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

[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. ]

[sunderings]

[ Another agent, is it? ]

That will not be necessary. [ Saber is... rather polite, isn't she? She is mindful of maintaining comfortable proximity, matching the Director's carefree step, and even accommodating of those moments when he leans closer in to account for the disparity in height between them, innocent in his want to catch her eyes with her own (and subsequently finding himself in quiet study of the most minute furrow of brow he's ever before glimpsed). ] So long as you remain by my side, the space is secure, and what's more...

[ Straightening his posture, he looks ahead, surveying the traffic of the docks in a manner which belies his whimsy demeanor and his apparent proclivity to pursue fleeting fancies??? ]

...if I am to undergo a wardrobe change, I do believe my escort should match.

[ There is, perhaps, a touch of humor in his eyes, a good natured spark of fun which stems from the prospect of treating Saber to something which she'd likely never before considered for herself. Rather than being condemned to the role of 'bag carrier and box holder', it is either by far a better or potentially worse fate...!

Of which, of course, Saber is to be the judge.

Breezing through the visa checkpoint at the docks, the Director seems only all too happy to merge with the resurgence of activity, of life which has overtaken the Leithian bazaar. Two weeks ago to the day, he remembers the market as the epicenter of pandemonium, filled with those in desperate search of loved ones and family displaced in the wake of the P43X attack. Now, though, the air has cleared, and while it will be months before Leith is truly able to recover from the loss--...

The streets are vibrant once again; more than anything, the community is strong.

A hum upon his lips, he turns to ask: ] Will you tell me, perhaps, why it is that you became a Reclamation Agent?

[iuramentum]

I... [ Again, the mask of absolute neutrality slips a little. Suffice it to say her reaction to being dragged into a 'wardrobe change' borders on genuine alarm.
"N O P E" those eyes scream.
She's changed her mind. Bag carrying and box holding is a-ok. Zero complaints ever. ]

That's very kind of you, but I must decline. [ There's a reason why her own wardrobe consists of the same general grey/black palette - there's a greater chance of being overlooked, and therefore underestimated - and she rarely settles for anything less than the most precise tailoring possible. It's less so for the simple sake of being difficult, of course... just about anyone that leans towards melee combat preference tends to stick to clothing that breathes and moves freely.

You can absolutely try playing dressup with her, Sion... but HA HA GOOD LUCK.

She's definitely Not Impressed At All with how flippant he's treating the situation, honestly, but it's not her place to give him an earful for it. Worst case scenario, some idiot with a knife tries something, and she can demonstrate exactly why you never go straight into a crowded environment as a high profile target.
(He'll get front row tickets in the Splash Zone and everything! Which... admittedly would mean he'd have to get a change of clothing since bloodstains just do not come out of fancy fabric.)

OOPS RIGHT questions, uh. Totally paying attention, yep. ]

A change of pace was beneficial at the time. [ Translation: "Screw you, Company, you can't tell me to sit in a time out corner!!!" ] Internal promotion is granted on merit, which I could appreciate.

[sunderings]

Too much in the Quad is dictated by status, by those who profit from the law which abets them. [ Translation? Heard loud and clear, and perhaps as much is evident in the way the Director gives pause—profound and just a touch too knowing—to glance back at Saber in quiet study, the playful levity gone from his voice, though its warmth very much remains: ] That you should have found your change of pace, your own path to walk with the RAC...

[ And forward again! Tally ho, sally forth! ♫

Come what may, Sion is confident in his own ability to see both himself and his escort to the boutique unscathed. Truth be told, it is the Director who finds trouble more often than not, so if he should remain undistracted and wholly given to the task at hand, Saber's workload will surely be an easy one! They are not in the vast reaches of space where their vessel might receive some foreign distress signal (which Sion would most assuredly be compelled to answer!), nor are they on Westerley where the Director is wont to delay his patrols in favor of offering the people of Old Town aid (and subsequently leaving himself vulnerable to any would-be assailants), and so...!

He focuses on Saber alone, offering her a smile and simple, truehearted words: ] ...I am glad.

[ With her, he speaks freely, content with the fact that their conversation will go unheard, that his words will be lost somewhere amid the hubbub of the marketplace (but hopefully not upon Saber's own ears)— ]

Everyone should have the right to spend their days as they should please, even if that pleasure should be something so simple as a lazy, afternoon nap.

