//.ghost/ECHO::Murphy_Was_Right:// [ClockworkCadence x Ryees]

[Ryees]

===[radcliffe_PLACE]

Eyes scanned the streets with a naturally-suspicious glare, the steel-grated hood of his cloak blacking the glint of his eyes in the dim, foggy street. .LAPLACE's eyes were always searching like that, always suspicious. It kept him alive.

Radcliffe was a long, winding street that snaked its way through the entirety of Norn, from the very north end where the city trailed off into badlands, to the south where the quarantine zone's walls severed the road's head. Those gates sat closed, now, lazily waiting in the way of the .WRATIH population within. Those walls wormed their way southward, hooking up a dozen miles out of sight and circling back around to the city's east border to line the edge of the entire southeastern quadrant of the city. .LAPLACE found himself at the north end, now, near the badlands, and near where he kept a small apartment for his stays in the area. The owner was long since dead, this district of the city nearly abandoned for its proximity to the denizens that lived within those arid, wild-plasm plains. And that was entirely fair, for most of those denizens would try—and succeed—to kill you.

.LAPLACE had spent the last minutes following a pair of men—goons, more accurately—that had nicked the purses from a bar a few miles away. His irritation had not been spawned from a feeling of injustice or righteousness; he had had his own eye on those purses. Their original owners looked *loaded*.

The goons were having a very idle conversation, heading towards the badlands with no visible trepidation, which is why .LAPLACE had not made a move yet. His curiosity had gotten the better of him, causing him to pass by a long list of chances to cleanly and quietly disappear the men from the street in the interest of finding their destination. It was when the pair turned towards a small apartment building and started fishing for keys that .LAPLACE clicked his tongue exasperatedly, well and truly annoyed now. Not even going anywhere interesting. At least they're on my way home, not wasting my time.

He tossed back his heavy cloak, revealing the submachine gun slung tight against his back. A quick pull loosened the strap and freed it for firing, and his feet moved softly against the cobblestone as he ghosted toward the men from behind. He took the travel time to produce a suppressor from his belt, screwing it quickly onto the barrel and then unsheathing his knife in an icepick grip. As he moved, his weapons lit up in a particulate green energy, like a light winter snow made from green pixels. The plasm expenditure left a rush of heat in .LAPLACE's body, comfortably warming him in the stale, chilled night air.

The scuff of his boots on the stone was quiet enough not to be heard by the tipsy men as they bantered back and fort, one jumbling with the keys in clumsy fingers. It was the other man that .LAPLACE came to first. A vicious slam sent the knife plunging into and through Goon One's chest from behind, cramming the steel through the musculature of the vagrant's chest far enough for the blade to poke out his front. His lung punctured and filling with blood, the scream that tried to come out was airy and silent before it turned wet and gurgling, goonly hands scrabbling at a throat that could not draw breath.

Next to him, Goon Two stood shell-shocked, almost visibly short-circuiting. He would not be given time to reboot and act, though, as .LAPLACE shifted his feet and turned his kebab to face his still-alive-for-now friend. .LAPLACE twisted sharply, twice, quickly and efficiently drilling a sizable hole in the man before wrenching the knife out and swinging that arm around the man's neck to assure he stayed standing for just one more moment. He then shoved the suppressor of his gun into the hold made by the knife and squeezed a long burst. The first few bullets spread the hole, and the remaining six punched through his chest and into his friend's, peppering Goon Two's own chest with bullets and punching enough holes in his lungs to immediately silence any attempts he made to be a noisy, attention-attracting jerk.

Goon One was deposited on the pavement and .LAPLACE stepped away for a moment, looking around him with the edges of a plasm draw perched in his mind. Seeing himself free and clear, the raider jerked on the strap that tugged the MP7 tight against his back, out of his way as he bent to the men. The purses he came for, he found, and some more besides, including the goons' own possessions. Nothing of note but a few hundred dollars in cash and city transit cards. Those were discarded; .LAPLACE did not use city transit. It kept him alive.

---

It was only a few minutes later that .LAPLACE drifted through the back alley between his apartment and the abandoned, nameless building next to it. The back door was the only working door he had found on the building, so the others had been barricaded and reinforced and trapped, this door being used as an entrance. Two separate keys unlocked the deadbolt and the handle. He pushed it forward, but only an inch or so. Two chains hung limp in the space of the door, and it was those he reached for. Above where each anchored on the wall, he slipped his fingers, pulling upwards on a set of wires attached to each. The ends of those chains fell away from the explosives mounted to the wall, and he finally opened the door. The locks were locked again, the explosives reset, and he made his way upstairs, then upstairs, then upstairs to the top floor. The ground floor was empty, devoid of any usable rooms. Floor two had three rooms, and was the pantry. Three was the armory, with a full six rooms that were habitable and secure. The top floor, with only one room, was where .LAPLACE lived.

As he entered the room, .LAPLACE set about doffing his gear. The mask set into the cloak came away as a single piece, and he set it on a plate stand he used to stage it. The cloak and hood were attached to a light leather mantle underneath which took the whole airy, loose cloaking off his body in one piece and left him in just a pair of athletic pants, boots, and a military-grade kevlar vest, which was unfastened and staged on the floor in front of the hook that he stowed his mantle on. Finally he was out of his gear, and finally, Kirin stretched for the first time that day.

Dark, red-brown hair cropped just long enough to touch his ears framed an otherwise friendly-face with eyes much too sharp to be human. Icy blue, those eyes reflected light in a way that made it look like he was trying to look everywhere at once—which, frequently, was a fair assumption. Tall-but-not-inconveniently so, he sunk to his natural six-foot-and-change height as he braced one foot against the back of his boots and pulled them off. He maintained his figure rigorously, athletic and powerful enough without being too big and burly so as to add weight and hinder his speed. An eerie scar looped the very base of his neck, a skin-tear scar from when a hanging was attempted on him for a situation he referred to as, "Very complicated and not worth explaining." That scar bent and stretched as he moved his arms this way and that, trying to stretch the discomfort out of them. He was sore, exhausted, and starving, but a good deal wealthier. It had been a good haul, a good day.

And now, it would be a good sleep, as his body ached for it. Discipline dictated that he spent fifteen minutes on calisthenics and light exercise, but it did not say that he could not do so while mawing on a hunk of beef jerky and sipping at a Mountain Dew. His PC he ignored, browsing and gaming completely out of his mind for the night. It was bedtime.

He approached his desk, pulling the ball on the Newton's cradle to a practiced height and fixing his eyes on the grandfather clock just next to the desk as he released it. A minute passed. A second minute passed. A third, and the cradle had almost entirely stopped ticking away. It was then that Kirin waved a hand through the plasmatic energy that thickly coated the apartment, which had long been his atelier. One tick, blue tick, fuck tick, you tick, he repeated to himself, the same mantra he repeated every night. He watched the second hand on the clock spin backwards once, then twice, his perception launching back two minutes in the past. His eyes turned to the cradle. It clicked away, freshly pulled, to the eyes within his head, but shifting his vision, he could see it still and stationary. Satisfied, he drifted through the doorway into his bedroom, closing it behind him and locking the two deadbolts and the knob.

He fell into bed on top of the covers, asleep within microseconds of touching the bed.

 

[ClockworkCadence]

RE: //.ghost/ECHO::Murphy_Was_Right://

===[whitefield_PLACE]
Black heels clicked against the worn cobblestone below, the sound harshly tapping against the shoulder of the cold atmosphere that encased the street in a hushed veil of that solitary feeling winter tends to bring along with its arrival. The faint echoes bounced off the faded stone and brick on either side as it traveled up Whitefield, a northern street of Norn that lay straight across the terrain, with its ends pointing at a police station and a large office building. This building in particular looked rather unremarkable with its dirty windows and no-longer-white exterior, but within, it might be the most interesting place in the whole city. Secrets lined the beige walls that glowed warm under the light of the dusty chandeliers, yet only those cursed with the knowledge of truth would lay their eyes upon it all.

Eyes such as the bright green orbs that peeked through the heavy wooden door of the entrance, their depths uncharacteristically full of life and vigor in such a muted hallway as the owner of the loud heels stepped onto the slightly warped floorboards. There was a fire in those forest green irises, born not of an innocent go-getting attitude and optimism for life as one might expect, but of a colder realism and steadfast determination that dared anyone to alter the chosen course. It was clear there was a mission to be done as faces blurred by, their defining features might as well being completely absent to the woman with those vibrant eyes that walked briskly up the dark stairs at the far end of the hall and into the fourth room on the left.

As the oak door creaked shut behind her, she wasted no time tossing her long overcoat onto the nearby coat rack, the fabric of her navy dress flowing lightly behind her as she made her way across the room to plop unceremoniously into the chair at her cluttered desk. A few mugs with a dried ring of tea within their porcelain depths sat atop a variety of scattered papers—they appeared to be thrown haphazardly to any normal person that peered into the room, but to her, there was a very careful system to their placement. Recent news, potential leads, a few articles of research, and a small scrap of paper that contained what frustratingly little she could find about her newest target.

.LAPLACE—a reference to some old French scholar, it seemed? About six feet tall, give or take, with a long, hooded cloak that shielded his face from prying eyes. His abilities were mostly unknown, except for his brutally efficient murder methods and penchant for keeping literally every other piece of information about himself well-hidden, much to her annoyance. That last bit was what kept him alive for so long, through all of the long months she’d spent following every lead she could on him, only to come up unsettlingly empty. It was no wonder Vincent was so adamant about killing him—if this .LAPLACE could avoid being located for so long, just what else was he capable of?

That was something Vincent didn’t want to find out, and it was an unspoken rule that what Vincent says, goes. He was their leader, after all—the band of treasure hunters collectively known as RUNAS/ wouldn’t have existed if not for his high aspirations and admirable authority. Whatever he requested to be done, they executed it—each member was a willing tool at his disposal for him to command as he saw fit. Any typical man would become drunk with the power their loyalty gave him, but not Vincent—he was simply a man on a mission, charismatic and fair enough that people would willingly follow him into the unknown.

