[IC] &&𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚.

^{. 𝗂 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗀𝗈. 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗂 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗇𝖾𝖻𝗎𝗅𝖺, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋. 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝖺 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗂 𝗇𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾, 𝗇𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾, 𝗂'𝗏𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 .}

^{[ 𝐫 𝐚 𝐢 𝐧 𝐨 𝐟 𝐭 𝐡 𝐞 𝐜 𝐢 𝐭 𝐲 ] [ 𝐭 𝐡 𝐫 𝐞 𝐧 𝐨 𝐝 𝐲 𝐨 𝐟 𝐭 𝐡 𝐞 𝐦 𝐚 𝐧 𝐢 𝐟 𝐞 𝐬 𝐭 ]}

[Rockette]

. c h a p t e r o n e .

Rain falls, eternally, and when it does, it becomes the beckoned tears of weeping angels; slumbering figures of erosion and wear, moss pocketed cheeks, sullen eyes of ashen herald that wrack upon lonesome wonder and pondering. Rain falls in small doses, delicate droplets that linger just so, misting asphalt from lead to obsidian, all hues worn by sorrow wane and want, coating over The Badlands. Against a pane of glass they rap, hoisted down by the trails of manufactured sheen, clearing paths of relaxing ripples over their wooded hosts and brick laid foundations. Pale breath rasps over the opposite in lackadaisical splendor and wonder, pale lips smudged a sheen of gloss, blanketed over bone with arachnid gestures scooped against a faint jaw.

She inhales, and with a flutter of soot-black lashes, exhales and witnesses the fogging spread against the cold looking glass.

The Badlands was meant eternally for rain, where only minute reliefs of sun broke through in the dawn, before dominated by the grey of clouds and rain shed, the rays only filtered through so much and it would take a near miracle otherwise. Such occurrences had often been explained by science and claims, the way the city laid banked by the Paramorl River to the East, the capes of the mountains yonder that foretold of chilling winters reaped with sopping ice; smothered by the fog of frigid clouds that hung low from the spires of the city like demented spectors.

The Paramorlian Cathedral was a splendor on its' lonesome in this eternal gloom; a lone sentinel wreathed in glass panned spires bedecked with silver, betwixt the crowns of the city that heralded no official name other than the moniker bequeathed from years past. The Badlands was befitting as it was simplistic, it rolled off the shoulders with misery and complacency and stuck to the bones like a secondary film of flesh. The Cathedral had once been the pinnacle of the city, built directly within the center in the belief of every soul being closer to the heavens, to help lift the burden of life and woe. Whilst such a notion was grand in charity, it had become quickly noted that people were drawn to other fixations, distractions, such ways of life that spurned them away from those once pristine doors. Until a discovery of a forgotten relic within the Paramorlian tombs during the earthquake of the Industrial climax almost a century ago: The Atis. It was a discovery laced with poetry and begone words, literature donned in an olden tongue and cryptically translated by the - then smaller and lowly funded - gallery of the Paramorlian histories of the United Mythos. It was vaguely scripted to a near fairy tale like odyssey of twin serpents, bound and twined, yet never touching, never meeting, and eyes cast away from a long ago age.

It was an enriching discovery and was stolen not even a week later from its' display in the Cathedral centre.

A month following the disappearance, carefully marked pages were discovered that The Atis has been relieved of its' holy perch in favour of the security the Paramorlian historians could supply during their ascension, such disrupted The Badlands between the faithful and the artisans that attempted to placate and oppose them; to preserve art and tale. The divide had been a disarray of protests and vandalism attributed to both parties that would later spill into the later generations.

Irony would later - much later - discover that The Atis displayed within a gold filigreed box of wood and glass was a forgery that would last for many a year to follow the original theft.

Such skill and craftsmanship were done by lithesome gestures and careful intentions of old Gypsies, an art lost to the centuries of technology and mechanical finesse. It was taught to generations that one would assume be found within family, but the reality of the craft was traded to those without; orphans and urchins just scraping on bloodies knees and bruised finger tips to just get by. These unfortunate souls of life and material loss would then grow up to become thieves of the dwindling art, the kind that cantered after those of family and fame who were deeply seeded and enriched through legacy. Some would call them thieves of the neighboring cloth, cut by jagged glass and displaying more jagged edges.

She was jagged ice and silvery inlay, reflecting a madness within, finding herself thrust upon an ancient artistry. The memory alone caused a rippling shudder to peel through a slender spine, clothed in thick cashmere the colour of creme and mocha luxuries as the chill from outside slowly crept inside. Overlooking the Cathedral across the way was the Herlion Building, six stories high and wide. It was one of many complexes scattered amidst the city in the fashions of lofts and roof houses that gave highway to the skies. And wouldn't it be the grandest form of cynicism to know that deeply buried within the sixth floor, scattered with various flora of the resident botanist, with plants of interchanging hue and greenery, would lie the original Atis; well preserved even after centuries of lies?

Probably so.

She admired her view atop the Herlion Building, watching those speckled angels casting their judgement to the denizens crossing the sidewalks. The earthquake that had revealed the tombs had never seen repair, and time and erosion saw the walls to near decay. The steeple has been worn to a blunt centre where an old clock never toned with the wind whipped doors looked down upon by a faceless angel many took to calling the Headless Avenger. Her window peered down just enough to catch the eyesore of such an existence, another form of irony performing at its' finest hour. The complex was home to a splendor of guests and well enough, being among many, that a thief of heritage and material values could call home. Betwixt her beloved flowers, Anastasia Frievald had vantage and solace, with primary access to the roof and where her primary green house was well tended, the Herlion building had been her basis of operations for years since the loft was given to her as a celebratory gift.

It was encroaching a decade anniversary, it almost made one desire to perform something drastic in celebration for it.

Anastasia merely laughed at the notion though, and lifted her window a centimeter higher, enough to let the brisk winds to breeze through the pottery around her window sill without the touch of frost and rain. Fall had settled among the Badlands easily, the first day bringing with it a substantial chill that really took to biting at night when the glowing sun fell further behind the clouds and the tallest of the buildings up North. Luckily, the greenhouse she managed and her stores, set up right into her loft, had been fortunate with the way the sun managed to peek through and rest on her wall of the building during the daylight hours. To say that Ana could make even the most stubborn of flower bloom was only a partial truth, she had a natural green thumb with her wicked sleight of hand, it sort of wreathed her in the imagery of a deadly character that took to her femininity with pride. With deeply set eyes and a low brow, her gaze was oft a trademark, shaded a most peculiar context of blue that was too bright to be anything but average. However she was humanly flawed like all else, with perhaps a large forehead and heavy lids, proud nose and lips pouted just so. Her heritage was obviously foreign, but little of those in the Herlion complex could specify her origin.

For whilst she was known well enough for her plants, very little could be remarked about her past and family. Or lack of thereof.
But, she liked it that way.

To be shrouded in the right cloak of mystery was a thief's true ploy, the right amount of shadow that kept them hidden but yet seen at all times. To deny that she was involved in numerous counts of theft; seventy-three sweeps; thirty-four heists; forty-seven pockets picked; and fifty shills, to be exact. Not counting the number of forgeries at her deploy. But, who was counting. It was a daunting, to say the least, reputation. To have roots for this long was often frowned upon, but, the Badlands grew upon you and was difficult to shake off. It was as if the city refused to let her vagabond children go, for they were dreamers, swindlers, and lovers. No matter their age, or type.

Ana carefully arranged the flowers surrounding her loft, from every stationary shelf or counter, even her headboard scattered with pillows plush and nearly as big as she with a wreath of plants secured to her walls and the myriad of prints artfully placed to accompany each one.

"Summer flowers to the green house," she uttered, voice soft, careful, mindful of the Baby's Breath bloom within her hands. "And move the - aha!" She eagerly clasped her fingers around one of awaiting Orchids and placed them closer to the window. "The rest over here.. And oh, those two."

