Chapter 4

[thenine]

Who: OTA
Where: Quad
When: Week VI, Day VII - Week IX, Day I
Summary: Chapter 4 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.

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The Nine
The Company
Westies
Leith
Resistance
The RAC

The Nine: Ballroom Politics

Delle Seyah Kendry herself has sent a message to all with Qreshi citizenship. She calls them to a gathering of her own inception, a gala for the affluent few to spend a leisurely three days adrift in orbit. The invitation includes the ship's parameters, sure to comfort or entice any member of the nobility with expected and lavish accommodations, as well as a personal note of interest. It's been too long since everyone was together to discuss their pursuits, their thoughts, their projects… Invitations sent to: Crowley, Rhys, Sui Feng, Hanzo, Hanbei, & Royce On the surface, the event is a extravagant social soiree, but the undercurrent is clear. With the Peace Summit concluded, it's time to find an actual solution to the unrest in the streets. What house Kendry seeks is a move that benefits all members of the Nine, something that solidifies their position and ensures more years of prosperity. House Simms agrees, their pandering to the powerful Kendry family only intensifying. While there are some - perhaps land Hyponia - who disagree, their voices are hushed, few willing to lose life or estate for the common man. The cruiser hosting the event has three levels. The highest houses an opulently decorated hall, repurposed throughout the day for banquets, entertainment, and mingling. Only the finest food and hokk will be served, and those attending may also sample delicacies from the reaches of the J as they converse. As days drift into nights the lights will dim, long dining table replaced with smaller stands on which the elite can amuse themselves with the newest tech, including a gambling interface. The middle floor houses personal rooms, each containing a king sized bed with too many pillows, a walk in shower, a full kitchen, a stocked minibar, and a fully equipped entertainment room. Communication between rooms has been installed as full-scale holograms, and a mere voice command activates all tech within. The lower deck, housing the bridge of the ship and all workers’ quarters, is not advertised for visitation. Heirs and family heads alike will be in attendance, mingling through the ambling guests to speak with the most important, or the most concerning, individuals. Such a party would be woefully unenjoyable without proper security, and several warrants requesting RAC agent service have been placed. A high-paying position, any Killjoy who attends will need to dress formally and keep their gaze narrow. Some among the aristocracy may wish to speak with them - to ask for favors - but any conversations will be carried out with utmost secrecy. For the spaces warrants could not fill, Company enforcers have been summoned to bolster the event's protective forces. The higher within the Company, the less surreptitious one needs to be to chat with the Qreshi. However, having a distinguished Company pedigree doesn't guarantee any contact aside from being asked to dispose of something (or someone) for the good of the Nine.

The Company: Training Day

A divide has begun to form within Company ranks, and those at the top are loathe to see such cracks being driven into their foundation. Though the riots are growing more subdued, the lack of a 'unified' approach to street patrol has inspired action. Model Company officials will receive either a promotion or higher clearance for access to equipment. There is no mention of violence or brutality in the messages each receives to alert them of their bonus, the expectations of continued service acting as implicit reinforcement. Company officials who approached the malcontent populace with what have been officially labeled "high risk" methods - plainly stated, with mercy - will be notified of a different sort of reinforcement. Those who require acclimation training will be paired with an officer the Company can trust to exercise appropriately severe punishments, and sent to a volatile area. The location differs by assignment, but each has in common the hostility of its community. Spitting, jeering, and sudden attacks are to be expected by anyone wearing Company issued gear. All patrol, arrest, or recon missions in these areas will prove to be a battle against the Westie citizens who reside there. Not intending to lose members of their workforce, the Company does expect success and will not set any team up for deadly failure, but kindness on the part of any officers in the area will likely be met with suspicion or revulsion by the people, and possibly a report to upper by their partner. In a completely different sphere, officers who caused the Company figures of damage - or just a financial headache - will be assigned to stress training. The process is available to any employee, should they wish to opt in and kiss ass have something nice to put on their resume. A debriefing outlines that those participating in the training will board a vessel with a partner and be launched into orbit. The ship will have several interface and mechanical failures - all carefully monitored by the Company control below, of course - over the course of the simulation. Officers are required to land the ship despite these errors, and will be evaluated on their technique, teamwork, and attitude. Unbeknownst to all participants, the small ship will also contain three spider-type bots that will activate once in orbit and scatter over the framework of the vessel. They will trip alarms, project voices, and interface with the system to cut communication. The last any participant will hear from ground control is, "What's happening up there!?", an urgent final message sent before the true observation begins. Characters granted higher weapons clearance: Giovanni, Jack, Sui Feng, Hijikata, Hanzo, Juvia, Fenris Characters assigned acclimation training: Julius, Nyx, Shiro, Sion, Rhys Characters assigned stress training: Giovanni, Hijikata, Shiro Aside from the Company's inner workings, the world has not stopped spiraling deeper into chaos. Some enforcers may be requested as security at the Qreshi convocation, serving both abroad the actual pleasure ship and patrolling around it. Others may find their battle with the streets of Westerley dragging on as organized crime rises alongside the Resistance cells. Gangs threaten Company officials and average citizens alike, looting bars, sacking shops, and carrying out their own executions. Agree with the Company's blame of the Resistance, or see the gangs for the opportunists they are - either way, one thing is clear: The streets of Westerley are unsafe.

