a star, or a tomb?

Illyana wasn’t a stranger to libraries. In fact, she had one in the Limbo palace that was so expansive as to put the Library of Congress to shame. That was private, though. Only select consorts or advisors were allowed in there. Even then, it was never when she was reading. She always maintained it was because every Queen deserved her privacy, but she’d really just never been able to focus with people in the room.

So it followed that she had never cared for public libraries. She was fine with the idea of them, but she could never read in them. There were rules against speaking, but they never enforced it past the stern warnings of the librarian themself. It wasn’t like library cops patrolled the aisles. Nobody was working a literary beat to catch library noise criminals. And so disruptions were frequent enough that Illyana couldn’t ever force herself into one. Until now.

Luckily, the denizens were eerily quiet. Though that may be owed to seeing her walk in. She’d swapped her uniform out for a leather jacket and jeans getup, but it didn’t do much to make her less noticable. Illyana kept catching bears staring even after being sat off on her own reading for awhile. Irritating, but not enough to pry her away the texts. On the surface they were ordinary enough. Basic story structures, somewhat solid scientific research, even some arcane musings. But then it’d get hung up on swiss cheese in the middle of a text on dream magic. For several paragraphs it would describe swiss cheese with an obsession bordering on fetishizing… and then resume the normal subject matter. Odd.

Equally odd was a noise that she kept hearing. Loud clacking frome off behind her. Not an entirely unpleasant sound by itself, but aggravating when she was trying to read. Illyana attempted to ignore it, but failed. She tried again, still failed. Eventually she shoved her chair back with a loud shriek (eliciting a hissed warning from the librarian) and stood up. The clunky boots she had thrown on made yet more noise as she marched over to the source of the noise.

Hunched over the computer was possibly the most bookish looking man she’d seen in some time. Considering Illyana had met Hank McCoy pre-fur, that was saying something. He was wearing some strange lab coat… suit… thing, with a logo she didn’t remotely recognize. None of that mattered though. He was disturbing her reading, intentionally or not.

I’ve found myself on something called “The Ark,” a gigantic stronghold with multiple biomes that serve as host to diverse animal life, as well as an equally strange human population. I don’t know how I personally arrived. The last thing I recall was the Singer striking me down but this is no Country, certainly there are no terminals in the Country (an: certainly nothing like the OVC Terminals, at the very least). I’ve been here for at least a week by my calculations, and though I am provided for and never go hungry, I cannot help butfjslkndkjasfVJDKLFJ;

It wasn’t as though Royce thought himself impolite.

It was just that...well. He didn’t have much experience with working in public spaces. In Cloudbank, he had his own study, where he could make any amount of racket he liked, at any time of day or night -- for better, or for worse. He didn’t have the time or the need to think of silly things like “how loudly am I hitting the keys on this terminal?” or “is reading out loud annoying to the people sharing a space with me?” or perhaps even “is running active and dangerous lab experiments in a public area, even considering the lack of equipment or space, really appropriate?”

These were all silly little things that silly little people worried about, and Royce does not consider himself silly, though he certainly feels it when a woman approaches him as if from the ether itself and causes him to leap about a foot in the air out of his seat with an accompanied yelp that does not remedy his embarrassment in any way.

A politician – the Mayor talks like one, for sure. It makes Royce feel odd about his own station in life – at least, the station he used to have. He’d never thought himself the puppetmaster but as his colleagues fell one by one, including Grant and Asher, he realized he was the one left holding the strings.

And he had enjoyed it, hadn’t he? 

“I come from a city called Cloudbank,” Royce says simply, matter-of-factly. “It’s nothing like any place here. Certainly not this forest. Probably not your Fallen London, either, it’s…” Royce spreads his arms, wiggles his fingers in front of the Mayor to illustrate his description. “It’s all data, hard light, mathematics that would make the average person’s head explode. None of the city was concrete. People could ‘vote’ on city improvements, which sounds egalitarian, but…” He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it even further. The tangled black fringe of it flops back down over his eyes.

“It was democracy to the point of chaos. The city changed every other day, it was…frustrating, to someone like me. Call it a character flaw.”

Royce clamps his mouth shut, after that. It seems like a special talent of his to sound more authoritarian than he actually is. And besides, those things standing on their hind legs, going into town, were those –

“Bears?” Royce sputters, in disbelief.