It was near impulse for every new day, right after the dawn hours and into the early afternoon, Ana would move every bit of plants, a sort of habit that sputtered into anxiety if not done otherwise. Of which she personally discovered years ago in carefully moving things into place at every hour during those years in the orphanage. Not a happy reflection, she mused, carefully plucking through her Carnations, sleeves up to her elbows to avoid snags, hair - the colours of soil - swept about her face endearingly. It was almost a normal and rich setting, a simplistic life donned over truth, she knew it was well enough to keep things civil. But, Ana had a penchant for a trigger hand, fingers splayed often whenever there was a lapse in jobs. Her employer was a shadowed face behind another shadow, their dealings were never publicly graced and such was often executed through the terms of a medieval form of a dead drop. A hint there, a random courier here, a letter in the green house - though how they managed to unlock it every time was beyond her - and rarely, the mysterious phone call. Never an e-mail sent through the web, for an electronic trail was the bane of their agreement.

Never get caught, she thought idly and upon the thought of it, went over to her computer to screen through her messages. Times called that everything be transmuted through the internet, funny enough considering her patron, but it was nice for convenience.

"Aah, the Paramorlian Histories are opening a new exhibit." She scrolled down, frowned briefly. "No pictures yet, how odd. They usually love teasing about this stuff." Ana leaned in closer, scanning over the article with a rap of her nails against her desk cluttered with pens, papers; paraphernalia of a seemingly average citizen of course. Small details, and all that.

"Might be worth a look though, check the usual drops and all that." It has been, what? Three months since her last job, she made her dues and pay through managing her homestead flower shop and of course, a weekly charity from her employer to keep her appetite going and her loyalty in check. No honor among thieves, as the saying goes.

Ana lowered her window down, a small crack, enough for the loft to breath before she laced her dark boots on tight to her calves, long, beige warmers over her ebony sheathed legs peeking beneath them. She thrust ebony sticks into her hair next, each sharp enough for protection, for she never went onto the streets without some form of fashionable arsenal and secured her bag over her shoulder and exited into the corridor. Five more residents occupied the sixth floor with her, each of these her favourites for their seclusion and needs for privacy as well. She never locked her door, oft in case of emergencies, but one would find her domicile carefully booby-trapped, her window secured with wiring, the plants around the foyer of her loft much the same, each alarming her mobile to unwanted intruders. Again, the right amount of cloaks over the lifestyle.

It was commonly known that everywhere in the Badlands could be reached by foot, despite the buses that came to every stop, most of everyone took to the sidewalks, even in the colder months. Ana was no exception, exiting the building with a wave of her fingers to the residents coming in from their morning services and those leaving with her, her smile was high and artful, teeth and lips glimmering, but not too much to seem deceptive. She was the rather polite botanist of the Herlion Building who left her home every so often for a early afternoon coffee and a scone, nothing more and nothing less.

If only that, she laughed and watched as the first signs of frost took to the air and plumed her breath white like snow.

[AlteredTundra]

---

Francisco Delgado Jr. was one of those men who never stayed in one place for more than a week at a time. It wasn’t good for the trade he specialized in. His employer understood that which was the exact reason why he was only contracted for jobs that included him to acquire entry into whichever location his target — no matter whether it was a person or object — was, procure his target, and once it had been made secure in the designated drop off point, the usual orders he’d receive through a secure line was to meet an associate of his employer who’d handle the transfers: Item for payment. That was how it went. Always.

As soon as the transaction had been done, the next series of orders for Francisco after any job was to lay low in exactly five towns over and await the next job.

This was Francisco’s life. This was what he did every month, receiving exactly one-hundred-thousand US dollars each time a job had been completed. And each time, he’d assume a new identity to ensure absolute anonymity.

Of course, there were always risks. It came with the nature of the job, but Francisco, being the kind of resourceful man that he was, always had a backup plan in case things didn’t go according to what his handler specified he’d do.

Such as his most recent job that had him tailing an Italian businessman who was importing special goods with an appeal from various well-connected parties. Among these goods was a special statue, which was rumored to have been crafted over a century ago by some great craftsman that has found its way from one pair of hands owning it to another. It was strange. It was one that had the form of two dragons or serpent-like creatures interlock in each other’s forms and ended up facing opposite directions of each other. It was also said it had two, priceless gems

That’s what Francisco was hired to obtain. It wasn’t the statue itself that he was contracted to steal. Those gems that were rumored to be worth more than the largest fortune was what a certain representative on behalf of the Rossi crime family, someone represented Giovanni Rossi’s interests, was in New York City for. There was a special shipping container coming at night on a freighter. The dock workers who were set to work that night had been paid off and a group of seven men who had been hired through various shell organizations to investigate the shipping container the statue was said to be in. However, when it went down and Francisco had been listening in not far from it, he overheard through the phones of the hired muscle’s phones(he synced his with theirs), he heard them speak in Italian but was able to catch a few phrases that he knew.

The bitch isn’t here.

That’s what they said. On that night, Francisco had to assume the ‘bitch’ was the statue, which had brought his investigation to a speeding halt.

And a few weeks passed. Francisco had reported his failure to his handler but told them he’d keep searching. He never liked to leave jobs unfinished and for a month more, he had kept his ears peeled and contacted all of the contacts he had made in his lengthy career. They had sent him anywhere from the neighbors of America’s north, Canada to his distant cousins, Mexico. He also found himself in the various, surrounding countries and islands. A full month and the trail had gone from hot to cold; lukewarm to scathing hot only for him to catch his first, major break.

According to one of his exes who was fortunate to forgive him after she caught him with her sister alerted him of a city that really had no name. It had several of them, but the most common name for it was called ‘The Badlands’. As weird as it sounded, the lead was credible. His ex had heard it from someone that you only knew through the process of “I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy”. Francisco hadn’t known what the details exactly, but she had told him all she knew and that the statue was somewhere in the Badlands.

Once he had arrived in this odd city, he discovered something about it almost instantaneously: it was full of wonders. It had equal parts of modern architecture and gothic imagery. It was like something straight out of a picture book that highlighted religious buildings and technological breakthroughs. That wasn’t even considering how beautiful its parks and rivers were. How one could easily get lost in its vastness, Francisco was reminded of his homeland of Spain. Not because it had similar appearances, but rather how it seemed so beautiful and rich with stories. Not one moment had gone by that he found himself in awe, practically forgetting his real reason for coming here.

Though he didn’t forget about his purpose for trekking here, it would’ve been rude of him to not enjoy the sights. Who knew how long he’d have before the job demanded his full, usually-divided(mostly towards the opposite sex) attention? As they say: Gotta enjoy the little things.

So, Francisco had done just that. For a full day(and some into the next), he indulged in some of what this place had to offer. From casinos to clubs, he spent several c-notes just giving into the temptations. He had even paid for a few nights of some…private entertainment. If this city truly was a bad land, then he’d show them just how bad he could be.

But of course, after a while, he was contacted by his handler. They informed him that the statue had made its reappearance at some building known as the Herilon Building. At the moment he was told this, Francisco could have sworn he saw that name before. Only after pondering it seriously did he remember. Of course, it came after he had pounded away a glass of wine. It was this odd building which had some angelic statues at the top of it. Apparently, there was a big story behind it. One of his friends told him about as they were ‘talking’. It had been quite the tale. Something symbolic, sure, but probably not up Francisco’s alley. Although, it did give him some ideas.

But first thing’s first! He had to pay for the time well-spent with his “friend”.

He handed his female companion of the night a few one-hundred dollar bills. She was a beauty. Her skin was like freshly-fallen snow but her eyes had a glimmer of burnt auburn while her hair was a natural honey shade. She was so thankful for his hospitality, she gave him her personal number should he need it for anything. “Como siempre, mi hermosa rosa.” He spoke, his voice oozing a rich, Spanish accent that practically made her knees weak as she forced herself to walk out the door, closing it as she left Francisco to his solitude.

