ᵈᵉᵖᵉᶰᵈᵃᵇᶫᵉ ᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵘᶰʳᶦˢᵉ

“Ah,” He finally stands up straight from his hunch, air properly going into his lungs and the vertigo subsiding. “That makes sense.” It was always funny how different they were, in moments like this. When they spoke, hung out, they related on levels that brought on an odd sense of comfort. He’s got his own crazy kids to deal with. And then–they’ll attempt one another’s interests, and the depth of their differences come to the surface. “Delsin was the same way. I couldn’t keep him in one place longer than two minutes. And that was on a good day.”

He occupies himself with procuring the map she requested, and while his eyes are averted to his task, Sheila sidles up to the edge of the suspended ceiling, fingers curling over the side, so she can finally catch a proper glimpse of him.

They still have maps of the world. That’s good. According to him, they are not easily obtainable. That’s… curious, to say the least. This is not a city where knowledge and information are allowed to flow freely to those who seek it, not even for something as basic as a world map. Ignorance is truly bliss, isn’t it.

Another reason to get the hell out of dodge.

Sheila studies him from above: his hair, short and dark and flecked with strands of silver; his shoulders, the ink pattern infused into his skin that peeks out from the collar of his shirt and below the hem of his sleeve; the bands adorning his wrist. She’s no expert at estimating age, but she’d place him somewhere between late thirties and early forties.

He said he found a way to acquire a map once before without drawing their—The Conglomerate’s—attention, and as her gaze drifts away from him to the screen filled with various windows compiling the requested data and then to the open window in the corner of the room (as the shadow of a bird passes over the slats, free to go wherever it pleases), she wonders——Why?

If maps are verboten, why did he want one?

It is a minor breakthrough in an otherwise circular conversation——a step in the right direction. He’s doing this for her, she supposes the least she can do is give him something in return.

Her voice.

“I was——” and then she hesitates, searching for the word that is closest to the truth—— “brought … here…”

From very far away, it would seem, if she needs a map of the world to show him where.

There’s a part of him that suspects he’ll be face to face with her if he turns around. Noah’s used to the prying stares of strangers and acquaintances who think that they can suss him out - of course, that’s never the case; his secrets are his own to keep and even his cabal don’t know the full extent of what his past has entailed; but by all means, others are welcome to try and find out. He knows none of them will succeed. Everyone else who knew his darkest secrets have long since taken them to the grave, so now his past will die solely with him.

And he certainly has no interest in sharing his life story with her. Right now, she knows more about him than he does about her, and the thought unsettles him more than he’d care to admit. Granted, he’s still curious - and the intrigue’s enough to keep him playing along for now at least - and with the map nearing completion, he wonders what more he might be able to learn about her once it’s finished.

He doesn’t have to wait long to get an answer to that.

In fact, he was just about to update her on the aforementioned map’s progress when she speaks, and Noah’s not quite sure what he expected, but he hadn’t expected her to do that. The shock’s enough to stun him into silence for a moment, and then his mind’s working itself into overdrive again. Being brought here (and he assumes it was against her will) explains her lack of familiarity with Glass - but why here?

More importantly, what was the motive for doing this?

He honestly feels that with every bit of progress he makes, he just seems to gain a lot more questions in turn. One step forwards, five steps back.

“...Who brought you here? KrugerSec?” He doubts it’d be them, but he needs to be able to rule out the obvious answer with certainty if he’s going to get any closer to figuring her out. Movement on the screen grabs his attention again, the map now complete and fully pieced together, and he pulls it up until it’s large enough for her to see. 

Noah still won’t turn around though - he knows better by now than to try and pull ahead of her pace when it comes to how much she’ll let him know about her.

it was always the  UNCERTAINTY  that truly disturbed her  ,  no guarantee that they’d all live to witness the day the following dawn.  all of those defenseless citizens who didn’t stand any chance at all  ,  mowed down by those who wished to exercise their own personal VENDETTA against the world all too openly —  &&  she honestly abhorred it.  there’s a sense of numbness as she watches him within the muted illumination from a nearby lighting fixture  ,  limbs feeling almost heavy as she rises to a standing position.   ❪  this was all too much of a reality  ,  && enduring was all they could do until the sufficient time frame was spent.  ❫  whilst they may have been a part of a larger group , && that meant more defense  ,  the  VULNERABILITY  of losing even one single person was a possibility that could likely come true —  but she’s not going to let anyone go quietly.  even if they had to take her first  , kicking && screaming.  ❛ i’ll go  &&  start distributing out food  &&  water bottles —  let me know if you need anything ,  &&  i’ll be right there.  ❜

Claire’s a better person than he is, because he honestly doesn’t care about the masses below them. If they want to fight among themselves or even just hide away somewhere and live in fear for the next twelve hours, then so be it - but they dug their own grave a long time ago and the Conglomerate were just burying them in it now. As long as what they do doesn’t hurt the Runners, Noah will keep out of their way, but he’ll still lack sympathy for them all the same.

offGrid: It’s been a while again, hasn’t it?

