The looming shadows from the tall buildings of the city Estyria provided only a little cooling shelter from the hot midday sun. Asfalin was a humid region, though it rarely saw rain, and that meant that the heat was cloying, sticking to the skin and causing clothes to do the same. Those visiting from further south were clearly miserable and moved with a dogged weariness. The locals, for this reason, were easy to pick out. Or, if they weren't local, they were at least from the North.

One particular northerner was perched atop a public art sculpture that stood about ten feet high--just enough of a vantage point to see where the interesting things were happening. Her thin leather sandals were tossed haphazardly beside her; Ridahne Torzinei avoided shoes when it was comfortable, as she liked the feeling of the ground in her toes. Besides, it kept her callouses hard and tough. Beside her shoes was a plastic cup of a light, citrusy beer that was wonderfully refreshing and still cold, to her delight. She was also a little bit drunk. Not so much that lounging atop a sculpture was a bad idea, but enough that she was a little more free with her conversation, a little more relaxed, a little more loose in her movements.

She didn't often get drunk, and especially not in public. Not only did it dull her awareness and made her a little too prone to speaking her mind (something that got her in trouble enough as it was when she was sober) but it meant she went unarmed, as Azurei religiously disarmed themselves before heavy drinking. It was considered horrible form to carry even a knife, much less a gun when intoxicated. She had known that by coming to this event, she'd drink--it was a celebration after all--so she left her knife, her sword, and her tiny little pistol with the rest of her things underneath a dimly lit bridge in a seedier part of town. That was currently where she called home, for a given value of the word 'home' anyway. Ridahne was a drifter and never stayed in any place very long, which meant she didn't have a steady income. But she wasn't thinking about that now.

Right now, there were musicians some distance away, there were food vendors hocking wares that she could smell from seemingly across town: aromas of curry and hot spice, of bread and woodsmoke, of hot sugary confections. There were people from all over the place milling around, laughing and chatting and eating and drinking. The event happened yearly at the height of summer and it was all anyone could talk about for a week beforehand. Shops across town were closed down so the employees could attend, and businesses closer to the event itself saw business like they wouldn't get for another year to come. Trading was rampant, food sampling was abundant, and above all else, it was loud and happily crowded.

Ridahne knew the event by the name Tal'elaisakidh, but outside of Azurei it was more commonly known as the Armistice Festival--a celebration held on the day of the year in which the ten-years-war finally ended. This was the Armistice Festival's tenth year--a notable number--and from what she'd heard, the Chancellor himself would be making an appearance this year. From all the security prowling about the tall stage backed by a massive screen with a video feed of the stage itself, Ridahne guessed this rumor was accurate.

"Hey! Azurei!"
Ridahne blinked away her wandering thoughts and looked down to see a young Brahneian man who also appeared to be about thirty summers waving up at her with a stupid grin that made her think of swaggering idiots at bars who tried to buy her drinks or sweet talk her into other activities.
"Hey, would you give me a tattoo? You could come do it at my place...eh? What do you s--aghpphh!" Before he could finish, Ridahne impatiently dumped the remainder of her beer on the man's head with decent accuracy. If she had a credit for every time some loser asked her for a tattoo...
"Get gone before I drop something heavier on you." When he didn't immediately leave, she made a fierce snarl at him that showed her teeth and lunged slightly like she intended to leap down on top of him like a fictional vigilante. That seemed to work just fine.

Ridahne always got asked about tattoos. If it wasn't someone begging her to give them one, it was someone asking insipid questions about her own. She, like all Azurei, had many in varying patterns of black, blue, and white ink. The most notable and perhaps the most iconic were the facial tattoos worn by the Azurei. If the russet skin and honey-gold eyes weren't enough, the face tattoos were a blazing indication of Azurei heritage. Since the Azurei tended to be culturally withdrawn and tight lipped about their secrets and their ways, people never seemed to have an end to their curiosity about them. But if they knew how personal they were, Ridahne thought, they would not dare ask, as it was like publicly inquiring about the cut of a lady's panties or a man's extensive medical records.

Ridahne shook her head as if to shake off the encounter, then gathering her shoes, she nimbly climbed down with a slender grace and went off in search of another stand or truck selling drinks. After dumping hers, she needed another beer.

"...Let us not forget the lives cast into stone by the misfortunes of fate - but neither should we dwell upon them as to be beset by the asphyxiating grip of despair; Let us rid ourselves of the guilt and accusations of that distant past - but neither should we feel ashamed of them. We must never forget that it was our loved ones who perished for the cause most righteous, our blood and burials that marred the wastelands and the great, unforgiving dunes - but let those memories remind us that the past is beyond us now. The fountain of life flows on, life grows anew - and though we have lost, we know well how much our sacrifices have gained. If it was not to be, 'twould not have been, and so the end remains the same; Blessings of Mmaro be upon you all, now and ever, and hallowed be his name..."

With this, the speaker withdrew himself from the podium, and to the guttural groan of the throat-hymn the mass arose from their kneeling positions atop the floor; they took with them a plethora of carefully rolled, brightly colored carpets, several dozen pairs of sandals, and a silent, wholesome air of harmony. Conflicting hues bespeckled the crowd as they shuffled on by under the stained-glass visages of adorning saints, soft murmurings rustling among them as they approached the elaborate arches that separated this world from the next, those plastered marvels of engineering that had withheld the sanctity of their sanctuary from decades of the vile, decadent influences of the impure and the unworthy. The righteousness of it all was suffocating - so much so that upon reentry into the sweltering embrace of the outside air, Haban couldn't help but pause to take a long, steady draw upon his electronic pipe; what few vapors he was unable to inhale were quickly repulsed by a sharp, wheezing fit, forcing the youthful decrepit to retrieve a wrinkled handkerchief from his pocket in a vain attempt to contain the reaction. His metal hand glistened in the sun with each digit's individual articulation as they cupped around his convulsing mouth - and though he closed one eye out of habit, the metallic gaze of the other gleamed on with a paranoid frenzy.

By the time his 'episode' had run its course, the steps outside of the cathedral were stark - save for the bottom-most, up from which stared a peculiarly inquisitive young man. Older than Haban, he seemed to embody everything the cane-touting, pipe-smoking, half-dead deadweight *could have been...perhaps...in another life: Strong, tall, with with wavy black hair slicked back from a light-hazel brow and a placid expression of empathy. If only he'd been born a few years earlier...

"...Those things'll come back to haunt you faster than you know it, bro."

The young man's lips -still somewhat quivering- slipped around the glinting metal of his pipe's mouthpiece as its electronic bowl glowed with a sickly orange hue: "...Death's waited on me for years - he can afford wait a little longer while I enjoy my pastime; maybe more, ifh Ih chen gehth-thishh lhil' shukker uhpgrahyded." He rapped the wooden cane across the 'shin' of his articulated replacement with a fragile smile, pipe clenched firmly between his teeth, and his bald, tan head shimmering under the voracious heat of the midday sun. Telsin just shook his head, waved, and headed down the dusty, hob-cobbled lane of archaic sandstone and scrapmetal windows. Reminded of his own obligations to the watch, Haban quickly staggered off in the opposite direction; the alien hum of his electronic hip, knee and ankle joints made for somewhat talkative company along the way.

The young man gave a mock-severe stare up at Ridahne. It might have been more effective if he had been able to look down at her, but she was tall and lean, even among some men. "Haven't you had enough already miss?" He was trying so hard to look serious, but the smile kept leaking onto his face no matter how hard he tried.
"Give it up," she said easily, a little smile playing on her lips too. "You're as drunk as I am and you're supposed to be working. Give me the dark one." Ridahne held out her wrist where a plain, sturdy wristband coiled around one dark, slender arm. Ridahne did not carry a wallet (wallets got left and stolen and lost) and she didn't have a phone, so she always opted for the wristband credit chip. It was designed for kids that didn't have phones of their own and couldn't be trusted to carry a wallet, but some adults used them too for their simplicity. The man swiped a silvery handheld device over it and it beeped softly.
"You want the dark one? But it's a thousand degrees out."
"And?" She arched one dark eyebrow. "It's closer to what we drink at home--not this swill." She smiled casually. She actually did like the local brew. But she missed true Azurei beer, which sometimes more resembled a barleywine, depending on the region.

The man grabbed a plastic cup and filled it, careful not to get too much head in the glass or to spill it. He handed it over, but his eyes lingered for a moment. They'd chatted on and off throughout the day as she came to get her drinks--nothing more than small talk. But he found her interesting. "Is it nice there? Azurei?"
Ridahne's confident gaze dropped to the counter as she idly wiped condensation from her cup.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to--"
"It is nice," she said finally, cutting him off. "Different than here. And beautiful like a storybook. But it's a hard land. With even harder people."
Her tone was almost...wistful, he thought. He wondered why. "Hey, so I get off in like two hours...would you..." He felt suddenly intimidated, looking up at her. There was something decidedly fierce about her and yet graceful, like a proud tiger. "I know a great spot for some dumplings..."

