, taking in the instruction his superior has to give. It's a funny thing, he thinks, repurposing a tool of destruction for something almost soft, for the task of mending. And when he looks into Sion's face again there's something there beneath the cool and impassive exterior, something almost (almost) unsure. Trepidation begins to seep into him and all through the elegant lines of his body because this kind of thing, it isn't what he does. Isn't what he's meant for.

All it takes is the wrong application of force and he'd make the situation worse rather than better.

This level of self-restraint, the careful application of strength into something the other man describes as a 'stretch' rather than power or force-- it's unknown to him, something different, and because of that, something to be almost afraid of.]

My own body.

[There's a wry twist to his words as he says them, a double-edged sword-- his body is hardly comparable to that of an unaltered human, of something human at all (so he thinks), not with how it restitches and heals itself, all wounds righting themselves with the swift-burning kinetic energy his 'kind' have been imbued with. And more than that, the implication there that his body is something he owns, rather than something crafted by other (six-fingered) hands, a tool to be used, belonging always to those above him.

But there's no wry smile or sardonic expression to go with the sentiment, no-- instead there's a look of fiercely-focused concentration, mind temporarily re-routed only for this task. Even here, like this, doing something so unaccustomed for him, his aim is to please.

To do the very best he can.

And so when the other man finishes his deft ministrations, when the subtle flex and movement of his hands falls still, Giovanni begins to pull. To stretch, as Sion had framed it, and he holds fast even as the child begins to cry out from the ache of it, keeps going with unaccustomed gentleness until he feels the broken bones begin to realign.

Again, his eyes go to his superior's face, seeking out reassurance.]

CLOSED | Saber, W5D7

[sunderings]

[ With the travel bans between moons newly lifted, the Director departs once again for Leith, due to meet with a Reclamation Agent under warrant to aid with supply transit for charity efforts to Westerley.

Recovering, yet, from an injury sustained early on in the week, the upper echelons of the Company had seen fit to bolster Sion's detail of security—where it might have been by far more prudent to err on the side of caution and see to it that the Director remained safe and sound within the command post on Westerley, Sion Astal is a man who boasts ties to many a Leithian philanthropist through his own Leithian citizenship and his late-father's nobility. It is imperative, that he secure continued relief for the people of Westerley, and a direct order that he returned unscathed.

(...doubtless, that the latter is something which the Reclamation Agent he is to meet has been covertly tasked with already.)

And so, as the Director descends the boarding ramp of the Company vessel no sooner than it docks upon Leith, his golden eyes are cheerful and bright, the fluid grace to his step betraying nothing of his somewhat less than optimal physical state.

Now then, who is it that had picked up the Company-issue warrant? (Admittedly, it had been somewhat negligent of him not to consider the Reclamation Agent's file...) Could it be that gentleman over there...? My, they have a rather distinctive look about them...!

(A shame, perhaps, that he misses the approach of an ahoge in his peripheral.) ]

[iuramentum]

[ "Any means necessary" is a very dangerous phrase to use in any order relevant to a warrant. It effectively gave the acting agent leeway to act however they pleased - certainly not an order to bandy about lightly with even the highest ranking men and women with countless successful expeditions under their belts.
Saber, however, was a special case. She wasn't known for going in to any situation without thoroughly weighing her options first, which made her uniquely suited to protecting even the most disagreeable client.

Not that she expected that kind of behaviour out of Sion, of course. The dossier included in the warrant had been quite thorough on his even temperament.

To absolutely no-one's surprise, her voice pipes up slightly behind him, at a respectful distance. ]

Mr. Astal? [ As usual, she's timed her approach to be halfway through a polite bow by the time he turns to look. ] RAC Agent Saber. I will be your security detail for the duration of the agreement.

