#ignitedstarter

X Academy was fast on getting him an exemption to the Sora curfew, which was great, but Fabian didn't much enjoy anxiously looking over his shoulder every night as he left work in the small hours of the morning, waiting for an Overseer to corner him, demanding the documentation. Their scrutiny was hardly something he relished. Clinging to the papers in his pocket, he vaguely wondered if it made him look more suspicious as he left the office.

It was an embarrassing time to be security at X Academy. Did it make it better or worse that he'd had no idea there was a theft going on until it was too late, and he was chasing down figures too close to the escape to ever reach? Having gone over everything a thousand times now, witnessing the suspicion from his employers with every new revelation, everyone seemed at least convinced that there had been no predicting it. It wasn't much of a comfort, though. He expected better of himself - and X Academy should be able to, as well.

Usually the only movement at this time of night was Overseers, so when he heard a sound, he prepared himself to present his permit. But still his whole body went tense. He hadn't liked encountering souls and bodies on his way home from work regardless, but this new tension in the air... he closed his eyes, practicing old military routines of forcibly relaxing his tension, as he glanced over to gauge the situation.

"I hear it's risky, being out this late at night. Did you hear about that?"

Not having heard a mention of the Golden Tears in the UNN news item, Zakir figured it would be safe enough for him to move from his home in the Mawar District to his next show. Safe most certainly, but definitely not easy. He wasn't some award winning rapper with a crew at his disposal, with a car that he could simply hop into that would take him to his destination.

He was reliant on the Mawar Underground. And so far, aside from the usual delays, he hadn't yet experienced any big disruptions.

But now everything was checked continuously by the Overseers, and even a few blocks seemed to be a minefield. He sighed as he hit the next road block, cursing in Hindi as he sought a way through. "As if the thieves wouldn't already be safely hauled up somewhere," he commented, crossing his arms. He was going to be late.

For 𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐊𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐀, a lowly third year intern at 𝐗 𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐘 life had only gotten harder once the 𝐍𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐒𝐓 sent shockwaves through New Jakarta.

The implications of the stolen drugs weighed heavily on Rasleen, magnifying the tension that permeated the academy's corridors. The theft had not only disrupted daily operations but also plunged the city into a state of unrelenting unrest. Whispers of high-profile involvement and clandestine dealings swirled around her, heightening her anxieties and making each day increasingly precarious. As an intern grappling with mounting responsibilities and the undercurrent of suspicion, Rasleen felt her once peripheral existence now intricately entangled in the city's unfolding chaos. Clutching her datapad, its screen casting a faint glow on her furrowed brow, she braced herself for yet more unpaid labor.

For her lunch break, Rasleen sought solace in the Tiny Temple’s pagodas and teahouses, a rare haven from the city's relentless pace. The garden where she took her brief respite was a tranquil oasis, its softly rustling leaves and the gentle clinking of ceramic cups composing a soothing symphony. Seated on a wooden log, Rasleen diligently circled missing inventory items on her datapad—a relic reminiscent of archaic spreadsheets. The device's screen protector shielded her from the holographic wingspans of birds that occasionally flitted into view. As she nibbled on quince-berries—an insufficient repast—their delicate sweetness mingled with a faint electric tang, reminiscent of caffeine's effect. The fruit’s aromatic complexity, with a hint of citrus, provided a small comfort amid the turmoil of her daily life.

As she savored these fleeting moments of reprieve, a pang of anxiety seized her—the fear of being observed outside the security of the headquarters. The approach of a figure stirred palpable tension within her. Instinctively, she shut down her datapad, its screen fading to black with a soft click, and forced a polite, albeit strained, smile as she prepared to greet her visitor. The dread of being seen working outside the HQ cast a persistent shadow over her otherwise serene surroundings.

"I feel like I know what you're going to ask me… and the answer is yes, the quince-berries are ripe enough to eat." She revealed a wrapping of her own picked berries next to the log beside her. "Go on, you can take a couple."