The Contrarian listens as they move along in tandem, quietly noting that Royce, like him, makes a habit of talking with his hands. Charming! The city he spoke of, though…there were details there he files away for safe keeping, to be poked and picked at. Perhaps over a meal, where Royce would be less inclined to attempt an escape, should an argument arise. 

“What sort of ‘improvements’ do you mean? Aesthetic? Organizational?” Still, there was no reason not to do a bit of poking ahead of time, if only to gather information. The sort of society Royce describes is…interesting.  

“Are you a man that prefers stability, then? I can’t imagine it’s doing wonders for your state of mind to be transported here without warning.” This would be an appropriate time for a supportive pat on the shoulder, if only Royce wasn’t towering so far above him like a nervous-looking tree. The Contrarian settled for a sympathetic smile instead.

He can’t help but chuckle at Royce’s reaction to the denizens of Tranquility, “You can’t say I didn’t warn you. Do try not to stare.” He keeps a steady pace wheeling forward, trusting Royce not to get too distracted with the new surroundings, or the denizens occupying them. 

It may have also been the way the Mayor smiled at him, and the fact that Royce, if only for a brief moment, turned a deeply unflattering shade of scarlet that made his face look not unlike a tomato stuck on a white fence post. But he digresses.

“As for improvements...the answer to that is both,” he continues, changing his pace to a brisker walk to keep up with the Mayor. “Bridges appearing one day, vanishing the next. Entire quarters of town changing location. Restaurant menus changing completely by the day. Even the weather was poll-based...and call me a romantic, or a killjoy, but I prefer a quiet day of rain once in a while. What majority would vote for that?” 

Royce falls silent. If it weren’t impolite, he would press a thumb and forefinger to the crease between his brows in a futile attempt to massage it out. Why did every attempt at small talk end in him sounding like a wet blanket? No wonder Grant, Asher, and Sybil were the PR of the Camerata; Royce was never an orator.

It’s been only a couple days and Royce Bracket decides that he has just about had it with the Sea of Tranquility – if that’s what people around here call it, anyway. He was never cut out for the Country, fought vehemently to avoid his own Processing because only he could save Cloudbank, order the city back into submission, utilize the Transistor the way it was intended to be utilized – 

He realizes he’s pacing and stops suddenly, causing the Process cell to skid clumsily to a stop, knocking into the back of his head. The inside of his mouth tastes of iron; he’s been chewing the inside of his cheek bloody since he came here.

Royce lets out a soft, annoyed tsk and considers the loamy earth at his feet. A vine crawls lazily past the toe of his dress shoes, continuing up the bark of a nearby tree, and for a strange moment he feels offended at the plant’s lack of regard. No one at home cared who he was and certainly no one here cares either.

Not even the plants. Focus, Bracket.

The crunch of a stick underfoot halts his train of thought; someone, or something. Ideally, he would have his cameras, his floating LEDs with his face displayed so he could address his intruder head-on  without the pain of eye contact or injury like he did as always at home. Unfortunately, this was not home, and all he had was a cell practically hell-bent on ignoring his orders.

“Investigate,” Royce attempts, anyway.

The cell stares back at him with its huge, unblinking red eye.

“It was worth a try,” he replies, defeated. Royce turns his head in the direction of the disturbance, and calls out: “Hello?”

No response – instead a sudden movement that snaps Royce’s body rigid, as if preparing for a fight he isn’t sure is going to come yet. Without thinking, it’s as if his feet move his body all on their own, and he’s being carried forward swiftly – too swiftly, if you were to ask him – toward its source. The cell whirrs softly as it struggles to keep his pace, and Royce hangs a hard right around a tree –

Right into someone else. Ow.

Whoever it is, he’s apologizing profusely. It doesn’t take a medical professional to tell Royce has likely hit his head, not with the pounding migraine that has decided to take up residence in his skull. His visitor is holding – some kind of device?

Royce’s eyes light up.

He wants to see the device.