Ridahne gave a soft, humorless laugh. "Sorry. I'm not your type. Enjoy the festival." Taking her drink, she strode away and melted into the crowd. She liked the festival; the pageantry made her feel a little less obvious as lots of people wore more traditional garb and adornments. She did own a pair of jeans and some tank tops, but she often wore the traditional Azurei uri in the warmer months, which was a soft, fluid fabric wrapped in a very practical sarong. She wore an indigo crop top of sorts that only went around one shoulder. Hers was plain in comparison to those of other Azurei women, who sometimes adorned theirs with stone or silver beads or silvery embroidery. These clothes, combined with her ink, usually made her stand out downtown, but not today. It was nice for a change.

The beer was cool and pleasantly bitter and roasty, like a good chocolate or coffee; it reminded her of a sturdy bread. She sipped it not-so-delicately as she meandered, hearing a commotion off towards the stage. The Chancellor hadn't yet taken his place, but clearly someone was up there giving introductions. Ridahne did not care about him, or his politics. She came here for the food the drink, the people, the culture. One had to have roots to have thoughts about politics, Ridahne thought.

A swath of indigo caught her eye; two men were making their way purposefully through the crowd and she knew without seeing their faces that they were Azurei by the way they were dressed. They wore uri and richly dyed vests with black sashes slung across their chests and white ones around their waists. Elegant swords were tucked into the waist sashes and Ridahne could see the glint of daggers in their light boots.
Not just Azurei. Taja.

Ridahne nearly spilled her beer ducking down underneath the sea of people to hide. They had not seen her and she did not want to be seen. Not by them. She began skulking away, head swimming from the alcohol, when she overheard two more off to her left speaking soft Azurian. She couldn't make out what they were saying, not fully. Something about waiting. Something about being swift and accurate. Ridahne didn't stay to listen. She kept her head down and moved very quickly the other direction, ducking into a small tea shop for cover. She closed the door behind her, enjoying the brisk whoosh of air conditioning as she looked over her shoulder, then around at the quiet room. Most of the customers were outside, though a few sat coolly at low tables along the walls.

And elderly Asfaline woman greeted her with a polite smile that was very practiced but with searching eyes that saw more than they let on. Ridahne was led further in and showed to a table that she sat at with crossed legs, facing the part of the room with the television screen showing the video feed from the stage outside, though this appeared to be official news coverage. Feeling spontaneous, Ridahne ordered a milky, spicy tea and sat back, alternating sips of beer and hot tea as she watched the Chancellor finally take the stage with some fanfare that made Ridahne want to gag. Commonwealth politicians were never exactly popular in Azurei, and this need for showmanship was some tiny part of that.

He had a horrible smile too. Fake. Plastic. Desperate, almost. Azurei matriarchy did not smile and wave and cloyingly beg for people's approval. They merely demanded it, and it was both given and deserved. He kept trying to make people laugh with bad jokes, too. Ugh. How pathetic.

"No, that's not- hey, enough, just wai-"
More than a few curious eyes peered down the alleyway, some relief coming to most of them when they realized the man arguing besides an unmarked delivery van was alone. If first impressions are to be believed, that man would very much be happy to be listening to anything else: the drops of water hammering against the dumpster from an ajar bit of pipe above, the scampering of rodents between bags of rubbish, or maybe even something as extreme as a woman. As if his frustration wasn't obvious enough between his broad gestures and constant pacing, he let out a huff as he pinned the cheap looking phone between his ear and his shoulder, freeing up his hands to pluck a cigarette from his coat.

"Listen, just- just shut up for a second, okay!?" he finally snapped. He let out a sigh as he snapped his fingers, the top half of his thumb folding back like a lid to reveal the cusp of a lighter underneath. As he burned the tip of the cigarette to life, he leaned back against the side of the van, basking in the quiet to gather his thoughts.

Enter Vilĉjo: a man with something that could probably resemble a plan, if you held it at the right angle with the right lighting.

As Vilĉjo breathed back on the cigarette, tilting it up between his teeth as he looked skyward to the tips of the towers, he combed a hand through his pillow-styled hair. His fingers brushed over the steel protruding from the nape of his neck, the cold helping him regain his focus.
"Alright... so what, a buyer flaked on us? You know where I am, right? How many people there are here? I'll just go find another one. Shit, he might still be here somewhe-"
"You make it sound so simple." the voice on the other end of the phone retorted with an exasperated sigh. A feminine voice with neat articulation but a rigid twang. The doctor of the operation: Ieva. "How long have you got left?" Plucking the cigarette out from between his teeth, Vilĉjo grasped at the side door of the van and slid it open. Stepping inside, he yanked up a false panel from the wall of the van and stared critically at the figures that the display showed him, running the numbers under his breath.
"Around... thirty hours?" he answered, slamming the panel shut with the reading. He heard Ieva take a breath on the other end of the line, where he quickly opened his mouth to interject: "Look, the guy probably got caught up. I'll go find him or sell them off to somebody else."
"But what if-" Ieva attempted to squeeze on, only to be cut off just as fast as before.
"Ieva, listen. I'll be back in a couple of days with enough money to cover what we owe to Double King and then some. Go sit down, have a coffee, stop stressing; you've both done the hard work, so leave the rest to me, okay? When have I ever let you down?"
"Oh, let's see... how about when-"
"I changed my mind, don't answer that."

The two paused for a minute, huffing over the phone line, before Ieva broke the silence with a quiet laugh. Vilĉjo followed in suite, joining her nervously. Finally, with a conclusive sigh, there was a rustle on the other end of the line before Ieva spoke more calmly:
"Alright. I'll see you soon. Be careful, okay?" Ieva asked, her voice lifting with her gentle smile.
"Hey, you know me, darlin'. Careful is my middle nam-!" Vilĉjo didn't even get to the end of his quip before she hung up. Shrugging his shoulders, he tossed the phone through to the passenger seat before stepping out of the van. He flicked his half-smoked cigarette to the floor before yanking the van door shut, where he pressed the butt into the concrete while waving a pair of keys over his shoulder. The van beeped at him affirmatively.

"Alright..." Vilĉjo muttered to himself as he stepped out into the street. He cast his gaze every which way, peering over the shifting crowds before starting his way in whatever direction caught his fickle interest.

The usually frenetic bustling of footsteps, rumbling engines and everyday exchanges of the acquainted and the estranged lay dormant - hushed by the distant ambiance of cheering crowds, boombox-enhanced speeches and thunderous rumbling of aerial carriages; Save for that overarching air and the light whispers of a stagnant wind, the city slumbered lively. Here and there on the outskirts you might spot the odd geriatric soaking in the contents of his tablet on the front porn, or the restless youth keeping watch over the house, but these were the exceptions to the rule. In all honesty, the 'thrill' of watching a slew of aged hacks pat each other on the back over the gains of others was baffling at best...and nothing short of criminal at its most sincere.

At the suggestion of the crosswalk light, Haban eased the restless whirring of his mechanical leg, standing idle opposite a barren street like the good citizen mother had always known military school would make him. He shook his head and plucked his pastime from out between his lips, striking the casing once across the metal pole before him; jarred by the impact, it popped open a hatch midway down the pipe and spewed a steaming clear plastic vial down the sidewalk - and with practiced ease, the partial man flicked one up anew from within his breastpocket, jammed it into the hatch and clasped it shut...replenishing the steady cloud of smog that'd begun to dissipate around him. The cramped amphitheater of bolted shop windows rustled with mild intrigue.

"...I don't think I've ever such-seen a queer system as this; feels like some sort of mocked up doll's play." The pitch was low, curious, and somewhat trained in the local dialect...though it clearly had a ways to go before proper assimilation; Haban doubted it'd be hanging around these parts that long anyway, but one had to admire the speed at which some of these greenbacks learned. "No stranger than a shadow talking back to its host - how crows the roost?" A light chuckle escaped the reclusive depths of the alley behind him, then answered in an altogether different tone: "Cooed, but anxious - 'course it doesn't hurt to take a few hairs off the back of the neck every now and then." An otherwise relaxed stream sputtered and puckered out from the pipe, and the mechanical pupil of the impartial's eye flickered briefly in mute irritation. "...You lot have an awful fixation with breaking out the hedge-trimmers where the razor'd do just as well." The voice scoffed, fading into obscurity with a returning quip: "Funny words coming from your kin - they teach hypocrisy alongside concoctions where you come from?"