Westies: Karma Police

Cries for justice have distorted, shouts becoming incomprehensible as the dawn breaks on an otherwise calm Westerley morning. The riots that had become almost commonplace have dwindled, crowds thinning as the days drag on. Yet the violence that accompanied such frenzied backlash continues. It's not unusual to see a beaten and broken man lying motionless on the sidewalk as one makes their way throughout their day, bloodstains on the street coloring nearly every path through Old Town. The disenchanted have splintered. Some have returned to work, looking to keep their heads down and their necks safe from trouble. Some have taken a more subversive approach, fading into the shadows as the Resistance receives a new wave of sympathizers and participants. Some bask in the chaos, taking advantage of the upheaval to assert themselves, and their gangs, as a new authority on the street. Company enforcers remain pervasive, their patrols constant and their responses brutal, but they are no longer the only danger. Every abandoned safehouse, every street corner, and every back alley has become someone's territory. Lines drawn in the gravel are frequently contested, skirmishes between rival groups a common but insular backdrop to the violence teeming in the city. Though all gangs have different expectations, different eccentricities, they share a brash hatred for the Company. With growing frequency, establishments that serve Company officials will find themselves ransacked. Windows broken and goods stolen in the night, or the owner run out and beaten on the street, no venue can guarantee its safety without turning away those in Company attire. For some, even that is not enough. Speak too gently of the Company and one may find themselves labeled a sympathizer, subject to jeering or beating with little provocation. The question, How do you feel about the Company, asked by both enforcers and crime rings alike, is impossible to answer without earning at least one enemy.

Leith: Changing Winds

The winds of change howl across the Leithian landscape. The actions of the True Leithians have set events into motion that start to propel the usually relatively peaceful moon into the kind of unrest that's more common to its neighbors. As land reallocation continues, the upper classes of Leith start to resist the pull of charity. Where Leithians were content enough to provide aid to Westerley before, it's more difficult for that generosity to continue as their own coffers start to diminish. The relief efforts that the poorest of Westerley had relied on come nearly to a halt, because Leith is drawing away to protect themselves in the chaos. After all, chaos is starting to seep into Leith too. As donations slow, the Westerlen workers start to show their own unrest as their families and friends at home suffer for the slowed aid and the decreasing prospects of their own work. Leith's relationship with its Westie workers has always been tense, but it's never bubbled to the surface so much as this. The Resistance is quiet, but growing louder even on Leith. The market is often surrounded by workers striking, and Leith struggles to contain the protests. While a few unruly workers could be dealt with by a farm alone, hundreds of them forces those same farms to listen. Without their Westerlen labor, there's no one to tend to the farms and harvest the valuable crops that Leith provides to the Quad. The Leithian farmers may have to listen to the protests of their workers, but they wait, cutting off pay for those that refuse to work in a tactic to try and force them back to work. However, where some return to the farms reluctantly, it only makes the anger burn hotter for others. A massive field belonging to one of the biggest producers of Hokk in the Quad is torched, and the fire and smoke can be seen for miles. Ash falls on nearby towns like rain, and while the Qreshi fret over a shortage of their favorite Hokk, the people of Leith and Westerley both know that this is the start of something more dangerous on Leith. Rumor has it that the fires may have been started not by a Westie, but a rival Leithian, and with no one to conclusively blame, everyone bears the suspicion and distrust. Those disappearances that had effected only a select few associated with the True Leithians increase, but Leith itself doesn't complain too loudly. In the streets, Leithians seem oblivious or ignorant to what's coming, but they know. They only hope that so long as they pretend in public that everything is fine, maybe peace will return to their home.