He was in a room he had paid to stay in for a full week. This had come just before he got the news about that Herilon building and had staked it out, showing up as someone who loved art, which wasn’t a total lie. He did enjoy art of all kinds, but he was doing this purely to scope the place out. Every day around midday, he had dressed up in his finest suit that brought out every part of his physical attributes in the perfect way. His eyes that glimmered like amber but toned down when in the artificial light of the building and his dark locks were groomed back to show off his above-average forehead, but most importantly, in the light, his normally-light brown skin was darkened just slightly, yet it was obvious to anyone who glanced towards his direction that he was a charming, attractive male. And if they met his expectations, there might’ve been a glance back at them.

This was Francisco Delgado Jr, Spain’s Forgotten Rose. A fire had fuelled his passion for anything — or anyone — he did. And like the sun had on the day he’d take action in Herilon, Francisco rose from his bed, a glimmer of red aligning as the sun shone in his face. He stretched to the sounds of birds chirping just on his balcony.

Time to get to work.

[Rockette]

At the corner of Secundus and Tertium paraded the humble establishment, The Blue Mirror: a fogged glass exterior with a furnishing of azure glows and twinkling strings of amber bulbs that secured themselves betwixt posts and speckled ebon grates of varying tables and chairs in which randomized luxuries were secured. One of many that had sprouted through every other block within The Badlands when the economy had shifted and aligned with the world and took to the fluctuations of the eternal Stock Market. Such businesses could be aligned to corporate idealism, for in such timely persecution, one amassed chains and appealed to a literal label and franchise. It dulled the local flavour and spoiled the individuality and sanctity of financial opportunities for the younger competitor, even in secluded and untold of cities much like The Badlands. Irony cloaked the conception in spades considering how vastly imported most of their luxuries were, as if spattered and erratic during their induction because suddenly an old, once upon a time monastery became the foci of the nearest industrial lords.

However, The Blue Mirror was told of a unique quality, individual in ownership and practice, and the craftsmanship of the fogged panes never once duplicated. Besides their aesthetic credibility, the scones and coffee brew were absolutely to die for.

Ana glided arachnid gestures against the disturbances within the famed glass, every dip and rise in texture told of careful detailing and execution on the make. She had once asked who was responsible for the panes and if it was intended for the name when they first began their unique hours. The owner never revealed the origins, he had only laughed and said it was just a twist of fate.

Ironic, that, she thought. And looped her index finger through the ceramic of her still hot coffee - dashed with three fixings of cream, nothing artificial and prepared black as the darkest soils she knew all too well - and tended to her musings.

She had procured a paper from the stand near the foyer where a curiously vague article on the Paramorlian Histories new exhibit had come second or so from the primary story display on potential services expanding the one way rail that traveled seldom between the upper echelon of an infamous nobility. There was only a handful of scripted details, there had been a rare collection derived from a bought of famous collectors, names she knew by having been a personal subscriber to their coffers. Rossi... Belvonuer... Pacheco...

Priceless artifacts from a long era, legends of passing wrath and loss, ruin and lust, and then, she saw it. A familiar name wreathed in flame and surrounded by a poetic embellishment she knew fluently on her silver bathed tongue and smile. Her mind's eyes immediately flickered and expanded; The Atis. It was just a book to many, to the tourists that came from transit and the docks up north and traversed through the mountains to visit the city undone in both Vegas splendors and old, forgotten Paris spires. The Gothic towers, the silver and gold plated buildings; everything that reeked of sin and life.

Ana exhaled.

Of course, the one thing people looked yonder with wonder and something akin to rapt curiosity was just a forgery; a sham, a perfectly executed gem of thin leaf pages and golden edges warped in leather, aged to absolution. The real one was in her very possession, well preserved even after all these years...

Her nails rip into the pages, tearing across black and grey print, staining the keratin with soot and takes another take from her brew, eyes on the blue glass, the slight mirror effect revealing not just her self images, but a distorted look of the street beyond it. A wonderful metaphor it would appear, much to the irony currently dominating her process as of late. Maybe because it was soon to be the anniversary when she came into possession of The Atis, quivering palms grasping hold of a responsibility that would later, much later,
take sway upon her heart and soul.

Anastasia would come to realize, maybe not now or then, but some time from now, that the book was a personal conduit to her very essence of self and all of those before her.

Her eyes of a curious blue, too bright and too glimmering, swelled with an emotion undefinable by the shutter of soot black lashes and the rising steam from her now cooling coffee, the last wisps of translucent waves over the pout of her lip as she continued to read the article with what little information was provided. The venue wouldn't be publicly open until another month, to finish adding the last details of the exhibit and to, of course, finalize the actual price of viewing the collection. Art was free for expression, but never was it free to the masses. Ana knew well the greed of the wealthier souls and their pillaging of the hungry vagabonds who collaborated with muse to produce the visuals of their lives, all to be reaped by a man who found some flicker and smidgen of life within their own expression; all translated and misunderstood in the end. It was awfully tempting, so profound, to take her own gander at the collection before the debut, but the next passage gave her an acute pause.

There was to be a private gala of sorts, hosted by the young and rather hopeful curator of the Paramorlian Histories: Patrick Montreyu. The brief interview of the lighted soiree was an exclusive fundraiser for sponsors to bid on selective pieces donated, till within possession of their collectors, but also heralded along side whichever function and foundation saw to the typical display. Her cog of minds and walls immediately began to churn, her thoughts easily awash with the sheer amount of potential gain from the gathering of oh so much wealth. Whilst she was graciously employed, of course, it did not discourage the habitual takings of rather... freelance work.

Ana cradled her palm against her slender cheeks, nails nestling against her temple and brow. Securing an invitation, however, was the only problematic angle. She had a history of sorts, if one could label such a thing, with Patrick Montreyu; an ugly, vibrant bruise and swelling of distaste for one another that still, to this day, tasted of stale cigarettes and cheap booze. She sighed, finished the last bit of her coffee and tucked the paper with the rest of her belongings. It was too grand of an opportunity to pass up just because she had become rather tame and lax in her botanist lifestyle and facade, besides, securing a bit of fattening within her own coffers wasn't anything worthy of shame for the coming winter.

For The Badlands had an ugly reputation for being a thief as well, only she dealt within hearts and souls.

Now, time to visit an old friend.

[AlteredTundra]

---

Francisco had always abided by the six-question system that they teach you in grade school for his jobs. The six questions that are often asked: who, what, where, why, when, and how. Every time he took on a new job and it had him devote hours into studying the terrain and know who and what his target was, where he had to be and when he had to be there, and how he was going to achieve this goal with as little exposure to his cover as possible. These were often the goals he had set for himself. It was almost like a checklist that he marked off once completed. This happened every time he went to a new location and retrieved the item of interest.

And as he had done in the past, in this place — in the Badlands — he had studied the area extensively. He had made connections with a few, select women who were employed throughout key parts of the general area where his main objective had been: the Paramorlian Cathedral. Anyone from those who actually had worked in the cathedral itself and some of those who were part of the catering staff for the gala had, in some fashion, fallen under the spell of Francisco Delgado, the Suave Spanishman(their words, not his).

The first phase of his plan to secure entry to the gala had involved Francisco to meet up with a shady individual that, through the grapevine of his web of contact, was rumored to have owned this dive of a bar called inferos Sanctus. He just had to tail a right into an alleyway and go until he was at the corner. When he had reached it, a few men who were undoubtedly twice the mass that Cisco had and nearly a foot larger than he had from head to toe. They were dressed in dark attire, though the specific colors of their outfits remained a mystery to him. There wasn’t enough sunlight reaching this far back into the back alley.

“I’m here to speak with The Bird,” Francisco stated, his confidence unwavering.