“It’s no trouble, really–” Royce begins, distracted and trying to keep his wild-eyed visitor at bay. He’s not interested in apologies – neither giving nor receiving them. “I mean it. Can I see that?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, instead snatching the thing wholesale out of the man’s hand and beginning to turn it over. It has a screen that can collapse outward and inward. The lens reminds him of a SnapShot, but he’s never seen anything quite like it before.

“This is…incredible.” He turns his owlish eyes back to the device’s owner, unaware of how strange he looks. “Where did you get it? What’s it called?”

The thing about the camcorder… the important thing about the camcorder, at least… is that it was the only thing, other than blue thin-point marker and a crumpled sheaf of papers, that made it with him through the halls of Mount Massive. It was the only thing that he had that could tell Lisa what had happened to him, that could show the world that it wasn’t simply some natural disaster hitting an asylum, or however else Murkoff would have tried to spin it. 

It was his link to the truth. To sanity. To life. The only times it left his hand…

Grip on his chin, tongue sliding slick and rough up his cheek. Hands on his calf, scarred face leaning over him, gesturing. Here, and here- remove everything… vulgar- 

Waylon reaches out and snatches it back, cradles it to his chest like one might a child, or something equally precious. His shoulders curl forward as he remembers to breathe.

“It,” he says, a little hollow, “It’s a camcorder- it. It records, uh.” What is he doing? Why is he stuttering? This is his life’s work. He knows everything there is to know about electronics.

Deeper breath. Try again.

“It was designed to combine a video camera and a device that records sound in one. Audio and video get compressed into data which is stored on memory card, which can then be put into any number of other devices which can pull the data out and reformat it into the original audio and video format again.”

There. Properly technical.

“I got it from-”

Flashing lights, twisting patterns, twisting mind-

The interloper’s eyes grow wide, and before Royce can get out a pathetic “ah, sorry,” the device is wrenched from his hands. Right. Most people don’t prefer their belongings snatched from them with no warning.

“A...camcorder,” Royce repeats, but his elongation of the phrase isn’t to indicate slowness; instead, comprehension. He hangs on to every word the man utters as if sitting in on a lecture, nodding his head occasionally, making small sounds of understanding. If he blinks less than average while doing so, the man doesn’t seem to notice.

He’d heard of the type of device described, but they were rudimentary -- as if they came from another time or place, and only described in textbooks. All he had known was Cloudbank, and the Country. It begins to occur to him that perhaps his world is much smaller, and far more abstract, than the ones most people understand.

But more importantly --

“Have I...touched a nerve?” Royce asks, point-blank. This fellow -- is shaking and recoiling far more than any average man who in all honesty had just experienced a grave act of impoliteness should. In his experience, Royce would have been less surprised if the nervous man had struck him across the face.

“I think you’ll find that – staring is not one of the primary issues one has with my company,” Royce chuckles, standing to follow. Once in the elevator, he pats down his lab coat, brushes any debris that may have accumulated by sitting. He doesn’t know why he feels compelled to impress the Mayor. “In fact, most complain I don’t stare enough for their tastes.”

It’s true; even now he finds it hard to look the Contrarian directly in the eyes, but his gaze doesn’t inspire an itching discomfort in him the way most people’s do. In fact it warms him, an emotion that makes him doubly as confused, doubly as fidgety. He tweaks at one of the pens in his breast pocket as they ride the elevator down.

“Mayor is quite a prestigious position,” Royce begins, awkwardly, as they reach the bottom floor. “To what do I owe the honor of speaking to a man of such…stature? Where, exactly, did you say you come from, again?”

The Contrarian laughs, “Truly? I’ve found that lack of eye contact rarely matters if one’s conversation is sufficently riveting.” 

He moves along at a brisk pace as soon as the elevator doors open. 

“My, my, Mister Bracket. You must conserve some of that flattery, it wouldn’t do to use it all up on the very first person you meet here.” he laughs good-naturedly as they make their way down the path into town. 

And he had enjoyed it, hadn’t he? 

“I come from a city called Cloudbank,” Royce says simply, matter-of-factly. “It’s nothing like any place here. Certainly not this forest. Probably not your Fallen London, either, it’s...” Royce spreads his arms, wiggles his fingers in front of the Mayor to illustrate his description. “It’s all data, hard light, mathematics that would make the average person’s head explode. None of the city was concrete. People could ‘vote’ on city improvements, which sounds egalitarian, but...” He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it even further. The tangled black fringe of it flops back down over his eyes.