[ They should be nearing the establishment now, he thinks, and ah, there it is, a quaint building with a most charming window display boasting both men's and women's fashions from evening wear to more casual clothing, some styles certainly more eye-catching than others. ]

Do you not agree?

[iuramentum]

[ That's...

Well. She doesn't rightly know how to react to that. What exactly does he know?

It's a little unnerving to think that he might have more than a faint inkling of the issue she's skirting around - having a few lukewarm acquaintances in a few key departments made hiding her record easier than it might have been otherwise - so it's little wonder that Saber looks momentarily troubled. But the next time green eyes meet gold, they're just a little more shuttered, a little less inclined to trust than before.

Sion is an innately likeable man. Agreeable, soft-spoken, modest, reasonably attractive. And that's precisely why she's more inclined to think he might have some hidden motivations to poking around in her business. There should be no rhyme or reason to take interest in a discarded cog from the Company's proverbial well-oiled machine.
No. Something's up, and she doesn't like it.

Old habits die hard. No hard feelings, Astal. ]

I'm afraid you're asking the wrong person that question, sir. Free time is sparse for most Agents.

[ If she has any thoughts pertaining to the range of clothes on display, she doesn't show it. There's something to be said for Saber's mastery of stonewalling in day-to-day conversation. ]

Free time is also something we don't have in abundance today. Please be prompt in choosing your wardrobe.

[sunderings]

Aa. But it is not 'free time' which I speak of. [ What a world they live in, where kindness sows more distrust than cruelty; where taking an interest in someone—who they are, the places which they wish to go—should be perceived as a threat instead of the offering of understanding. It is the world in which they live, and it--... is impossibly sad. Touched by melancholy, as is Sion's smile when next he is met with Saber's gaze, her green eyes by far more guarded, sharpened in the wake of her surprise. Still, the Director cannot blame her (not after what had happened, not while he wears the Company uniform), and so...! He only shakes his head, white lashes veiling over gold as he hums, setting foot through the door— ] In life, one must always walk forward in pursuit of their dreams, their joys, not only for themselves--...

[ "Aʜ! Mʀ. Asᴛᴀʟ? Cᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙᴇ ʏᴏᴜ? Wʜʏ, ʏᴏᴜʀs ɪs ᴀ ғᴀᴄᴇ ғᴏʀ sᴏʀᴇ ᴇʏᴇs!" a voice calls out from somewhere within the depths of the boutique, followed by a series of footfalls, staccato and lively. ]

...but to pave the way for others, as well. That is why we are here, Saber.

[ "Aɴᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ sᴇᴇ ᴍᴇ? Yᴏᴜ ᴄᴀᴅ!" says the woman, newly appeared from behind a clothing rack of ornate designs. She is none other than the owner of the boutique, of course, and a long-time family friend who had been one of few to stand by Sion after his father passed. Perhaps apologetic, Sion greets the woman with an elegant bow of head, his smile turning boyish, sheepish despite himself: ]

Of course I am here to see the ravishing madam, but you must also remember that which we spoke of before...?

[ And so they converse, a story unfolding as Saber is warmly received by another associate and offered a cup of fragrant, flora tea: the owner had given the Director her word that she'd send her own manner of aid to Westerley—clothing, collected in a charity drive to be housed within the very walls of her boutique! The event will not take place until much later in the evening, but as it seems Sion and his companion cannot stay for long today, the very least she is able to do is send them away in styles which will advertise both the boutique and charity drive!

In the blink of an eye, Saber is presented with the dress from the store-front window, and Sion...!

Well, he's quickly dressed in something sweet and charming. ]

Will you not try the dress on, Saber? [ Enthused by the prospect, he clasps his hands together at his front, rocking back and forth precisely once upon his heels as he decides to push his luck: ] It is for a good cause.

[iuramentum]

[ Brave words, Sion. A pessimist might be more likely to say pursuit of dreams only ever ends in failure or disappointment, but since this is Saber we're talking about, he only gets one slow blink in response.
So... neither agreement nor disagreement. Could be worse.