[ Considering the matte black sheath at her side practically blends in with her suit in profile, she probably looks anything but intimidating. Small, slender, apparently unarmed... things are gonna go just great. ]

[sunderings]

[ Ah, his name. His name voiced in a timbre which he hadn't quite been expecting, but is welcoming of (and responsive to) all the same. There is color, to his escort's voice, a resonance which speaks beyond dutiful introductions and a reminder that their time together is little more than an agreement; an exchange. And so...! One does wonder: had Saber accounted for the Director to return her bow, rising only when Saber herself so cared to? A gentle smile curving his lips, he makes to catch green eyes with gold, unconcerned with Saber's stature (but... that wisp of hair, its curl and bounce, isn't it cute?), and bearing only the utmost confidence in her ability (and in the sheath which does not escape his sight).

Though he may be unfamiliar to her, the Director certainly knows Saber—albeit, by a different name. Once upon a time, he had processed her paperwork, her clearances, and unfortunately, her suspension. Already, he knows what she is able to do; that she towers heavens higher than her size.

(Of course, he will refrain from making the joke that she barely rivals the length of his braid in height.) ]

A pleasure to meet you, Saber. You've my thanks, for assisting with our collection of aid for Westerley.

[ The dossier on the Director's temperament? Without flaw. Mild-mannered and given to diplomacy, it had been realized early on that Sion Astal would be of better use to the Company not in the field, but on assignments such as these: strengthening the bridge between moons, newly rebuilt. ]

I will endeavor to look after you, just as you look after me.

[ Though t h a t statement, it is slightly worrisome, isn't it? A testament to the fact that even someone wholly agreeable may prove to be troublesome to protect. Sion is a man forgetful of himself—of how he should likely have not mirrored Saber's bow after being shot in the side. ]

My crew will remain with the ship in order to take in the supplies already present upon the docks, but I imagine that you will be joining me in my venture to the countryside?

[ To farmland which houses a nobleman's estate, the very first person which the Director is to convince to join hands with others in order to preserve the goodwill between Leith and Westerley. ]

[iuramentum]

[ If Sion knows what's good for him, he will never ever voice her cuteness factor out loud. Height is free game though - it's an advantage in combat, and so there's no reason for her to be upset about it.

A returned bow? Unexpected. Possibly even a refreshing change from the usual client apathy. The offer to be looked after, however, falls on the opposite side of the scale; potentially dangerous, even if made with good intentions in mind.
And we all know which way a road paved with Good Intentions leads. ]

That won't be necessary, sir. [ The very last thing any bodyguard service needs is a client with an unexpected streak of suicidal heroism. Judging from Saber's firm tone, she won't be having any of your nonsense today, Sion. ] I would prefer you stay out of any possible altercations.

Transit in day to day duties was included in the contract, as you may recall... unless you choose to terminate the agreement early. [ Pause. ] Any payment rendered will not be refunded regardless of the duration remaining, so I would advise against it.

[ A.k.a while she would undoubtedly be perfectly happy to go home early and do whatever it is she does in her free time (spoilers: it's just more training), he'd be a complete and utter idiot to do so. Trust her to be perfectly tactless about loopholes in RAC paperwork. While it would be an easy way to get joy for essentially nothing... well. It just isn't right.

Saber neatly folds her hands at the small of her back, unconsciously falling into an 'at ease' position. ]

Have you decided on a route already, or shall I secure one for you?

[sunderings]

Were I to dismiss our arrangement, I fear that my superiors would not let me hear the end of it. [ Those superiors, the head of the hydra; the ones who had issued the warrant for contract with the particular turn of phrase 'by any means necessary'. That is to say, the Director had wholeheartedly considered terminating the agreement before docking upon Leith—the loss of joy means precious little to him, and what's more, if he were truly in danger, a break of contract would mean both the removal and safety of the Reclamation Agent tasked with protecting him from harm. However... ] And that which affects me so too affects those beneath my own command.

So... [ An inquiring cant of head, a flash of golden eyes, and the tumble of his hair (worn loose for the occasion!) down, over his shoulder. ] ...shall we, then?

[ Gesturing to some ambiguous point on the horizon, Sion makes to start forward, familiar with the docks and their close proximity to the Leithian bazaar—it should not take long to secure that which he needs before making his appearance at the nobleman's estate, especially if his guard is as exemplary as he remembers her record to be. ]

We will be deviating from the course you likely have been briefed upon. [ Do forgive him, if this makes life difficult, but...! ] It would be best to appear before an audience in common clothes rather than Company uniform.