The two large men didn’t say anything at first. They did, however, look at him as if they were judging him. Their eyes had scanned him up and down and after a few times, Francisco, though he understood the extra precaution, was starting to find the process a bit much. When would it be they would move past this advanced screening of sorts and actually speak to him. And as much as every bit of his mind was telling him to say something, he was a stranger. Of course, if they dared, he could take them no problem. He certainly had the skills in his arsenal, but this wasn’t about what Francisco could do. He needed to show the respect that The Bird deserved.

“He’s clean,” one of the bouncers said into the earpiece hooked onto his left ear.

As Francisco stood there patiently, the other bouncer, after whispering with his partner, returned his intimidating gaze to him, slightly cocking his head towards the door behind them. Without saying a word, the two of them took a big step backward, which to Cisco was the universal action that allowed him passage. He walked between them, giving them both a short glance before he walked into the bar. Best they think he was compliant rather than someone who could make this a very bad day for them.

Once inside the bar, he noted that it wasn’t much to look at. The bar looked grimy, it barely had any lighting. There were a few lamps that hung low to give it an odd aesthetic that didn’t make the atmosphere seem as unsavory. However, as Franciso’s eyes wandered from the bar to the patrons, it was obvious that this kind of establishment didn’t welcome strangers. In fact, if it wasn’t for the fact he had a glowing invitation from The Bird, his introduction to these sorts wouldn’t have gone as peacefully as it was now.

Being the man who he was, Francisco kept a straight back and his posture free of any weakness. He couldn’t allow these animals know that somewhere deep down, regardless how skilled he might be, the minute they got the impression he wasn’ there to just talk, it could go south real fast. Thankfully, as he came to a stop in front of yet another set of bodyguards, Francisco didn’t present himself as such.

“The Bird is waiting for you,” one of them said. This man was just like the ones outside.

They both stepped to the side and allowed Francisco to go through a wooden door. As he had entered, he heard the following words speak towards him. “Close it behind you.” It sounded like a male’s voice, but it had this weird inflection that seemed to distort Francsico’s knowledge of the typical male voice. “And sit down in the chair on the left. Don’t slouch and hands on the respective thigh.”

He raised his eyebrow. The initial thought was that, whoever The Bird was, he not only was secretive but he seemed to also like to bark orders. Francisco wasn’t one to judge. He, of course, understood how necessary these precautions were, but the actions he was ordered to take were way too specific for him not to have a suspicious thought or two. But, while he found himself second-guessing that this was a wise decision, it was far too late to turn back now. If anything, he would have to see this to the bitter end. Worst comes to worst, he could use whatever skills that were at his disposal to escape.

He gave himself a shrug before taking his seat on the chair to his left. His back was as straight as a one-way street on the open road and both of his legs were equally spread with both of his hands on their corresponding leg. The hands had reached out to cover his knee, his fingers overextending to actually cover the knee itself. Even though he complied with the odd demands, The Bird had yet to turn around.

“I understand you wish to speak to me, Mister Delgado.” The Bird said. The chair in which it sat in was still turned around.

“I never gave the men outside my name.”

“I know who you are, Francisco Delgado Jr, son of Francisco Delgado Sr.” The Bird had said with confidence. “My eyes in the sky and ears on the ground inform me when someone of your reputation sets foot within these lands. They also tell me that you wish to request something of me.”

What a smart bird. Francisco had to admit that his new feathered friend was quite good at their game. Being able to not only know who he was but of his father’s name too and surprisingly, his reputation, certainly garnered a certain respect from Francisco. “They are correct.” He responded simply, keeping his words straight to the point and his tone respectful.

“Speak now, Mister Delgado, for if it is within my power, it will be yours.”

“Very well,” he coughed, clearing his throat. The back of it was a little dry, but it was nothing to raise a concern with. “There is a gala at the Paramorlian Cathedral.”

“Ah, yes, I am well aware of the annual gala that it hosts. It is open only to the top 1% of the top 1%.” The Bird seemed to recall.

“Then you must know a newcomer like myself doesn’t necessarily have the magic connections to get in.”

“And you think that I do?” The Bird inquired.

“If the rumors are true, you can arrange for me to be allowed entry.”

“Rumors are often inconsistent with the truth, Mister Delgado.”

“If you don’t want to help me, then just say so. I do not like to be strung along.” Francisco stated bluntly.

And for a long moment, there was silence, which immediately had him worried. Had Francisco said the wrong thing? He usually knew what he was doing and said the right thing at just the right time, but these were unsteady waters he was traveling on. He had to watch what he said. There was absolutely no telling how this enigma of a figure would react to what he said.

“They did say you didn’t pull any punches, Mister Delgado.” The Bird said, “I’m sure you will meet plenty of interesting personalities at the gala.”

“Does that mean?”

“You will find your invitation in your hotel room when you return.” The Bird said, a single arm pointing to the door. “I trust you can see yourself out.”

“Gracias, señor pájaro”

All be damned, this one was certainly full of surprises. Without even turning around and granting Francisco the courtesy of seeing his or her face, The Bird proved to be just as elusive that the rumors stated they’d be.

Flying over everyone else and always remaining out of sight, The Bird had made a name for themselves within The Badlands by creating a network of connections that ranged from beggars in the slums to the inner-circle of the Bankers who ruled the Banking District. Both respected and feared by all, The Bird has eyes and ears all over and nothing that happens within The Badlands does so without them knowing it. And though The Bird may accept in-person visits and may speak to you, it is never known whether this person is a male or a female because it is said their voice sounds neither masculine nor feminine. They will hear out any desires you have and if you pass the final screening, you may get what you want. If not, then there will not only be consequences for you after the meet is over, there is also a high chance that you’ll never be seen again.

“What a character, that one.” Francisco mused as he had returned to his hotel room. Just as The Bird had said, resting on his nightstand was the elegantly-designed invite to the gala that he so desperately needed to attend.

And now, as he sat on his bed and looked at the treasured piece of paper that had brought him one step closer to what he was truly after. But, of course, he had to find a proper suit. No thief attended a high-end event without looking sharper than a freshly-crafted blade.

[Rockette]

On the yellowing-grey cusp of an early afternoon of daily machinations did the temperatures of The Badlands slowly begin to ascend, though delicately enough that even clad in cashmere warmth, Anastasia disregarded the shift with nothing more than fixating a pair of solar protected lenses on the perch of her nasal. Traveling on foot from one district onto another was the only typical way one traversed through the bogged city, every road intersected with a myriad of chains of franchise and corporate luxuries, peddlers, and owners of kiosks that operated on the hours betwixt dawn and night. These were the busiest cycles of the day that hardly shifted through seasons, only to carefully interchange merchandise and methods of browse by the supply and demand of tourist incline and students courtesy of the local University that barely passed the title of maintaining its' college status. Ana stepped around clusters of candy-eyed youths shimmering gold and bronze in what little sunlight there was, squelched her body between denizens of the crowded bus stop and crossed the signaled walkway before the lights flickered once more from their red to green.

It had only taken her a quarter of an hour from The Blue Mirror establishment onto the busier market streets, her destination another ten minutes across the way across what was literally called the College Way; lacking taste in a moniker, but exact in purpose if nothing else. Whilst representative citizens of The Badlands tended to model existences and musings, Anastasia found her thoughts lacking that blissful normalcy. After all, to rely on the potential kindness and whims of another was rather risky for a woman of her work, for her own tools and capabilities were all she needed, her talent natural and fluent, refined and elegant and left naught a trace. Ana had found in her younger years that she needed none and desired none; though her origins were modest and hardly legendary, she had to proudly display that she had come well into her own over time and grace of luck and fortune. Though, partially stolen.