And what an unknown it was that she found herself in, tossing the crinkled piece of paper to the side in disinterest as she turned her attention to the bright screen of her monitor. The contents of her computer were notably much more organized than the objects on her desk, folders and files neatly tucking away all of the information she’d accrued over her time here, almost a decade’s worth of data stored in their depths. A notification blinked in the corner of the screen, revealing some info passed along to her about a recent excursion that ended with an encounter of an oddly powerful .WRAITH. The nature of these beasts was something she’d been studying for years, but as she was about to delve into the details of this new entity, another message made its presence known.

Its title was just a simple N, but the weight of that single letter summoned a heavy feeling in her bones as emerald eyes darted across the words. N meant new intel. N meant news, usually good. N meant now was the time.

Northern Radcliffe. 11 PM.
You know what to do.
- V
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
===[radcliffe_PLACE]
That was how .DUALITY ended up surveying the streets from a slanted rooftop that night, her black hood shielding the copper blonde hair and light tan skin that would stick out in the darkness of the night like an unpleasant neon sign pointing right at her location. Vincent had someone plant two decoys at the Anchored Cliff bar in hopes of attracting .LAPLACE—a couple of extravagant ladies dressed in fine furs and soft silks, adorned with sparkling gems of effervescent colors caressed by finessed metalwork. He was a man just as fond of treasure as everyone else—it was a bit of a long shot hoping he would take the bait, but they were desperate, as much as she hated to admit it.

The breath ghosting out from her lips hitched as a flash of shimmering material caught her eye—it was the jeweled white purse one of the ladies had carried, as it was tucked under the black coat of a man. The second flash that followed, however, caught her off guard—wait, there were two men now, the other carrying a bright yellow purse. This could only mean…

Shit. Some idiots got hooked on her line first. Not that she could blame them—the women were waltzing around in attire that screamed ‘Steal from me, I’m rich!’

With a heavy sigh, .DUALITY stood from her perch, too apathetic at this turn of events to particularly care about retrieving the stolen assets. They were clearly just a couple of drunken lowlifes that had somehow gotten lucky enough to snatch a couple of purses that were meant to be snatched—this was probably the highlight of their entire pathetic year. Life, perhaps. Might as well let them have their fun with it for a little while.

So instead of ending their lives mere feet away from the bar they’d stumbled out of, she watched them, walking along the shingles of buildings a few meters behind them as they slowly made their way through the city. Her feet faintly glowed with the dim green of plasm as she walked across the gaps between structures, the familiar weightless feeling of their adjusted state of matter almost comfortable as they carried her soundlessly through the foggy air, only for the worn leather of her boots to touch back down onto the rough rooftops mere moments later. The process of floating and walking seemed to repeat ad infinitum, her attention drifting to the clouded night sky until a faint gurgling sound snapped her attention back to the streets below.

Though the night was cold, her body grew colder as her focus locked onto a third man that had joined the previous two, the tip of his blade shining viciously with crimson as it poked out through the blood-soaked hole ripped in the white purse holder’s shirt and flesh. The surprise at this sudden turn of events nearly drowned out the subtle respect and dread she felt as the yellow purse holder was torn open just as deftly as the first, his wide and horrified eyes staring into the sky above even as the life quickly faded from them. With a dull thud and a slight splash of blood, the body landed haphazardly on the stones below, pieces of fabric, muscle, and unidentifiable organ bits littering the ground around him like a sickly halo.

A bit of sickness twisted in her gut as her nose wrinkled in mild disgust, shifting the scar across the bridge of her nose ever so slightly as she found herself hiding on the other side of the slanted roof, shielding herself from the scene as she gathered her thoughts. It was him. .LAPLACE. It had to be—the unique design of his cloak and the way he effectively mutilated the thieves left her with no doubts. Though the trap that was set had sprung on the wrong targets, it turns out the real prey came out to play, after all. This was her chance to rid the city of this dangerous rogue once and for all. A very treacherous chance, at that—if he was given time to retaliate, she’d certainly end up like the Swiss cheese of a carcass he’d left on the doorstep.

Shaking away her worries, .DUALITY made her way back to the other side of the building just as the last wisp of the end of his cloak ghosted out of sight. This stalking of her victim was much different than the pursuit she’d been in moments before—her focus was razor sharp, deliberate yet swift in her motions as she jumped to slide down a nearby streetlight onto the street below. Taking no chances at being noticed, the gentle radiance of plasm underfoot masked any sounds her boots in their physical state would have made as she cautiously made her way through the winding street. Every once in a while, a glimpse of the trail of his cloak caught her eye, her heart giving a noticeable pound each time he was nearly in sight. Where was he going? Would she find a chance to surprise him?

His figure coming nearly into full view caused her to dart behind the edge of a building, though only for a moment as she dared to peek around just long enough to determine that he had stopped at a door. It was a shabby, unexceptional building, one of the many that stood lonely and broken near the edges of the hazardous wasteland that sprawled out across the horizon. It looked just as abandoned as the surrounding structures—a perfect place to disappear from the watchful eyes of the city. No wonder he had been so difficult to find.

Even after his dark form had disappeared through the black maw of the open door, .DUALITY waited, the sound of her breath her only company as the minutes ticked by in her head. It was an apartment, and despite everything this man was or might be, he was still ultimately human—he needed food, water, shelter, and sleep like the rest. Maybe she could surprise him after all. For a while, her mind fell into the chasm between focus and daydreaming, that odd space of being aware yet thinking of nothing. She wasn’t exactly sure how long she’d stood there, but when her consciousness suddenly jolted fully back to reality, she knew it was time to act.

Carefully, her footsteps took her up to the door, a hand reaching towards it as her body became surrounded in the luminescence of green pixels. As she began to step through, the strange sensation of her plasmatic body passing through the wooden matter of the door was interrupted by an uncomfortable layer of energy. What was this—a barrier of some sort? The stability of her plasm was mildly disrupted as it slid through, but she was capable of holding everything together as she took a couple steps into the room and faded back into her physical form. It wasn’t often she encountered plasm like that, but it was a bit nerve-wracking any time she did—the first time her form was agitated by plasm like that, a small chunk of her right palm had been severed from the rest of her. The thought caused her to absentmindedly stroke her fingers along the scar as she traveled up several flights of stairs, plasm still present to allow her silent steps to arrive at another closed door. It was obvious he was careful before, but not this careful. It seems she might have underestimated his defenses.

The second time phasing through one of his doors wasn’t as rough, but a small feeling of alarm gripped at her chest as she considered her journey here. She’d used up a lot of her plasm on this chase—if she couldn’t dispatch of him quickly, she’d be at a clear disadvantage. The gravity of the situation pressed coldly against her lungs as her gaze locked onto her sleeping prey, and it was only moments before she found herself hovering above him, her left hand steady with her knife, her right poised to defend against any retaliation. It was the end of a long and interesting pursuit, but now the hunter had finally cornered its prey. It was time.

With a slow inhale that was cut off by the pressure of a breath held, the blade raced towards his heart.

 

[Ryees]

RE: //.ghost/ECHO::Murphy_Was_Right://

Exhaustion.

Up! Wake up! You forsaken lump of flesh, pathetic excuse for a body, will you please WAKE UP!?

Kirin’s mind screamed at him, bellowing into the blackness in hysteria as he slowly watched the woman’s figure phase through the door. How, he did not know, but it was clearly the nature of her mods that allowed to her to melt right into his atelier without so much as glancing at the three pounds of plastic explosive strapped to his door frame. Some part of him tried to admire that ability, but it was quickly outscreamed by the gross lack of sanity maintained by the parts of his mind insisting that he at least make an attempt to not die.

Step by step, she climbed the stairs, expertly ignoring his room in clear single-minded determination. Who she was, who sent her, and her motivations were all unknown factors. He had never seen her before—unfortunately, for she was quite attractive, as his atelier’s field washed over her and revealed the images under her heavy clothing—and she wore no marks of allegiance. He sensed the knife before he saw it, a wicked curved blade with a gut hook at the base that he truly did not want to imagine entering his body.

To his floor she arrived, and straight to his bedroom she floated. His door was ignored; she simply phased through that, too, and indignation blasted in his soul. Seriously!? This is how I go out? Some cunt that can just walk through walls like a blood-forsaken .WRAITH comes in and guts me like a tired fish? For fuck’s sake! He saw her move, saw her draw that blade. And an idea flashed to him.

Fuck you in advance for making me do this, bitch. Fuck you greatly.

With a mental flex, he shoved the perception of his time just a few seconds forward. In fast forward, her blade plunged into his chest, tearing muscle and stopping his heart in place. The pain of that arced through his soul like wildfire, but it was not enough to move his body. Not yet.

His shift, this time, took him just a few seconds back. The knife came down again. Fire.

And again. Agony.

And again. Misery.

And again. Torment.

And again. Discomfort.

And again. Numbness.

And again. Tingling.

And again. Warmth.

And again. Bliss.

Lost in the throes of insanity, he replayed that sensation over and over and over again, the bonds of his soul fraying at the edges as it perceived its death time and time and time again. Time that dwindled, though, as the stretch of time he had controlled perception over dwindled and reality closed in. But his body was stirring, mind coming alight with pain and attempting to stir his body to action. Twenty seconds. Fifteen. Ten. Five. Finally, muscle response. Finally, nervous response. Three. A twitch in his arm. Two. His eyes fluttered open. One.

Zero came with the inhalation of breath that powered his limbs. He threw them forward, tossing himself aside and down, towards his feet. The blade slammed into his core, tearing through the muscles just above his left lung and mutilating his rotator cuff muscles. Somewhere in his mind, liquid-fire agony tried to destabilize all that was real. He shoved that reflex away with a blood-curdling scream that, in his post-insanity state, came out more as a deranged cackling.

He did not know the orientation of his assailant, but he knew there was a knife in his back, and her hand would be attached to it. It was with surprising dexterity that he used is one good arm to whip around, snatching at her hand. Nowhere to be found, he finally laid his real eyes on his assailant, who had reflexively recoiled from the carnival laughter ripping from his throat. The carpet snaked up from the ground, wrapping around his ankles, and with an Empire-strength yank, dragged him off the mattress, onto the floor, and between her legs.