Resistance: Power Vacuum

Hyperion becomes a whisper, a phantom looming in the background noise of discontent conversations and secrets kept. Some say it's a single person, a man of strong pedigree and polished cuticles, while others speak of a woman clothed in midnight black with a piercing stare that strikes through the heart of a man. Others yet suggest that it's not a person but many, a group of shadow puppeteers who offer direction.. but at what price? While rumors swirl and build into the myth of the Hyperion groups, rival factions rise to fill the empty spaces. For some, it's an ideological clash: whoever Hyperion is, they're too well-funded and connected to truly be of the people, too secretive and selective to warrant the trust of those who risk life and limb for sedition. For others--most, really--it's a matter of power hunger, groups forming and striking out to take control of the scattered members of the Resistance while the mysterious Hyperion remains an intangible figure. Unity, they say, in this time of division. They say it in town meetings and raids, in private conversations and public--albeit careful--demonstrations, using the cover of Westerley's rising gangs to cast shadow on their movements. As is often the case with politics, what they say and what they mean are quite different. While these different groups call for togetherness, they seek subordination and compliance to their respective ideas and goals going forward. Some call for violent uprisings, others aim for organized strikes and legislative pressure, and others still seek a peaceful but complete abolition of the current monarchy class. Each spreads their own propaganda in coded pamphlets and messages sent across the Meshwork, and though they agree on little, they are, indeed, unified on at least one common goal: The Nine must fall. In the meantime, though the focus of those outside of Hyperion's reach drifts, Hyperion teams continue to receive missions and intel, each cell working on a singular component for some great machination of change. Hyperion cites its compartmentalization as a means of protection--should one cell fall, the loss can be contained to those secrets and plans alone--but a closer look at each division's missions will offer a slightly more tarnished future than the one Hyperion claims to build. It's a war, even if the people on the streets don't realize they're fighting in it just yet, and in war... there are always acceptable losses. Collateral damage to be tallied and disregarded for the greater good. The Nine will fall, broken bone by broken bone.

The RAC: Level Grinding

As always, agents will have their hands full as the juggling jesters of the Quad's court, tasked with keeping the various factions served and satisfied with their contracted work. Between acting as guards for the Qreshi envoy, cleaning the streets of the detritus corpses left in the wake of the riots, and the monthly warrants, there's no shortage of work for the killjoy who's looking. And there's more killjoys than ever, at that. Following the lower level evaluations, a new score of Level 4 agents arrives on the scene, eligible--and potentially willing--to form new teams. With this advancement in rank comes new opportunities that span beyond the potential for awesome buddy-cop movies: higher level warrants that pay better and offer increased access to otherwise off-the-books missions. Will you band with your graduating class to knit powerful units and make your mark on the J star cluster? Or do you prefer to remain the lone wolf figure in this otherwise disparate organization? Maybe you have you sights set higher than that. Maybe you want to go for the top tier of the RAC and make yourself a Level 5. While it's generally thought that only those agents who have proven themselves as Level 4s are afforded the opportunity to advance, it's not strictly a requirement. Whether that fourth notch in your killing belt is fresh or well-worn, the Level 5 evaluations are open season, but not unfettered. Indeed, while any Level 4 is elgible to try their hand at the highest ranks, those who hold the most tenure will have a far easier curve to ascend than their less experienced counterparts. Competition will be fierce and the opportunity for advancement strictly regulated based on not mere skill, but psychological stability and past performances. Any mark left in the records of an agent can and will become leverage against them when they enter Level 5 evaluations. The evaluations, at least, are similar in construction to the lower-level missions, albeit with far greater danger. The evaluating agent must carry out a Level 5 warrant--with his or her team, if applicable--but rather than having the guidance of a senior agent to shape their path, they'll be monitored and observed with real time telemetry from RAC HQ. The results will thereafter be analyzed by the RAC's top brass and released for viewing in Chapter 5. With competition fierce and the test itself a life or death scenario, agents will need to utilize any advantage they can in order to come out ahead. Cultivating their contacts and gathering the necessary resources isn't just a strong recommendation for these killjoys but an implicit requirement for a successful promotion. That's not the only unspoken requirement. Whispers begin to circulate throughout HQ that certain palms have opened for greasing and can facilitate a smoother evaluation for the right price. Open discussion of the rumors is strictly prohibited and strongly punished, but for the cunning and sly.. ...any attempt to bribe those palms will be met with an automatic failure and subsequent investigation into the killjoy's past endeavors. Those individuals rumored to offer grace in exchange for joy are among the RAC's most loyal and stalwart class of senior agents, purposefully placing themselves within the public eye in order to draw out the rats of the organization. The warrant is all.