He released a low growl at that one...those bloody foxes were always so quick-tempered. "Quick" being the bingo-word - it took Haban another six minutes' pace to reach the dusty doors of Outlook 15, a further four to switch into proper kit in the lockers, and a final two to slump himself down in the midst of the bustling sea of partial cubicles that propagated the station's ground floor. One brief moment of electronic nails-on-a-chalkboard later and his Personal Media Assistant had finished the teeth-grating ritual all of the modern operators were seemingly required to fulfill before they could boot up properly; this was to be shortly followed up by several clicks further into the network, along with a buffered list of promising message-headers:

10:56 A.M. - Not_Sure_Where_You've_Been,_But...

12:28 A.M. - Today_Hasn't_Changed_You_Know...

1:10 P.M. - Do_You_Even_Read_Calendars_?

Hmm...he hadn't *seen Qiaran opposite when he sat down - but her presence was surprisingly suffocating all the same...

"...This is where you check your messages from?"

"Excuse me, Azurei, do you mind if I sit?" An elderly man gestured to the chair across from Ridahne. It was polite to address an Azurei as such if their name or title was unknown; the custom was reflective of a kind of unity the desert nation held, a notion that they were all one. More than that, it was a reminder to the Azurian in question that they, in that moment, represented their nation as a whole.
Ridahne blinked. She didn't generally give of the sort of vibe of a person others would want to approach, so when people did with any kind of politeness, it usually took her aback. Normally she would have outright refused, preferring to be left alone. But the shop was packed, and hers was only one of a few available seats. She studied him with her honey eyes, looking stately and serious despite the casual setting, then eventually nodded and said, "A'ea."

The man lowered himself to a sitting position slowly and with great care, and he was quickly served the hot milky tea. "I was once stationed in Azurei, you know." He said this with a soft smile, and she knew right away he was a veteran of the Ten Years War.
"Where?"
"High Khaileda."
Ridahne gave a very small smile, hidden behind her mug. "Poor bastard. Khaileda eats men alive if they do not know her."
"Yes..we lost many to her slopes. The locals were like ghosts, the way they just appeared and disappeared."
"We get that a lot," she said. And it was true. Azurei had never been known to have a forceful, large military. But they were efficient, trained, and disciplined, and they knew their lands.

The man idly watched the screen, sipped his tea, then looked back to her. "Can I ask where you are from?"
"You can. Atakhara."
"Ah...the wastes..."
"And the sea," she defended quickly. "But yes. The wastes also."
"Can I ask what brings you all the way here?"
"No." Ridahne's reply was flat, cold, and unmoving as stone. Her eyes did not meet his.
The man gave a slow, understanding nod. "Well. Whatever your reasons, it is good to see one of yours here, Azurei. Today, I mean. I know it's not...I know things didn't end as well for the Azurei as they did for some others, and I'm happy to see at least some of you here, even if it's not many. And...well, especially seeing an Eija, it's--"

Ridahne's gaze turned from guarded to cold and heavy. The man could feel it pressing down on him like a pile of stones as she straightened a little in her seat, showing (even while sitting) just how tall she was. Bright, fiery eyes bored out from a tapestry of tan skin and tricolored tattoos with all the fury of a dog showing her teeth.
"Do not presume to know me."
He could feel the chill in her tone. "I'm sorry, I just thought you had that air, I didn't mean--" An even sharper glare cut him off as she rose, finishing her drinks in long gulps before slamming them back down on the table. And whoosh. She was gone, leaving the old man alone at the table blinking and regretting his boldness.

Every so often, Ridahne could be lured into surface level chats with strangers, but personal talk was off the board. There were a lot of things she didn't want to talk about, much less reveal to strangers. Why people felt the need to pry was beyond her. She was walking now, briskly and without much direciton. She just needed to blow off steam a bit. Her head down, she moved fast through the crowd with a graceful efficiency that came with lots of practice. She did this for a while, but then something stopped her. It was nothing tangible, no sound or sight in particular that set her off, but something wasn't right. She could feel it in her bones. Ridahne looked around, but nothing exactly jumped out at her. What was it?

She caught a distant glimpse of another taja (one of two, for they always moved in pairs) and turned her face away so it could not be seen, though she didn't make a run for it, as they were too far off and focused on something else to pay her any mind. But that brought up another question that she'd failed to think of earlier: what were taja doing here? She could understand the presence of eija in a ceremonial sense, but taja could not be bothered with such trivialities as that. They were elite, the small and personal army of the Sota-Sol herself, or of any one of her five Sila-Sol beneath her. And never once had Ridahne ever heard of any of the Sol attending the Armistice festival. Never once.

A low, cold panic began to set in her stomach. She didn't know why, but she had a very bad feeling about them being there. Her training kicked in, then, and a strong sense of self preservation screamed over anything else she might be thinking.

It was time to go.

Qiaran pranced around towards Haban’s front like a cat flaunting her quarry - arms overlapped and big, heartfelt eyebrows thoroughly cross. “...And here I thought you soft and silent types were always supposed to have everything in order; pity that - one less thing to praise about his Almighty Highness, thou who hast not even the decent inclination to pick up a morning shift.”

Haban eased back as far as the blue-black weaved back of his rolling-chair would allow him, wearily puffing away in his burgundy livery; the deep brown pupil of his organic eye contemplated the sharp snap of her words, and his ears noted the rising breaths that simmered to a boil inside her constricted chest. There was a fire in her gaze this afternoon - as if already expecting to be enraged, to hear a snarky retort that might foolishly attempt to counter her argument, and in doing so unknowingly UNLEASH the very DOGS OF WAR. Haban may have been a stubborn procrastinator, but he didn’t exactly fit the bill for a pompous suicidal...

...Ironic, given this line of work.

“Shorry Q - yhou know how Ih take these things...” he said, opening his arms wide in a mock hug, “...Daysh like these, they come ‘round an’around - yhear in, yhear ouht. I jusht don’t tahke ‘em too serioushly anymore.”

Qiaran released a pejorative grumble from her overwatch, likened to a great dragon’s roar echoing boundlessly from the top of its mountainous heights. His gaze trailed after her pitiable mood as she shook her head, retreating back into the cheap refuge of neck-high ‘office’ walls. “I’ll hang out here for another ten in case you need anything...”, she said in a half-muffled tone, “...then I’m up and gone - are we clear?”

“Even the sandstorms couldn’t stain your clarity, Q.”

“Don’t test your luck with that lip, Haban.”

Oh dear, that appeared to be her angry voice talking - it’d be better to get out while the chips were still high. Speaking of speech, it’d only just occurred to the metal-eyed officer that he was starving for an appetite; the Break Room was starting to look awfully enticing...perhaps he ought to investigate it for any cached sustenance? Snatching up his cane, he briefly flipped the screen over to monitoring traffic-light-cameras before making a stealthy evacuation from the desk. Yet, he could hear his faulty exit as soon as he’d risen from his seat, and as if setting off a tripwire, he trembled at the steadfast indignation of Qiaran latching on to his exposed back:

“...And where do you think you’re going Now??” Haban spun around and continued to pace backwards to his destination, attempting a charming smile:

“Quick bite to eat, no worries...?”

“............Uhg - Fine...just make it quick.”

“Ah, make no mistake woman, that’s my Specialty!” The long-haired brunette rolled her hazel eyes and set back to the rhythm of mechanical keys, allowing her lax cubicle-mate a final relief before turning around into that wood-panelled haven of last night’s remnants and this morning’s scavenged confectionaries. He could just make out some sort of commotion surrounding the upper-left’s plasma screen as he entered the room...

Smoke gently wafted to the roof of the room, where it congelated into something of a lingering fog. A well presented speech cut in over one of the local radio stations, the two mixing with several conversations to make an audible mess. A pair of balls clinked together on a green table before one of the balls stumbled gently into a third. A passing siren briefly broke over the conversations, leaving the patrons as they were hardly a moment later.

An electronic bell rung gently through the bar as Vilĉjo pressed through the door; the static in its ring was almost fitting. A couple of wary patrons looked over their shoulders to the newcomer to go back to whatever they were doing just as promptly. Vilĉjo let his eyes wander across the tavern: several patrons sat lined up on stools at the bar itself, watching the ceremonies and speeches on the television with drinks in their hands. Most of the room seemed to be waiting, while a few others jabbed balls around a pool table to pass the time. Underneath some jackets, Vilĉjo spot some sets of scrubs and uniforms; it didn't help at all with the weight hanging from his shoulders.