“It was democracy to the point of chaos. The city changed every other day, it was...frustrating, to someone like me. Call it a character flaw.”

Royce clamps his mouth shut, after that. It seems like a special talent of his to sound more authoritarian than he actually is. And besides, those things standing on their hind legs, going into town, were those --

As Royce’s mouth remains firmly wrapped around the neck of the bottle, he hazards a glance back at the Mayor’s face and inwardly thrills at the look of baffled glee he receives. It isn’t often he gets to surprise people. Perhaps he should do so more often. He gives one last theatrical gulp, for good measure, and then in contrast with the impulsive action, sets the bottle primly back upon the table.

“I don’t disagree with you, but only savored when a man otherwise has his wits about him, and I’m afraid I have, ah, none to speak of to begin with.”

He likes the Mayor. Perhaps it’s too soon for him to decide, but the first person he’s met in this place hasn’t tried to Process him, or otherwise yet cause him bodily harm, and that makes him all right in Royce’s books. Perhaps hard to pin down, what with the stark contrast of his…colorful personality against his decidedly un-colorful suit, but nevertheless. The Mayor hasn’t once commented on his stilted speech, his hesitance to make eye contact so far.

“A decent meal is never…unappreciated, Mayor. What do you have in mind?”

“There’s plenty of places to choose from if we venture into the village. We can let our noses and bellies decide once we arrive.” The Contrarian gives Royce a bemused look. “I’m sure wine could be served to us, unless you’re attached to this bottle in particular.” His fingers run alongside the glass, tapping half to draw attention half out of physical restlessness. 

The Contrarian leaves the wine, uncorked, and glass on the table as he begins to wheel his way towards the elevator, gesturing for his companion to follow. Wasteful? Perhaps, but he had learned quickly that the Ark offered luxuries to excess. Attractive company was harder to procure. He’s still grinning as the elevator doors close. 

It’s true; even now he finds it hard to look the Contrarian directly in the eyes, but his gaze doesn’t inspire an itching discomfort in him the way most people’s do. In fact it warms him, an emotion that makes him doubly as confused, doubly as fidgety. He tweaks at one of the pens in his breast pocket as they ride the elevator down.

Eventually, Waylon makes it out of the ‘Sea of Nectar’, via the train. He tries not to think too hard about the view out the window between the seas, all empty space and bright pinpricks of stars in the far distance, the sun burning hot and bright behind him. There will be time to deal with that- or, if there’s not and he wakes up at home, it won’t matter. The ‘Sea of Tranquility’ seems a likely enough place to find some peace, and so that’s where he gets off, glad to leave the vastness of space behind.

It’s like a woodland, and that’s pleasant enough that Waylon finds his tension easing a little. Still, there’s too many people at the heart of it all, and he drifts soon enough towards the outskirts, and then further out, into the woods. He’s no tracker, no cartographer, no navigator, and he knows it- he follows the straightest path he possibly can, knowing that when he tires of wandering out in the quiet of the trees, he’ll want to be able to turn back around and make a beeline for the station.

It’s peaceful, out here. Waylon walks for what feels like hours- where he expects the forest to end eventually, to peter out, it doesn’t, just stretches on and on. He thinks about Lisa, the boys, wonder if they’re worried about them- hopes that his contact is helping them with their moves, maybe helping them settle into a new home, under protection. Murkoff will have no reason to keep targeting them, when they realize he’s really gone. He doesn’t even realize, for a while, that he has the camcorder open- not recording, but it’s up like he is. He snaps it shut nervously, decides it’s time to turn back around.

Except… except he takes a straight line, and he walks at the same speed, and he cannot for the life of him get out of the forest. Time seems to lose meaning, and he wonders… where- where did he get turned around? He’s just starting to truly lean into the panic of it, thighs and sides burning from the brisk walk he’s been doing, lungs aching, when there’s a shout, echoing strangely off the trees, source unseen.

Waylon does exactly what comes naturally to him- he bolts.

Right into someone else as they burst out from behind a tree, and he makes the singularly least dignified sound of terror, falling back onto his ass and scrambling to push himself to his feet again. 

