glimpse the unknown for a moment...

as overwhelming, yet underwhelming, planarcadia's corners can be there are those few that come with a certain charm once morning turns to evening and the flickering neonlights, less bright than penacony, wash through the small, narrow streets. there it he scent of food from various corners of the cosmos, carrying both savory and sweet all around one another,b lending into what one can only describe as a seasoned candy; a strange conclusion, of course, one that has brought laughter between these two companion that, despite the hurdles of planarcadia, finds moments to sneak out into these specific corners. after all, it is planarcadia and as renown as the planet is, there are far more remarkable individuals actively partaking in the phantasmoon games than sunday oak.

fugitive? of course, but when has the world not seen a fugitive. here, in the dmist of so many other jokesters and fools, there are far too many remarkable individuals. sunday oak is merely one of many, a name that despite being broadcast found itself rooting in the hearts of those that were willing to listen. he is a fugitive, yes, but he is also someone who stands a kind position in the journey of the stellaron hunters and nameless alike in this very moment.

no one cares about a good fugitive.

it's just not interesting enough.

he isn't interesting enough, but that is a life that sunday has grown accustomed to beneath the glamour of pompous titles. he has no need to be interesting, not so much that it draws attention of those he holds no actual curiosity for. sunday has already done and been that. pompous, mysterious, wanted, renown. it doesn't suit him. doesn't feel natural at all, no, not at all when compared to these narrow alleys with their warm-lit shop windows and neonlights. he feels more at ease here, and while he wants to give such credit to the streets that remind him of penacony itself, he knows he can't. it's not the lights or the savory-sweet fragrance that coats their every turn, it's her. the laughter that meets his horrid comparisons and lighthearted commentary, and the smile that he steals glances of in the moments he turns to catch the laughter in action. the comfort he finds in midst of what most could call a disaster comes from topaz.

and that, to him, is interesting enough, more than what he could ever have imagined and found himself wanting to imagine. what if, he thinks, he makes a joke that is just about bad enough that she can't help to laugh. then what? she will laugh anyway, or try to comment on it, result in another laugh. win, win and win, the only sort of benefit the halovian has found himself wanting to reap from this relation.

sunday oak, former family head, now fugitive with hearts set on possibly the worst interest of all time. topaz, sweet topaz. the businesswoman, the protege of the bonajade trade and a stoneheart, one so tightly tangled in the affairs of penacony that it's almost a cruel joke. leave it to the former family head of stumbling into business that is no longer his, with his fingers intertwined so lovingly between hers that he cannot help but to match her smile there they walk. if anything, it's a cruel joke they both seem to enjoy, quite well.

"no, you misunderstand," sunday laughs, gently as he comes to a halt as the alley breaches out into an open area. secluded, of course, and down by the river that runs through the city. there are few lanterns where they stand, but he doesn't stop in hesitance, no. sunday stops so he can pull topaz back to him in a friendly, yet corrective, tone. "there was a different point in my commentary, miss topaz, that you seem to have willingly misinterpreted. i am not, in fact, handsy, i was saying that hands see ..."

and she doesn't believe him, naturally, for the damage had apparently been done. sunday oak, in the presence of a lady, had dared to state that he - something, something silly enough to twist around to put him in a position. what great thing that he is a brother, and that he has been in the presence of persistent individuals before, if not as a brother then as a diplomat and politically invested individual. every twist and turn of words find themselves un-turned and re-twisted, fingers holding onto hers still as he pull topaz in his direction by railing separating them from the water. it runs so quietly beneath their laughter, softening as their proximity grows closer with the pull from the halovian. to go from being a few steps behind her, to being face to face with her, oh, that is something he does not wish to undo.

what sight it must be, catching these two laughing companions in the night, beneath the moon that shines away in its own little corner of the sky. unwilling to pay attention to the nightly adventures of a halovian whose words fade to matter, and whose hand reaches for topaz's cheek with a sweeping caress.