Next thing she knows, there's a cup of tea in her hands, they're ushered into a shop so full to bursting with clothes, and it becomes obvious Saber's going to be nursing a minor headache by the time it's all over. Typical.
The tea mostly gets politely ignored - it smells lovely, but poisons can't always be detected by scent alone and she's sure as hell not keen on taste testing that theory - cradled in her fingers while she walks a slow circuit of the showroom floor, inconspicuously clearing the area as any good bodyguard should.

Not that she really expects an assassin to come dramatically leaping out of the frilly dress racks, of course. Not without getting a teacup forcefully introduced to their sinuses first.

Speaking of frilly dresses...

Saber eyes the dress thrust at her with the kind of wary caution usually afforded to venomous snakes of the deadlier persuasion. ]

Ah. I'm somewhat... indisposed, currently.

[ The gunshot wound to her shoulderblade is still a little tender under the light dressing; she's not fool enough to jostle it any more than it needs to be, and tearing the stitches would earn her an earful from the RAC medical staff. God knows she gets enough flack for her usual routine as is.

And then there's the fact that wearing a dress is exceptionally unprofessional for an Agent - therefore the answer to Sion's coaxing will always be a resounding 'NO' while on the clock - being sleeveless would also have the unfortunate side effect of showing off Saber's brand new collection of bruising under the bandages.
Advertising weakness to potential assassins? Ballsy, and suicidally stupid.

No. No dresses. Absolutely out of the question ]

Perhaps another time?

[sunderings]

Indisposed?

[ The Director, of course, knows the precise connotation of that word (tone and all), having been guilty of using it in place of wounded many a time before (and as late as this morning).

As such, it is only natural that the playful air about him tempers into something else—something gentle and understanding, apologetic in the way he bridges the distance between them with care, extending a hand (fingertips which will, uncannily, brush lightly against Saber's shoulder unless the touch should be pushed away) in silent question.

Saber... where are you hurt? ]

Another time will be for the best. [ —he assents, though the dress is boxed, given readily as a parting gift.

Saber just may approve of the Director's next decision: appointing himself to the position of "bag carrier and box holder", if only because he entrusts something far more practical to his guard for safekeeping: Company technology, typically reserved for certified medics or simply those with enough joy to spend. To Saber, a former Enforcer, the tool may be easily recognized as an optogen actuator, the device prompting immediate healing through light-based cellular stimulation.

This, perhaps, is by far more beneficial a token than any manner of garment, especially for a Reclamation Agent bold enough to take on a warrant while in less than optimal condition.

Consider it a "thank you" for putting up with this small excursion. ]

Will you do the honor of calling upon me, then, in this future where we walk the streets of the bazaar at our leisure? [ With a soft hum upon his lips, he sets to gathering their things: the dress box, the uniform which he'd all too readily discarded. ] Where you are able to take tea—

[ That cup is still full, isn't it, Saber? ]

—and we've the time to trade stories?

[iuramentum]

A minor annoyance.

[ The contact, the concern... it's pleasant and unnerving in equal measure. Saber clearly looks conflicted about it prior to defaulting to her usual method of "dealing with uncomfortable situations".
That is, taking a step back to maintain her personal space bubble. Stop caring about her well being, Sion. It's weird.

AWKWARDLY CLEARING HER THROAT okay change of subject. ]

I... suppose that could be arranged, if schedules permit.

[ It's not a straight up agreement, but it's still some form of cautious assent. Pretty rare considering she has the habit of filling her free time with more work.

Now she'll just grab their boxes and -----



Oh. Well. I guess he could just get there first I guess, that's fine too.
SION SHE'S SUPPOSED TO BE DOING THE WORK HERE YOU'RE MAKING HER FEEL INCOMPETENT... ]

1/2

[sunderings]

I look forward to it, then.

[ Their outing, their to-be-decided date. Fanciful though it may seem (and is, given the Director's inclination toward whim), arrangements to take tea are how he experiences the Quad at large, learning of all the vastness beyond his reach through the spoken word of others.

Were time not so critical, and Company's forces not stretched so pitiably (and precariously) thin, it is likely that Sion would not have been cleared to leave the Command Post in Westerley. For as much as he boasts the nature of a diplomat (the parting thanks he gives to the boutique's owner is warm, promising that he will do his best to return again), so too is he is a liability: there are those who would wish to see him gone (distant and never-before-heard of relations who feared that Sion might seek to retake his late-father's land and fortune from their covetous hands), and those who would simply see him taken (and stored away for a rainy day when the need to create a weapon to serve their purposes arose).