Having to trek across town under these facilitated pretenses, as it were, left her mind in a constant reel of her next step, each potential varied and possibilities of each and every one of those calculated upon the finalizing factor of "what if". And Anastasia did not favour those eternal doubts and inconclusive outcomes that could lead to a literal life or death decision of fate and sheer luck. On the sidewalk across from the more active attractions and establishments, she could witness the spiraling peaks and crowns of the museum adorned in slight cherubs and angels reminiscent of the view she shared with others across from the Herlion complex. Terracotta hues blended seamlessly with grey undertones and burnt mahoganies that capped pale stone and brick that appeared to be toned in beige and darker golds in the time telling shadows. She cut across the alleyways, ducking down under metal ladders and vents betwixt the buildings, knowing most of the backtrack methods to navigating The Badlands that were conveniently used to be literally unseen. Most of the city could be taken this way, one would never have to cross the main roads if they desired not to and most, if not all, had been carefully planned as precise escape routes long before she had even utilized them herself.

Perks of the trade, she muses and comes from the shadows with arms crossed at her bustline and eyes gazing up through shielded lashes at her destination.

Still, under minor construction, the courtyard sprawling before ornate doors, though many would describe such as a luxury park by the number of trees planted around the expanse, with artful iron fences and lamposts paired with oak wooden benches against immaculate sidewalks, it still gave her pause by the sheer beauty of it all. The architecture was something of a lost art, similar to the original master and designer of the Cathedral across from her home, with the original blueprints being only of one and kept under literal lock by the former curator himself. Anastasia could only imagine what inside looked like now, what with their constantly expanding exhibits and new collections rotated through their featuring newsletter. Of course, that was where her intended lay, and from her judgment of the exterior, the gala would be somewhere on a secluded floor rather than the more prominent rooms facing out. So, something of a challenge then.

Ana casually sauntered towards one of the many benches, this one picked for its' view of the foyer, angled just so within the shade of a maple tree and fetched her mobile from her belongings, and with all the nonchalance of a regular woman browsing within the fresh air, she began to read over the digital press article of the gala's secret promotion. Appearances had to be maintained, certain ploys had to be played out and liken the park to a stage, Ana was flawless in her execution and performance. She crossed one leg over another, deliberate and leaned back just so, enough for comfort and enough for visual advantage and she continued to re-read the information she already knew.

Hmm.

It wasn't until a full five minutes had ticked by that Ana pinged through her messages, as if looking for an old friend lost within the feed of her some on and off acquaintances, a woman that was, perhaps, meeting with a friend under the grey skies. Her eyes lit up briefly when she found the name was searching for and began to type out a summons, the smallest of carefully solicited simpers curling her lips.

^Hey.

It had only taken him an exact seven minutes.

Enough time for a woman such as she to spruce her appearance, hair tucked into place, the smallest of shrugs to the shoulder allowing soft wool to droop just so and for genuine softness to curb icy blues to something a little more appreciative. Ana's smile was all porcelain fragile and white as bone, gnashed against the widest of grins that lifted her gaze and crinkled just so to be seen as welcoming.

Patrick Montreyu was a man of careful reception and appearance, even she had not seen him out of particularly arranged attire and even in the most casual of grace, he was always on the cusp of gentry and refinement. With a vocabulary of proper etiquette and tutelage and a mind rich with the expanses of histories, he was a rich bank of information to the most curious thief wishing to learn more of her gains. Over the years, she had come to form a friendship of sorts, backboned carefully by their families' intertwined involvements. Though, he needn't know of her exact ties to the name of Frievald. In a three-piece suit toned a soft, warm gray, double-breasted and oxfords of course, for she expected no less, Patrick approached with his phone in hand and hazel eyes never leaving her features.

"Don't stare, Patrick. It's rude." She jaunted, peppering her voice an octave higher and with a spring of annunciation to colour her voice in warmth. His shoulders fell just so, only to immediately bristle.

"Just, hey? I don't see or hear from you for three months and then you just," he gestured, even that motion was careful. "Show up. I swear you're like a phantom, Ana. Come and go as you please, as is your want."

She scoffed, petulant and visibly chaffed. "I was out of town."

"I find that difficult to believe, nobody leaves town. And certainly not for a quarter of a year." He immediately sounded back, reclining next to her on the bench, a proper distance away, but still close enough she could visibly notice the hurt in his eyes. It was like emerald shards stabbing into her breast, and Ana, though still under her guise, could not feign that smidgen of guilt that came with her performance.

"Well, I'm here now." She muttered, not quite an apology, but close enough that Patrick sighed, tucking his phone away and leaning forward to table his elbows across his knees, relaxed by her admission.

"...True. Though I wish you would have called first. I've been incredibly swamped lately."

"I've noticed," she inclined her head. "Still expanding I see, and what's this I hear of a gala? There hasn't been an event outside annual holiday festivals for a long time."

That was her ticket, her first initial prompting into securing her way into the echelon of sponsors, buyers, and collectors. A pathway she had to immediately secure at all costs.

"Saw that, did you?" He chanced a glance her way, under his lashes, carefully raking her from boot to crown, eyes lingering, something curling his smile just a tad from male appreciation. "It's been difficult to keep it under wraps, but the press has ways to get something out of me yet if only to keep them from crowding my office again."

"Uh huh."

He straightened his posture, elbows lifted back against the bench's support. "Well if you've read the papers, then you know how important this is. We've been setting up for the past week and it has taken me months to secure all the pieces."

Go on.

Anastasia leans forward that much more, subtle, interested, all the cues of a dame baited on his words.

"We've even translated new pages in The Atis, the centre piece of the whole exhibit..."

Wait. Ana's body stilled, her breaths coming in shallow and quick, barely there to register her sudden decline in emotional fixations. The very name, The Atis, was always enough to stow away her thoughts into an overdrive of hyper-awareness. For the one he spoke of was a forgery done by the gypsies in her family, given back under pretenses of goodwill to the United Mythos when they had extracted it from the church. To hear that these false pages had been translated turned her heart to a stone, one of burden; it was a weight of something ancient, something that had been given to her by the hands of her father. She had never opened such a thing, for the very thought seemed wrong. Patrick's voice faded, her mind awash in sudden waves of blue and red, fire and ice, of fangs seeped red and black skies on the horizon chaining her into place.

She forgets to breathe.

"Ana?"

She jumps. "Oh."

"I'm sorry, wow. You really translated them? How many pages? I mean. I know you're like an expert at dead languages, but didn't you tell me once that it was impossible?"

He seemed concerned, though didn't press, vaguely encouraged by her sudden inquires and interest. "Yes, but I found written passages in the margins towards the centre of the book. It's barely legible, but just enough to read and work that into a reference on how they translated it themselves. Since doing so, I've been contacted by many collectors claiming to have pieces of artwork that were inspired by the very scripture dating back hundreds of years ago."

"Wow..." She breathes; the reveal of his discovery daunting, foiling her act just enough for the sake of her plans to pause within her mind. The security of such a thing alone, and the sheer number of artifacts associated with something so coveted. It would be the biggest accomplishment of her career.

"I'd love to see them." Ana cooly recites, vixen-esque temptation coiling her voice something sweet. She can see the cogs churning with his eyes, manipulated senses at work with only a minimal amount of hesitation banked there. He hasn't seen her in a long while, the impromptu visit has him toiling in memory, their last time together rising to the forefront of his mind. And, he thinks, he glances to those eyes and remembers, somewhere in his office, there's a scripted invitation, one of only so few that was left from those already sent. Only one, for one another.

"I do have a spare invitation, actually, if you'd like, I'd love to show you the translations and see what you think of the exhibit at the gala premiere."

"Oh, really!? I'd love to!"

Bingo.

^{. 𝒆 𝒕 𝒅 𝒓 𝒂 𝒄 𝒐 𝒈 𝒍 𝒂 𝒄 𝒊 𝒆 𝒊 .}

[AlteredTundra]

---

In most cases, Francisco was cool as a late winter night in Madrid. Confidence was hardly lacking when it came to him and the way he often carried himself was both obvious and vague - even teetering on the brink of mystery. He was the kind of man that even trained professionals such as famed detectives and psychiatrists would find extremely difficult to read. And such was the nature of being a thief of his caliber. To maintain a deceiving facade was likely on the top of the short list of what every single person who operates within the shadows for their professional career kept. So why was it this job he had been tasked with brought such an unnerving excitement out of him?