"Excuse me?" Vilĉjo asked, lifting a hand to wave lazily to the bartender. The woman - a middle-aged woman with a scowl melted into her expression - barely lifted her head. Vilĉjo waved a credit chit at her. "Just a Taja Titty-Twister for me, thanks." The woman let out a scoff as she set the glass she was cleaning down, instead whisking out a phone to look up how to make the cocktail in plain sight. The gesture helped Vilĉjo ease up, if only a little: it reminded him of home. The drink was sat in front of him and the chit was swiped. "If only everything could be so simple," he muttered over the rim of his glass.

Conversation was hardly moving, Vilĉjo noticed. Some nurses from the hospital up the road complained about some of their patients over drinks after their shift and the rest were here to raise a glass to the ceremonies on the television. It was a somber atmosphere - one that made it hard for him to work. Pressing himself out of his stool, he wandered over towards a flock of nurses.
"Uh, pardon me-" he began, the conversation awkwardly stumbling to a standstill as the small crowd looked over towards him. "I couldn't help but notice the scrubs you guys have on under your jackets. My sister is a-" he paused to think, his deft hands moving of their own volition and brushing something off his nose. "-She's a a theater technician but she never talks about her job, so it's hard to relate to her, you know? I was hoping I could tempt some of you with a couple drinks for some of your favorite stores." The group initially seemed disinterested, but a couple of evil glints spread throughout the mob. Who could say no to being paid to complain?

But as Vilĉjo slid the second mobile phone of the score into his coat, he quietly mused to himself: if something is too good to be true, it probably is. He was never good at networking but he had his ways of making ends meet.

Years and years of training were overriding any logical thought Ridahne might have had in that moment. Sure, they weren’t doing anything overly suspicious. They didn’t even seem like they’d seen her. So what was making her feel this way? She didn’t understand it herself, but she knew without a doubt that no matter what was happening, it would be better if she wasn’t around. She was walking fast now, regretting the extra beer she had. If she hadn’t been drinking, she could have carried her knives at least (in this part of the world, it wasn’t as polite or normal to have a full sword on your back or at your hip like it was in Azurei). But now she was a bit intoxicated and unarmed and she felt naked and stupid, clumsy as she pushed her way through the milling throngs.

Had they seen her? Would they be following her? And if they were....what was she supposed to do?

Paranoid, Ridahne turned her head even as she slid past two dawdling people. And just as her neck gave a full twist, it happened.

A ripping, tearing, rending sound like the universe itself had been torn asunder burst through the air, deafening her with its intense volume. And then there was fire. Bright, hot, angry fire mixing with inky black smoke. She was too far away to feel it’s heat, but she did feel the rush of air that moved before it. Two more similar bangs sounded somewhere in the distance and before she knew it, the sky was filled with acrid smoke and the sound of panicked screams.

Ridahne began a full out sprint now, coughing and wheezing. The stage where the chancellor had been was gone. Just gone. And in its place was just fire and ash and smoke. Chaos reigned supreme as panic spread further and deeper through the crowd. She had to get out of here. Anywhere. Just away.

In the turmoil, Ridahne became loosely aware of some local cops moving very fast and very purposely towards her, shouting and pointing angrily. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but she didn’t need to be told outright that they were coming for her, thinking she was a suspect. Of course. If anyone noticed that the Taja had done something, they’d be wary of any Azurei—after all, only veterans of the old war really could tell the difference between a Taja and anyone else just by a quick glance. They would see her tattoos, her face, her clothes, and all that anyone would know is that she was there, and she was Azurei.

That was not a good combination.

Ridahne’s flight became a mad dash for survival now, more than it had been. Still, the cops were stuck in a thick crowd and she was very fast. Would they really be able to ca—

A dull thud reverberated all through her skull as something very hard struck her forehead and she staggered. In that split second of dazed sluggishness she felt multiple hands on her arms and something inside her snapped back to awareness. With surprising speed and strength, she pried herself out of the civilian’s hands, decked the nearest one right in the soft part of the temple, kicked another’s chest, and she dashed away.

Ridahne was fast and had long legs, and the confusion worked to shield her from those who knew what was going on...or thought they did. She was able to get out of the crowd and into a clearer street, where she put her head down and ran with all the last vestiges of speed and energy that she had to find a place to hide. But she was off balance from the drink and from that blow to the head. Something in her felt sick from all the adrenaline as her ears rung, her lungs burned from more than just overexertion, and her legs ached and felt weak under her.

Ridahne thought of the blast. The fire. The smoke, the screaming as everywhere around her, people either descended into panic or, a bit further away, people were dying. Actually dying. Ridahne was not a stranger to death, but not like this. She was 18 when the war ended, and recalled now with a sharp, fresh clarity what it was like to experience bombings back then as a child. She remembered her brother Hadian grabbing her and near throwing her into a bunker as he followed close behind. She remembered the day her mom died. She remembered spitting at soldiers as they passed through her poor little town.

Ridahne remembered the young man serving beer. The woman who ran the tea shop. The veteran soldier who had sat with her there. Where was he, now? He who had survived the war, who came to celebrate its end…she’d snapped at him. She was less than kind to him. Was that what he was thinking of in his last moments? Or did he even have the time?

She blinked. She wasn’t running anymore. The sky above her was now an ashen gray-blue, though the smoke was thinner here than it was at the epicenter. She was on the ground. It took some time to realize this, and it wasn’t until she paid attention to the cool of pavement under her fingers that she realized she’d stumbled and fallen, and had been there for at least a full minute. Damn. She felt horrible. Slow, sluggish, and her thoughts and movements rebelled against her. How far had she run? Not far enough, probably. She touched her forehead and her slender fingers came away red and a little wet.

Ridahne would have stayed there, crumpled on the alley pavement until she either slipped into unconsciousness or stabilized, but she heard fast footsteps approaching and entering the alley. There was no time to rest. Her mind raced. She had nothing to defend herself, not even the little pistol she kept. Desperately, her hand reached out and grabbed the first thing it touched and gripped it hard. A rusty, discarded length of heavy chain was in her grip now. It would have to do.

Like a prize heavyweight boxer staggering up when she should have stayed down and taken the defeat, Ridahne swayed and lurched to her unsteady feet, giving the length of chain one quick, circular twirl. She backed against the wall in a fighting stance and gave a feral, daring snarl at the figure entering the alleyway. The little trickle of blood from her head had streaked down in one jagged red line over her black, white, and indigo tattoos. The tendril had reached her mouth, giving her teeth a bloodstained pinkish hue. She looked like a cornered and crippled wolf who had not yet decided she was finished putting up a fight.

”Talei si ajirih, talei ja’aiye!” ((You come closer, you die.)) Ridahne did not feel very confident, weaponless and out-of-sorts as she was, but she would let no part of her body language or tone reveal that if she could help it. She was innocent. And if someone wanted to try and take her down, she would not go without a fight. It never once occurred to her that fighting at a moment like that would be unwise, that it would not help her case as a suspect. But Ridahne was a fighter to her bones. She was fire, hot and bright. She was stone, hard and unmoving. She would not surrender herself to the hands of foreign law.

It was odd witnessing such a spectacle of patriotism perpetuate itself year after year; as Haban glanced up over the side of the fan-powered cooler, he could just make out the chancellor's weedy frame a midst the burgundy sea of officers huddled before the plasma screen - their eyes fixated to an unhealthy degree upon each rigid smile and half-hearted jest. The man had such a plastic personality - molded by the tenuous connections of politics, muddied by spots of degradation and wasteful indiscretions, and worn to the breaking-point by the typical stresses of the Brahneian elite. It was almost amazing how a concept so fundamentally corrupt could receive any level of reverence at all, let alone the bulk of an entire city-state...but, thus was the way the winds of time blew.

“Causality defines Reality...”

Haban flashed a familiar smile as he emptied a strongly scented coffee pot into the once transparent vessel in his hand, now possessed by the tenebrous body of a rich burnt umber; intoxicating aromas wafted up from within the piping liquid’s stout depths, transfixing him in a haze of idle memories: He regaled himself with recollections of the rebellious nature of his generation’s youth, of the adventurous exploits of renowned ‘Sky Captains’ young and old that he’d idolized in years bygone, or the prosperity influenced by the city’s boom in military infrastructure. All those moments brought with them a surreal sense of pride and wonder...all buried by the misery and torments of war. The smile on his clean-shaven face faded as quickly as it’d come.

It was little wonder that the motley of officers behind him looked up to their superiors like so many devoted goats, with over half of them not even surpassing his own age. What remained of generations “X” and up had stamped a firm lesson into the families of the survivors: no gains ever came without a cost, and rarely was the cost ever worth the gains. The burning spirit of old Brahaenya had snuffed itself out through the smothering weight of its own ambition...and where once had been radical progress and a fast and untamable will for change, there now stood an iron shield of secure familiarity; safe, certainly - but who could ever see the radiance of the sun while cowering behind the shadows?