[ To appear as a person, rather than as the extension of a machination of the Nine. ]

If my memory serves correct, there is a charming boutique housed within the nearby bazaar.

[ Hmm...!! A smile, a brightening of his expression. ]

Perhaps you know of it?

[iuramentum]

[ Saber lets Sion take the lead with no further prompting, falling into step to match his stride slightly behind and to his right. Far enough to give him an appropriate personal space bubble, close enough to take action if necessary.

Well. "Take action" as in either football tackling him into cover like a runaway freight train or seriously messing up an assassin's day if they got too close. Her effective reach with Excalibur is kind of obscenely far... so long as her charge is within range, not much would reach him in one piece.

(A.k.a don't wander off.) ]

...I wasn't informed of the delay. Is this an urgent matter? [ Saber clearly doesn't think so. Although her expression remains a study in composure, the tiniest downward cant of her eyebrows and narrowing of the eyes speaks volumes of her disapproval. ] It would be safer to get you to a secure location, and send either myself or another Agent to the boutique on your behalf.

[ That smile does not bode well for her, she can sense it in her gut. In no way shape or form is she going to be happy about getting delegated to "bag carrier and box holder" if he absolutely insists on having the worst timed shopping spree in history. ]

CLOSED | Ryner, W5D1

[sunderings]

A familiar scene: a cup of tea gone cold, but still very much full to the brim; a lunch delivered by the hand of a thoughtful subordinate, the food left untouched; no less than several mountainous stacks of paperwork overcrowding the exquisite resin detailing of the Director's desk, files and folders of varying shape and size artfully constructed in some great monument to the divine perfection of three (no eating, no sleeping, no room for oneself when there is work to be done, and Company aid distributed throughout the whole of Westerley), and...!

Somehow, yet, when the door to his office opens, Sion needn't lift his eyes from the document in his hands (reports, on the casualties from the P43X attacks) to know who it is that has entered. Already, he has discerned the identity of the Enforcer by the sprawl of their walk, the grumble beneath their breath, and the yawn which follows in short suit—

"Welcome back, Ryner." He greets, smiling, his eyes flicking up to briefly appraise the other man only in the moment when it suits him. And even then, the attention which he affords his guest is short lived, golden eyes shifting toward the monitor to his right, the screen displaying all active Company patrols in Old Town, including their products: arrests.

"You survived your time in the Badlands, I see."

Not that the Director had been over-concerned, of course. Why should he be, when it had been by his order that Ryner found himself deployed to an outpost in the middle of the most toxic place in the Quad? Officially, Ryner had been tasked with performing a geological survey of the most barren sector of the wastelands; unofficially, the man had been tasked with scouting for something much different.

Something which the Director appears to have forgotten entirely in the midst of his work.

"Have you anything to report?"

[somnusrex]

"Yeah, yeah."

He mumbled it, more as an answer to everything than a true form of complaint, tossing a file folder on Sion's desk. It landed on the veritable mountain of other files, and he could have just told him what he'd found, but he didn't want to risk being recorded. Sion would destroy his report after he read it; that was a certainty. It contained nothing more than a summary, a barebones outline of what he'd found in accordance with the mission as it had been presented. But in those notes were the locations of caves and other cavernous places.

Rather than caring about the question he was met with, Ryner narrowed his eyes at the food and tea on the desk.

"I checked in with your assistant, you know."

It had been a casual thing, as it usually was, but every subordinate of Sion's had quickly learned to be honest with Ryner when he asked after the Director's health. He did his best to help them manage the man, for all that it seemed hopeless. The reports mere moments ago had made him scowl, though. Three days and Sion hadn't touched his food or any liquids aside from a couple sips of tea, and as usual, he hadn't slept.

That last one was more of a fool's errand than the others, but he'd still try. He always did, if only because Sion was too stupid to take care of himself. But before he was inevitably assured with a laugh that his boss was perfectly fine, Ryner abruptly slumped onto the rather comfortable sofa to the side of the desk.