The closer he seemed to be to obtain that which he was hired to snatch from the upcoming gala, Francisco seemed to be acting uncharacteristically to how he typically was. The man had found himself shaking every other minute, not able to keep still or focus on the entertainment he paid bundles of crisp Benjamins for. With just one touch of his hand to the phone on the nightstand by his bed, they would be sent to his room whenever he desired it, yet pleasure was the furthest thing from his mind right now. His train of thought was like a revolving door of rotating contemplations. At one point, the man was heavily in the middle of the job itself, then going as far as to wonder what sort of security the gala would have. He knew such a thing like The Atis (as it seemed to be called now) would not only generate a lot of social media buzz and the like, it would be heavily guarded, too. That crossed his mind at a point, but what seemed to stay was the repercussions of failure. In its simplest form, Francisco wasn’t exactly keen on finding out what his employers had in mind should he fail to capture that book.

He stood in the bathroom of his glamorous hotel room, facing the mirror. Francisco had groomed himself almost in an obsessive-compulsive way in just the last few hours. Sleep had escaped him. Nerves be damned. He had to focus and focus he shall. He just took one last look. His hair was combed to perfection. His dark locks had been oversaturated by the premium hairjel he brought with him from Spain. It had a certain shine to him that made him look like the Spanish version of James Bond - but a lot more dashing. His skin was gently coated with olive oil (somewhat of an odd choice). It allowed his normally bronze skin shade to give it a glossy shade, furthering the flawlessness of his winning complexion. And, of course, a man of such quality and high maintenance like Francisco Delgado Jr wouldn’t be complete without a specifically-crafted three-piece suit imported straight from the most exclusive tailor that money could buy. He ran his hands along the suit, admiring every sewed button and strands of the various fabrics. The leather was so subtle made him further appreciate how much of an artwork it really was.

“Move over, Antonio Banderas,” he smirked at himself in the mirror, making sure his jacket was perfectly aligned with his vest and shirt. He did the same with his tie, tightening it just enough to leave no gaps between the top button and his jacket. Every element at play was to his unusually-high standards. “Francisco Delgado is taking over.” He shot himself a single wink before he left as only Francisco could.

Into the Badlands, he went.

---

Francisco had gotten himself well acquainted with The Badlands as the best he could since arriving, especially since he had that informative meeting with the mysterious figure known simply as The Bird. In the almost weeks he’s been around, he has absorbed as much as he could: where to go, who to find when he needs to, and which areas to avoid. For the most part, Cisco maintained a distance from the areas that which have been rumored to be dangerous territory for the likes of him, but there were still a few things the Spaniard had to handle before he was absolute in his preparations for obtaining the book that tops all books in existence. And to do that, the man had to meet with someone he heard could get him the tools needed. Of course, he has his own, but even the Delgado family name couldn’t earn him some pull when it came to certain tech.

Just about three miles from the hotel he had been staying at, Francisco walked through a busy street, the sounds of people talking on their phones, walking and talking to themselves, and several cars honking away at all of those who ignore the civil rules of a society that thrived on such. He was one that usually stood out when he walked in such a nice suit and with hair groomed in a superior way that made men jealous they looked that good and women swooning, As much as he would just find it the icing on the cake if he could soak it all in, he had a meeting to attend to and this particular person - a person, mind you, that Francisco has known for years - was one for punctuality. Thankfully, Francisco was right on time when he arrived at a motel simply called At End’s Meet.

Charming title Francisco thought as he showed up with his briefcase. Yeah, talk about looking too good for your surroundings.

At the front desk of some rundown outpost like those top-life mall security guards call their station, Cisco saw an overweight, greasy-looking man with bald spots all over his hair, warts and boils spread across his triple-chin face and attire so stained with week-old food that it nearly made Cisco throw up on his expensive suit.

“Are you lost? Wall Street is that way.” He pointed towards the towering bridges and skyscrapers in the opposite direction.

Cisco gave the el culon the fakest, genuine smile he could force himself to feign. “I am the expected guest of Room 69.”

“I’m sure you are. Too bad no such room exists.”

He really was going to make this hard for Cisco, wasn't he? He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a wad of cash. Based off of the size, he pulled out an easy three-thousand dollars in small, unmarked bills. “Perhaps this will clear your memory, señor?” He handed the man the ball of cash.

With eyes wide open and a laugh, the man reached over to the wall of keys. “Second floor, last door on the right.”

“Gracias señor.”

“A word of advice, amigo?”

Cisco gave him a curious glance. “¿Qué?”

“Don’t lollygag. This isn’t the kind of place your kind.”

Now he really wanted to punch his lights out, but Cisco still kept on that smile of his from before. “Appreciate the warning, señor. Have a good day.”

Cisco had found his way through the parking lot and followed some people who seemed to know who he was. When they called out his codename that only the person who he was at this rundown motel to see would know, The Casanova, he knew to follow them. Several flights of stairs later and a few that led down to a hidden building that was only accessible through a secret panel on one of the ground floors, Cisco was finally able to reach the ‘second’ floor that the manager of the motel told him. Cisco felt misled, but he did remember the manager said the second floor, he didn’t say which one it was. But alas, Cisco was getting hung up on the wrong details. He was to head to the end of the path and he would be at door 69.

As he walked, it became painfully obvious to Cisco this was certainly, as one would call it, the bad part of town. Sirens, gunshots, fights of both verbal and physical, and just about anything bad that could happen was, in fact, happening in real time as he walked. Below him, he saw someone got shot during a bad drug deal. Following that, several gang members came and beat down a single person for, as Cisco perceived it, wearing the wrong color.

What a pity, really. So many lives lost because animalistic instincts take control over the emotional side of the human soul where logic should reign supreme.

Cisco wasn’t bothered by what he saw, but he did find it insulting to those of superior intellect - like himself -had to walk the same earth with them infecting. Just one of many things Cisco hoped to correct one day. One task at a time. First the Atis, then bug extermination. He had to remind himself as he came to Room 69.

And with the designated knock sequence he was told to use with only one shot to nail it, he knocked on the door: three consecutive knocks, two knocks with half-a-second space between them, and three additional consecutive knocks.

As he waited for nearly three minutes, Cisco was understandably ticked. While he had accepted this person he was meeting was secretive and wanted to ensure he wasn’t someone to fear, there was the part of Cisco that was growing impatient. It had gotten to the point where he was about to simply walk away. Though what he came all the way out to the ghetto to obtain was paramount to his mission, he was a resourceful man. He had alternative ways of getting the job done, though any other way that didn’t involve having the right gadgets was a bit tedious for him.

Fortunately for Cisco, he wouldn’t have to wait a single moment longer. He heard the sounds of locks being unlocked and latches unlatched. He heard a chain that was usually connected to a contraption slide over. Then finally the doorknob lock was subtlety heard as the door itself would start to crack open a moment later, though when cisco pushed it open, he saw no one waiting for him, so the man walked through.

The room was as empty and lifeless as, well, as he expected from it belonging to this motel. Something interesting that caught his attention, however, was a light from deeper into the room. As he ventured closer, it became apparent what the source of those lights were computer monitors. The bigger shocker was how, when he finally reached a secret room, Cisco saw someone sitting in front of the monitors. Approaching with caution, Cisco heard a door suddenly close behind him.

Now the usually-confident Francisco Delgado was starting to wonder if he was lured here by an enemy who hoped to kill him. Of course, he didn’t jump to any sudden conclusions. First off, he’d put on the charming facade and introduce himself. “I’m Francisco Delgado and I--”

“Please take a seat, Francisco Delgado Jr,” the voice of someone who sounded very commanding said, their hand gesturing to the chair exactly three feet to the left of where Cisco sat.