This wasn’t a planned break, but I won’t bore you all with the details of why I suddenly up and disappeared for a while, we’d honestly be here all day otherwise. I’d love to be able to properly come back and get to writing replies and all that good stuff, but I’m on another long hiatus (a planned one this time) in three weeks’ time whilst I basically start a new chapter of my life and I’m incredibly excited for it, but I also need to start being realistic regarding my time on here because that’s going to get very scarce soon.

With that in mind, there’s going to be a few changes. First of all, I haven’t forgotten about the masses of replies that I owe people! But whilst I know I’ve been keeping everyone waiting already, I am planning to stick everything in a queue for when I go on that full hiatus, just to space out activity a bit and basically not have a completely dead dash the entire time. In the meantime, I’ll keep popping on with some memes, the occasional oneshot or two and just little pieces of writing that I’ve been working on whilst I’ve been away.

What does it matter where she is from? It’s not as if she’s asking him to drop everything and personally escort her home — all she wants are some instructions how to escape the city without getting a black bag thrown over her head, maybe point her in the direction of someone who could then tell her how to get through the countryside until the next checkpoint, so on and so forth, until she reaches the coast, if her search leads her that way.

One by one, her fingers press against the pad of her thumb, pressing the seams on the tips of her glove beneath her nails. Then she gestures, hand waving from side to side before rolling her wrist in an abstract gesture that one often performs when trying to articulate words that elude the mind.

He doesn’t need to know where she’s from, but she’s not sure how she would answer if he did. Home is a tricky concept — she hasn’t officially had one in about six years. She lives wherever people let her: on their sofas, in hotels, sometimes on a bench in a nice part of town, or way up on a rooftop downtown. Up until she arrived here, she was residing in the city of New York … but she’d hardly it home.

What about her place of birth? Her family’s mansion in Melbourne? Who knows. Sheila doesn’t know how long her mother lived after her child went missing, but after her mother died, her parents’ estate was likely divided between other branches of the family; the mansion itself could have been claimed by an uncle or a cousin, possibly auctioned off to new owners, or demolished. Maybe all three. Whatever happened to her home then, it probably hasn’t stood for at least a hundred years now.

Home is… nowhere, really. It will be wherever she wants it to be, and it won’t be here.

Sheila reels her dangling arm back to her side to pen her next reply. Either this won’t be an unusual request and the people here do in fact possess some basic knowledge about other places in the world, or it just might raise a few flags and more questions than she can answer.

She hopes for the former as she passes the note to him.

‘ Do you have a map  world map ’

She still hasn’t answered his question. He saw her signal, the indication that she needed time to think her response through, but then all she does is ask for a map. It’s a task that’s easier said than done, although he’d be much more inclined to help (and he’d be far less confused) if she just told him what she considered to be home.

The problem with Cascadia is that according to the Conglomerate, everywhere that wasn’t within the country was lost. Most maps and atlases were destroyed not long after the riots, in a last-ditch attempt to consolidate power and rid the employs of knowledge regarding other countries. Noah wonders if the authorities were scared of the outside world or if perhaps they simply saw themselves as superior instead; allowing for the breeding of isolationist ideals that did more harm than good to the everyday citizen.

Knowing the Conglomerate’s collective ego, he’d be willing to bet on the latter being true.

The point is, whilst he knows how to get access to a world map, it’s no longer a trivial task. He didn’t like to keep a permanent copy - he doesn’t want his mind to linger on lost daydreams and ambitions of travelling to places he now knows he’ll never reach. But for her sake, and for the sake of hopefully getting more answers of his own, he obliges for now. 

“It’ll take a few minutes to appear on the screen, but I can get one up for you.” All it takes is tapping into some systems (with the help of Plastic) and pulling the relevant pieces out, then putting them all together. But once that process starts, he doesn’t have to do much - just wait and hope that nothing goes wrong.