Maybe that was sick...maybe it was fair - he didn’t particularly care either way at the moment. He took a final tilt of the cup and hurled it aside, returning from his isolated reality at the chime of the crumpled vessel rebounding down into the adjacent waste bin; right now, he needed to relax. With a steady gait and a tempered eye, Haban made for the wood paneled arch of the doorway...

...Yet, for the short space between the dining table and the doorway, a sickening wave overtook him. For a microsecond, the air flashed hot, then cold, and a supernatural force propelled itself through his chest as a violent gust erupted throughout the room. The world spun on its axis as glass and wood and a plethora of office accessories manically fled in front of, around and into him - the roar of a thunderclap tore after them, scorching stone and ripping flakes of paint off of the walls in its wake...and then in an instant, he recognized the split-second nature of these events.

...A dull silence overtook the remnants of Outlook 15; it would not have long to cherish this morbid serenity.

Aches and groans arose from the conscious survivors - those lucky enough to have been shielded from the blast by even the thin walls separating the ground floor from the rest of the building. Though staggered, with a heavy ringing in his ears and a burning torment in his heart and across his face, the floored cripple tried his utmost to regain control of his senses. The room, not to mention the building itself, was completely trashed - the only light to see by now were the rays streaking in from the blown open front wall staring down the street. His tongue felt bruised, and the taste of iron escaped through the corner of his lips. He was lying on his side, cane gripped in a deathclutch in one hand, and everything smelt of ash; the only system left to fully check was that of his hearing.

The crackling of glass underfoot was more than enough to confirm the attentiveness of that receptacle.

Reaching for his pocket, Haban quietly retrieved his pipe, springing the previous vial with a trained efficiency as he loaded in a new, slightly different pill into the metal shaft. Then, he slipped it between his teeth and waited, quietly, as a pair of footsteps drew closer to the room. By the time he could make out their weight, they’d entered the ‘breakroom’...or what was left of it - coyly ignoring the doorway in favor of the half-shredded sidewall that’d previously separated it from the main room. Small to medium sized due to the light nature of their steps, the intruder padded further in as they examined the damage; they were four meters away...then two...then...

It’d only just now occurred to Haban that his mechanical eye didn’t have an eyelid - which probably explained why the soft-footed hunter had decided to stop and admire the scenery just above him. The popping of knees and the creak of taut clothing fibers gave away the stranger’s inquisitive streak, as he knelt to examine the stiff glare of the glowing red pupil beneath him.

Well...no one ever said curiosity was good for the cat.

With a sudden jerking motion, Haban hurled himself onto his back and gave the pipe a hard BLOW, spewing forth a noxious cloud of vapors across his victim’s face; caught off guard,“He” retched a horrified scream, hurling himself back, then stumbling, clattering to the floor. With all the speed he could muster, Haban pulled himself to his feet and bolted past, briefly glimpsing the flurry of fingers clawing at the agonizing man’s own disfigured visage; the chemical reaction was swift and unstoppable - he doubted there’d be much left to see in a few minutes...if there was anything left of the flesh at all. Stranger still, however - he thought he recognized the attire to be-

Haban stopped short of rounding the corner, the figure of a man hurling himself towards the officer with unrelenting speed and ferocity. A short, curved knife glinted briefly in one of his hands - ragged attire and a host of tattoos coated this offender’s stampeding body...

-...Azurei. Ignoring the slow pace of his organic eye, Haban shifted his weight laterally, using his newfound positional advantage to swat down the overreaching swipe of the blade with a powerful rap of his cane. With his weapon arm preoccupied, the assailant attempted a quick roundabout with his freehand towards Haban’s head, but was again denied as the latter raised his retracted forearm to catch it. Then, in one savage motion, the officer reached towards his mouth and to the all-too-brief surprise of his adversary, unsheathed the pipe from within itself, revealing a short spike where the mouthpiece had once been. With intuitive accuracy he shot the blade point-blank into the Azurei’s eye, forcing the man to reel in pain from the gouge; but Haban hadn’t finished, and with another serpentine strike he lashed out at the unwary foe’s larynx, puncturing a bloody hole where flesh was normally more appropriate to see. Using his bodyweight to shove his neutralized opponent onto the dusty remnants of a three-legged table, the rapidly breathing officer resheathed the pipe and glanced back up over the ground floor.

Four more Azurei had retrained their attention from the wreckage to him...and he wasn’t exactly keen on sticking around to see what they were looking for. With a brief glance back behind him, the bald, mid-twenties war veteran took off for a side door, rapidly hobbling over corpse and officeware alike as he struggled to maintain his initiative over any possible attempts at pursuit. Within seconds, he’d busted his way out the door, lungs screaming and wild limping leaving a trail of dust in its wake as he practically pogoed his way across streets, ducking around shops and through bewildered civilians, before crashing to a rough halt down the start of a nearby alley.

“...Come............on...”

The man leaned wearily against the sandstone entry, one eye closed from an irritation of dust and the other trying madly to record every ounce of detail retained within the depths of the passageway. His resplendent burgundy livery was matted with dust-stains and scorch-marks, his tan face hung heavily with exhaustion and sported patches of singed flesh and a speckles of fresh blood. His mechanical leg gleamed through several ripped layers of a pant leg, and rested part of its weight through his use of a smooth wooden cane. A dim metal pipe hung haphazardly out of his mouth, and lent to the mutual feeling expressed throughout the whole of his person:

Utter disbelief.

Her instructions were clear. Kyyridh was to wait for the bombs, which had been carefully placed two weeks prior, to go off and then she and her team would sweep in and make five quick kills. Just five, and then they were to be gone. Anyone else who put up a fight was to be swiftly killed, also. She was very proud of her team, who took their five and then exited (though Rhuvon had run into a feisty one, whom he quickly put down and counted as the sixth) smoothly, calmly, and quickly. Normally she would offer them drinks after a successful mission. But not today. Though she was the lead for her squad, her ipari was not taking orders from her. Not this time. Instead, a Taja was calling the shots.

It was not the first time she'd had to surrender control to a Taja, nor would it be the last. Taja outranked even the highest, most esteemed Eija and had authority to swoop in to seize any number of hand-picked individual soldiers or whole ipari for their purposes. And she always surrendered authority gracefully. But she'd be lying to herself if she didn't admit that his presence made her nervous. Undoubtedly, he would be reporting back to her Sila-Sol on her performance and she did not want to disappoint her Sol.

"Kyyridh." The voice was cold, firm, demanding. It had every right to be. The Eija woman snapped to attention in front of Teyrvadin--the Taja overseeing this fragment of the operation--her chin lifted high and her knife drawn while the other hand rested on the pistol holster at her back, ready for command. "A count." It was not a statement, it was an order.
"Six. We met only the one resistor. The rest were in panic and either fled or did not see us."
Teyrvadin sneered and actually spat thickly on the rooftop where he stood, still surveying the wreckage he caused from afar. Black smoke choked the sky and everywhere the sounds of sirens wailed mournfully. "Pathetic," he jeered with all the hate he could muster; he was plainly not speaking about Kyyridh's team or their performance.

The door to the stairwell opened and another figure came out onto the rooftop looking dusty and harried--much like Kyyridh. It was Oroban, the lead for the other strike team sent to do a similar task at another military outpost. Unlike Kyyridh, however, Oroban did not look so triumphant. Nevertheless, he marched up to Teyrvadin smartly and assumed a similar position as his peer: chin up, knife drawn, hand on his pistol. "Taja," he addressed him respectfully.
"A count."
"Eight. We met...more resistance than we expected."
"Mmm." The Taja's face was inscrutable. "Status of your ipari." He looked briefly to both of them.
Kyyridh answered first. "They fight another day."
Oroban took a little longer to force his answer out, and in his hesitation Kyyridh noticed streaks through the dust and soot on his face. Tears. There was no other trace of them and Kyyridh did not ask about them. Oroban would not admit it anyway. But she knew before he spoke something had gone very wrong. "I lost two," he finally said.
"They will be replaced, and their families will be notified," Teyrvadin said coldly, evenly.
"And..." Oroban swallowed hard. "One of them..." He was visibly struggling to get the words out but he eventually managed, "L-lost his Ojih."

The usually impassive, grim Teyrvadin rounded on him suddenly, eyes wide and fixed on the male Eija. "What?" The word came from clenched teeth.
"A chemical attack of some sort. Gas. It just...just..." He could not say it. He physically couldn't, so he instead put one hand in front of his face, fingers splayed out, and dropped it down as if to imitate something being wiped away.