And so: as Sion beckons with a carefree nod of head for Saber to follow as he takes his leave of the boutique, pushing open the front door, he...! Glances back, over his shoulder, his expression nostalgic and somehow fond as he surveys the store—he doesn't want to forget it, this place—and completely (miserably, lamentably) fails to pay proper heed to that which occurs in his blindspot: the too-swift approach of a man-for-hire, ending with...!! ]

2/2

[sunderings]

[ Ah.

That sure is a hand clamping a cloth down, over his mouth, and another immobilizing his left arm behind his back, leaving only his right (the hand with the dress-box yet in its grasp) free in the moment after he inhales some sweet-smelling chemical which will surely dampen his reaction time to all of this.

A surprising turn of events: Saber gets to do her job after all??? ]

DAMN IT SION

[iuramentum]

[ Saber will later go over the attack in her memory to spot the exact moment she'd realized something was amiss.

Whether an unlucky coincidence or impressive premeditated planning, the move is made when her back has been turned to the door - returning the untouched cup of tea to the store helper with a polite nod - which left just a sliver of time in which Sion hadn't been in her line of sight.

It's the widening of the employee's eyes and the foreign footstep that clues her in, and there's a lot to be said for the reaction time of someone intimately aware of how far they can push themselves even before factoring in nanite enhancement. The fine porcelain of the teacup barely leaves her fingers before Saber's already spinning on her heel to intercept Astal's would-be kidnapper. Others detach from the shopping crowd - accomplices.

Draw. Fingertips rasping over Excalibur's hilt. The hiss of metal on metal as the blade slides free in a vicious arc.

Strike. Surgical precision. Sever the spinal cord.

The instant her first victim drops like a sack of potatoes (screaming the whole way, paralyzed from the neck down but clearly still in full control of his lungs) Saber grabs Sion by the back of his shirt and bodily drags him behind her, shielding him from potential gunfire. ]

Back inside! Go!

[sunderings]

[ She's strong.

Of her finesse with a sword, Sion had been aware: it is, perhaps, no mistake that Arturia Pendragon became known as Reclamation Agent Saber, a testament to the way she wields her blade, bursting forth in an elegant (merciless) drive of motion which sees the Director freed of his captor in an instant.

That the assailant who had, in brief, held the Director immobilized should have crumpled gracelessly to the ground in the aftermath of a single strike is in no way surprising, but the fact that he—a man five feet and nine inches in height—should have been so easily hauled back, towed inside by Saber's hand is--...

Might, beyond that which Sion had expected. Saber is strong, despite all minor annoyances, and Sion's heart skips a beat as his vision blurs, and Saber's hair seems to unfurl into a lengthier fall of cornflower blond—

(And he is in an alleyway, brought to kneel by injury as rain pounds down. He'd made a grievous mistake, thinking he had properly incapacitated one of his attackers, his error made in kindness capitalized upon in the moment when the man had risen, taking advantage of Sion's blindspot.

"Kɪsʜɪsʜɪ, ᴛʜɪs ɪsɴ'ᴛ ᴀ ᴋɪᴅ's ɢᴀᴍᴇ, ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ ʙᴏʏ. Tʜɪs ɪs ᴀ ʀᴇᴀʟ ʙᴀᴛᴛʟᴇғɪᴇʟᴅ. Dᴏɴ'ᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇʟɪᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ғɪɴᴀʟ ʙʟᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ?" the man says, picking up his fallen dagger, continuing on, "Yᴏᴜ ᴄᴀᴜsᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴀsᴛᴇ sᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴇғғᴏʀᴛ. Nᴏᴡ ʟᴇᴛ's sᴇᴇ ʜᴏᴡ I'ʟʟ ᴅᴇᴀʟ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜ..."

But Sion cannot move, nor can he wholly bring himself to regret not taking the assassin's life when he'd the chance. No one has to die.

And perhaps no one will.

"Hᴀs ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴄᴇɴᴛ ᴛʀᴇɴᴅ...ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ sᴜᴄʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴇɴ ᴄᴀɴ ᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄᴋ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴍᴇɴ ʙʀᴀᴢᴇɴʟʏ? Hᴏᴡ ᴅᴀʀɪɴɢ, ɪsɴ'ᴛ ɪᴛ?"

