𝖈𝖆𝖙𝖆𝖈𝖑𝖞𝖘𝖒

𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚕𝚜𝚢𝚖 : 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎-𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍.

a study into loss turned into hardened souls, surviving in a world hell bent on destroying you & finding the will to live in the most inconsequential things.

purpose: opening event.

He sits low in a weathered chair near the edge of the square, one boot hooked around the leg like he’s daring it to run. The music and laughter wash over him without quite touching, a half-empty bottle resting loose in his hand as his sharp eyes track the crowd. He sees the tells. The too-tight smiles, the hands that won’t stop moving, the ones drinking like they’re trying to drown fifteen years in a single night. Smuggling teaches you that. Teaches you how to read what people don’t say. Gus takes a slow pull from his drink, grumbles under his breath about wasted good alcohol, and then catches someone looking his way. He lifts the bottle in a small salute, mouth twitching. “Ya gonna keep starin’ or d'ya want a seat?” he asks, voice rough but not unkind.

He reaches into the crate at his feet and nudges a beer across with his boot, the gesture casual, unthreatening. “Relax,” he adds, leaning back, eyes still on the crowd instead of them. “No deals tonight. No favors, no debts. Just… survivin’ long enough to sit still and watch folks pretend the world’s normal again.” A pause, then softer, almost thoughtful. “Fifteen years is a long damn time. Figure it’s worth a drink with a stranger. Sometimes that’s how you remember what you’re still fightin’ for.”

purpose: opening event

Claire keeps one hand loose but ready at her side as she walks, habit ingrained deeper than muscle memory after fifteen years of survival. New Eden hums with laughter and music tonight, lights strung from the bones of the old city hall casting warm gold light over cracked stone and reclaimed ivy. She tells herself she’s off duty, just a mother tonight, but her eyes still track shadows, exits, unfamiliar faces. The Cut depends on her vigilance, and even celebration feels like borrowed time. Still, the sound of April Beth’s soft gasp breaks through the constant hum of caution, and for the first time in hours, Claire exhales.

April’s tiny fingers curl tighter around hers as she tilts her head back, eyes wide and shining at the lights swaying overhead. “Mama,” she whispers, like the word itself might scare the glow away. Claire kneels so they’re eye to eye, brushing a curl from her daughter’s forehead, letting herself linger in the moment. This—this—is why New Eden matters. Not the walls or the weapons or the years survived, but this wonder, this innocence untouched by rot and ruin. As April laughs and reaches toward the light, Claire lets her guard lower just enough to believe, if only for tonight, that they’ve truly built something worth protecting.