This was starting to feel familiar. Cisco hoped this wasn’t actually The Bird but in a different location. ”Can we begin yet?” He asked not out of impatience but confirmed that he wasn’t, in fact, lured under false pretenses.

“Just a moment.” The person at the desk said, mumbling something, though, after about three minutes, they were done. “Okay! We should be safe.”

Safe? Safe from what? “That’s excellent news! Now, can we assume that our original arrangement can proceed without pause?”

Cisco got no immediate answer. What he did get, however, was the addition of overhead lighting, which illuminated the room. To his genuine bewilderment, Cisco saw wires, strings, and just about everything one could think would be present in the bunker of a paranoid conspiracist.

“What is all of this?” Cisco asked as his eyes wandered to every wall, then finally to the person sitting in the chair. Again, his genuine shock could not be faked even if he wanted to. “Wait, you’re the person who I’m meeting? You’re…” Cisco’s throat tightened, his own surprise throwing him for a loop. “Of all people, I never expected to see you here, Isabella.”

Smiling, the person previously thought to be a male, revealed her attractive, well-rounded face of similar skin color to Francisco’s, though hers was just a shade darker and her eyes were cooling with a breezy shade of oceanic green, and her hair, though dyed several shades of the rainbow, had a foundation in dark sienna. The features she had and the way she postured her lean figure, to anyone who saw her but mainly how Cisco saw her, the resemblance was uncanny and it went without question..

“Cissy, you’ve gotten fatter since the last time I saw you. Then again, brother, you’ve been more on the bulkier side, haven’t you?”

Isabella’s words shot him right through the heart. “And you’re as cold as ever, Belle.” Cisco relaxed his shoulders, giving her only but a loving smile that a brother could give to his sister. “I thought you went off the grid. Why are you here in The Badlands?”

“The same reason you are: for a fresh start,” she admitted, but Cisco didn’t seem to believe that was the full story. “Never mind that, I trust you want The Eye?”

Right to it, huh? “Only if you can secure it for me.”

“You never did trust me at my word.”

“Not since you poured gasoline on my fresh laptop because you were mad at me.”

“That’s cause you embarrassed me in front of my boyfriend and Papa.” Isabella scowled, turning around as Cisco heard some sequence of buttons.

And a moment later, a part of the floor opened, revealing a small, eye-shaped button the size of a lapel pin. “Snazzy.”

“And top of the line. Get within twenty feet of any remote, security system, and all circuits will be fried for a full five minutes. That includes infra-red cameras, all forms of locks, and sensory systems will have a period of a slow reboot. In that time, you will need to act fast. Additionally, most modern cellphone batteries will overheat and cause any systems connected to them to also be shut down,” Isabella explained, “Cisco listen, this is NSA-grade tech. It was used in the cyber attack in Toronto last week. I hope you know what I am risking by getting you this to you.”

In a rare moment, he gave his sister a sweet smile. “I know, niñera. I appreciate it.”

She turned back to her computer monitors, pressing yet another button that would send an app download to his phone. “When you’re ready, simply activate that app, press the iris of the device, and you will have everything you need to get what you came to this place for

Francisco stood up, pocketing The Eye. As he walked to the door, he heard Isabella speak out to him. “Cisco, you never saw me.”

“Be seeing you, Belle!” He said, smiling.

Leaving the motel area and returning to his hotel room within minutes, Cisco collapsed on his bed, thinking about everything he had to go through to get this far. Perhaps, when he finally obtained The Atis, Francisco could work on righting the wrongs he committed in his past. None were so pressing in his mind than what he did to Isabella and why she’s on the run.

“One difficult task at a time, Francisco.”

[Rockette]

She leaves with promises and whispered farewells, her eyes flitting and lashes swooped low whilst they embrace in a swift good bye, his arms around her small shoulders and her fingers scooped against his back. It's brief, but telling, and within Ana feels only the slightest burdens of guilt. Their meeting may of been performed on a means to an end, but their friendship is genuine in warmth and understanding, though currently under forgery. Ana is the first to break away and she glances up -- she then realizes just how much taller he is than her -- and smiles. If such is perhaps pinched around those delicate edges, he doesn't say, but then she doesn't question why he seems perhaps a bit too hesitant to let her go.

But, he does. Eventually.

Patrick watches as she leaves the park enclosure in front of the museum -- his museum -- to cross the main road where citizens of The Badlands gather in troupes and part around her briefly before closing entirely around her. To him she stands out like a brightly coloured bird, adorned in paradise and dressed in splendor, appealing to the curious notions of rarity that crowns her as something beloved. She would loathe that comparison he knew and would tell him she was otherwise and simply just a normal person, however she was anything but. A shadow descended across his eyes as the sun fell yonder clouds swollen all grey and dark, heralding to the Fall weather slowly embarking across the later noon with the promise of the evening chill. He knew she was after something, though his knowledge ended there as to what she was searching for. But, there was no mistaking the glimmer in those ethereal blues alight in success, pride, and intelligence so keen and well wielded, that he was powerless -- no, hopeless -- to do anything else but acquiesce to her very whims and wishes. However Patrick was not without his own merit and with this distinction in hand he quickly retrieved his mobile -- ignored the message there with her name attached -- and dialed a number from memory.

"It's me."

Nights within The Badlands came upon a near winter breath, frigid winds following down the mountain at the farewell of the sun beyond the peaks looming within the clouds. Punctuated to the skies, the evenings fell swiftly and the cold more so in the later years, thus the days shorter and the nights longer that did little to wane the actively of the locale. People flocked to dimmer settings with amber essences and ambiances dulled to golden dusk and husky browns like whiskey in honeyed glass. Cafes were traded for bars alive in smoke and whispers and here Ana paused, glancing to one such establishment that only opened doors at this hour of dusk. Those initial patrons spilled out onto the patio adorned in bare bulbs and maroon drapes; heavy velvet embellishments pulled taut away from tinted glass that cast her reflection back upon herself.

Once, maybe some odd years ago, Ana would indulge in such luxuries with former associates much like Patrick. Lost to whimsical music in the shadows of twilight with perspiring tumblers held cold within slight gestures, such dalliances now seemed like an age ago, almost another life time lost to fate of life and all the destines lain therein. An adopted birth rite had been her sanction and on the eve of coming to terms with her bequeathed purpose, Anastasia came to accept that initial of role of maintaining facades built upon facades and fortifying those with simpers laced with false mirth. She remembers accepting the key that would dedicate her justification to thievery of legendary artifacts and priceless objects from the highly coveted vaults and coffers of many would-be millions of those wealthy patrons that sired The Badland's herald. Anastasia had taken the mantle of the harbinger of forgotten rouges and in exchange, she had come to thrive in the shadows cast by these very buildings she had known so well. In small ways, her identity too had been stolen, buried somewhere among the roots of her family's legacy, liken to a rose among thousands of thorn bushes.

Quietly, she smiled to herself and tucked a strand of hair behind the shell of her ear before abandoning her reflection within the amber tinted glass, and continued her way home to the Herlion building where a rich Greenhouse awaited her and where a forsaken tome of dead poems and lost serpentine dragons suddenly became a glow.

Now the real games would soon begin.

^{. 𝒆 𝒕 𝒅 𝒓 𝒂 𝒄 𝒐 𝒈 𝒍 𝒂 𝒄 𝒊 𝒆 𝒊 .}

[Rockette]

^{[ 𝐝 𝐨 𝐲 𝐨 𝐮 𝐫 𝐞 𝐚 𝐥 𝐢 𝐳 𝐞 ? ]}

[Rockette]

two weeks later........

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃....
^{&& the snow has begun to fall . . .}

___________________________________________________________________________________

The chill had come with an offset of rain.

The deluge was heavier than normal in the morning light and gradually waned towards the thick and humid airs of a struggling afternoon where only the smallest rays of the sun were permitted to peek through the perpetual grey curtain of The Badlands. The warranting season had come as it always did: with little warning and sharp winds that whistled through spires and howled low betwixt alley ways and rattled panes of glass and steel. The river was beginning to recede into the bubbling waves of a winter brook, where polar fog churned lazily along the slopes. The city was thus an artist's induction of a grey-mapped photograph framed in black glass and painted with only the smallest touches of deadened blue.