He stood, and she whirled to face him, knife cleanly drawn from his back and well on its way to finishing its job already. Whomever this woman was, she was no slouch, and her fear response was cleanly tempered. Killing Kirin was the only thing in her mind, and she was well-trained in adaptation to her environment. Her adaptation was matched, it seemed, only by his paranoia.

The plasm saturating the entire apartment had come alive as soon as he became conscious. As he slid from the bed, the mattress yawned, waking up from its slumber as the woman spun around to attack him again. Seeing its owner in trouble, the mattress sprang to its feet and launched itself at her, wrapping its corners around her upper back and sending her sprawling forwards, quickly slipping out of its grip and spinning to follow Kirin, who had darted to one side.

To one side, to his nightstand. He haggardly lifted the MP7 and jerked the trigger back, firing a hail of bullets directly at the mattress that separated the pair. The mattress smiled at him, thankful to serve a wonderful, helpful, life-saving purpose such as this, and collapsed, falling towards the woman.

The weapon fell from his hands as he slumped to the floor. All that manipulation of time perception had drained his natural stores to dangerously low levels. Here, there was no raw plasm, long since harvested by himself and others that lived in the area. The closest place to find the energy he needed to stabilize his body would be the badlands. His mind tried to rally against that particularly terrible idea, but his body was already moving.

The plasm flowed form his fingertip in a circle, tracing a three-odd-foot circle on the floor in a jagged, uneven circle. Completed, the ground within crumbled away, revealing a hole that fed through not to the floor below, but to a thicket of trees isolated away in the no-man’s-land to the north. The MP7 fell through the hole, and he inched forward, tumbling haphazardly through himself. As he fell, consciousness left him.

 

[ClockworkCadence]

RE: //.ghost/ECHO::Murphy_Was_Right://

She’d thought everything would go smoothly. Slip inside, leave him gagging on his own blood, slip outside. Really, how much more complicated could it get? She’d thought that since he was sleeping, there was going to be no retaliation, no resistance. She could have been rid of the elusive man she’d been pursuing for months, get a job well done from Vincent, and move on to much more important things in her life. It could have been so easy.

It could have been so, so easy.

Yet luck wasn’t with .DUALITY that night. That odd feeling that she needed to be ready to defend herself wasn’t just a reflex—it was a warning. She’d considered the disadvantage she’d be in with her plasm levels low if he were able to move past her initial attack—why had she even thought of it? Shouldn’t she have been more confident in her own abilities? Yet the answer lay in front of her plain as day, if only she would have paid attention to it, instead of hyper-focusing on the goal that lay before her. That lingering uncomfortable feeling she got from passing through his door was still throbbing strong in her veins—it wasn’t just a layer at the door, this odd energy was everywhere in this place. It sent adrenaline pumping into her veins, waking up her senses enough for her to repeat a revelation that she’d known perfectly well, yet at this moment, it made her blood run cold.

You don’t know what he’s capable of.

That statement rang true as suddenly his body jerked to life, her knife finding some part of his flesh that sent an impossible combination of blood onto the floor and a crazed cackle into the air. The unnatural response surprised her, the grip on her knife disappearing with the fear that somehow that laughing meant confidence, that he had some upper hand and he knew it. He was insane, and that meant unpredictable.

Apparently, that statement extended to more than just his own actions, as his carpet inexplicably moved on its own, sending him catapulting towards her as she began reaching for the knife hidden in her boot. Her fingers recoiled as her hand brushed his skin as he slid across the floor, yet with renewed vigor darted down to snatch her original knife from his body, tearing the hole in his skin and muscle wider with the downward tug. She had to move, to adapt to whatever odd circumstances decided to happen. Maybe she was just imagining the carpet moving, maybe he had tripped.

But it didn’t matter now. He was cornered. No weapon, clearly wounded, now was the cha—

Yet as she began to move, she was suddenly staring at the floor, a soft pressure on her back that left her stunned for a split second. What just happened? The question was answered as she pushed off the object and scrabbled to the side, the new sickening angle her nose was at vaguely registering in her mind as she turned and came face to face…with…a mattress? Seriously? This whole house was insane. Hell, maybe she was going insane along with him. Yet she couldn’t entertain these thoughts any longer—there was still a very real danger, amplified now by the fact that she was apparently outnumbered.

Swallowing the blood flowing into her mouth from her shattered nose, she tried to focus back onto her original target, but to no avail, as the mattress stood to shield him. A minor inconvenience, but surely she could dodge past it or quickly subdue it somehow—

Yet once again, the darkness of the floor consumed her vision, along with a searing pain in her torso that brought even darker tendrils of black nothingness licking along the edges of her perception. It took a moment to realize the mattress was on her again, not pressing and suffocating like last time, but just lying there. Her hand moved to push it away, its corners dragging through a puddle of blood that she slowly realized was hers, staining the white fabric. For a moment, her mind tried to replay what happened, grasping into the darkness of her foggy memory for some strand of the event. There was the mattress, he was behind it and—

The sounds. There were small, distorted pops in the sea of her mind. Momentary images of holes being ripped through the bed standing before her. And, she supposed, through her, too.

But where was he? There was a sudden, still moment where she glanced around her, taking the scene in. Bits of white fluff from the mattress were soaking in blood, a few stray bullets lay scattered around her, another smear of blood where he had once been standing, and a hole, crimson dripping down its edges. Shit. He opened an .ECHO to escape. Where was he trying to go? Did he have any accomplices that could help him, or was this just his feeble attempt at trying to shake her loose?

.DUALITY crawled forward, feeling the friction of the floor rip the holes in her flesh open wider. Her body was weak at best, the adrenaline dying down in the moment of feigned safety allowing her to feel the pain jolting her nerves and the unsteady shakiness numbing her arms. The blackness creeping at the edges of her vision grew like an impending fog, her focus blurring. However, none of this mattered—it couldn’t matter to her, not yet. She had a job to do. She’d come this far—it was time to finish it. Her body slithered up to the edge of the hole, the blood still trickling from her torso falling to the floorboards and mixing with the crimson her target had left behind. With an agonizing heave, she threw herself in after him.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It could have been any amount of time that she had been laying god-knows-where—seconds, minutes, days. Honestly, it was impossible to tell whether she had been unconscious or not, because for however long it was that she’d been there, she hadn’t moved, hadn’t thought, hadn’t so much as breathed, it felt. A gentle warmth tried to comfort the throbbing pain that seemed to be coming back to her, but it did nothing to mask its true viciousness tearing at her insides. She wanted nothing more than to just will it all away, but it stayed, a constant reminder that she was still alive, and that life was going to be much harder for her for a while.

Emerald eyes opened to a dark expanse of clouds above, her mind suddenly registering the hard ground below. Her hands tried to push her up, but a nauseating vertigo sent her crashing back down, shaking fingers trying desperately to hold her consciousness in place to keep it from spinning so fast. Maybe if she just laid here for a little while longer, she would feel a bit better. Maybe—if she didn’t remember just how she got here.

Vibrant copper locks tossed limply onto her face, sweeping across the dirt as she shifted her head around, gaze finding a crumpled figure a few feet away. Was he conscious yet? Did it matter? A tired, slow energy powered the hand that reached for her knife laying inches away. The determined flames shooting within her soul had decayed into a cold ember, her drive replaced with apathy and bitterness fed by her pain that told her to just get it over with. She dragged herself closer to him, not wanting to expend the energy to get up and walk, the blade dragging lines through the dry dirt as her hands pulled her forward.

It seemed to take an eternity, but finally, she was face-to-face with him once again. Only this time, she actually looked at him. A burgundy hue to his hair, a rather handsome face that she hadn’t quite expected—she had come towards him with every intention of ending their conflict, and still had that desire burning dully in her chest, but instead of raising her knife as soon as he was within reach, she had paused. This was who .LAPLACE really was. This was the man she’d been after. For a moment, she looked at him not as .DUALITY, but Lyra, the woman who had stayed up countless nights puzzling over what frustratingly little crumbs of information he strung her along on. It was kind of cathartic to finally have this realization, something to make her mission feel complete—a feeling that would come to fruition soon, as she raised her heavy hand, the crimson-stained tip of her weapon pointing at him, condemning him.

A growl. Low, deep, threatening. The sound froze .DUALITY in place, eyes wide with surprise as her head snapped around. Her focus found a small pack of .WRAITHS, curiosity and bloodlust evident in their slow steps toward her. Four of them locked eyes with her, wolf-like if they didn’t look so skeletal and malnourished. Chunks of their bodies here and there were heavily pixelated, blurry, or distorted. A few had missing data, evidenced by the pixels lining gaping holes in places like their legs and their chests, oozing a plasm that was colored a sick-looking green. Others were completely corrupted with the body parts of other animals—a bear’s paw, a cat’s tail, a shark’s teeth, and several other random pieces that made every .WRAITH look like an experiment gone wrong, all horrifying amalgamates that formed terrifying chimera-like beings.

It was with a creeping realization that it became clear they were stranded in the middle of the badlands. Slowly, shakily, .DUALITY stood, her gaze frozen on the new assailants as she spoke to her old target. “If you’re alive and you’d like to stay that way, get up.” She didn’t warn him because she wanted him to live—if he ended up dying from this fight, it would just make her job that much easier. However, with her own body screaming that she might not be able to handle this on her own, her survival instincts told her that she would certainly have a better chance if he was able to fight.

Another growl, more menacing this time. A paw step that was just an inch too close for comfort.

Her heart skipped a beat before she lunged forward, sliding low to catch the biggest .WRAITH off guard as she stabbed the hook at the end of her knife into its throat, kicking the beast backward as the hook dragged tendons out with its escape from the furry flesh. A quick phase of her forearm saved it from being mutilated by the .WRAITH with the shark teeth, shifting the direction of her blade to bury itself into an eye socket. A sudden weight slammed into her from the side, dragging the knife through the .WRAITH’s face a bit as it came loose, .DUALITY’s body tumbling across the ground, the pain of her wounds paralyzing as she willed herself to move, the muscles in her body adamantly fighting against her.