Comments

Love it when a full tag gets lost with accidental f5s 8'))))))

[iuramentum]

[ To say Saber is practically a social shut-in wouldn't be far off the mark. Trepidation at having a nice normal chat over tea was bad enough without then being informed shortly thereafter (by an uppity crony of Sion's, likely without his knowledge) that he was under absolutely no circumstances allowed to present himself as a big fat idealistic beacon in public a second time after the recent kidnapping attempt, so she'd better have damn well figured out where a secure place for a playdate would be.

Panic Cleaning is not the best way to spend your night before the appointment, for future reference. Even if her quarters are pretty sparse by default.

"Resigned to her dreary tea-and-gossip fate" is probably the best way to describe the look on her face while she waits by her craft for Sion to arrive.

The Avalon is no more flashy than any other spacecraft on Leith or Westerly; sleek lines accentuated with gilded trim, almost lost in deep cobalt blue paint job except at certain angles when exposed to sunlight, some areas on the hull a little more worn than others. Clearly not new, but... cared for, in a way.
"Acceptable" by Saber's standards at least. ]

Director Astal. This way, please.

[ Prim, proper, unfailingly polite as always. Even without the usual impeccable suit (replaced for a more relaxed blazer/shirt/slacks combo - not quite "I'm super hella comfortable" levels of clothing but getting there, if still quite masculine in fashion taste) Saber somehow manages to keep a deathgrip on posture so ramrod straight it's a wonder her spine hasn't simply fused in place and called it a day.

And if Sion's snooty assistant makes as if to follow them up the ramp into the Avalon's interior only to get Saber effectively shutting the hatch in his face (entirely accidentally of course) she absolutely doesn't feel the slightest bit smug about it. What a silly notion.

A few minutes to get situated at the modest table setup, and-- ]

Here. [ No frickin way is she gonna let you snoop around in her quarters, my guy. The gift box gets plunked down on the tabletop, pretty as you please, after Saber fishes it out from a compartment hidden in a wall panel. ]

Everything should be in order. It hasn't been moved since it was delivered.

[sunderings]

You may call me 'Sion', you know.

[ If he should have laughed (politely, the sound muffled by the back of his hand) when Saber too-effectively stayed the pursuit of a very stern (over-worried, and likely to remain hovering just outside of the Avalon's boarding ramp) assistant, then surely, it had only been on account of something catching in his throat, the particles (of nothing) needing to be cleared for his health. Later, Sion will have to apologize to his admittedly very uppity, but so too impossibly loyal subordinate, because--... They both have lost someone, a comrade, and yet it is only the Director who is able to find a reprieve as he seats himself at the table he's been lead to, golden eyes falling upon the parcel, still perfectly wrapped.

A shame, that he hadn't been given the opportunity to search for it.

Every ship has its story, its secrets, and the Avalon is no exception—Sion should have very much liked to explore, but instead: ]

You are not under warrant, nor am I on assignment, and so... [ No sooner than his hands touch to the brown-paper wrapping of the gift box, he sees it undone, the parcel opened with a too-elegant flourish to reveal...! A tea set which, uncannily, matches the colors of the Avalon itself. Something about the cobalt and gold coloring had both reminded Sion of Saber and of happier times; of days filled with many comrades come together for the sake of working toward noble dreams and goals, for all things begin with the exchange of warm words and tea. ] ...we meet, now, as friends.

[ Taking a teacup into hand, he considers the glass, a thoughtful hum escaping his lips before he extends the piece to Saber herself— ]

Will you inspect the individual pieces for damages? [ He will not, of course, say that several pieces of the tea set boast hand-painted lines of poetry. Should she come to notice them, it will be easy enough to realize that Sion detailed the glass himself—the painted script matches his florid handwriting to a tee. ] It was a fear of mine, that the glasswork would not be able to withstand transit to your initial location.