All three of them shared a silent space of horror. Kyyridh's success seemed empty and hollow as she watched her fellow Eija stand resolutely still and as blank faced as he could despite his obvious desire to either howl with rage or keen over the loss he so sharply felt. Oroban never once questioned his purpose, their purpose, as he thought back to the souls he'd lost. Even in his shaken horror, he remained certain beyond shaking of their mission. If anything, the memory of both his fallen comrade and the other more gruesome loss made him all the more sure that they were doing what was right. Centuries of disrespect, of exploitation, of arrogance--they would all pay for it now. Doubly so after what he'd seen today. He'd make sure of it.

The look of disgust in Teyrvadin's gold-green eyes intensified. "These fools will come to regret that. They will regret it so deeply they will hang themselves in grief...Inform his family he is missing in action. Instruct your ipari to speak of it to no one."
Oroban nodded gravely. "Of course. Not a s--" His breath caught at the word 'soul'. What had once been such a commonplace expression now felt like a stab in the chest. He couldn't say it; he gave up trying to finish the word. Instead, he took a deep breath, straightened, and said, "Taja, I would like a chance to avenge my comrades." His voice was hard, sharp.
"Granted. They will have begun to set up auxiliary medical centers to tend to all their wounded that will not fit in their hospitals. Find one. Burn it down. Do not wait for the cover of night. Go now and be swift."

Oroban's jaw set and a vengeful sneer made the corner of his lip twitch, though it did not yet fully lift to a true snarl due to his efforts to keep his face blank. He hammered one fist against his chest and held it there despite the fact that it was still shaking slightly, then said, "For the Sota-Sol and her people." And then, swiftly, he was gone.

Vilĉjo barely had time to blink. One moment, he was playing with someones hair, letting it slip gently between his fingers while he slipped her phone out of her pocket. The next, he was on the floor.

Vilĉjo lifted his hand to his face, pressing at it to try and feel something other than what felt like the ring after a good hit from a sledgehammer. His vision blurred and his ears rung, his senses screaming defiantly at him as he rubbed at his face. It wasn't the first time he'd been caught, but it didn't always come with a king hit. He lifted a hand above his head, muttering out the first excuse to come to mind as his vision began to clear:
"Now hold on, let's talk abou-.." But his words fell short. As clarity came back to his eyes and the ringing slowly faded, he found several other patrons on the floor. Some hung onto the bar, others had crawled underneath tables; one of the windows was even smashed in, leaving glass about the floor.

Vilĉjo's mind lagged. As he pulled himself up with the help of a nearby table, things started to tick into place. He wasn't the only one, others were hurt, and the window was smashed in, so that meant that it was something else - something big. That meant injuries and injuries meant...
"...a nice itch in my hip pocket..." Vilĉjo finished aloud, muttering under his recovering breath. He reached into his coat, aggressively wrenching his fingers through his pockets. He yanked a small container out, his eyes glimmering as they came to the pills, before-
"You!" shouted a woman's voice, "You monster!" Vilĉjo threw his head up, meeting the bloody and infuriated nurse who stared murder at him. He looked down to find what gave him away: a small pile of mobile phones and wallets, the very same he had all hidden in his coat before he turned it upside down.

It was hard for Vilĉjo to hurry to his feet, but he somehow made it. He threw the container back, slipping what felt like a couple of the pills into his mouth with one hand while offering a cocky, two-fingered salute with the other.
"Just holding onto them for you, ladie-!" he started to taunt, being quickly cut off when a rush of movement out of the corner of his eye made him duck. A bar stool: it was a bar stool, suspiciously attached to the arms of a well built middle-aged man. Oh, right... he was being attacked.

Vilĉjo lifted a knee, driving it towards the mans crotch; instead, he caught his thigh while whisking up a phone and a wallet from the floor. A second and a third swing from the stool followed: Vilĉjo slipped by the first if only barely, where he then grabbed a half-filled glass and threw it at his assailant before the next. The glass shattered against the middle-aged man, warm beer with a hint of blood splashing across the bar. A hint of blood, sure, but not nearly enough; this only occured to Vilĉjo as his gaze wondered down to his metallic arm, which was left almost entirely untouched. Oh, that wasn't goo-
"Him!" shouted another voice. There were too many for Vilĉjo to keep track of now. "He planned this - he must be one of the attackers!"
"Someone get him!" pitched in a third. The cogs in Vilĉjo's mind began to turn for just a moment, before they stopped early with only one word to show for it: run.

The bar door flew open. Vilĉjo scrambled onto the street for the middle-aged man to follow. The man had a nasty scar across his forehead and a small collection of medals across the left side of his chest.
"Police!" the man shouted, pointing at Vilĉjo with a glass bottle. "He's with them!" The bottle followed the words shortly after, smashing on the ground a few feet besides Vilĉjo. Vilĉjo ducked as he run, where he slipped into an alley and slammed the first thing his hand could find down behind him: a garbage bin, which spilled its guts all over the concrete. It hardly phased the veteran, who plowed right through it.

"Fuck- go and finish your drink!" Vilĉjo shouted as he ran. It didn't tempt the veteran at all: instead, it might of encouraged him, because the ground between the pair of them was getting smaller and smaller. Vilĉjo, with a grunt, felt the once faint weight in the left side of his coat grow heavier. "Shit..." he muttered, hesitating before abruptly slamming to a halt. He twisted around, presenting something new to his pursuer: a gritty looking pistol, not an entirely foreign sight to the streets with wires and diodes running along the sides. A trio of shots rocked the alley, breaking the veterans sprint and forcing him into cover behind a dumpster. A pair followed, dinging off the steel as Vilĉjo started running again.

Overhead, a drone buzzed quietly against the rising smoke in the background. The camera lens on the robot tightened and widened inquisitively.

---

Heat had built into a painful knot in his chest. His stomach churned, threatening to empty itself if he kept going. Vilĉjo wasn't sure how long he had been running now - it could have been ten seconds of ten minutes for all he could tell. Sirens dominated the streets and smoke threatened to waft above the skyline. What a mess-

"Talei si ajirih, talei ja’aiye!" The voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Vilĉjo nearly fell over trying to stop himself so suddenly. The very visage of the sage advice his brother once told him: 'don't stick it in anything that might take it off.' The swinging chain, the fights stance, the snarl that better suited a wolf than a woman: if whoever was still after him was a rock, then she was the hard place.
"No, wait-!" Vilĉjo shouted, presenting the barrel of his pistol towards the woman as he panted. His aim was wide and wandering, erratic and wild. His eyes scanned the alley, panicked, to find only a dead end. Beads of sweat had formed on his skin long ago, but now his sweat was starting to run cold. In his panic, his body locked down, rooting him to the floor: he froze, all bar the wild aim of his gun.

The borderline hyperventilation that followed only made it worse.

When the bomb went off and people began leaping on her, trying to pin her down and take her into captivity, Ridahne was convinced that the day couldn't get any worse. How could it? People dying everywhere--civilians--and Ridahne knew deep down that the Taja were not there by chance. Her people had done this. Hers. And she wanted to say it was unlike them, that her people would never do something like this. But...they had.

She had.

Not this exactly, but she'd done dark deeds in the name of duty, in the name of preserving as many lives as possible. That, after all, was what Azurei did. If a few had to die so that others would live, then it would be so. Auzurei practically wrote the book on small strike teams, strategic pressure points, assassinations. They had neither the resources nor the numbers to march out in force, so they resorted to strategy. Strategy meant careful sacrifice.

Ridahne stopped herself. She was almost justifying this. How could she? There was no cause for this, no excuse. She was well versed in the issues Azurei faced--general poverty, exploitation of the silver mines for which they were so known, and a general loss of sovereignty after the war ended. But none of those things were cause for an act of war like this. If the Sol wanted a war, why didn't she just send a team to assassinate the Chancellor in his bed? What was more, why did she want to bring on another war? What was she thinking?

No. This was wrong. No matter what her bias towards home told her, bombings were low and cowardly. They shed needless blood.

Of course, as another man entered the alley, Ridahne decided that yes, yes this day could get worse. One, she could easily intimidate into avoiding a fight and if it came to one, in her current state she had a shot still. But two? Sober and armed, she wouldn't bat an eye, but at the moment, she wasn't firing on all cylinders. This one had a gun, which severely tipped the odds against her. As a reflex, Ridahne gave a fierce shout and stomped her front foot on the ground, though she was very disappointed with the lack of effect. At home in the sands, that gesture which had become so instinctive had a much greater effect as it sprayed sand forward--if it was done with a little more force and momentum, sand could be kicked into the opponent's eyes. But here, it just slapped onto the paved alleyway unsatisfactorily.