A blow to her head—from the size and force of it, it must have been the bear paw. Her eyes were open, but all that was distinguishable was color. Gray, black, blue—or was it green? She should have been terrified, but by this point, she felt an odd sense of calm.

Was this feeling the start of death?

 

[Ryees]

RE: //.ghost/ECHO::Murphy_Was_Right://

“If you’re alive and you’d like to stay that way, get up.”

That voice was pretty. Calming, somehow, a darkness to it that reminded him of his own outlook and his own methodology.

“If you’re alive and you’d like to stay that way, get up.”

But why so loud? Why did it echo like a church bell?

“Ifyourealiveandyoudliketostaythatwaygetup.”

Calm down, mysterious voice. You need not be so thunderously pounding.

“IfyourealiveaveandyoudlindyoudliketostaythatwaygetupIfyourealiostaythaveandyoudlikettwaurealiketostayygetupIfyothatwaygetup.”

Heave! Nothing. Ho! Nothing. Up, damn, you, up. Oh. No wonder. Trying to heave his body aside with his left arm had been a surprisingly difficult feat, and it was only after consciousness had come to Kirin for many seconds that he realized it was simply the case that that arm did not work. In the grand scheme of things, that was fine; he still had feeling in it, which means it was mostly if not wholly muscular damage, with little to no nerve involvement. Silver lining found, he flexed his other arm. No resistance. Good, then. Let's the fuck up outta here.

Growl.

Oh come ON! First, Mrs. Attano shows up in my bedroom, now I'm stuck with Fido and his posse. He cast his eyes around, threat assessment his goal. He balked, though, when he saw a female figure standing near him. It was not the figure that registered to him, but the knife she held—the knife very recently held by his interior musculature, in fact, and a knife that he would recognize on sight for the rest of his life. Will you just go away? Please? He paused. His threat assessment finally kicked in.

Four .WRAITHS, one pack. Likely at least mildly coordinated. Bear, shark, feline... unknown, a strange-looking beak where the snout should have been and raised shoulder blades like they had once held some sort of large wing. At his best, they would pose a threat only if they caught him off guard. Now, though, he was unsure he could take all four of them even with a full plasm reserve. The MP7 lay just aside him, easily reached, and that gave him some hope as he cast his memories back to the bedroom. He had put seven rounds through Beddy Roosevelt in his self-defense attempt, which left thirty-three in his magazine. Plenty, but there was no way he could down all four while immobile without getting bopped before finishing the job.

A'right, bitch. Show me whatcha got, he thought darkly, setting his palm to the ground. A dim trickle of plasm crept out of his fingers, burrowing into the dirt like roots of a sinister creeper vine, digging towards the woman. For now, he waited, watched.

And in impressive fashion, she did in fact show him what she had. She moved well, and she moved quickly, powering forward and using the back end of her dagger to open its throat and not risk the beast twisting while the blade was in it and disarming her. It was her last move, though, for the jaws of a shark shortly thereafter clamped down—through?—her arm, somehow finding no purchase. It met a quick end at the proper end of the blade, and Kirin could not help but feel a sense of satisfaction at that, watching something that was not him die to that stupid fucking knife.

Her luck ran out, though, as a form barreled into the edge of his vision, then into her, sending her sprawling. It perched on top of her and brought a paw down into her head, rearing back for another. That blow, however, would never connect.

You owe me one, bitch. More like sixty-five, but we'll start with one.

Kirin pulled, hard. The tendrils in the ground poked up through the soil under the bear-wolf's body and pushed, suspending it up on its hind legs and rendering it unable to shove down on her immediately. The plasm would not hold it for long, but it did not need to; those tendrils were released, and Kirin snatched up the firearm, bracing his hand on the ground and tilting his wrist to aim upwards. A controlled four-round burst put four holes into its chest—not enough to kill, but it would not be breathing or moving any time soon. Neutralized.

Heavy paws pounded towards him, which had the equal effect of setting his heart racing and giving him necessary details. He whipped his arm towards it, a remarkably less controlled burst sending a wide sweep of bullets in that direction. The majority missed their mark, but two contacted the eagle-wolf-griffin-thing in the spindly knees, and it tumbled forward into him. The wind left his lungs as it hit him, but it rolled up and over him. Needles spiked up his shoulder as he shoved off with his hand and he rolled over his left arm, but on his back, he was lying just inches from the creature.

His thumb quickly flicked the fire-selector to semi-automatic. He pressed the barrel directly against the creature's occiput.

Neutralized.

Finally, he remembered to breathe, huffing in plasm- and blood-scented air and staring up at the stars. His thoughts strayed, curiosity trying to pry into his skull but finding no space amidst the adrenaline and satisfaction.

 

[ClockworkCadence]

RE: //.ghost/ECHO::Murphy_Was_Right://

Blue, green, black. Little green, black. Mostly just black. Infinite, endless black. Yet every once in a while, a pop of color faded in. Not quite vibrant or spectacular by any means, but it held a muted beauty to it. There was a mini fireworks display going on, and she was the only one who was lucky enough to watch its splendor.

A sound. There was an indistinguishable noise that invaded her silent show, but what it could have been was anyone’s guess. Not that she cared—she wanted to just stay here. Enjoy the silence, the color, the—

Hand. The last bit of color looked like a hand. Soft and gentle, with a little diamond ring, its lower left prong slightly bent off to the right. It was a ring she’d seen on the pale countertop as the hand chopped vegetables. It was a ring she’d seen while a Sunday-and-flowers sort of laugh floated through the air, ringing with a simple grace like the chimes outside the window. It was a ring she’d seen shining brilliantly, even though its background was hospital sheets and pallid skin. It was a ring she’d seen even when the hand no longer moved.

Mom.

Mom.

There she was, painting the mountains she always wanted to explore. It was a bright morning, with all of the windows and curtains opened because she loved the breeze and the natural light. How many paintings did she do, just like that? In her old sundress spotted with red the color of the strawberries she grew outside, with green like the grass stains she always managed to get on her jeans?

There she was, lying in her bed, enjoying some of her favorite pieces of music, smiling even though she was too sick to do much else. Her laptop on her stomach, her head and torso propped up with too many pillows because she liked how squishy and comfortable it all felt. Waltz No. 2 was always one of her favorites—it had that proper yet saucy and fun feeling, as she described it.

There she was, unresponsive and cold, the flatline a high-pitched drone that seemed to drag on for years after it ended. She’d worn her favorite socks that day, the ones with the cat faces on them. It was over before anyone was ready for it—she’d whispered “I love you”, and then left her broken body behind.

Left Lyra behind, head buried in her mother’s chest, hands gripping her shoulders as if she could hold her soul down, tell it to just wait one more year, one more day, one more second. Just not now. Not now.

She wouldn’t let anyone come near her. If she did that, that meant it was all over. That would mean she accepted this, and that couldn’t be further from the truth. They’d take her away—they’d take it all away. Their movie marathons, their weekend smoothies, their nights of music-sharing. Everything.

So she kept them away. She didn’t know how long it had taken for them to give up and leave, or how long she’d stood there afterwards, her eyes still hidden from the world she didn’t want to face anymore, clinging to someone she tried so hard to save. She would have stayed there forever if it meant she didn’t have to face reality.

Yet she only stayed there until the world wasn’t there anymore—at least, not the world she knew. The perfume scent of vanilla and roses faded. The cold skin under her hands disappeared. And when those bloodshot eyes opened, she discovered her reality didn’t want to face her anymore, either.

For a moment, she just stood there, taking in the odd sensations, the dark sky, the place that looked like her world but just felt off.

Then the question came.

Where am I?

…Wait.

…Where…?

.DUALITY snapped back to reality, her body darting upward as vertigo once again threatened to drag her under. A sharp popping sound made her jump to her feet, her head still whirling with spikes of pain as her gaze locked onto the man with a gun, lying on the ground littered with .WRAITH bodies. Somehow through it all, she was still alive.

But unfortunately, he was too. Unsteady footsteps carried her closer, emeralds locked onto the pale aquamarines exploring the sky. Her first instinct was that the threat of .WRAITHS was gone—she could kill him without interruption now. Yet was it really gone? They were still lost in the middle of the badlands, an unknown distance away from any .ECHO that could bring them to safety, and it would take at least an hour for either of them to be able to create another .ECHO since they just recently traveled through one. .WRAITHS wouldn’t normally be an issue, but wounded as bad as they both were?

She carefully laid her knife down on the ground at her feet, the tip pointing in his direction in a mixed signal of a temporary cease-fire. With a heavy sigh, her arms crossed in front of her chest, her resolve burning dully behind her eyes. “We’re not done. I’m not done.” Her tone was blunt, matter-of-fact as she stared at him, assessing his reaction. “But unless we both want to die out here, we need to watch each other’s back. I know damn well I wouldn’t have survived without you, but that same fact is true vice versa. If one of us goes down—with these wounds?—hah, the other would be lucky to get farther than a few hundred feet, at most.”

Leather boots scuffed across the earth towards him, a rough hand outstretching in a fragile truce. “So, .LAPLACE. I’m willing to cooperate if you are. Just until we're able to open another .ECHO and get the hell out of here.”

 

[Ryees]

RE: //.ghost/ECHO::Murphy_Was_Right://

"...ther would be lucky to get farther than a few hundred feet, at most."

Kirin blinked. "What?" He let the words come back to him, casting back in his memory and piecing together what she said. These wounds... watch each other's back... Not done. Not done? Wait, what? You want me to—and you're saying you're—

"'Kay, hold the fuck up." He heaved himself up to a sitting position—OW—and tried to flex his shoulder—OW—to no avail, his face appearing more annoyed than pained despite the searing, blazing pain that racked him from ribs to neck. He spun around to face her, crossing his legs and leaning forward on his knees. Bracing his elbow that way took the weight off of it and relieved some of the pain, and also let him stare pensively up at her. His eyes followed the knife as she set it down, carefully keeping very close track of that point and making sure his MP7 was ready to move. When she set it down, he glanced back up at her, then back at the blade. With one finger, he turned the point of that blade away from him, away from her, off to the side, and into the distance. Safely into the distance.