An attempted murder on their watch. Not necessarily Mentari's, but the whole of the OVERSEERS. The BOARD had been watching, but they hadn't seen this coming, the shot had already been fired before anyone was alarmed to the situation, and it had happened from such an angle, with such hacking behind it, that nobody was able to find any real evidence that a shot was even fired.

He didn't care about the rumours that followed. If Santi was indeed a SIGHIR or had Sighir employees, so be it. Assassinations on public figures were out of the question, they couldn't happen.

He thought this was the Skeleton Crew, again. They'd managed to do their heist without alarming anyone, nobody with inside information. Chances were that they'd done it again.

He walked into the NIGHT MARKET because he knew if he were to find the contractor of the assassin anywhere, it would be here. The Market itself felt almost deserted... perhaps the whole city was on edge.

"This place seems oddly quiet. You wouldn't have happened to hear any rumours about the assassination on X's CEO?"

"Oh, don’t worry too much about me." Despite his words, there’s an undeniable tension in Jagger’s voice, an undercurrent of something darker lurking beneath his usual devil may care attitude. Now that the streets have become marginally less hostile, he’s finally ventured out, though his reappearance feels more out of necessity than confidence. It had been wiser, after all, for him to keep his head down, sticking to the run-down sanctity of his home and the shadowy paths between the underground ring. The half-eaten ramen burrito in his hand serves as a pitiful representation of the individual who once carried an insatiable appetite for anything life threw his way. But there are reasons for the heaviness that clings to him now, reasons that chip away at the facade he wears so well.

"I just think it’s bullshit that they haven’t said a word about SHATTERSTAR… Like, come on." He speaks with a sharp edge, though it’s undercut by the hollowness in his tone. The arrest had been bad enough, but the continued silence? The way they’re holding SHATTERSTAR with no explanation, no updates—it gnaws at him, a slow, festering worry that creeps beneath his skin. "An arrest was one thing, but now—holding them? Feels personal, feels like they’re trying to make a point, you know?"

A piece of genetically modified chicken slips from the aluminum wrapper, and Jagger, distracted, hastily folds the burrito back up.

"Starting to think it’s a little unfair, you know?" He finally voices the thought that’s been brewing in the back of his mind. "Like maybe we should do something about it…" His words are defiant, but there’s a flicker of doubt behind them—a quiet worry that, despite everything, he might be next.

𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐈 𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐀, the President of Domestic Operations for 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐍𝐄𝐖𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊 had not known rest since the 𝐍𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐒𝐓 sent shockwaves through New Jakarta.

The burden of her responsibilities was a palpable malaise, seeping into every corner of her life like a creeping, toxic poison. This unease gnawed at her composure, a ravenous 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇 prowling beneath her polished facade. Each meeting became a minefield, her temper snapping with the ferocity of a famished dog, restrained only by the thinnest veneer of civility. Luncheons that once showcased her effortless charm now felt like suffocating kennels, where each word was laden with the tension she could no longer suppress. Conversations that should have flowed with ease were instead marred by her terse replies and incisive remarks, a reflection of the coiled, restless energy within her—ready to strike at any moment. The relentless pressure and the constant vigilance required to maintain her position had transformed her into something monstrous, a creature driven by survival instincts in a city that devours the weak without remorse.

The stolen vials, potent and perilous, were more than mere criminal spoils—they were a ticking 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 time bomb, poised to shatter the fragile equilibrium of power. Her office, a fortress of steel and glass above the city’s grimy streets, was now a battleground of data streams, encrypted messages, and the relentless ticking of the clock. She stood silhouetted against the artificial dawn of the skyline, her mind a tempest of strategies and contingencies. There was no room for error, not when the fate of New Jakarta hung precariously on the edge of an abyss.

When the door slid open without its usual chime, her muscles tensed instinctively, the intruder’s presence an unwelcome disruption in her meticulously controlled world. She turned slowly, her gaze slicing through the space with the precision of a blade, locking onto the figure who dared to breach her sanctuary uninvited. "Well, isn’t this a surprise," she said, her voice smooth and cold, each word delivered with a precision that masked the beast beneath her calm exterior. Her eyes, dark and calculating, assessed the intruder with a piercing intensity, "I don’t recall inviting company."