"Point that fucking gun somewhere else or I'll take the hand that holds it." Though she had a thick accent, her Brahneian was good and clear. Ridahne meant every word, though she wasn't exactly sure how she'd follow through without either a gun or any of her blades. "And don't either of you move any closer or SO HELP ME YOU WILL NOT LEAVE THIS ALLEY ALIVE." As if to prove a point, she swung the chain in her hand around once to gain momentum, then another rotation slapped hard into the sandstone wall beside her, sending tiny chips of broken stone skittering along the ground. Of course, this was a terrible thing for a person who was a suspect who also wanted to convince others she was innocent, to say out loud. This, however, wouldn't cross her mind until later.

She couldn't think of any reason either of them would be there except to come for her...but then...neither of the men seemed to expect to find her there. In fact, the one with the gun seemed rather surprised and concerned at finding her. Then again, she thought that could be simply because they had been looking for refuge and instead were faced with what they thought was someone responsible for the wreckage, and were now putting up a fight. She didn't know, but it didn't matter. The fact remained that at least one weapon was pointed her way and she would not take that lying down. Besides, she needed to get out, grab her things, and get as far away from here as possible.

Overhead, the little drone hovered and its attached camera studied the three of them in turn, a little light blinking green in rhythmic blips every few seconds. It made no signs of moving on. Ridahne, consumed by panic, did not notice.

The fiercely inquisitive red gleam of the officer’s mechanical eye trailed the nearer threat, recalibrating in response to the reflective glare of the shimmering silver barrel. It catalogued the medley of wires streaking up and down the shaft, disappearing into the grip through a series of small, roughly bored holes. Custom? Possibly. Unregulated? Definitely. “Street-Wise”, assumably. One thing was for certain - a job like that was going to either take off the user’s hand, or the target’s head...though either outcome might not be entirely unwarranted in this particular scenario. A weary smile crept up around the corners of the man’s mouth, and billowing trails of sickly vapor seeped from out between them in a manner not unlike that of a dragon’s - he shifted his weight to better position himself against the alley wall.

That expression stopped short, warped and contorted itself in a sudden and violent reaction; an offhand bolted for his abdomen, and the cane’s support buckled from out beneath as Haban dropped onto all fours, retched and vomited.

A moment passed as he stared down at the consequences of his overexertion, taking in heavy breaths to compensate for this sudden, overpowering bout of vertigo. A tinge of anguish passed across his brow as the glint of the pipe caught his attention in between the mess of putrid sand and bile; he raised his organic left to retrieve it, but stopped, reconsidered the action, and carried through the task with his mechanical right instead. Pocketting the pipe, the wretch pulled himself back up onto his knees with a hoarse series of groans, eyes wide from the pain and one hand sparingly clutching his midsection. The shock of the blast, it seemed, was fading...

Out of habit, Haban’s gaze shot to and fro between the two strangers idling opposite him; the gunslinger clearly wasn’t in the habit of regularly exercising his weaponarm - or at the very least, he couldn’t be seen as fanatical about the idea. Average clothes, average character...or so it seemed at first glance; there was something shifty about the way he held himself, loose but clearly fashioned according to the laws of second-hand bars, backdoors and, of course, seedy alleyways. Plus he had a stupid haircut - like someone had set him down under a cow’s slobbering grazing for an hour before blow-drying. Probably wasn’t much of a threat outside of the pistol, but not the type you’d want to hang around for long without the risk of getting caught yourself. The Azurei, on the other hand...

Independent of any movement by his organic, his red eye shot over onto the bullish woman with an unnerving curiosity - cold, calculating, attempting to flush out the slightest signs of weakness...and lo, there were many. A battered, barefooted, yet ferocious posture sought in vain to act as a shield against the public eye - as a wounded animal hisses and snaps at its attackers, trying to feign the threat. Despite the faults of her heritage and the repugnant organizational-scar marring her naked shoulder, whatever she’d happened to be prior to...”then”...it wasn’t Eija. Or at the very least, he’d seen better. Hopefully she wouldn’t go pulling anything ridiculous in the coming minutes - somehow it just didn’t seem right to die by the hands of idiots, kicked when you were down at your lowest.

...Perhaps she was feeling similarly.

“...Put the peacemaker down, friend - she ain’t gonna rush ya.”

He was feeling confident, now - more so than when he’d first fallen in this mess. He extended a handshake out towards the street rat standing adjacent him, putting on his most prize-winning smile as he continued:

"...Did you know, your average Bull can take Six - SIX shots to the chest and still gore the matador? Nature's a fascinating spectacle, ain't it?"

It was overwhelming - but yet, was it? As Vilĉjo worked on focusing his aim and catching his breath, he tried to make reason with himself. Nine shots: he had nine shots to take down some native punk with a chain if she tried to close the gap. That, and he was here in the streets - this was his home territory, his stomping ground.
"Listen, lady!" Vilĉjo began, his breath steadying as his finger rubbed the trigger guard of the pistol. "You're in no position to be making threats right now, so why don't we both just- wait, either of y-?" His gaze swung to the right, then to the left, where his pistol promptly followed. He didn't even notice the second man come into the alley. For a moment, he almost mistook him for his pursuer: between chrome and an outwardly tough and collected demeanour, he might even be forgiven at a glance. His eyes skimped for further details, or at least for now. He began to backpedal to get himself a bit of room, the barrel of his pistol jumping between both of the people in the alley with him all the while.

After just calming himself down a bit, Vilĉjo was rattled again. He just managed to slip away from a bad situation - maybe, if they aren't chasing the gunshots - and he's carrying stolen cell phones that are about to be hot. As if that wasn't enough, now he's stuck in an alley with two people that look like they could put him to the flo- ..that was, until the man vomited. Okay, at least one person that could put him on the floor. Point being that...

"I'm pretty happy with my 'peacemaker' where it is, friend." Vilĉjo almost spat at Haban, pushing the words out from between his teeth. The last word carried a thick coat of apprehensive venom. "Now, why don't you both just... go take a walk, alright? Just go, get out of here!" He could feel the small weights in his coats burning and the longer he waited, the more he felt their weight. He needed to burn those phones before they burned him, then he needed to get the hell out of this city. The van- "Fuck..!" Vilĉjo muttered under his breath as he struggled to path a route back, his eyes wandering to his feet for a moment in thought.

Ridahne did not like the way the one-eyed man looked at her. It wasn't so much his searching gaze, nor the fact that it seemed that he saw through her bluff and could see she was not in peak condition at the moment. She couldn't fault him for being observant. But it was the way he sort of smirked, the way he casually told the other man that she wouldn't charge him. Hah! He knew nothing of her if he was willing to make judgements so fast. He was obviously military, judging by his clothes and his synthetics, so she guessed that he had some experience with Azurei.

But some was not enough. Not for her.

Ridahne Torzinei was a force in and of herself, wild and with a personality that could only accurately be described as 'vivid' or 'passionate'. In short, she was intense and stubborn, and she did not appreciate being made light of. As if to prove a point, she took a few steps forward on dead silent feet, the chain whooshing as she swung it. "You wanna test your luck, asshole?" Her teeth showed in a snarl. When it came to self preservation, Ridahne did not screw around. Besides, it took more than one gun to make her feel afraid, whether that was wise or not. She'd been shot before and knew that not everyone was as good with a pistol as they liked to believe. She'd take her chances and call his bluff until the situation changed.

But the second one didn't seem to take his words to heart and still considered both of them a threat. Wise, she thought to herself. Ridahne was concluding very quickly that this second man had little to nothing to do with what had happened here today, or at least in any way that concerned her. Something fishy, yes, and he seemed shifty and nervous. But not burned. Not torn and blackened and scorched like her or the other man. On another day, she might have been curious. On another day, she might have tailed him to see what he was up to--just to keep her skills sharp and her mind occupied. But today, she cared for nothing and no one but survival. The shock of the event and the gravity of what it meant would come later, but now was all about fight or flight.

"I was here first, shithead!" She snarled, feeling obstinate. Her amber eyes burned in fury, but what she wanted most was just to get out, get her things, and flee. She had to distance herself from this place. From this. Still, at that moment she knew them and with the gun was not there for her, and that emboldened her. If he had other business to attend to, he wouldn't care if she got away. In fact, he wanted her to.

And then she saw an opportunity. Keeping her eyes locked on the two men (especially the one with the mech-eye), Ridahne began quickly making her exit, skirting around them against the wall and hoped that they would either just let her go or that she could outrun them. After all, she was fast--drunk, injured, or not. She was certain she would make it, when a dark shape swooped down in front of her, just as she was reaching the front of the alleyway.