"You might want to change your sales pitch, honey. 'I intend to kill you, but hey, we have a mutual benefit here, let's help each other out.' Mayhaps just wanna ask me, 'What're ya buyin'?' for all the good that'll do you." He sighed, casting a look at the corpses scattered around the area. "But."

Another sigh, his eyes flicking up to her hand. "Here's my counter-offer." He raised his hand, lining it up with hers, but leaving an inch of space between their palms. "You obviously have a job to do. I don't care who sent you, 'cause it doesn't matter. Gifts are one-of-a-kind. No one is going to be able to do what you did. And, in the event they will, I'll have a safeguard against it now. I would thank you for filling me in on the security hole if you didn't literally shove a knife into my back. So I'm not worried about that. My condition?" His eyes met hers, that ever-present paranoia sharpening to a predatory edge; had she been closer at the time, she would have seen that same look enter his eyes before the two goons had met their untimely end on their doorstep. "You want to settle your job? We'll play a game for it. Something that fits us better, none of that settle-this-in-the-schoolyard bullshit. And if you win, fantastic, I'm dead, good for you."

He cut off there, clearly leaving his own conditions unspoken. Truthfully, he did not have anything in mind yet; she was of no significance to him other than her recent murder attempt; he had no idea of her resources, save the fact that she had enough information sources to find him, which was no small feat; and she could handle herself, which meant that a face-to-face scrap would be at least annoying, whether or not she had the martial skill to best him.

But just killing her would be boring. Just leaving her here would be boring. A game where the stakes were his life, where he could control the terms? That would be fun.

 

[ClockworkCadence]

RE: //.ghost/ECHO::Murphy_Was_Right://

To be honest, she’d been rather calm until now. The tired look on her face and the exhausted pain radiating from her body translated to at worst apathy, at best a genuine desire to work things out. She’d been reasonable—blunt, but reasonable.

But for his first words to be “hold the fuck up”? All bets were off now.

The speed and relative ease he moved to sit up with were a bit surprising, given his injuries. It very well could have been just a front, but there was something still respectable about how well he seemed to hide his pain. His eyes met hers for the first time, and she saw the sharp determination crackling like electricity in his cold eyes, not unlike the same fire raging in the forest of hers. She watched as he made it a point to move the tip of her knife away, not even bothering to feign innocence as she glared down at him.

“Honey”? Really? Wow, watch out, we've got a charmer, here. Her nose wrinkled in disgust as she leaned down a bit closer, her lips set into a fine line of annoyance. “Sorry to disappoint, but this ain’t a damn market.” Her voice dripped with venom as her eyes narrowed dangerously, needles of anger prickling along her spine. “I’m telling you the facts. I want you dead, but both of us could end up dead. Simple as that.” She stood back up to her full height then, arms crossing under her chest as her gaze held his. “You’re oh-so welcome for me being nice enough to be so straightforward about this, by the way. Glad you appreciate it.”

Then came the “but”. She stood there silently, feeling a bit of heat radiating in the space between their hands as he spewed some nonsense about a counter-offer, as if he was in any position to give one. He really thought he could create a safeguard against her phasing? He really thought that playing some bullshit game like they were damn schoolkids was really better than just getting this shit over with? She'd figured he was a lunatic since his crazed laughing in the face of impending death, but the depth of his delusions was just getting ridiculous.

Silence filled the air after his words, a heaviness settling on the area as the two looked at one another. Yet all too soon, this moment of uneasy peace was abruptly broken by laughter, her hand offered in peace retreating away to her side as she cackled insultingly. “Wow, you’re serious? You’re actually serious?” The smirk on her face cracked wickedly across her lips as she shook her head in disbelief. This was a waste of her time.

Suddenly, her amusement shifted to icy contempt, a frustrated sigh rushing into the air as her hands came to rest casually on her hips. “How’s about I paint you a little scenario here. I tell you to shove your counter-offer up your ass and leave you here bleeding in the dust. You die within the hour when more .WRAITHS come around. Instead of fighting my way into a painful death like you, I just use my handy-dandy little gift to lay low and untouchable until I can get the hell out of here, alive.” A soft light enveloped her body as she shifted into plasm, walking casually towards him until she’d traveled straight through, continuing on her short route to one of the dead .WRAITHS as she slowly melted back into her physical form. Though it was exhausting at this point to utilize her ability when her senses weren’t dulled by adrenaline, she’d go to nearly any length to prove a point.

Her small form crouched down as her hand reached for a tuft of fur ripped from one of the .WRAITHS during the fight, rubbing the matted and rough fibers between her fingers. “Maybe later, I’ll come back and dig whatever pieces of meat and flesh that are left of you a nice, shallow grave. If you’re lucky, I might even be nice enough to bring a couple flowers or something in mourning, or some shit like that.”

The fur floated to the ground as she stood, wandering over to the .WRAITH carcass a few feet away. “You’ve got some serious balls, sitting around acting like I’m not trying to do you a favor here by extending your life by an hour. At least I could make it quick and painless.” She leaned down again, taking the head of the .WRAITH in her hand, observing the shark teeth corruption with mild interest. “These .WRAITHS?” With a hand under its chin, she opened and closed its jaws in a sharp, snapping motion. “Not so much.”

It was a few seconds before she wandered her way back to standing in front of the man, slender shoulders shrugging as a genuine grin ghosted across her expression. “But you know what? I like games. Jobs like this are always so boring.” This was a waste of her time—but she may as well find some way to enjoy it. His death would be the culmination of months of work. Then, she’d have to go back to less interesting targets and burying her face in research, and where was the fun in that? It could be worth dragging the end of all this out, even if only to have the satisfaction of beating him at his own game before she experienced the joy of tearing his throat open.

She lowered herself to sit next to him, the ground a bit cold as she leaned back on her hands, gaze searching his face with interest. “All right, Jigsaw. You want me to actually take you up on this game? You’re gonna have to be a bit more specific than that. What kind of game are we talking about, here?”

 

[Ryees]

RE: //.ghost/ECHO::Murphy_Was_Right://

.LAPLACE's eyes followed her eerily as she moved, every other part of him still but those wintry orbs that sought her out like a doll's catching gaze. He sat silent and still until she sat next to him, his head turning only so that his eyes could keep on her from their corners.

She was dangerous. An evasive mod that could keep her safe from all but direct plasm bursts and a mind and body trained in seeking and dealing death; the concoction would have been enticing had the flask been offered to him instead of dumped out on his head. As it stood, he was wary, and rightfully so, as it was very clear that her words were not empty. He found himself torn between keeping her along with him and ditching her to the badlands, but in truth he did not want to deal with the latter; she would find him again, no doubt, and it would be a repeat performance he could not be certain he would win.

...and your enemies closer. He sighed internally.

The dust around where he sat began to idly try and crawl away from him as if blown by a gentle breeze. The tuft of hair deposited in he dirt did a flip and tumbled away from him as a distinct breeze rippled off his form in a ring around him. His body moved not an inch, statuesque with a strange glint sparking in the gaze that affixed sidelong to the woman's face. His mouth opened, the only part of him that moved. His voice was quiet, dim, and small, but far from weak.

"You'd be much better off not threatening me to my face."

At an unknown point in the last moments, it had begun to snow. Not the white and cold of frozen winter, but digital green flecks that fell slower, drifted more lazily, than snow would... felt more alive than snow would. Each of those tiny pinpricks felt much like a hanging eyeball that rotated every which way to see everything it could all at once, take in every detail it could as every instant passed. They radiated an eldritch sort of power, a knowing sort of power, and it was through those motes that .LAPLACE found his clarity and comfort.

The motes drifted down and settled about all things in the area. A thin layer of green lit on the canine-esque corpses, dissipating as they touched. As they touched the woman, she would feel that tiny blip of energy touch her and disappear as if it were never there, no apparent effect left upon her. Not apparent until .LAPLACE spoke again, anyway.

"Knife, left boot, hidden but accessible. Folder in the right pocket, spring-loaded. Vial of liquid—likely poison or acid—in the right shoulder, sewn in. Clever, that, well done." The smile he offered at that was bizarrely genuine. "That stone almost matches my eyes. Other one doesn't, though. That one's yours. A gift? Likely from a man. Lover? Father? Could be either. The vest is a nice touch, I wear one similar. Little bigger, though. I'm not quite a... thirty-four charlie, twenty-six, thirty-eight." His eyes flashed. "Red is a nice color on you, though."

He shifted where he sat, twisting to face her. Blank-faced and flat-voiced, the words kept flowing in a computer-like, voice-to-text sounding stream. "The one on your face is visible. Scar on the arm. Superficial. Fall injury? Burn? Hard to say, too light. The bit missing from your palm is too clean a cut, though. No blade did that. I bet that was severed away from a failed phase, wasn't it? After your ego kicked in but before your abilities could keep up with it." His lips curled into a wicked smile; no ego was present on his face, now, though. Something darker, something more self-assured, something that spoke somehow both of his complete ability to function on his own and the keen interest he had taken in her at the same time.

"No, it is not any kind of X-ray vision. Yes, it has something to do with those motes. No, I will not explain to you how it works. Yes, the game will have something to do with those."

The sand at his feet shifted; a grid appeared, eight by eight, and two figures sculpted up and out of it: Chess pieces, kings. The only two pieces on the board, the white king that faced her was at A2, near the corner. The black king, he picked up, and placed at A3. If she moved towards him, it would put her in Check; if she moved down the row, she would simply be in the same position next move. You can work with me, or against me, miss Duality"—he emphasized her name clearly—"but the only way you'll find real cooperation is putting yourself in a vulnerable place and learning to live with it."

 

[ClockworkCadence]

RE: //.ghost/ECHO::Murphy_Was_Right://

There was something about the badlands that she’d never really noticed before until she actually took the time to sit there, looking out at the vast landscape—the silence she’d thought she always heard wasn’t quite what she thought it was. There was a low hum of energy in the air, both from the natural plasm of the area constantly in motion and from the electricity radiating from the technology that infected random bits of the world. It was an odd reminder that things were always changing, and that sometimes it only took a closer look to see the true nature of something.