"Three days? You're going to kill yourself, you idiot. Stop the paperwork for five minutes and eat your damn food. You're no good to anyone if you're dead."

Very little could get Sion to stop working, but appealing to his sense of duty to the people sometimes worked. Not often, but it was worth a shot.

[sunderings]

This, too, is familiar to him: Ryner's grousing, the man's propensity to take up residence upon a particularly well-worn leather sofa while grousing, and the habitual way the resounding endearment of "idiot" falls from the Enforcer's lips, ever-evocative of warmth and of concern which Sion, by virtue and by nature, is customarily dismissive of. Always, the Director has been one to both challenge and explore the limitations placed upon him—be they products of his enhanced biology or otherwise—and where he finds that he is able to push forward by going without, he is a man guilty of neglecting himself. But today is different, even as a smile touches Sion's lips, the furrow of his brow (a product of only the utmost concentration!) gentling into an expression marked by fondness, because--...

Today, Sion Astal, is going to be honest.

"Dead? You will not be rid of me so easily, rest assured." A hum of amusement upon his lips, Sion's attention flits to the report newly deposited upon his desk, singling it out from its resting place amid the great repository of files left over from the Company's (thankfully newly finished) internal audit. "It is only that, since my return from Leith, it has been difficult for me to stomach much of anything."

Not because he had contracted the infection (no, the Director cannot catch ill), but rather... the side-effects of his own synthetic biology have been growing more unbearable, as of late. Once upon a time, he'd described them to Ryner as the ever-present sensation of oneself being overturned, a slow-timed erosion which would see all tissues within his body which did not support the biological network of circuitry built inside of him expelled by way of violent upheaval.

(When he had been young, and by far more crass, Sion may have said the words 'it feels as though I am going to dry heave all my innards'. But that—that had been when they'd been boys, struggling to stay alive in the military.)

"Surely, my assistant must have told you that as well." Leafing through the pages of the report, Sion emits precisely one satisfied 'ah' and a single noncommittal huff before a fine tremor runs through his wrist, his arm shaking until he forcibly sees it stilled with his free hand. But this, like everything else, the Director moves on from without missing a beat:

"At any rate, I am surprised I've yet to hear stories of your valiant sufferance at your assigned post. Will you not tell me about how you've sand stuck in every single crevice of your body?" Here, there is a pause, golden eyes flicking toward where Ryner lies, sprawled atop the couch. "Or how you barely survived a Black Rain storm?"

And yelled (rather mightily) while fleeing from its electro-acid byproduct—this, Sion has no trouble imagining in his mind's eye.

[somnusrex]

"He did. But there are things you can take to help that, and you know it. They wouldn't let you go through this if they knew."

No. To the contrary, they would modify the programmable matter in whatever way would keep their weapon in top condition. Not that it would be pleasant, but it'd be something. Sion would never admit it, though. Never had, not even when he'd first told Ryner about his symptoms.

"I think you like having a convenient excuse to martyr yourself. Anyway, I brought you this and you're going to drink it. Don't argue with me."

It wasn't much, just one of the nutritional supplements he took himself when he wasn't able to stomach food due to the biotech. It didn't happen nearly as often as it did to Sion, and his symptoms were a lot less severe and much less frequent, but it was still something he made sure he had the supplies for.

He got up to set the bottle on the desk, next to the untouched tea, and flopped immediately back down to the couch.

"And you need to sleep. That's not something that can be impeded by your symptoms so don't even try it. And you're going to distract me with work when you're being an idiot. I was fine. Now drink that thing so we can both sleep."

His eyes were already closed, but then again, they usually were.

[sunderings]

Blinking once, then twice, at the nutritional supplement—bemused, yet, by the flurry of motion which had seen it briskly set upon his desk—Sion gives pause, setting the report in his hands momentarily aside before...! Shaking his head with a laugh, the sound airy and bright as it resonates throughout the office.