A drone, larger than the one that had been hovering above the three of them unnoticed, blocked her path. It was a sleek black piece of machinery, rounded and smooth looking with little red and green lights blinking or glowing steadily. A large lens like a big cycloptic eye fixed on her with an intensity that made her highly uncomfortable. As the thing whirred gently in front of her, moving accordingly as she tried to sidestep it, it flashed a universal symbol--a little red hand--that clearly meant 'halt'.

Uh oh.

While she'd been standing off with the two men, authorities had tracked her down. They'd tracked her down and would take her in, and as far as she knew, she'd never see the light of day again. She had no idea exactly how strict the local government was in general, and she had even less idea how they treated potential terrorists. But she knew that in Azurei, the stakes would be high. She didn't want to take her chances here.

A rough, robotic voice chimed, "IDENTIFIED. AZUREI." And then in (very primitive, she thought) Azurian it demanded, 'HALT. YOU ARE UNDER ARREST.'

"JE!" She snarled back at it defiantly, and with another war cry swung the chain at the thing. It dodged smoothly away, just out of her reach.

"DO NOT RESIST. YOU ARE UNDER ARREST. FORCE WILL BE USED. DO NOT RESIST."

Ridahne snarled and, swinging her chain a bit to gain momentum, hurled it with accuracy at the black drone. It attempted to dodge but failed, though to Ridahne's dismay it was equipped with a kinetic damper, which meant that though the chain struck its mark, it lost a significant amount of force and momentum as though it had suddenly passed through water or syrup. The drone was unhindered.

At that moment, Ridahne knew her only hope was to run. It wasn't much of a hope, but she had to try and she wasn't about to go quietly. She dashed forward, attempting to just push it away far enough to get past it, but it was designed to thwart this kind of behavior. Though instead of blocking her further, it appeared to let her pass and just followed behind for half a second before a puff of air burst from its front and Ridahne felt both a pinprick and a cold sensation spring from the back of her shoulder. Alarmed, she whirled around to try and remove the dart, bu the damage had been done. Whatever toxin had been used, it was potent and worked very quickly.

Ridahne's knees buckled and would not respond to her urgings to move again. She tried to think about her training, to keep her heart rate down so that it wouldn't spread as fast, but it seemed too late for that too. Cursing, she felt her core muscles slacken, dropping her fully to the dusty ground where she lay paralyzed for a moment as a dark vehicle stopped not far from her. Three figures came out of it, two of them grabbing her, and the last thing she remembered was attempting a furious scream as she was hauled away.

Then her world went quiet and dark.

Haban's face contorted in perplexed anguish; A Collector, here - and so soon? He scratched idly at his chest, eyes wandering between the drone, its victim, and their armed onlooker. He sat motionless as the Azurei violently succumbed to the effects of the neurotoxin and the streetrat haphazardly whipped his pistol about; Only the redirection of the officer's lucent eye betrayed the inner workings of his mind: Up.

Like lightning, it flashed with a sudden, faint understanding.

As it happened, the thunderous roar of a 6-cylindered engine would soon confirm just how rapidly the rising storm was closing in...

The sedan stopped a few meters shy of the Collector's shivering plaything, and all at once three black-clad figures emerged from within. They moved with authority and confidence, masked from identity by the tinted visors of their helms, and fortified in stature by extensive levels of physical augmentation. There was a strange, almost muscular way in which metallic coils wrapped around the skeleton and joints, exposed without its plating...yet showing no signs of tarnish - Aug-Tech unlike anything Haban had ever seen before. And though their footsteps planted heavy heels across the sand-swept pavement, a ghost-like silence radiated from about their persons, as if their presence was only a trick of the light - a mirage cast by the heat of the midday sun. . .

"IDENTIFIED, BRAHNEIAN: HABAN, ARMUN, MIRZA - OUTLOOK. REGISTERED TO. . ."

Haban's attention was briefly retracted from the sight of an Azurei being hauled one-armed into the car's reclusive interior. He locked eyes with the intimidating black ball hovering over him, slipping a hand down into his pantspocket as it whirred quietly, calculating.

". . .OUTLOOK 1_5; PLEASE BE PATIENT DURING TRANSIT. YOUR SAFETY IS OF OUR UTMOST CONCERN."

The drone tilted down towards his chin, a small hole flicking open beneath its core guidance sensors; A puff of air escaped its hollow.

The crimson glow of the officer's mechanical eye twitched in irritation, readjusting from its hyper-focused state - it trained ever-vigilantly upon the bile-bespeckled pipe cupped over the tranquilizer-shaft, and a smirk crept up around the corners of his mouth once more.

"...Bless you."

There was a time, he thought, when one serpent could find shelter in the house of another; it seemed that time was gone now.

The Collector stopped to recalculate - then, noting the obstruction, made to reverse and reload; Yet an unaccounted hand blocked its passage backward, and without warning the majority of the officer's upperbody-weight was atop the droid, clasped to it like an anchor as the pair gently descended down to the ground below. The drone's analytics-camera struggled to shutter and refocus, finally fixating on the intrusion of a small, sharp point placed on its lens. Too close - whatever it was, it was simply too close to focus on; Protocol: Distance From and Refocus On Target. The shutter made to snap shut and protect the glass behind it. . .yet the point remained stuck to its surface - and with a sudden, violent impulse, it d r a g g e d gleefully across the screen, gouging a faint, blurry trail in its wake. The point stopped, then reversed, pulling back across and holding...before maniacally skating over the scratched surface in a carnival-act of mad squiggles and repeating loop-de-loops. Haban reasserted the weight of his chest and metal hand over the droid's mouth, wheezing frantically as he scribbled the unsheathed blade about the lens and shouted: "IDENTIFIED, HAZARDOUS VISUAL INTERFERENCE! PLEASE BE PATIENT DURING MAINTENANCE - YOUR WELL-BEING IS OF OUR UTMOST CONCERN!"

A harsh, ear-splitting whistle shrieked down the alley, pulsating in a powerful, stomach-churning monotone. The sound hit like a tidalwave, causing the officer to seize upon himself in agony as he rolled off the droid, which hovered back to head-level with a sort of dazed sputter and shaking. Amidst the deafening ringing cascading throughout his skull, the ragged outlook made out a flurry of confused "ERROR - ERROR"s. Yet as soon as it had come, the noise cut its auditory rampage short, and reopening his eyes Haban caught the faintest trace of blue fade into obscurity from behind one of the strangers' visors; it was staring down at him. . .no, They were staring down at him - two of them, in fact. All too late, he realized that the numbing weight in his limbs wasn't due to a sudden oncoming bout of diplegia - and from his helpless position, he watched in horror as one of them dragged the disorderly drone into view with a singular hand, paying little heed to its incessant warnings:

"ERROR - NO TARGET RECOGNIZED."

"ERROR - NO TARGET RECOGNIZED."

"ERROR - NO TA--g--nizzz..."

The sound of a strong puff of air preceded the sharp sting of the tranquilizer, forcing a surprised gasp from the officer as it penetrated beneath his collarbone. A bitter chill crept through his blood, out through his chest...down his spine. Satisfied, the principle wraith walked out of frame, lugging the spasming drone along by their side with the same ease as if it were a paperweight.

A flicker in the shape of the Azurei caught his mind's eye; the officer went limp, attempting to track the neurotoxin as the second wraith dragged his ragdoll of a body by the scruff of his jacket across the grating pavement. Surprisingly, his left fingers were the first to go quiet - to be followed by his right toes and heel, left forearm...left arm. . .right calf. . . . . .right leg. His organic eye sluggishly relapsed to the dark as he shifted from the exterior sunlight to the dim internals of the sedan, propped up against a couple plush pillows. He stared quietly at the ceiling. . .waiting.

. . .

...

...He was staring.

...

. . .

A glimmer of red flickered out behind the retreating stranger's back, tracing the steady pace of their figure. It crawled along the open edge of the car door, sliding down along the upholstery...up a twitching mechanical knee...and finally, resting on its prize.

...The silvery fingers of Haban's augmented hand rose with a start, padding his breast in a motion not that dissimilar to an arachnid. It sniffed and scratched with uncertain legs along the scorch-marked burgundy of its host, inwards - upwards. . .

Bingo.

. . .

...Come on, you weaselly fucker...

. . .

...Just...

...A little...

...GOTCHA...

...Lucent crimson trailed after the roguish digits as they lugged pill and limb up over the side of his face despite their draining speed, intuitively slipping the two between the blurry mounds above it. The officer expelled a sigh of relief, propelling the metal palm down over the seat, away from the evidence. Once more, his gaze affixed itself to the dim ceiling above, growing cloudier by the second as his breaths drew weary. . .slow. . .

...Blessed be the lepers - for theirs is a faith unhindered in the face of great despair.