[ He whisks away, after that—though not before ensuring that Saber will hold onto the teacup!—turning to survey the immediate area surrounding. ]

In the meantime, if you would be so kind as to point me toward a kettle, I would be happy to set water to boil.

[ ...Sion??? Are you trying to play the role of 'host' on another person's ship??? ]

[iuramentum]

Your subordinates may not approve.

[ That's aimed mostly at the 'friends' comment; not that she particularly cares what Company bean counters think, but it might cause Sion some grief in the long run. A word of caution is all.

As for the tea set--

Saber's eyes widen at the unveiling despite her best efforts to maintain her composure. Such fine workmanship... surely it cost a fortune?
An aborted gesture to reach for one of the cups sees her right hand settled on the tabletop instead, somewhat self-consciously switching her gaze from the graceful curve of the cup handle down to her fingers instead.

Someone else would doubtless make better use of such a tea set. To Saber, it's a work of art; one does not simply touch such a thing. ]

I'm certain they're in fine condition -- [ Oh. Or not. The cup she'd been staring longingly at gets pushed into her hands, where she cradles it gingerly, as if afraid to shatter the glass if any pressure is applied. ] I --

[ It's too much. First the dress, then the package, and now a personal visit? ]

Sion. [ Figures the first time she uses his name is out of pure exasperation.
This time it's her turn to initiate touch for once, reaching out to catch the taller man's wrist before he can whip himself into a frenzy in the kitchen. She's not absolutely sure he'd settle for just boiling hot water if given free rein. ]

Sit. Down. [ Pause. ] Please.

Just... let me worry about the hot water.

[sunderings]

...Saber?

[ There is a hand about his wrist, a grasp strong enough to be wholly felt; to stall his step and tether him to a present where he cannot bury himself in idle tasks (setting water to boil, rifling through the ship's galley for ingredients to prepare a bite to eat along with tea), keeping busy so that Saber's words—your subordinates may not approve—will not mean so much more than she'd intended them to.

He is aware of it, profoundly so, how each and every one of his actions impacts those who work beneath him. Already, he has made a misstep (speaking out, in the name of peace, demanding that the Company both do better and be better by all of Westerley), and someone had suffered for it.

(All the more likely that Sion's assistant, who remains yet upon the docks, lingers close by out of fear for not only the Director, but for himself. And for this, Sion cannot blame the man.) ]

My apologies. [ —his voice is soft, golden eyes wide and oddly solemn. Somehow, this is different. She is different because for the very first time in longer than Sion cares to remember, someone has reached out to him, and all at once, he feels terribly boyish—scolded, by someone kind enough to welcome him as a guest. ] I have trespassed against you, haven't I?

But--...

[ Giving pause, he swings the link of their hands in a gentle back-and-forth, to and fro. ]

If I am to sit down, you'll have to let go?

[ Not that he minds the contact, of course—it's nice. ]

[iuramentum]

[ She releases her grip, snatching her hand back to her chest as if burned with a faintly guilty expression.

Mostly since it's more difficult to be gentle without having to consciously make an effort first, and HA HA BOY OH BOY would she be in huge trouble if Sion went home with a bruise. It just never occurred to Saber before that having a delicate touch by default might be a good idea.

Practice makes perfect as they say... ]

It's nothing. You haven't offended me.

[ So what if Saber's a little hurried in turning away - incidentally forgetting that she's still holding a teacup - or that the cupboards are practically bare if given further inspection? Honestly she's not particularly gifted in the culinary sense... scraping together a sandwich or heating a can of soup is the extent of her abilities.

Not much point getting invested in that sort of thing anyway. "Food for sustenance, not for entertainment" is a lingering mindset from her Company days; one she's yet to shake.

Let's see... kettle... kettle.........




Uh. Does she even have a kettle? Probably not. WELP grabbing a pot to heat water in instead. ]

My apologies, I'm afraid I'm ill-prepared for guests.

[sunderings]

You do not receive visitors often, then?

[ There is nothing you need apologize for, the warm tone of his voice seems to suggest, for in the breadth of a moment, the Director has righted himself again. As ever and as always, he is buoyant, allowing for nothing and no one (no darker skies, no despairing thoughts) to infringe upon the time he would spend in the company of a friend—of Saber, who is endearing in the way she would search for a pot with which to heat water while still holding fast to the teacup in her hand.

