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

[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.]

[sunderings]

You're all right.

[ —the Director soothes, though whether the words are for Giovanni, or for the child who keens and cries from the stress placed upon a limb already strained by injury, remains unapparent. Unapparent, until the moment after Sion instructs the child to make use of the bite cloth (it will help with the pain, he promises, though he does not mention how), when his hand (gentle-strong, the embrace of willowed fingers, steadfast and leaving no room for doubt) envelops Giovanni's own, guiding the stretch of muscle, the placement of bone, beneath a touch which is--...

Every bit as inhuman as Giovanni's own.

Augmented to boast strength far surpassing that which he should have rightfully possessed, for the Director, every action is a precise application of control, even the way his hand fits to Giovanni's own. The sensation of touch has long since gone from him, the steady thrum of pain stemming from the network of biocircuitry inside of him numbing him to all else, and so it with only the utmost care (the most ginger exercise of pressure) that he leads the pull of Giovanni's hand with his own—mindful of the fractured area, mindful of excess pressure and torque—until the moment when muscles slacken just enough such that--...

The fracture realigns with a sound, one which seems to reverberate through the bone newly repositioned by their hands, the scream of the child muffled by the cloth, but made no less gripping for it. ]

Your own body, your own hands, Giovanni. [ —Sion affirms, his touch falling away as he shifts to steady their patient, his palm pressed to the child's chest to see them stilled, if only for the moment. ] Use them to hold the leg as it is.

[ Leaving Sion to secure the splint, thin pieces of board on either side of the leg to immobilize the bone where it has been set, fastened by a series of knotted fabrics tied with finesse. ]

You are able to aid someone as much as anyone else.

[ofobedience]

[And he allows it, doesn't try to snatch his hand away or react with startled violence, sees the movement coming before it connects and as such is ready for it. Then the feel of Sion's hand over his, light but firm, and there's a vague sense of relief in him, to know that he's not quite doing this alone. That there is a certain level of guidance.

That Sion is stronger than he looks is something Giovanni already knows, and even here, like this, demonstrated in this small way, it leaves him wondering why such a man left the thick of it for what amounts to a desk job. It's a hard thing to understand, for something like him.

No matter.

For now he focuses all of his attention on the task at hand, and beneath the pass of Sion's fingers there is the unsteady beating of his own pulse, a quickness there, a small indication of his own concern over getting this right. And then comes that moment when everything finds realignment, the sound of it, the bone-thrum felt beneath the press of his palm and there's a hot twinge of excitement in him, something unsteady and feral, something that wants more than this, to break and tear and shatter and--

--he pushes it back. Holds on to it, even as once again his blood-coloured eyes search the lines of Sion's expression, as he tries to hone down his attention to the thing he's being asked to do. To mend, not to break.

Sion gives the command (calm as a request) for him to hold the position, and Giovanni does exactly that as the other man's hand slides away, as he reaches for the splint. And it's done, almost. He didn't ruin this, didn't mess it up or lose himself to the urge for something altogether darker.

Almost imperceptibly, he lets out a quiet breath.

Still, when he speaks, it's with the same old wryness.]

Only because you're holding the leash.

[sunderings]

One day, I will not be.

[ And perhaps, one day, there will be no leash to speak of.

Giovanni... is that what you fear most of all?

With a medic's calm and measured appraisal, Sion surveys the injured limb, pleased to find no discoloration (the blood flow unrestricted, the splint neither too tight nor too loose), then the child's face (streaked with tears borne of pain, altogether a good sign, suggesting minimal nerve damage), and upon securing the splint with the last of the cloth-strip ties, the Director's eyes--...

Flit to the side, catching red with gold, holding them there with unfailing, unfaltering certainty: ]

But you will remember this lesson, and the choice of what to do with it will be in your hands alone.

[ At and that time...

Fresh in the Director's memory, the way Giovanni's hand had bent and flexed beneath his own, the other man becoming unsteady in the instant when the fracture had realigned beneath the palm of his hand, snapping back into place with a shift of flesh and lock of bone so keenly and suddenly felt that self-restraint had been needed to tame conditioned impulse.

'Giovanni's will' exists, yet, a fact proven in that moment, however much Giovanni himself might give protest.

...what will you do? ]

You may let go, it is finished. [ —falling back, Sion's attention drifts to the commotion outside of the tent: the clamor of injured, the continual cry for aid, and the call of those experienced enough to give directive. ] My thanks, for assisting me, but it seems there is more to do.

[ofobedience]

[There's that brief flashing moment of gold on red and at first it holds, before Giovanni's gaze lowers in what is a mark of respect yes but also - perhaps - a small denial. One way or another there will always be the leash, and if left with a 'choice' there'll be violence and pain in the place of healing, hands that break instead of bend, teeth that rip and tear.

Or at least, so he thinks.

As such, there's the vaguest twinge of his lips by way of response, a continuation of the wry drawl that had been present in his voice, though for now he makes no verbal rebuff or overt denial. The choice is never really his. It always comes from above and even when it begins inside himself his thoughts can hardly be said to be his own, so deeply steeped are they in the toxic waters of his 'upbringing'. The conditioning that permeates right down to the marrow of his bones.

(And yes, to be without such things, to be cut loose and adrift from the steadying pressure of someone else's control-- it frightens him, fills him with a cold hard kind of dread.)

These are the shape of his thoughts, at least, and when Sion gives him permission to release the thin leg of the quietly sobbing child, he does so readily. Hands falling loose at his sides, still and passive now as sleeping birds.]

There's no need to thank me. It's my duty to do as I'm bidden, Sir.

[A small reminder that he is what he is, a tool in someone else's hands, not a person with choices at all but a thing to be used as his superiors see fit. A quiet denial of what Sion is trying to instill in him.

Regardless, the lesson in healing, in self-control, will remain. For later use, perhaps. Who's to say, in this moment.

He moves to take his position two steps behind the Company man, then. Nods just once. Where Sion goes, he will go. Of course.]

And as you like it, then.