A week prior, the skies had been awash in flurries that brushed soft against skin and clung to the streets before the warmth of the asphalt and rubber would wash them away into the gutters. It was a prelude of the season to come that would descend upon the city in the frigid breath of Winter and encapsulate the city in the wonders of ice and snow. But even on the most peaceful landscapes of snow-capped spires, the sky would eternally be eclipsed by the grey and black of the skies of the wintertime. Only one night and day would they impart, briefly, to reveal crystalline blue wherein the air was slight and crisp, unburdened by taint of smog and metallic residue. Such had not occurred in years, but The Badlands continued to celebrate festivities of the later years nearly every month, and even carried on those traditions into the warmth of Spring.

Rain falls eternally here, but the locale refused to allow their lives to be convinced to be done otherwise. And whilst hearts here weigh heavy and souls are burdened by the soot of ashen pain and woe, they still found and discovered endeavors to keep eyes alight in wonder and joy.

The following week had been stricken in a fever by the preceding of The Badland's most coveted affair. What once had been a whispered event by newsletter and rumor had now become the social necessity since the College had expanded the doors to teaching histories by the sanction of The United Mythos' teachings and manuscripts written and delegated by the seemingly most eligible bachelor within city now -- Patrick Montreyu.

Since the highlighting of the gala, the Paramorlian Histories Museum had received a phalanx of curious investors and those desiring to reap the benefits of the fundraiser and the private collections of many artifact aficionados that had, for a moment, allowed interviews and slight guesses to their donations. Most of all, the solicitation had been beneficial to the curious eyes and minds of particular individuals daily scouring the papers for these documented revelations and the most important and focal of family names that had been privy to the press. Two weeks had flown by in immediate and careful preparation, execution done swiftly and efficiently with little trail to pin point their motives.

It was all playing well into hand, and that, of course was almost too good to be true.

Upon the fall of an early and spiteful season, something had shifted, just so, upon the ambiance of the alighted soiree. Upon an axis, tilted, smudged just so in a color of red that prompted the host of the event to nearly double his security upon the currently renovated floor that was being prepared for the newest exhibit. The Atis was being the lauded center piece of the entire gala and upon further translation of the pages, the winds seemed that much colder, and flames all the more brighter, and the coming winter suddenly reaped in a ominous telling that afflicted the most prominent players at hand.

Carefully, one man looked yonder upon the glass of his office and panned his gaze low, the light of a text searing his eyes and bringing with it, a pained smile.

Across the city, a woman worked peacefully among her blooming greenhouse, dirt smudged adoringly upon her cheek and brow; hair tucked high and loose. The rain fell heavily, as it always does, but the grey and black of the storm did nothing to darken the glimmering blue of her eyes and the book to her left that was a glow in warming tones where the pages seemed, suddenly, very much alive.

___________________________________________________________________________________

[AlteredTundra]

---

“I hate rain.”

An annoyed, almost whining-like growl escaped his flesh-colored lips. A lot of greater men were unaffected by the tiny droplets of moisture that fell from the sky. Had this particular day been any other without the double-faced excitement and slight stress not been weighing on Francisco’s shoulders, perhaps the man wouldn’t have minded his premium, exclusive-to-him, Spanish leather suit (yes Spanish because he refused to wear anything but his native country’s work) being lightly drenched with the mild downpour of rain hitting him and the maroon umbrella he had hovering over him. God forbid he actually allow this rain mess up the hours that went into getting the smooth texture of each, individual streak of his dark brown hair and that’s not even mentioning the slight, careful trimmings he made to his facial hair. The rain wasn’t going to harm a hair on his chinny, chin-chin.

Footsteps blended in with the downpour, smooth concrete and hard leather tapped and tapped. As he made his way across the street had heeded a turn, soon it was clear that he was heading in the right direction. Not only were crowds of people gathering outside the history museum, but guests dressed similarly to Francisco entered the Paramorlian Cathedral. And, before he would as well, the Spain national took a few moments to admire the structure and all of its beauty. He had a job to do, of course. People were likely watching him from afar. There wasn’t a single doubt in his mind that The Bird had eyes on him from a secure location. Wherever they were, he turned around, and raised his umbrella for only a moment and smiled at the tallest building he could find.

Shortly after taking another series of long moments, the man took to his own entry. As he reached the door, a well-dressed, obviously well-equipped man who posed as the doorman (Cisco knew he was more than that). His experience at these events could just tell, based off of the posture of the subtlety-buff male that he had some sort of bulletproof armor under that Italian suit and there was likely a gun or firearm of some variety on his person. Had he been a guessing man, which Francisco Delgado Jr prided himself in being, it was on the doorman’s dominant side.

“Your invitation, sir?” The man asked him, a voice that was modestly deep. The man himself was of African-American descent. Francisco heard the subtle hint of a Nigerian accent mixed in with the North American influence.

Smiling back at the neutral-faced guard, Francisco pulled out an envelope that was elaborately-designed. Along with the sigil of the Paramorlian History Museum, the name of the gala was also present. “This should cover everything, señor,” he spoke as courteous as he could muster. What he really wanted to do was punch this guy in the mouth because that’s how much his superiority complex demanded of him. But, to save face and not get thrown out by whatever person was in charge, Francisco refrained.

“Very good, sir. Enjoy the Gala!”

In exchange, Francisco received a stylish, wrist bracelet that ironically blended in with the suit he was wearing so it didn’t stand out too much. It was still tacky and just a little too plain for his flashy tastes, but that wasn't so important that the man was going to waste his breath or any of his time or energy on it. He’d rather focus on what he came here to do, which just so happened to case the area top to bottom as he put on the best socializing smile he had in him and pretend he actually gave two shits about what these aristocrats had to say about the building and the latest gossip.

So he spent the better part of an hour talking to businesspeople, owners of art shops, art dealers, musicians, historians, CEOs of companies from the surrounding cities that had an interest in The Badlands, and basically anyone too rich for Francisco’s genuine interest. Some of them were interesting like an old, wealthy white lady who seemed to be plagued with thoughts about how her latino lover cheated on her with her granddaughter. This was interesting to him because it reminded him of the telenovelas that he remembered his baby sister loved as a kid.

Another that caught his eye was an alluring beauty he had only caught from behind. To his undoubtable surprise, this beauty wasn't a beauty at all. From the back, she looked like something out of his dreams, but when she turned around, Francisco did all that he could to prevent the champagne coming back up to properly greet her. It wasn’t that she was ugly in the way her face was shaped or even the way her eyes seemed too far from her nose. It was her attitude. How she blatantly referred to him as a name that nobody other than his own father called him and even then, it wasn’t the kind of thing anyone in their right mind would dare say without any shame. Clearly, an ignorant person who forgot they lived in the 21st century.

He had to pull himself away from the growing group of older and younger people than him if he was going to maintain any of his dignity and, above all else, his sanity. Casing this place was becoming a lot more work than he initially thought it was going to be. Every corner he turned, if there wasn’t a guard posted by every exit, there had been an annoying gala-goer wanting to speak to him. And in all that time, he had been going from one panel where a translated page was translated to another. His interest, though it was increasing to the point of genuine curiosity of the contents, what Cisco really wanted was to find the book itself - the famed Atis. The only problem he was experiencing was getting from the Gala main floor to where it could be located at.

And thus there lay the root of his problem. He more had the means, but it wasn’t the actual doing of the act that presented Francisco with his biggest obstacle; it was distracting the guards long enough to sneak where he needed to get to, but alone, he found that near to impossible. What he needed was someone willing to distract, or at the very least, buy him time to do what the device his kid sister gave to him. He knew that was asking for a miracle.

“In other words? I’m screwed.”