"my hands... do see that you are very delightf- beautiful," as softly as the river runs, it doesn't cover up the halovian's stumble in his own words. beautiful, not delightful. both. perhaps. "delightful company, and beautiful company, is what i wished to say."

but not what he wished to do, for that's where even his words fall a little short. he can trace her cheek, hold her hand, find himself willing to take her out on dates, but when it comes to the something between them in the moments where they say farewell he falls short. there are no words that suit the moments she leaves, and there certainly aren't any words that seem good enough for this very moment where she, now, stays. stays within his proximity and stays within that gloved hand that traces her cheek again. topaz, truly, is quite beautiful, even more so in the warm light cast from the lamp behind them. it falls across her features just right, and captures the frame of her face beautifully.

sunday knows what he wants to do, and his hand gets the better of him as it slips down to her chin, thumb across her bottom lip as he, with a subtle swallow, gazes at her. catches the light from the lamp in her eyes that seek to his in return; it's impossibly to deny this moment. equally impossible to deny himself as he leans closer, their noses brushing by one another as he, quietly, utters a request. it wouldn't be right any other way, wouldn't feel fair.

this, this very moment, is not just sunday's.

it's also topaz's.

"i," sunday starts quietly, his touch upon her chin tilting topaz's head upwards slightly. another subtle swallow, attempting to ease the hearts that have been far too eager all evening. you, she continues, bringing out that smile of his and softened laughter, the one that blends in with a passing statement. " i would very much like you kiss you now, topaz, if you are ... okay with that."

indeed, as underwhelming and yet overwhelming as the streets of planarcadia can be, it's not the neonlights or the savory-sweet fragrance that follows through in the night that makes this saturated planet tolerable. it is not the promise of a wish fulfilled, nor the endless pursuits of makeshift happiness. aha cannot have that, will not have that, for it's not the light of their moon either that makes this particular evening warmer. this is not the work of any aeon, but the simplicity of hearts. it is her in her most beautiful sweetness, just as it is them in their makeshift roles as lovers best featured on screens. they aren't cinema, but they have never aimed to be so. not in the way they have stumbled towards one another and certainly not as their lips, albeit equally interested, collide into each other accidentially at first. it's new, it's outside the norm but oh, is it wanted. a mutual want spilling into the sensation of lips that allow themselves to press so gently against one another, once again, as a thumb slips away. there's no need for the lingering taunt in that moment, of sunday easing into topaz's lips and her against him in return. nor is there need for lingering farewells, no more fingers that attempt to lure her back in for two more seconds. they can occupy themselves differently now, kindly falling through red-tinted locks there they, in an attempt to bring her slightly closer. now, isntead of reaching for her, they can fall against the back of her head.

for once in his journey past penacony, the unfamiliar streets of other plants feel welcoming. at ease. just about right. for there there is no way to misinterpret the way those lips settle in that moment (settle against hers, bring them back in again, stumble against them as he savors her), and should there be a minute where the four legged companion wishes to gnaw on the halovian's cape, then so be it.

it's just a cape, after all.

Set before them now was the sweetest form of battle out there. An energy that found itself crackling with a touch of the beyond, yearning, an electrical like pulse that threatened to magnetize them at the threat of melting away any sense of restriction. There was no denying the form of heat Navia brews while learning the length of her circumstances. Peril happens to be a construct they happily weave into their sense of being, and just watching the way those crystal like eyes honed upon him.

Situate into the focus of this beloved President of the Spina and it's akin to the gravity wielding majesty of Geo. It centers, it expands that gravity to know how the way gold glimmers in both her gaze and emotion, it leaves him stunned as the curve of her lips says it all. It was beyond the nature of this crafty gift, it was a hint that through that shared but resistance sentiment, there was a lovely type of hell to pay.

She'd watch have an eagle eye's view of how body language was a different factor for Lorenz. How those shoulders tense, contemplation seamlessly exposed through his gaze, softer lines of hearth to stir with the wider inferno that naturally encompasses him. An idea of them taking a sledgehammer to this ordeal in the most devious way, it roused the stir of his heart, an engine that thrives off their personal magic. His damnable nature of composure however manages to wire him back into place.

"Given how familiar we are with a pair?" He allows the question to linger, for the imagination to play as it pleases while her idea drills deep into his mind.