.DUALITY almost didn’t hear his quiet voice through her thoughts, not taking her gaze off of the horizon as she snorted. “Nah, I think I’m much better off doing whatever I please and not taking your shit.” She’d already tried to kill him—what’s the worst that could happen if she just simply threatened him? They were already past some point of no return with their animosity, why hold back now?

She didn’t know when it had begun to snow little green pixels, but one floating close to her face snapped her out of her thoughts, her like-colored irises trailing after the cube. It settled on her hand, a gentle warmth that accompanied a tiny shock as it seeped into her skin. It was so artificial, yet as beautiful as if it were the real thing. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to seeing this world’s strange weather, but at the same time, she didn’t want to. If she could be pleasantly surprised by every beautifully unique thing that happened in this bizarre world, she’d be pretty content.

But his words? Definitely not a pleasant surprise.

The only thing that kept repeating in her mind was the word how. How did he know all of this? Her hidden weapons, the contents of her pockets, what she was wearing, hell, even her body’s measurements? How was he able to tell just where her scars came from? How long had he had all this information? Most importantly, how dare he? How dare he pry into her personal—well, everything—and just lay it all out on the table as if it were nothing?

Her hand twitched as she stared at a dark mountain in the distance, keeping a carefully controlled and neutral face while on the inside she screamed. That snow wasn’t any sort of coincidence, was it? He was one word away from a nice, deep slit in his throat. To be honest, it embarrassed her. It absolutely infuriated her. It made her want to shift her body away from him and try to cover what little she might be able to keep secret from him. Yet she knew she couldn’t react—that’s just what he wanted. All of this was to just unnerve her, to push her buttons. If he flustered her enough to get a rise out of her, he’d win.

Two could play this game, though.

A slow, sarcastic clap shocked the air before she leaned back on her hands, forcing her real emotions behind a steel wall of indifference as she met him with a bored expression. “Wow, nice party trick. So your ability is odd but useless trivia. I’ve seen better. You just sprinkled some magic fairy dust and gained information. Whoop-de-fucking-do.” Jazz hands emphasized ‘magic fairy dust’ before they threw themselves into the air carelessly, a dark grin quirking the edges of her lips. “You should work on your showmanship—that might make things a bit more interesting. Seriously, the droning computer voice won’t get you into Vegas, honey.”

Falling into the natural rhythm of her mocking tone, she stared back at him with an amused expression, refusing to back down and let him take her dominance. “Red is rather nice on me, by the way—I’m so glad you can see that. This is your first time seeing a woman’s body, right? Wow, better late than never, I guess. Don’t get too excited, now.”

Her teasing sneer suddenly cut into a serious scowl, tired of the pretentious attitude her adversary kept trying to throw her way. “You think I really give a shit what you can do? Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not gonna lose any sleep wondering about it. Besides, you’re still melodramatically dragging out the suspense of what the hell this game is instead of just growing a pair and telling me. What, you don’t have a plan? Or do you just like stirring up drama like a middle school girl?” She looked away then, searching around for nothing in particular as a scoff huffed from her mouth. “If you want to get even close to intimidating me, you’re gonna have to try a lot harder than that.”

Nothing was less intimidating than a game depicting their current struggle, clearly biased and tipped in his favor when in reality, that scale was probably more weighted on her side. A leather boot lifted into the air, green embers fixated on his face with a blank expression as the shoe pointedly crashed down onto the sand figures. The ankle twisted slowly, grinding the pieces into the ground as the heel began to draw circles, erasing every trace of the chess board. “I’d rather work against you, if you’re gonna be like that.” She leaned in closer then, focus still razor sharp on his expression as her voice became laced with acid. “Fuck your cooperation. ’Just be vulnerable and deal with it?’ You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. I’d rather have been torn up by those .WRAITHS. Are you really delusional enough to think that someone would actually go along with that bullshit?”

She was tired. Tired of the pain, tired of sitting around, but most of all, tired of him. Vulnerable? I’ll show him vulnerable.

Her hand lurched towards him. She wanted to rip his heart out, but knew she couldn’t kill him—not yet. As big as her bravado had been earlier, she wasn’t sure she had enough plasm to keep her safe and phased the entire hour she had to wait. She needed to keep him around just in case she needed to use him—as bait, as someone to take away some of the brunt of an attack, whatever it may be. So she opted for intimidation—he wanted to act like he was so high and mighty knowing things about her that were way too personal? Let’s just see how terrified he is when his lungs are struggling to expand beneath just a bit of pressure from her fingertips—

At least, that’s what she’d wanted to do. Her hand hadn’t run into the organs she wanted to toy with, but the warmth and sturdiness of his own hand, abruptly stopping her pursuit in its tracks. A flash of surprise sparked in her expression—not because he was able to block her advance, that much she expected. But why did it seem, for just a moment in those blank eyes, that he knew what she was trying to do? Not just a vague idea, but literally her exact plan?

For a moment, she froze here, the hand that had pulled the trigger on her over the hand that shoved a knife through his skin. Somehow, hands that were fighting one another mere moments before ended up in a tight grasp. Not exactly friendly, but not really directly adversarial, either. It was an oddly personal form of contact that caught her off guard, but she hid it behind a guarded expression as she looked up at his face. His features seemed unsettlingly blank and ultimately impossible to read, stirring an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach as she snatched her hand back away from him.

“All right. I’m done trying to be nice. I thought it’d be amusing to hear you out, but it’s just tiring now.” Her weight shifted until she was standing, stretching lightly before placing a hand on her hip. “Your options are vague pieces of bullshit that nobody in their right mind would come up with, let alone the fact that you actually seem to expect I’m gonna respond favorably to it. So, you’ve got two options, and only two. Make yourself useful to me somehow and live, or keep doing whatever this waste of time is and die.”

 

[Ryees]

RE: //.ghost/ECHO::Murphy_Was_Right://

Indignation, confusion, offense; it was Kirin that watched those emotions play out, compartmentalized in his own mind while .LAPLACE pulled the strings on the center stage. It was not quite and out-of-body experience, just a useful trick to observe one's surroundings he had picked up from a good friend a decade or more back. Back before he had been his own business, back when he did not spend all his time alone.

Alone.

That word rang at him, and he afforded himself time to perceive it. A shift in his internal plasm flow functionally slowed time for him, allowing him ample time to ponder. Alone. That was the defining characteristic of his trade, as of late. He had embraced his one-man show, entering and exiting compounds, bases, and ruins of his own accord, on his own schedule, with his own methods. There was satisfaction in that, certainly, but a compulsion had set about him now as this woman reached her hand out. He had meant to snatch it, to push his index and middle fingers into the space between the bones and squeeze, trapping the palmar muscles in flexion and immobilizing her wrist and fingers. Instead, though, his hand moved into the path of hers and simply took it in his. It halted her path, certainly—and relevantly so, considering the molestation of his internal organs she had been intending—but held no roughness, no strength. Just adamance.

Kirin's face schooled itself to emptiness as his eyes searched hers. Their eyes met, there, and he could nearly hear the sounds of brick being laid as her defenses went up, her expression more defensive than a shield wall. His deeply-set paranoia suggested this might be another trick, another play in her book, but the way she jerked her hand back somehow felt too genuine for that to be the case. She was determined and skillful, but she did not seem much of an actress.

He remained silent and blank as she continued on, clearly more of a talker than he. Perhaps that was an artifact of having spent the last years in near-complete solitude, that he was no longer the socialite he had once pretended to be, or perhaps it was simply more true that he did not like to talk much where she seemed to revel in it. That was fine with him, though. The more she talked, the less she listened.

So instead of shooting her some witty retort or acidic comment, he simply let a pleased smile drip onto his lips. "You are already playing so well, though," he said cryptically, heaving himself with one arm to his feet. "It would be a shame to spoil the rules now." He looked over the Demon, using the plasm-denoted infoscape in his mind to give her one last once-over. He opened his mouth—

—then suddenly snapped it shut. "Bullshit time over, game time. Shut up unless they say something where you actually know what you're talking about." It was not an order, it was not a command; it was simply a statement, not from a superior to a subordinate, but from an operative to another operative with the full assumption that she would simply understand the situation. Ten seconds passed, the ten seconds that he saw ahead, before the pair of them heard the sounds of an engine.

Shit. Must have been the gunfire. We had better get very lucky. In those ten seconds, .LAPLACE moved with sudden grace and efficiency, much more akin to the creature .DUALITY had seen from the rooftop. He scooped the MP7 and slung it about his shoulder, pulling the strap before the weapon even settled low to strap it tight to his back. He toed his boot under the knife in the dirt and flicked, tossing her knife up and snatching it from the air. His eyes met hers, clear intent to return it to her within, as well as something else more strange. Something that looked somewhat like an apology.

She would feel his plasm flex. His motes were running thin, but these small activations of his mod had become second nature and greatly streamlined. Plasm coalesced more thickly on the strap and the gun, and as he shoved the knife through the loop in the gun's strap, it settled about that as well. That plasm flashed, and the air Changed. The weapons disappeared from sight.

And suddenly, all that predatory efficiency disappeared. .LAPLACE dropped to one knee, his right hand clutching at his left shoulder. His breathing was ragged as if he had just run a mile, and his face twisted in pain, signs of distress that had not been there but a moment before. His eyes, though, were still sharp as ice met spring, their message clear.

Fake it.

A humvee sputtered on up to the pair, two men on top with rifles aimed at the pair, braced against the cab of the vehicle. "Drop any weapons you have on you!" and, "Stay where you are until we come to you!" echoed from them simultaneously, the overlap making it difficult to understand either one particularly well. The vehicle slowed and stopped, all four doors kicking open and producing one figure each. A woman climbed out of the driver seat, while a man stepped out of each other door. The woman left the door open, leaning into the crevice between the door and the body of the car, watching.

She's he shot-caller, then. His eyes scanned her closely, and letters danced above her head. .GORGON? There is no version of this where I like that name, is there? Scanning the others, his concern slackened. .MAXIM, .DEMON, .SLEDGE: the other men that approached him had unassuming names he classified in C-tier, easily predictable what their mods would be like simply based on their name.

He felt dots connect in his mind regarding .DUALITY somewhere in the back of his mind, but the focus was not on it as he was accosted by these new faces.

