Member
Jing
》 22 AUGUST 2050 《
The course had been chosen, the way set, now he only needed the will to follow through. He expected the same of his soon-to-be collegues.
Sentinel arrived to the meeting room exactly on time. In fact, he made his way through the staff door at exactly 9:58 PM, taking into account the average walking time between the door and the back room, and his system immediately started the analytic parameters of the interior. Ragneka Qroarae was there already, accompanied by a slightly inebriated agent Leia Weber who was downing drinks as if she wasn’t on the clock. Which explained the car outside badly in need of an axle repair. Weber’s work had always been sloppy, even to his then organic standards. He remembered his dislike, once upon a time. Now, he barely turned his head for a greeting. Around that time, the Mal’Akh at the bar was replaced by a Fae bartender who rushed in from another back entrance looking like he had just woken less than an hour ago. From what Sentinel could hear of the sheepish conversation, that seemed to be the case. The large, white fox tails and ears of the graveyard shift bartender smoothed themselves down neatly as he adjusted his vest and cuffs and took his place behind the bar, politely notifying current guests along the length of the table that he would be taking over now. The Fae glanced towards the magitech frame already weaving its way through the throngs of people who immediately gave it a wide berth on notice, but his expression remained professional. He continued polishing the glasses the Mal’Akh hadn’t finished as he watched the frame approach the bar, the slightest shift of its head nodding towards a large woman sitting near the end of the counter.
Sentinel didn’t gesture for the agent and Ragneka to follow as he passed by the bar counter, but he left the door to the meeting room in the far corner open as he entered.
His current loadout looked markedly different from the civilian set, with ready, rectangular components hovering quasi-magnetically around his left arm, the magic prepped to instantly form a weapon at the speed of his circuits’ processing power. What looked like a long mane of hair swept back from the crown of his mechanical head was actually the result of decades of research into replicating the energy storage capability of Mal’Akh wings, with the completed product copied into magically forged fibers light enough to nearly float. It was purely the frame development team’s aesthetic choice to leave the excess strands attached and protruding like hair while the bulk of it was folded, pressed, and woven deep into Sentinel’s entire body. The newly fitted form had been enhanced with armor plating that looked far weaker than it was, the lightweight but powerful material a result of many unethical tests on Daevas’ hardened durability and the rare dwarven fortifications. In a way, he was also one of many achievements of humanity, and it was only a matter of time before they figured out some way to mass-produce his level of magitech frame. For now, though, it was both a blessing and a curse that only wealthy countries were able to research and develop the higher end of magitech soldiers, ones capable of hosting an entire consciousness.
Customarily, his system lit up to scan the meeting room for tapping devices and any other abnormalities. This time, his combat regalia offered additional information: traces of explosive substances, signs of ambushes or tampering, magical signature and residue detection. So far, nothing yet. The Tipsy Temptress was generally considered a safe haven even in the often violent nights of NYC, but recent developments had changed that.
A string of grisly murders had been linked to the long-simmering anti-Starweaver terrorist group by the name of ‘Foci’. Their activities had been recorded internationally for a few years now; the spread and inconsistency of incidents might have suggested a general, decentralised anti-Starweavers sentiment that spread through viral chat boards and obscure forums. But these recent murders were targeted and serial, with a seemingly uniform M.O. and message. The victims were almost always law enforcement and the group’s calling card, a lily of the valley, was always found at the scene. It could have been a copy cat killer, using the group’s name for their own ends, perhaps even a minor branch of the organization. Or, Foci was finally getting serious after all these centuries.
Rumors had spread that the enigmatic owner of the Tipsy Temptress was actively investigating some of the incidents that had occurred near the smaller venues of New York, but the breadcrumb trail of information ended there. As always, the Temptress’s owner kept a frustratingly low profile. Sentinel doubted the name and face attached to the license registration of the bar and restaurant chain had anything to do with the Starweaver in charge of it all. They couldn’t stay off the grid perfectly, with the world as connected as it was now both technologically and magically, but at best all anyone had managed to find of the franchise owner was a blurry, poorly angled snapshot of a distant lanky male in a black turtleneck, turned away from the camera, speaking to someone completely obscured behind an open door. It was interesting to note that the location in the image did not seem to match anywhere in New York, and thus far internet sleuths had been unable to find any place at all that looked similar to what was photographed. The account that had uploaded the image onto an image hosting site had also mysteriously deactivated several days later. It was the strangeness of it all that prevented many from declaring the photo an elaborate attempt to farm some internet clout. Who the photographer was and how they knew this was the Temptress’s owner was another unsolved mystery that the obsessives of the net had been orbiting around for years now. It was easier to dismiss the image as a random person, so many others gave up and did just that.
Either way, it was beneath his jurisdiction and thus, his notice. NYPD had also seemed to prefer keeping information confidential right now, which often meant they did not welcome meddlers unless they were forced to.
Sentinel only adhered to the heightened alert level and recommended procedures as suggested by his system.
Once the location was deemed safe enough to host the meeting, Sentinel fired off a notification to his supervisors and took his seat at the head of the table. The staff had helpfully arranged food and drinks for them, and he contemplated taking one of the hovering orbs of glamour for himself. But the thought faded quickly, with no urge nor desire to tether it.