6.59.01 pm.  across the utopia of glass  ,  citizens were most likely arming themselves at this very moment in time  ,  anticipating whether they’d be alive to greet the dawn tomorrow.  it was this particular time of year that she  DESPISED  ,  a reminder that they were all lap dogs of the government  ,  whilst they remained safe upon the higher end of the hierarchy — spectating those who were murdered in cold blood with no consequence whatsoever.  just the very notion of those she  LOVED  lying deceased in a pool of their own blood is enough motivation she’ll ever need to strike back against those who wished to harm them — even at the cost of her own life.  hues flicker closed whilst she intakes a slow breath  ,  firearm resting comfortably upon her lap.  murder is a  FOREIGN  concept to her  ,  but in a world ruled by corruption  &&  power  ,  it was necessary to grasp.   ❪  kill or be killed. ❫   6.59.58 pm.  6.59.59 p.m.7.00.00 pm.  ❛  at the siren  ,  all crime  ,  including murder  , will be legal for twelve hours.  all emergency services will be suspended.  your government thanks you for your participation.  ❜

It’s going to be a long night. The sound of the siren still sends chills down his spine, even after all these years - so far, he’s done a good job of keeping out of the bloodshed, but Noah worries every year that his luck will run out. As usual, the hours leading up to the start of the purge had consisted of preparations; Runners were called back in just over two hours ago; any unfinished jobs now postponed until the following evening. Once everyone was accounted for, hideouts started to be sealed up, entrances barricaded just in case they were found.

Noah has ten people - himself and Claire included - to protect and keep inside the lair. None of them participated in the killing spree unless it was to kill in self defense; but the cold, yet familiar feel of a gun in his hand reminds him that if things go south, he’ll be the first to spill blood. He hates being armed. But it’s a necessity tonight.

there’s a smile of  ADMIRATION  whilst she readies her form once again , aware that he’s most likely anticipating a retaliation at this very moment in time — that doesn’t prevent her from mimicking the precursory move , focusing all of her vitality into said kick. &&  naturally , it comes as no surprise when his grip lunges out to grasp her ankle , although it’s SUFFICIENT  enough to send her off balance , form falling back to land ungracefully onto her rear. the cabal leader was bound to have some tricks up his sleeve. ❛ ow , jeeze — okay , best two out of three ! ❜

“You’ll get the hang of it eventually, just try to anticipate that something like that might happen.” Noah helps her to get back up onto her feet, offering a small smile as a silent means of apology. Of course they were both going to make slip ups against each other, but that was exactly why he wanted to spar with Claire or at least see what she was made of - better that they both make mistakes now as opposed to when they’re going up against genuine threats. 

  “ – if you’re so sure of yourself, then let’s go. ” She chuckled and readied herself for their little race. Sitara knew next to nothing about this man – but she was always ready to race against others. It was one of her favorite things to do when she wasn’t busy in the Hackerspace.

He was always ready to run, especially as it was his favourite past-time. Besides, she’s convinced that she’ll beat him, and Noah’s other favourite past-time was proving egotistical people wrong. When he moves to what he presumes is their hypothetical start line, he’s ready to hopefully prove to her that he’s a more than capable runner.

‘ How would you know ! ’ she writes, and beneath that, she continues, the pressure of her pen leaving angry imprints on the blank page underneath ‘ There are 7 continents on this planet, 196 countries, and 1000s of cities ’ On the reverse side, she scribbles hastily ‘ You really think there isn’t a SINGLE place out there better than here ? ? ? ’

The page is torn from its perforated margin and unceremoniously cast over the edge of the ceiling like a piece of discarded rubbish. A followup note flutters down seconds later, lacking the apoplectic flourish of its predecessor, but its message no less condescending.

‘ you should get out more ’

After both notes are beyond reach, she wonders if she’s said too much. Perhaps this country—Cascadia, as he calls it, wherever it is—is like a giant cult, its citizens so brainwashed with propaganda that they truly believe their borders are the only thing separating them from the godless lands known as the rest of the world. Perhaps they have become so complacent inside the safety of their cages and distracted by corporate enslavement that any knowledge pertaining to the world outside their own has… passed from memory.

God, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know what to think.

‘ who are you to tell me to fight for this place  you came here because you wanted to  you stay here because you choose to  this is your fight —— not mine  I want to go ’

Her pen lingers, canted in her hand as she stares at her own words, lips pressed together. Then, with slow, hesitant strokes, she writes

‘ home ’

She glances over her handwriting once more as she sets aside her pen and tears out the page. She places one hand over her tender hip and pulls herself closer to the edge of the ceiling, hissing quietly through her gritted teeth, and—at last—lowers a black silk arm over the side, down into the open, her note pinched loosely between her fingers.