Seconds passed in silent tension as the three approached them, weapons in hand but not readied. He saw each of those three take a look up and down at each of the wounded raiders, considering and weighing and thinking. .LAPLACE was keen on not being the one to break that silence.

 

[ClockworkCadence]

RE: //.ghost/ECHO::Murphy_Was_Right://

The smile across his lips caught her off guard—something close to pleasant? She hadn’t even considered the fact that he might even have the capability to express something close to happiness. His words unnerved her, not because it was intimidating, but because of the implications. Had she really been playing just the way he’d intended, all this time? She’d tried so hard to throw off any possible edge he had over her, yet was he really here, standing over her the whole time?

Yet before she could retort, his short statement spurred swift action as he gathered their weapons. Her body instinctively tensed as he held her knife, feeling unprepared should he decide to retaliate against her. The calmness in his gaze relaxed her defensive stance, and though something odd that she couldn’t define resided in those same ice chips, there was at least one thing he made clear. He wasn’t going to use it on her—that was progress, at least. She began to step closer, hoping he might let her take back her weapon, but before she'd even taken three steps, both of their weapons were coated in plasm and abruptly vanished. If it wasn't for the fact that he'd gotten rid of his weapon too, she'd have reacted violently—but he seemed to have a plan. More than that, he seemed to know something. They? How did he know someone was coming? Maybe this was a part of his ability—a heightened perception of sight, the ability to look into the past and present, or something else along those lines?

The sudden shift in his demeanor was a bit shocking—he looked like the type of guy that wouldn't even express pain on his deathbed, yet here he was, clutching the gaping wound as if it was the worst pain in his life. She didn't know him in the slightest, but she could imagine these definitely weren't the worst injuries he'd ever sustained. Yet this show of vulnerability? It just seemed unnatural, given the few short moments she'd seen of his perpetual neutrality and calmness. Her eyes were shining with intrigue until he looked at her, the expression on his face speaking just as plainly as if he'd actually opened his mouth to tell her. It was a ruse. And if she wanted things to go smoothly, she'd better play along, too.

The black material of her cloak floated to the ground as she reached for both of her hidden blades, chucking the switchblade on the ground close to her companion and swiping her boot’s knife through a puddle of .WRAITH blood not far from her. Yet as soon as it was dripping crimson, she decided it would be best to leave it there completely, abandoning her only mode of defense left as she ran to crouch down at the side of the man that just moments earlier, .DUALITY wouldn’t have dared to approach without a weapon. But this wasn’t .DUALITY anymore—this was just simply Lyra, with concern, vulnerability, and a bit of fear creeping onto her face as she played her part in the game. She leaned in close to the man she’d recoiled from earlier, a hand on his right shoulder as she inspected the gaping wound she’d created, merely pretending to care, but the sight genuinely made her stomach crawl.

The engine roared close as the brakes screeched, not from exertion since they weren’t going particularly fast, but simply from the effort of having to work when they were clearly not in any condition to do so. At the sound, feigned fear became evident on her face as she pulled her companion closer, his head close to her right shoulder as she held him protectively, her left hand still against his shoulder and the right snaking up to gently cradle the back of his head. It was only for a moment, however—as the human figures became apparent and their words floated over the sounds of the not-so-gentle engine, her hands cautiously lifted into the air. With a quick glance around, she located the switchblade she’d deposited nearby earlier, a dull thud against her boot as she kicked it away, making a clear statement she’d cooperate and not cause trouble.

It felt almost relieving to give into the pain and finally allow herself to express it, not entirely faking her reaction as they approached and motioned for her to stand, breath hitching as she winced with the exertion. "It's nice to see something that's not immediately trying to kill us." She offered nervously, trying to open a dialogue as one of the smaller men came to stand inches from her. She felt hands start to press along her body, gasping in pain any time they touched near a wound in their search for weapons.

“Damn, you both got really in over your heads out here, didn’t ya?” .MAXIM noted as a burly hand ghosted over a bullet hole, causing Lyra to hiss out air in protest. “Welcome to the badlands.” The key to her house and a little blue stone were extracted from her pocket as he looked down at her, then at the scene around them for a moment, trying to piece things together. “So, what’s your story?”

Fixing him with an innocent and anxious look, she took a deep, shaky breath in a fake attempt to calm herself down. “I’m Lyra. Lyra Caspari. My friend and I—“ Her big, lying orbs glanced back with concern for her companion before turning back with a tremble in her lower lip. “We—we were looking for .LOOT in those mountains to the south. We’d gotten good intel on a great cache, but apparently we weren’t the only ones crossing that area. There was another group—they didn’t look like they were searching for anything, just passing through. But they—“ She paused for a moment, the fake memory paining her as she shook her head feebly. “They didn’t like us being there. They shot at us—I took the worst of it.”

Her attention shifted back over to her partner in this charade, letting a gentle smile of gratitude settle on her expression that wasn’t quite without some truth. He’d saved them from a potentially rough encounter with his suggestion to appear harmless, after all. “My friend and I ran. He helped me, made sure I kept moving through the pain. We saw an open .ECHO, and in our panic, we just decided to go through it. It was better to face the unknown than get gunned down, right?” She summoned her emotions enough to force small tears to well up in the corners of her eyes, determined to sell the story. “At least, that’s what we thought until we ended up here. And these .WRAITHS…”

Her hands shook as they moved slowly to cover her face, as if she could hide herself from the horrors she’d witnessed just moments ago. .MAXIM stood then, satisfied with his search even though he was clearly inexperienced enough to miss the poison still on her person. “That’s some bad luck, right there. But at least you two were able to survive.” He offered, trying feebly to console the terrified woman until the sound of footsteps approaching caused him to glance back and step away, making room for the woman that had stayed behind to come closer. Her gait was slow and purposeful, snaking her way closer until she stopped a few inches from Lyra, her steely gaze appraising the pair for a long moment before she spoke.

“You two don’t belong out here.” She offered simply, causing Lyra to tense. “Carrying only these feeble little weapons?” Her eyes narrowed on the knives, appraising them thoughtfully. “Your friend here doesn’t even have any armor. He definitely could have used it today, though.” She commented, suspicion evident in her expression as she evaluated him, until the feeling eventually dispersed with a sigh. She looked like she wanted to dispute this story, wanting to believe that no raider in hell would be dumb enough to come out here barely prepared. Yet even if they had come here with more on their person, what did it matter now? They were clearly unprepared enough to get this injured, and her men’s search of their possessions revealed nothing else of use.

“So, I propose a deal.” .GORGON continued, hands causally at her sides shifting to rest on her hips. “You let us keep your weapons and give us the location you were exploring. In return, we can patch you up before you two open an .ECHO to safety.”

Lyra feigned surprised gratitude, nodding enthusiastically. “Yes, that’s perfectly fine with us. Thank you so much, miss. We really did get in over our heads.” Hopefully now, they were in the clear. It was a minor setback losing her trusty hidden weapons, but it was a small price to pay to keep her life. That, and the location of the .LOOT she'd been planning on searching for in a few days. All just worthwhile costs for survival.

.GORGON motioned, a simple wave of her hand, and the men began to escort the injured pair towards their vehicle. Within a few minutes, they were inside the belly of the machine, the engine sputtering as they crossed the smooth landscape. Their trust was placed in the unknown.

 

[Ryees]

RE: //.ghost/ECHO::Murphy_Was_Right://

Watching the men roll up on them was a somewhat surreal experience. First, they did not immediately open fire—that was always a pleasant surprise. Next, they began to speak in alarmingly calm and collected tones and allowed the woman—Lyra Caspari, by her word—to tell "their story." And what a story it was, a tale of poor luck and quick thinking presented in such a disarming, demure, deferential tone that Kirin could not help but stifle a laugh.

Mistake.

OW. The outward pressure on his upper back from his jittering chest sent fresh spirals of pain lancing through his shoulder right in time with her story. It was convincing, to say the least, the way he crumpled and clenched his teeth, sucking air through a jaw that threatened to crack under the pressure from his gritted molars. He cast his perception five seconds ahead to better act in line with her words, and their performance was much less disjointed from there.

Admittedly, Lyra was quite the actress. Her voice carried all the concern of a spooked ninny and her arms had cradled his head with a bizarrely comforting tenderness before they rose defensively. It was enough to illicit the laugh, but there was a genuine softness to it that partially belied her hardened initial presentation. His intrigue sparked curiosity tinged with a shard of distrust, inquisitive of her true nature but scrutinizing of how many faces she could potentially be wearing.

.MAXIN was clearly an idiot, as expected. The other two did not speak much, and when .GORGON spoke Kirin wondered if they were even allowed to speak. She was shrewd and direct, clearly befitting her position as babysitter of her clown entourage, and looking for all the world like she would just as soon melt their heads on the engine block as take them back with her. The prospect of .LOOT changed her tune, though, and Kirin hoped sincerely that Lyra actually had something to give them; a raider lied to was a raider that would abandon you, or worse.

The seconds ticked by, though, and the group had approached them. Kirin's vision trickled in data, his Sight kicking in as the group sat within the space of his atelier. The motes had long since dissipated from view, their effect settled into the environment and slowly growing as time passed.

{
|||{
|||||.GORGON
|||||/* Babysitter, keeper, leader
|||||/* Sidearm, belt knife, boot knife
|||
|||||.MAXIM
|||||/* Muscle, gunner, idiot
|||||/* AR-15, sidearm, belt knife
|||}
|||||.DUALITY
|||||/* Assassin, liar, bitch
|||||/* Poison vial, wits
|||}
}

He forced himself to keep his face straight at the notes regarding Lyra; they were not voluntary by any means, instead constructed by his subconscious as his mods worked out information and fed it back to him. That his subconscious classified her wits amongst her gear was amusing in and of itself, but her key character traits were what he had to fight hard to not chuckle at. His laughter would only be written off as insanity—not that Lyra needed any help believing that, anyway.

Kirin leaned on Lyra as they moved to the vehicle, and climbed in next to her as they clambered within. It took him a few moments to get in and get settled with his arm in the condition it was, but soon enough they were rattling over the flatlands outside the city, heading north and east. He made sure that he sat on the far side of the vehicle. That alleviated the chance that one of the crew could bump into him and discovered the invisible firearm strapped to his body and the ensuing bloodbath that would leave them, once again, stranded.