He wonders if he truly hasn't trespassed against her, for in his presence—more so in the here and now where she is dressed down in plainclothes, setting water to boil—she seems somehow uncertain of herself.

Touching his fingertips to the spot where she'd grasped his wrist, Sion's smile is a soft, discerning thing as he makes not to sit down, but to rather...! Fetch the loose-leaf tea blend which had accompanied the glassware set before returning to Saber's side. Sion, of course, is no stranger to brewing tea atop the stove, and thinks it to be a fine alternative to allowing for the leaves to steep in an otherwise (rather dull) slow manner. ]

Perhaps your path crosses with so very many others during your adventures as a Reclamation Agent that your ship is your own personal retreat? An oasis, away from the demands of warrant-work...! [ And here, his voice lilts in equal parts play and theatrics: ] And I have too-nefariously infiltrated it!

[ Wahahaha...!!

(With a watchful eye, he still minds the pot of water, waiting for the moment when it reaches a soft boil to add the tea leaves, fragrant with bergamont and orange peel.) ]

Though really--... [ Seeming to sober, after that, he casts Saber an artful side-ways glance, wondering what she must think of him. ] ...I should be thanking you, Saber.

You've given me sanctuary here.

[ For the time being, at least. ]

[iuramentum]

[ She stills for a moment, expression unreadable with her back turned to Sion, and admits in a quiet voice: ]

You're the first.

[ He's right. Because it is a sanctuary, of sorts. It's quiet, dark, isolated. Serene. A certain lack of stimuli, conducive for deep thought or rest; both in dwindling supply with the riots escalating as they are. Saber hasn't spent as much time as she'd like recovering from the forays out on business, but...
Well. No rest for the wicked, as they say. She still has the occasional twinge from her shoulder now and then, but so long as it doesn't interfere in day-to-day duties, she's not getting too concerned over it.

Belatedly realizing she's still got the teacup held loosely in one hand, she sets it down very, very, gently.

Unaware of Sion's curious glance, Saber settles her palms on the edge of the counter, frowning thoughtfully down at the pot as the heating element beneath begins to glow an angry red. ]

You're welcome to it, no need for thanks of any sort. [ She lifts her gaze from the pot (steaming, but not yet at a gentle boil) to give Sion a weak smile. ] I think I've made somewhat of a hermit of myself without realizing. Socializing like this from time to time is... nice.

[ AS LONG AS THERE ARE NO DRESSES. ]

[sunderings]

I am glad you think so. It's... nice for me, too.

[ Funny, how such simple words might fall like a weighty confession, a realization that one has been robbed of something so very intrinsic to being just by doing what is needed to survive in the Quad. Thoughtfully, Sion meets Saber's eyes, glancing down where she looks up, and returns her smile (weary and heavy with it, her smile may be, but it is something true all the same) with one of his own, a gesture which is soft and sad and doesn't quite reach the rest of his face, and yet--...

It is impossibly fond as silvered lashes hood over the gold of his eyes, and...! He gives a decisive nod of head, introducing a small bout of levity back into play. Because this, it doesn't have to be so melancholy. From hereon, Saber might see many guests over for tea (and perhaps even discover the truth inscribed beneath the blue of the glassware teacups!), and if she should not tire of the Director himself, he will surely visit whenever he is able.

Gently, he shifts until they rest at a brief, comfortable closeness, arm touching arm until the moment when the water reaches a suitable temperature for the addition of tea leaves. ]

But you know... [ Opening the tin with practiced ease, he adds the fragrant blend to the water before seeing the pot shifted away from the heat, the leaves left to steep for the moment being. ] ...now that I've knowledge of it, I can no longer allow for you to hermit away.

Perhaps that is how I might, instead, say 'thank you'.

[ Because were she not by his side, he surely-...

Would have crumpled, by now, beneath the weight of a loss he's dissociated from (to remain strong, for the eyes of others) if only because there is no other way for him to bear it. ]

Ah! [ Hm??? Something seems to occur to him, then, a look of sudden alarm overtaking his features— ] Forgive me, for not asking sooner, but do you have a colander in your possession?

[ If not, that will likely be his next gift to Saber instead of the new dress he's in mind!! ]