Oh the way they'd devour the distance between them. It opened the imaginative artistry of differing visions. One that finds those dark gloves situating upon her claim, clasping tight and in this case him holding no case of a shirt as a feeble barrier. The 'opposing' option finds itself as equally teamed, being the guide that shows Navia how to conquer the skies. How they've thrive in newly explored territory, how they'd set that carefully composed barrier aflame once again. A hunger to melt her into his very grasp was consuming. To be the source of why her voice thrive in luxurious bliss only deepened that pit.

Is that what you want to play into his mind, Navia Caspar? All the angles he can discovery your majesty anew?

The ashes that play before their eyes were tantalizing, and no amount of restraint could dream of conquering what makes the heart of this man.

"Now boss. Tryin' to figure preferences here? Asking how I want to sun is a dangerous game."

Whether that was the direction made or not, Lighter lets action take the grounds for that question as he'd situate upon the primary bike she was eying. It was a beastial beauty of metal and the grit of his old homeland. Just having him close prompts it to stir, his natural flow of Pyro being the signature it registers the best. With his position, he's slotted upon the middle, a little towards the rear as one of his hands clasps upon the handlebar. There was a renegade's ferocity that sculpts him with sharpness, that other hand drawn over towards the blonde in invitation.

       She knew the look. She'd seen it in plenty of dashing young suitors who had taken interest in the Spina's yellow rose over the years — though most of those had been the result of realising that wooing Navia Caspar was not as straightforward as they had imagined. She had her own mind. She had her own desires. And it always brought a great deal of satisfaction to surprise those individuals at balls and other social events with her forwardness.

       Lighter Lorenz was no suitor. He was not the sort of man that she could have imagined her father would approve of as a match for his daughter, though he was absolutely the sort of man he would have approved of being within the Spina's ranks. Such was the tightrope act she walked now that the responsibility of her father's house fell to her. But the look was the same. The intake of breath, the way his eyes darkened a little before roving over her form. Navia could imagine those thoughts running wild in his head: what he likely wanted to do to her, what he likely wanted them to do together.

       The imagination was a powerful thing. And so long as they danced this dance, she would provide him with plenty of fuel for it.

       “ You should know me well enough by now to know I'm not put off by danger. ” In fact, those blue eyes flickered a little brighter at the prospect, canting her head at him expectantly with a smile. There was indeed a challenge there, as if reading those most unrestrained thoughts of his like the latest tabloid article in The Steambird and simply waiting for him to act on them.

       Instead, Lighter turned his attention to one of the bikes. Navia watched him seat himself further back, and then reach out a hand in invitation. From behind, then. The smile on her face grew wider at his words, a soft laugh forming on her lips.

       “ At least let me remove my hat first. ” So as to avoid it being blown away in the breeze ( and opening her up to the prospect of breaking another law by releasing a flying object ), Navia placed it down next to Lighter's tools before placing a gloved hand in his and climbing onto the bike. There was no hesitation and no nerves in those eyes: Navia's hands immediately came down on the handlebars, taking a firm grip and testing the feel of them under her gloves. She then experimentally shuffled back, determining just how much space Lighter had given her.

       Whatever space he had given her, she sought to remove immediately. After all, if he was going to ride her the hoverbike like this, then he'd need to be as close to her as possible. Touching, too, was well within his rights. She couldn't have him falling off, now could she!

Too weightless to drown; too heavy to die. Story of his life.

How scary fast a man became a thing.

Shepard had turned away from her but that put him right in front of the reflective window, which made his skin crawl worse. He came back to the mad scientist, drawn to the answers he didn't want to hear but would get anyway. Or wouldn't. It didn't matter, actually. He was here but he shouldn't be, and that was the gist of it: the how was secondary.

You would think.

Only the how was what kept pecking at the membrane of his brain like a starving bird in winter, a thing he had only ever seen on screens, the winter and the bird. Back home, red desert earth didn't know any seasons; and it was too early yet to introduce them under the domes.

Too early for somethings.

Too late for others.