Landing in a perfect dismount between Sion and his assailant is someone trusted, someone beloved, a woman who wielded a blaze twice her size with ease, the sword now resting before Sion as a shield.

"Iɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴀsᴇ, ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴍᴇ. Tʜɪs ʟᴀᴅʏ sʜᴀʟʟ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴏɴ."

Smiling with a shake of his head, the woman's name falls from his lips in thanks--... )

—before Sion rises to his feet, willing his eyes to refocus as he banishes the waking dream from mind. ]

Saber--! You'll not do this alone.

[ It his his turn, now, to take on the role of a shield, a barrier of light (the Director's doing) glimmering to life around the storefront to stand as a bulwark against any other would-be kidnappers. In the absence of gunfire, it is clear that he'd been meant to be taken alive, unharmed save for the chemical which he'd made the mistake of inhaling. But dizzy though he may be, he stands still, his body acting as conduit for the programmable matter which keeps all within the boutique safe.

(At least, for now.) ]

My friends... [ His speech is slow, more sluggish than he would like it to be, but still, he turns to the shop-owner and her employees. ] ...is there a back entryway?

[ If so, it would be best to secure it—who knows where the accomplices have dispersed to, after all. ]

[iuramentum]

[ When it comes to bringing a knife to a gunfight, you'd best be damn good with your weapon to make a habit out of it, and better yet for the choice to be a calling card. Small wonder her defining characteristic became the tool she carries with her at all times regardless of where she is or what she's doing.

It's only slightly ironic considering her alias should really be "Longsword", but I digress...

As Sion's shield shimmers into existence, Saber doesn't dare to break visual contact with their attackers; two figures slink away into the crowd, likely either to re-position or to call for help. Perhaps both. The rest stay at a safe distance, patiently waiting.

Saber's voice practically cuts him off at the last syllable of his question. ]

They may have the exits covered. A roof access would be the safest method to get you out with minimal risk. [ A la the ancient "higher ground" advantage, anyway. He'd at least be able to get a good shot at making a bid for freedom.

And if the situation is dire enough to have her running distraction duty by bursting out the back door with proverbial guns blazing in the face of kidnapper reinforcements, then so be it.

She pivots slightly in place, keeping the main bulk of the gathering crowd within her peripheral vision while she gives Sion a quick glance over to make sure he doesn't have any immediate obvious injuries. ] Were you harmed?

[ Please be candid with her, you stubborn man. The last thing she needs is to have to carry your dumb ass the rest of the way if whatever it was on that cloth turns out to be a slow acting paralytic compound. ]

[sunderings]

… I do not know.

[ Well, the answer is candid.

A difficult thing to ascertain, what chemical might have saturated the cloth. Something too potent, perhaps boasting a potential to be lethal, if otherwise administered by way of either syringe or dart. But what might require so gentle a touch? Is it the paralytic compound which Saber would be none too pleased to encounter? If it were some manner of neuromuscular-blocking agent, then surely he would have experienced involuntary muscle contraction—

(Like the way his arm jerks, the dress box and accompany bag falling to the ground, then slackens.)

—by now, but even if such is the case, the drug wouldn't effect him in its full capacity. Or rather, it would not effect him as it would a civilian, like the shop-owner who turns to fetch something in the blink of an eye, her skirts whispering about her feet as the remainder of the employees gesture in urgency toward the back-door.

(And there is a sound, from afar, a breaking in and splintering of wood which reverberates through the entirety of the store.) ]

To protect those present, we should hold our ground. [ The words can't come out fast enough, nor can Sion seem to move quickly enough to take hold of his PDD with the intention of calling upon his team of subordinates for back-up. ] I will give summons to the team of Enforcers stationed at the docks--

[ There is a sound (the cocking of a firearm) but it is from an unlikely (?!) source:

"Yᴏᴜ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴛʜɪs ᴇsᴛᴇᴇᴍᴇᴅ Lᴀᴅʏ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ʜᴇʀ ᴘʀᴏᴘᴇʀᴛʏ?"

A-ah... So the shop-owner has triumphantly returned, living up to every Leithian stereotype (and in a way which might have made the Director blush, were it any other day).

"Yᴏᴜ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴋɪᴅs sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ɢᴇᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏғ ʜᴇʀᴇ."

(What.) ]