#thread 019

He’s heard all sorts of complaints about the various panels and presentations, starting well before they arrived on Pontius, and in true diplomatic fashion has offered whatever response seemed most appropriate at the time; sympathy, commiseration, redirection. What Icarus has yet to do is tell anyone the truth: that he wishes his schedule were a little more packed. At least when he’s sitting in a seminar he has something to focus his mind on, fingers flying across the analog keyboard he refuses to swap for the latest holo-model as he takes a truly unnecessary amount of notes on the most minuscule of details. At least in an auditorium he’s not constantly being offered drugs or alcohol that he’s already running out of polite excuses to decline less than three full days after arriving. At least numbers and charts and slideshows don’t want to touch him or talk to him or take him away to another pocket of festivity he knows he’ll have to pretend to enjoy.

Unfortunately he’s somehow ended up with several free hours in the middle of the day and absolutely nothing professional to occupy them, which is how Icarus finds himself in an elevator heading down towards the Isthmia deck. Strictly speaking, he ought to have reached out to concierge services and booked an official tour, but that carries the strong possibility of having to join a tour group which is the last thing he wants to deal with right now. The gardens are fairly easy to find anyway, an array of helpful signs and maps posted throughout the deck providing a clear path towards the keel. 

Outside a set of glass doors, through which Icarus can see glimpses of vibrant green foliage, there is a small office with a name plate reading Patroclus Cirillo, Ph.D. They knock lightly on the frame despite the open door, but when the man in question appears he comes from around the corner, not inside the room.

Surroundings in a blur, Nana kicks up the speed of her bike ever so slightly, easily skirting around a delivery vehicle that’s taken half of the road up for itself. There’s the shrill sound of a horn laid on by the opposing lane, but it’s lost on Nana as she continues forward. Correcting herself into the left lane, Nana passes through the light just before it changes. 

The Gym isn’t far now, and though Nana still feels at odds about returning to the scene since it’d been lost to War, Marcus’s insistence to continue training, to regain his strength trumps any reservations she’s built for herself. The sudden partnership between Famine and War-- though provided only due to the turmoil and loss each had faced, does very little to calm Nana’s nerves. They could have a truce written before them and Nana would still find reasons for unease. She reminds herself as she parks however, that she is here for Marcus. If he wishes to frequent this place, then it’s her job to canvas, even if with no real authority. It’d been a day since he had asked her to become his detail, and she’s already slipped on her working shoes. 

Pulling into a space at the side of the building, far enough away from other cars, Nana idles her bike and kills the ignition. Throwing her leg over, she takes her helmet off, dramatically ruffling her hair as it sticks to her face. With the warming weather, it’s getting harder to convince herself to actually wear the helmet at all. There are several other bikes alongside the same wall and Nana immediately takes notice that she’s not alone. 

the wonders of worlds lost, the promise of future realms... history and thus the things which have yet to come are wondrous, beautiful things upon which to think on. perhaps it was because he himself was a part of that ancient history; a name etched within the past for as long as tongues would speak the stories. it was a rather awesome thought, that his name alongside his former master’s might be one remembered aeons to come. but there was much more to the world than he, so many more faces whose marks upon history were like wounds against the earth, or like carved stone forever to tell their legend. some were rather odd, myths and the like the sort of thing he imagined a child to find fascinating. and yet, this was all a part of the earth’s lore, the very making of his world.

it was rather late as far as museum visits went. the sun raked in through panelled glass, creating golden stripes across the old stone. dust lingered in the summer air, heat spinning them wild until they drifted to their bed like exhausted lovers within a dance. despite the rush of the city beyond, the halls themselves were almost perfectly quiet. it was a luxury really, mitsutada being allowed to spend such time alone in a place so grand, but upon learning of his interests, the porter at the door had felt too gracious to refuse him entry.

he wandered lost and yet so at home, amongst painted faces he had not met, studying books and waxworks he did not entirely comprehend. his single, sun-lit eye danced about as he went as if to soak in every second, every corner. so wrapped within his learning, he jumped when a loud laugh echoed through the wide corridors. a voice so bold, he shook beneath it. such a mighty bellow, he was far too curious a being to ignore it. thus, he gathered his coat and proceeded to chase it, his heels clicking as he went. what he found was not what he had imagined, but then what does one imagine when they suddenly hear such a loud guffaw? a man, glittering with his trinkets, wringing his hands before a figure made of stone. the man stood proud, taller than himself, and glistened like dry sand beneath the hot desert sun. only when his eye adjusted, did he finally make out the face etched into the smooth stone ahead.