(clipped & continued here)

He’s hit a nerve - anyone could tell him that just from observing the imprints on the second note, or even just by hearing the way the paper was torn before it reached him - but still he continues to stand his ground. Perhaps the rest of the world was alive and thriving; but Cascadia itself was godless. A glided cage that provided small benefits for the elite whilst working the rest to death and hunting down the few that dared to defy Conglomerate directives.

The last time Noah considered something his fight, the city burned. His warnings fell on deaf ears, Rebecca Thane dismissing his concerns as cowardice whilst the other movement leaders assumed things wouldn’t escalate, and now most of them were dead, leaving the survivors scarred in more ways than one. His own criminal record is consequently so long that you’d think even hell wouldn’t take him - let alone the rest of the world. If a better place exists, he’s resigned to never seeing it.

Few escaped Cascadia without dying in the process, and they usually just fled to Omnistat or, in the more extreme cases, Sabaeus. Managing to escape across the ocean to another land was a near-impossible feat given the Conglomerate’s hold on all forms of transport in the country, and if Noah thought about it long and hard enough, he’d possibly be able to draw comparisons to a permanent lockdown. 

She really is out of her depth on the knowledge front.

But finally, he makes progress regarding her identity when he sees her hand lean over the side. It’s not enough for his liking yet - not a name or a face or a voice - but it’s a start. The note is pulled gently from her grip, consideration being taken to avoid startling her, and Noah places it next to the rest of the papers that she’s used to communicate with him. He doesn’t answer her straight away; there’s a trend in the notes, and he wants to address that first. 

Home...

To her, home isn’t Cascadia.

Siobhan seeks a neutral set of eyes to be her guide to maneuver this unholy land.  Under Vetra’s guidance, she is instructed on where such person often frequents.  Mercury.  He is a mid-sized, middle-aged hunk of human, bearing a complex GEOMETRIC black tattoo on the right side of his neck & casually dressed sans engineer jumpsuit like the rest of them.  His expression warm & strict all at once——the look of a man who has by extension fathered a gang of children.  

She watches the man before revealing herself like a hedge witch stepping from the flames of an altar.  & he chooses to speak first.  

      ❝ As I have grown quite aware, ❞  comes her voice ; stiff & even toned.

Arms are crossed like she is some arachnid mistress ; obsidian with red markings of a black widow.

    ❝ My sources tell me that you are the appropriate individual to go to should I want to be made aware of the current situation unbiased.  I am also aware that information is a commodity——I am no stranger to the concept of quid pro quo. ❞

(clipped & continued here)

In Glass, the rooftops belonged to the Runners. In Kadara, a notable shortage of rooftops lead to them being replaced with the peaks of hills and mountains-- they’re one whole galaxy away from their former life, and yet they still perch somewhere where they can easily take flight if needed. Noah has utilized a cave system which resides near the northernmost monolith; high enough in elevation for their secrecy to remain well-maintained, but still close enough to the port for the Runners’ convenience.

However, Ryder has decided to intrude upon this self-proclaimed safe space for the cabal at a time where his patience is already wearing thin. He knew she was coming; the height of his hideout provided more advantages than just a good view of the horizon; but he’s hesitant to place any trust in an Initiative lapdog. His hand moves slightly closer to the nearest gun, resting on the same worktop he’s currently perches against, and he finds reassurance in the knowledge that she can’t throw anything at him that he isn’t already anticipating.

“...What are you trying to accomplish here?” The question is presented with a steady voice and even tone, suspicion not quite so present as curiosity.

As Mercury, he deals in information and the occasional stolen product, working for both factions to gain a profit-- and as his runners technically don’t exist as far as the port is concerned, it makes for a tidy arrangement. But as himself, as Noah, he has a vested interest in making sure he’s not about to become the catalyst for anything that’ll throw Kadara into further disarray. No matter how volatile the land already may be, the cabal’s entire livelihood thrives on the instability of warring sides constantly locked in a stalemate.

Regarding Ryder’s potential role in the conflict, he trusts her about as far as he can throw her.

❛ don’t worry , i don’t intend to. ❜  an almost  MISCHIEVOUS  smile , shoulders slackening into a relaxed stance. ❪ alright , remember what chris taught you. &&  one , two , three — ❫ her leg arcs round in a precise roundhouse kick ,aimed towards his palm whilst the remainder of her form follows direction. hand to hand combat wasn’t exactly her                                   FORTE , but it was always wise to brush up every now  &&  again.

He lets her make contact, even in spite of knowing full well that it will hurt. And it does, but he shakes it off and holds his hands up again. Claire definitely has all the strength and power that she needs - so now Noah intends to make this more of a challenge for her.

“That was a nice kick, you’re doing good. Do it again, one more time.”