He wasn't meant to see it happen now. He wasn't meant to be here, to hear, to speak, to breathe air into lungs that had to be stitched back together only so they could function. How do you come back from that? It occurred to him what his great-grandmother with her rosary beads would say: You don't because you shouldn't.

And then it occurred to him that a photograph of him would have been on the family altar for these past two years, offered incense and cempazuchitl in the annual ofrenda, and something about that,

something about that drove it home:

He was dead.

He had died.

His bisa would have things to say about Project Lazarus as well, he reckoned; and none of them good. Her rosary beads clicked,

clicked,

clicked.

An echo in his brain. Words seeped through. And Shepard had too many questions to filter through the bottleneck that was his overwhelm. A fast-blur haunting: a torn hull; the klaxons blaring. Joker unwilling to let go. Kaidan unable to, until Alex addressed him as a soldier and not a–

He looked for purchase in the correlations.

       A long moment of silence followed her words. Herta watched him turn away from her, coming face to face with that reflective mirror before ultimately shying away from it. In all these many months of careful research and delicate reconstruction along with her team of cutting-edge doctors and biologists, Herta hadn't really had time to consider all of the possibilities of how Shepard might react to being brought back. Perhaps a part of her had expected him to lash out as that fictional scientist's creature had, but this stoic, contemplative silence was different and, if she was completely honest with herself, a little unsettling.

       Though not as unsettling as it was to wake up after learning that you had died, she supposed. Besides some lingering scar tissue, anyone not already in the know couldn't have guessed that this was a dead man brought to life — but, upon being presented with Shepard's recovered corpse, much of it had needed to be replaced by organic tissue from matching donors. Where her own body was in biological reverse and stasis after her experimental meddling, Shepard's was... almost entirely new.

       Shepard spoke, and Herta blinked back into the room. She nodded, before humming thoughtfully in response. “ There were a lot of zeros on the offer the Illusive Man made me. I had freedom from financial constraints and certain moral arguments that would have been had in the Alliance around a Frankenstein project like this one. Cerberus wanted you brought back to life and it's hard for me to say no to a challenge like that. ”

Then, a sigh. It broke the spell. Her face hardened again.

"Flint won't be happy about it, but that can't be helped. I'd rather he is alive and pissed off than dead and unconcerned."

Any hint of the Alliance was usually enough to set his blood boiling; and while there were enough rumours to set tongues wagging across all the districts of Omega, Eleanor knew that she had to discount at least three quarters of them.

The truth?

The truth was harder to pin down than an old sailor's yarn spun and spun and spun again until it's frayed. Eleanor only had bits of it. That he had trained as a soldier was impossible to miss. An Alliance background then. His accent made him harder to pin – a hodgepodge of every station of his life, she would assume; but sometimes, that old-timey lilt and tilt of the Inner Planets came through. Did he have a family? She doubted it, but he had someone somewhere; he was prone to disappearing and reappearing as he saw fit, so what else was she supposed to think?

As to who he was when he was at home, when he didn't have to wear the mantle of pirate captain – that was the meat and bone of the man that Eleanor had yet to understand.

       Alive and pissed. Yeah. That was surely going to be the outcome at the end of all of this, but Eleanor was right. It would not have sat easy on Varric's conscience to leave Flint and his crew to such a fate after the distress call they'd received from Nagata. And besides, Madam Herta wasn't the devil, despite the captain's itchy trigger finger where the Alliance was concerned. If she said she was capable of making a difference and asked for nothing tangible in return, then he had no reason not to put his complete faith in her ability.

       It didn't take long for Eleanor's question, surprising as it was, to set Varric back in that all familiar territory of sharing intel. “ Well, as I'm sure you know, everyone has their theories. It makes it hard to trace the tall tales back to the truth. ” His informants had told him all sorts over the years, but Varric had never managed to completely pin down the facts. “ We know the name Captain Flint first started popping up here in Terminus around ten years ago. He became a captain very quickly, from what I'm told. Makes me think the rumours of him once being high up in the Alliance's ranks are true. But as for what made him turn his back on that life... that's anyone's guess. ”