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

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.