He settled for leaving the space in front of him empty, then waited.
Sentinel arrived to the meeting room exactly on time. In fact, he made his way through the staff door at exactly 9:58 PM, taking into account the average walking time between the door and the back room, and his system immediately started the analytic parameters of the interior. Ragneka Qroarae was there already, accompanied by a slightly inebriated agent Leia Weber who was downing drinks as if she wasn’t on the clock. Which explained the car outside badly in need of an axle repair. Weber’s work had always been sloppy, even to his then organic standards. He remembered his dislike, once upon a time. Now, he barely turned his head for a greeting. Around that time, the Mal’Akh at the bar was replaced by a Fae bartender who rushed in from another back entrance looking like he had just woken less than an hour ago. From what Sentinel could hear of the sheepish conversation, that seemed to be the case. The large, white fox tails and ears of the graveyard shift bartender smoothed themselves down neatly as he adjusted his vest and cuffs and took his place behind the bar, politely notifying current guests along the length of the table that he would be taking over now. The Fae glanced towards the magitech frame already weaving its way through the throngs of people who immediately gave it a wide berth on notice, but his expression remained professional. He continued polishing the glasses the Mal’Akh hadn’t finished as he watched the frame approach the bar, the slightest shift of its head nodding towards a large woman sitting near the end of the counter.
Sentinel didn’t gesture for the agent and Ragneka to follow as he passed by the bar counter, but he left the door to the meeting room in the far corner open as he entered.
His current loadout looked markedly different from the civilian set, with ready, rectangular components hovering quasi-magnetically around his left arm, the magic prepped to instantly form a weapon at the speed of his circuits’ processing power. What looked like a long mane of hair swept back from the crown of his mechanical head was actually the result of decades of research into replicating the energy storage capability of Mal’Akh wings, with the completed product copied into magically forged fibers light enough to nearly float. It was purely the frame development team’s aesthetic choice to leave the excess strands attached and protruding like hair while the bulk of it was folded, pressed, and woven deep into Sentinel’s entire body. The newly fitted form had been enhanced with armor plating that looked far weaker than it was, the lightweight but powerful material a result of many unethical tests on Daevas’ hardened durability and the rare dwarven fortifications. In a way, he was also one of many achievements of humanity, and it was only a matter of time before they figured out some way to mass-produce his level of magitech frame. For now, though, it was both a blessing and a curse that only wealthy countries were able to research and develop the higher end of magitech soldiers, ones capable of hosting an entire consciousness.
Customarily, his system lit up to scan the meeting room for tapping devices and any other abnormalities. This time, his combat regalia offered additional information: traces of explosive substances, signs of ambushes or tampering, magical signature and residue detection. So far, nothing yet. The Tipsy Temptress was generally considered a safe haven even in the often violent nights of NYC, but recent developments had changed that.
A string of grisly murders had been linked to the long-simmering anti-Starweaver terrorist group by the name of ‘Foci’. Their activities had been recorded internationally for a few years now; the spread and inconsistency of incidents might have suggested a general, decentralised anti-Starweavers sentiment that spread through viral chat boards and obscure forums. But these recent murders were targeted and serial, with a seemingly uniform M.O. and message. The victims were almost always law enforcement and the group’s calling card, a lily of the valley, was always found at the scene. It could have been a copy cat killer, using the group’s name for their own ends, perhaps even a minor branch of the organization. Or, Foci was finally getting serious after all these centuries.
Rumors had spread that the enigmatic owner of the Tipsy Temptress was actively investigating some of the incidents that had occurred near the smaller venues of New York, but the breadcrumb trail of information ended there. As always, the Temptress’s owner kept a frustratingly low profile. Sentinel doubted the name and face attached to the license registration of the bar and restaurant chain had anything to do with the Starweaver in charge of it all. They couldn’t stay off the grid perfectly, with the world as connected as it was now both technologically and magically, but at best all anyone had managed to find of the franchise owner was a blurry, poorly angled snapshot of a distant lanky male in a black turtleneck, turned away from the camera, speaking to someone completely obscured behind an open door. It was interesting to note that the location in the image did not seem to match anywhere in New York, and thus far internet sleuths had been unable to find any place at all that looked similar to what was photographed. The account that had uploaded the image onto an image hosting site had also mysteriously deactivated several days later. It was the strangeness of it all that prevented many from declaring the photo an elaborate attempt to farm some internet clout. Who the photographer was and how they knew this was the Temptress’s owner was another unsolved mystery that the obsessives of the net had been orbiting around for years now. It was easier to dismiss the image as a random person, so many others gave up and did just that.
Either way, it was beneath his jurisdiction and thus, his notice. NYPD had also seemed to prefer keeping information confidential right now, which often meant they did not welcome meddlers unless they were forced to.
Sentinel only adhered to the heightened alert level and recommended procedures as suggested by his system.
Once the location was deemed safe enough to host the meeting, Sentinel fired off a notification to his supervisors and took his seat at the head of the table. The staff had helpfully arranged food and drinks for them, and he contemplated taking one of the hovering orbs of glamour for himself. But the thought faded quickly, with no urge nor desire to tether it.
He settled for leaving the space in front of him empty, then waited.
♃