Oh please be sane-

“Sorry!” He gasps, shaking, readying himself to dodge, to run, fingers tight on his camcorder. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to run into you- uh- do- do you know the way back to the train station-”

He realizes he’s pacing and stops suddenly, causing the Process cell to skid clumsily to a stop, knocking into the back of his head. The inside of his mouth tastes of iron; he’s been chewing the inside of his cheek bloody since he came here.

Royce lets out a soft, annoyed tsk and considers the loamy earth at his feet. A vine crawls lazily past the toe of his dress shoes, continuing up the bark of a nearby tree, and for a strange moment he feels offended at the plant’s lack of regard. No one at home cared who he was and certainly no one here cares either.

Not even the plants. Focus, Bracket.

The crunch of a stick underfoot halts his train of thought; someone, or something. Ideally, he would have his cameras, his floating LEDs with his face displayed so he could address his intruder head-on  without the pain of eye contact or injury like he did as always at home. Unfortunately, this was not home, and all he had was a cell practically hell-bent on ignoring his orders.

“Investigate,” Royce attempts, anyway.

The cell stares back at him with its huge, unblinking red eye.

“It was worth a try,” he replies, defeated. Royce turns his head in the direction of the disturbance, and calls out: “Hello?”

No response -- instead a sudden movement that snaps Royce’s body rigid, as if preparing for a fight he isn’t sure is going to come yet. Without thinking, it’s as if his feet move his body all on their own, and he’s being carried forward swiftly -- too swiftly, if you were to ask him -- toward its source. The cell whirrs softly as it struggles to keep his pace, and Royce hangs a hard right around a tree --

Right into someone else. Ow.

Whoever it is, he’s apologizing profusely. It doesn’t take a medical professional to tell Royce has likely hit his head, not with the pounding migraine that has decided to take up residence in his skull. His visitor is holding -- some kind of device?

Royce’s eyes light up.

He wants to see the device.

“It’s no trouble, really--” Royce begins, distracted and trying to keep his wild-eyed visitor at bay. He’s not interested in apologies -- neither giving nor receiving them. “I mean it. Can I see that?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, instead snatching the thing wholesale out of the man’s hand and beginning to turn it over. It has a screen that can collapse outward and inward. The lens reminds him of a SnapShot, but he’s never seen anything quite like it before.

His…Christian name?

Royce decides not to pursue this line of questioning; context tells him a given name, not unlike the people of Cloudbank before they get Processed, spat out as neat little packets of information. Royce Bracket becomes Flood(). 

Until recently.

“It…doesn’t matter,” Royce says, finally, picking his words carefully. He would know if the Contrarian came from Cloudbank; he would’ve seen him in his files. Fallen London may as well be light years away. “Mister Mayor.”

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. As much as he dislikes acknowledging this man’s level of power, calling him what amounts to an epithet feels worse. To remedy this forced show of deference, he grabs the bottle of wine off the table and, noting the absence of a second glass, lifts it directly to his lips.

“I’d love some, thank you,” he says slowly, before tipping the whole thing up and taking a long swallow. He is not nearly drunk enough for whatever is currently happening.

The Contrarian sat in shock for a moment as Royce snatched the bottle. Shock, which, after a moment, faded to mild indignation. That was a decent vintage! At least he assumed so. It was extremely likely that the Contrarian, having only tasted mushroom wine before, would find even the cheapest of grape wine appealing. 

“Good God, Man! Wine is a thing to be savored!” He’s grinning now, despite his admonishing tone. Mr. Bracket had caught him off guard relatively quickly. Commendable. 

“I don’t disagree with you, but only savored when a man otherwise has his wits about him, and I’m afraid I have, ah, none to speak of to begin with.”

He likes the Mayor. Perhaps it’s too soon for him to decide, but the first person he’s met in this place hasn’t tried to Process him, or otherwise yet cause him bodily harm, and that makes him all right in Royce’s books. Perhaps hard to pin down, what with the stark contrast of his...colorful personality against his decidedly un-colorful suit, but nevertheless. The Mayor hasn’t once commented on his stilted speech, his hesitance to make eye contact so far.