"I do not believe I have ever seen you move quite so fast," Sion confesses with a lofted brow, a smile playing upon his lips in his wonderment. Not only had Ryner executed a perfect drop off, but so too had the man returned to his repose upon the couch in record time, his brown eyes already drifted closed. Altogether, it is a commendable effort, one which is rewarded in kind when the Director reaches for the supplement, twisting the cap to break the seal with a satisfying snap, before drinking—not deeply, of course, but enough to see his friend mollified for fear of being sent to the infirmary otherwise. Being modified to better withstand the growing network of synthetic circuitry within his body is by far from the first thing on the Director's agenda, and he's every intention of keeping it as such.

Were he sent to the lab with only the best intentions of mind, there is no guarantee that when he returned he would be fit to continue on with his current projects (easing the visa checks upon Westerley's population, seeing to it that new Company recruits are trained to be compassionate, reducing the sentencing of those condemned to extract yttrium from the Company's mines), or even that he would be precisely himself.

To even suggest such a thing is rather uncharacteristic of his friend, as is returning from any mission without the words 'you demon, Sion Astal!!' falling from Ryner's lips. This thought is troubling, enough so that the Director gives pause in his nursing of the nutritional supplement (...it rather tastes like chalk, doesn't it?...), suddenly taken by concern for the other man. Had something gone awry during Ryner's visit to the outpost in the Badlands? What is it that has gone unsaid?

"Not to mention, you are rather demanding today." Where he is not unaccustomed to being scolded regarding his health, Ryner has foiled him at every turn today, leaving no room for a true reunion or exchange of stories.

Rising from his desk in an easy decision, his drink still in hand as he nears the sofa, perching himself atop its arm rest as he glances down at his friend. What is it that has you so dour today, Ryner...?

Gingerly, gently, willowed fingers reach to brush the fringe of Ryner's hair away from his eyes, carding through the darkly brown locks in a tender gesture, equal parts reassuring and apologetic.

"Could it be only that you missed me while you were away?"

CLOSED | Lavi, W5D6

[sunderings]

[ Old Town burns.

A Company vehicle once the forefront of a barricade now lays overturned, dented and smoldering at the hands of civilians desperate for recognition, their passions as incendiary and as turbulent as the wind which whisks residual flames, the fumes of gasoline, into high pillars, feeding them until the residential block is a forest painted in scorching red, fire blooming across rooftops of ramshackle homes which take to the heat of the blaze as easily as kindling to a spark.

Many have been drawn out, into the streets, by the commotion, but more remain indoors, seeking safehaven away from the protests which had swelled into something bigger, more frightening, and uncontrollable, behind firmly-closed shutters.

Old Town burns, but the Director refuses to let it end in tragedy.

Begin an evacuation! is his command to those Enforcers assigned to him for something so very different (oppression and control), these people are not our enemies, it is our duty to protect them!, he rallies, demanding of those men and women not yet mobilized: the public would look to us and see little more than faceless antagonists, but you are more. Let us move, now, to prove that there is heart beneath our uniform!

And move they do, whether it is out of a will to protect or fear of answering to the Director himself, a man who is either ethereal (or monstrous) in the way the smoldering chaos of the fire seems not to touch him at all—dauntless, he ventures into building after building as flames twist skyward, accompanied by thick plumes of ash, emerging from each with fretful, fearful tenants in escort before flames have chance enough to devour the structures until--...

He doesn't.

In the last building threatened by the swift encroachment of flame, Sion has affixed himself in a collapsing entryway, maintaining the last of its structural integrity by way of becoming a pillar with which to hold it open and up. Above his raised arm: a summons of programmable matter (solidified light) to support the beams overhead in tandem with his own means of (in)human strength.

Imminent, the threat of the building caving in (but there are those, yet, who remain inside), and no chance at all of a single man (altered or otherwise) staying (surviving) the collapse of three stories of housing. Already, Sion can feel the barrier of programmable matter at his palm fissuring like glass, but he does not abandon his station—instead, he reaches toward someone (who is it?) on the other side of the entryway, determined to see them safely out, into the street, even as the construct above seems to groan and heave, wood splintering above...!

Before coming crashing down in a massive denouement fit to kill a King. ]