Royce has to resist the urge to start; he wasn’t actually expecting to hear an answer. Crossing the few remaining paces to the common area on long, anxious legs, he is confronted with a sight frighteningly normal for such a strange situation – a unobtrusive-looking but handsome man, in a wheelchair, enjoying a glass of cabernet. His suit is formal but sober.

Royce blinks at the sight of it. At a loss for a good rebuttal, his feet obey as his brain stutters, tries to come up with explanations. Distantly he is aware that he is dropping into a seat, but his eyes remain fixed owlishly on the other man’s face, the drink in his hand. Wasn’t he looking for a drink? He can’t seem to recall.

“I’m…Royce,” he begins, quite lamely. “Royce Bracket.” He isn’t sure whether the other man wishes to shake hands, and the thought of initiating it makes his palms itch, so he refrains. “What, exactly, does – ‘freshly arrived’ – entail? Is this not the Country?”

Of course it isn’t the Country. He’s not sure why he’s asking. It’s as if the floor’s dropped out from under him and left him asking stupid questions.

Oh, the poor dear, did he look as confused and helpless when he first arrived? He hoped not. 

“I’m not sure which country you’re referring to, good sir. If you’re looking for grasslands and vegetation, you’re in the correct sea, but I doubt that’s what you’re actually asking me.” The Contrarian took another sip of his wine, watching Royce’s face intently. 

Royce decides not to pursue this line of questioning; context tells him a given name, not unlike the people of Cloudbank before they get Processed, spat out as neat little packets of information. Royce Bracket becomes Flood(). 

Until recently.

“It...doesn’t matter,” Royce says, finally, picking his words carefully. He would know if the Contrarian came from Cloudbank; he would’ve seen him in his files. Fallen London may as well be light years away. “Mister Mayor.”

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. As much as he dislikes acknowledging this man’s level of power, calling him what amounts to an epithet feels worse. To remedy this forced show of deference, he grabs the bottle of wine off the table and, noting the absence of a second glass, lifts it directly to his lips.

What Royce first notices upon waking up is that, against his expectations, he is not in the Country. At least, this wasn’t a part of the Country he’d ever heard of, or known about. Most people described waking up in wheat fields, miles of them, as if in a vast sea of absolutely nothing of import.

Just great.

The Country did not have small, comfortable bedrooms, with attached bathrooms. When he reminds himself of this, he feels the beginning of a sneer pull at the edge of his mouth and then quashes the urge to allow the expression through. Getting angry at nothing is not productive and therefore he simply denies himself the feeling. Instead, he focuses on determining where he is through the sudden hammering on the front of his skull.

His tongue feels tacky and too-big inside his mouth, so he elects to leave this room in search of a drink. It occurs to him that he is unarmed in unfamiliar territory, but he dismisses the thought out of hand. The chances of this place being any more dangerous than Cloudbank at the time of his…departure were astronomically low. Besides, even when he had the Transistor, he was hardly much of a fighter.

 A shame he doesn’t seem to have the Transistor on him anymore, though. Despite the loss of the weapon, surprisingly a harmless Process cell seems to have followed him here, hovering somewhere behind his left shoulder. He leaves it alone, too unsure of the consequences of trying to dismiss it.

Exiting the room leads him down a long hall. Royce can’t help but notice the three identical doors next to what was presumably his also set into the right-hand wall. A dormitory situation, then. Which means that the large, open space at the end of the hall must be some kind of common area –

Royce blinks at the sight of it. At a loss for a good rebuttal, his feet obey as his brain stutters, tries to come up with explanations. Distantly he is aware that he is dropping into a seat, but his eyes remain fixed owlishly on the other man’s face, the drink in his hand. Wasn’t he looking for a drink? He can’t seem to recall.

“I’m...Royce,” he begins, quite lamely. “Royce Bracket.” He isn’t sure whether the other man wishes to shake hands, and the thought of initiating it makes his palms itch, so he refrains. “What, exactly, does -- ‘freshly arrived’ -- entail? Is this not the Country?”

Futuristic Casket | Phantogram

Welcome to the Ark, Royce! You will be housed in Lampadias Suites, tenth floor.

You are assigned the rank New Moon. You also receive a holophone, train pass, and 50 Moon Points.

You are currently only able to use your Breach() ability. Or rather, you would be if your Transistor hadn’t been away for safekeeping.