---

The humvee ate ground, making good time across the wasteland. Barely half an hour passed before they slowed. Leaving his atelier, the details around the crew had faded into memory, and that memory was scattered at best, his normal absorption hindered by the incandescent firestorm that incised his lefter torso every time the vehicle hit a bump. More than once he was inclined to enthusiastically murder the driver just to make the vehicle stop and end his pitiful existence once and for all, but he sufficed with setting up an internal fantasy wherein he disemboweled .GORGON with the disassembled fan assembly within the engine compartment.

A well-built gate for a very obviously permanent compound cranked open as they approached. That was a surprise to .LAPLACE, as settlements in the badlands were typically not long for the world, whether it be by other raiders taking over the space or .WRAITHS claiming the territory and killing off everyone inside. To see four walls, two gates, and guard towers, all of stout-looking gray concrete and rebar, topped in razor-wire and well-maintained, was enough of an oddity to attract his stare.

"Yeah, that's our place," .MAXIM intoned, seeing Kirin staring about. "Going on three years, we've been out here. Welcome to Fort Bardiche."

The humvee settled just inside the gate, combat parking in a designated area just through the gate. The crew funneled out, and Kirin followed suit, eager to get the hell out of the rumbling pain machine. He cast his eyes around, taking in the sights.

Better than a dozen buildings, squat and square, sat along the outer edge of the wall that created a space easily four-hundred yards square. The north, east, and south walls were occupied by the structures, while the westmost lane of the square seemed to be a combined track, firing range, and workout area, dotted with targets and tires and swing bars and workout equipment about its length. The buildings that took up the walls were organized so that all the doors empties out to the center cul-de-sac, a teardrop-shaped road of hard-packed dirt that had a road to the north and south where the gates sat. The largest of those buildings was two stories, and clearly looked to be the barracks and general living quarters. It was towards the building next to it that they were led, a small-ish tent that contained a single desk and a row of filing cabinets. It was the administrative center of the camp, no doubt, and the tent where they were led.

.GORGON disappeared inside, the Idiot Brigade stopping outside and turning to stand guard. When Kirin and Lyra entered, she was already seated behind the desk shuffling papers about, a single chair across from her. Expectancy sharpened her gaze as she looked from them, to the chair, then back to the paperwork.

Kirin gave a gentlemanly nod to the chair, playing the part of the courteous man just long enough for Lyra to insist that he had the worst of the injuries and harry him into it before standing behind him with a concerned-appearing hand braced on his good shoulder. Moments passed, and .GORGON flattened her hands on the desk, giving them a scrutinizing glare.

"So. Let's talk, shall we?"

 

[ClockworkCadence]

The whole world was a stage as Lyra supported her companion as he walked, impressed by how well they both had managed to get through Act 1 of their little play. The proximity to her current—former, at least for now?—enemy was still an odd sensation, but she pushed the idea to the back of her mind during their ride into the unknown. Now was the start of Act 2, after all—he was certainly jumping into his character headfirst, his body tense and his face displaying an interesting amalgamation of pain and what seemed to be anger. All were characteristics she expected to see in a nervous and injured traveler, hating his circumstances and his powerlessness. Her own role of concerned companion manifested as a firm hand at his good shoulder, reassuring and at least somewhat steadying across the rough terrain. The other part of that character, the anxious outsider, required less of a conscious effort than the first—her body was already rigid at the trust she’d placed in those that may or may not abuse that trust, and at the fact that she had practically no defenses at the moment, save for her abilities.

The feeling of tension only worsened as their base came into view, a surprisingly impressive and well-fortified construct that had somehow survived the harshness of the badlands these past few years and still stood strong. Maybe these raiders were more capable than she originally thought. They seemed like your average, nothing-special operatives, but it was no easy feat for people so typical to sustain a livable settlement out here.

And a thriving one, at that. As she exited, still supporting her injured companion, she got her first good look at just how these raiders had managed to survive this long. Permanent buildings, training grounds, a dense air of military-like operation—these raiders may not have the best skill set, but they certainly had a determination that kept them pushing through any adversity they may have faced. It was kind of respectable, despite the fact that this whole settlement was a terrible idea that was just asking for trouble—it might as well have had a giant countdown on the wall, with how much of a ticking time bomb this place had to be before a powerful herd of .WRAITHS busted down their walls or another group of raiders laid siege in hopes of overtaking the fort for themselves.

The thick canvas walls of the tent they were led into did little to block the cold from seeping inside, a chill rippling down Lyra’s spine until .GORGON’s authoritative look sparked a fire in her to keep her warm. This bitch was really going to stand here acting all high and mighty, like she really had any power over her? If it wasn’t for their pathetic traveler ruse, she’d have punched this woman in the face three times over by now.

Her gaze traveled over to the man beside her, his gesture towards the chair sparking a look of stern disbelief to light up her face. “You’re kidding, right? I’m just fine. You, on the other hand, are definitely not. Sit.” She gently scolded, firmly pressing on his good shoulder to encourage him to sit, the hand staying there as a sign of their feigned closeness and dependence on one another.

“Certainly.” Lyra acquiesced to .GORGON’s not-so-subtle command to spill the beans, gesturing for a piece of paper and something to write with that she was supplied with after being leveled with a narrowed glare. A quick scribble with her left hand resulted in the paper being offered back to .GORGON with her right, face set in a carefully neutral expression. “Those are the coordinates. It’s located in the northern part of the Castern Mountains, near the river.”

.GORGON’s lips pursed as she leaned over her desk, distrust evident in her tight jawline. “We’ve extensively explored the area. You’re telling me we somehow missed something?”

“Respectfully, yes.” Lyra started cautiously, not leaving any space for retaliation before she jumped into her explanation. “The area’s prone to rockslides, as I’m sure you already know. This cache in particular isn’t easily accessible due to rocks blocking all known pathways to it. With your resources here, you might be able to dig out one of these tunnels and gain access again, or there might be another passageway that hasn’t been discovered—that’s what my friend and I were trying to find.” In reality, she’d been hoping to just phase her way through the blockage—but there was no way she could let this woman know what she was capable of.

There was a quiet pause as .GORGON considered her words, suspicion darkening her features. “And how would a couple of random, unskilled raiders like yourselves know about this?”

Lyra suppressed the urge to shove the papers on the desk down her throat, anger bubbling just under the veil of pleasant conversation. “Bought it from a data broker. He’d gotten intel on it before the rockslides buried it.” She answered simply, gaze steady as she hoped this interrogation would be over soon. It wasn’t entirely a lie—data brokers were a constant and essential presence in RUNAS/’s ranks. They bought and sold information to make a living, preferring not to get directly involved in treasure hunting. They employed scouts to find intel of value, and although they possessed the adventurous spirit of a treasure hunter, they preferred to lay low and not draw attention gained by pursuing and claiming caches for themselves.

It was a moment before the commanding woman spoke again, the gears in her mind turning as she considered how to proceed with this information. “Thank you for this data. I’ll send some of my more competent operatives on it in a few days once they return from their current expedition. You’ll be joining them.” At the look of confusion flickering to life on Lyra’s tense face, .GORGON leaned down over the desk again, her black hair falling to frame her stern expression. “If you end up wasting my time, it’ll be on your head.” That was the kind of statement that loosely translated to if we don’t find anything, we’ll kill you where you stand. It was barely a few seconds after the message sank in loud and clear before she simply waved again as she turned to the papers on her desk, a clear indication that she was dismissing them.

With a curt, understanding nod, Lyra held her companion steady as he stood, leading the way out until the goons that had took them here escorted them over to a building towards the front of the fort, the harsh scent of sanitation and the unsettling feeling of death assaulting Lyra’s senses as she stepped into the bleach-white hallway. She hated being in hospitals, even today—for a moment, she hesitated at the entrance, a nearly imperceptible pause as she swallowed her uneasiness back down to the depths of her subconscious.

It wasn’t long before she found herself lying down, the holes in her vest visible as it lay on the counter to her side. He must have had some sort of unique ammo or plasm enhancements—those bullets shouldn’t have torn through the material so easily. Her mind focused on the pattern of the fabric as she intentionally tried to ignore the doctor leaning over her bare torso, fishing out any bullets that weren’t dangerous to remove and cleaning the gaping holes in her body. The chemicals he’d spread across her skin numbed the sensations down to light pressure, but they did nothing to calm her churning mind. When was the last time she’d gotten injured like this?

More importantly, what the hell happened today? A simple assassination job turned into a complete shitshow and a sleepover at a raider fort in the span of a few short hours. Things shouldn’t have gone so wrong, but they did, and it left her head spinning reminiscing on all of it. So much had happened, and from the sound of it, so many more things were bound to keep happening. She was still stuck here with .LAPLACE. She was obligated to help some incompetent fools find her treasure. She still had a job to finish before she could return to Vincent.

Lost in thought, she’d barely realized the procedure was over until her footsteps had carried her through a door in another building, a few beds lining the walls with a familiar figure laying in the darkness. It was .LAPLACE, bandaged and awake, his ice-colored eyes quite pale in the dim light filtering in through the window. He appeared just as worn out and overwhelmed by the day’s events as she was—unsurprisingly, as he was the one with an assassin suddenly at his throat on an otherwise normal night. Yet with this oddly casual albeit tense look about him, she realized he looked quite different from the skilled killer she’d seen what felt like a lifetime ago. This wasn’t .LAPLACE right now. This was…well…

“Hey.” She murmured simply as she wandered inside, taking a seat at the edge of a bed across the room from him, gaze searching the outline of his form in the darkness. “What’s your name?”

In all honesty, she hadn’t expected him to answer, yet his voice broke the silence with a simple response: Kirin.

Kirin. Huh. Good to know. Seemingly satisfied, she stood to pull back the covers of the bed, burrowing her way into it as she stared up at the ceiling, hands tracing the rough bandage across her torso under the loose t-shirt she’d been given since her long-sleeved shirt was encrusted in blood. Thoughts of survival pricked at her insides, encouraging her to stay awake, but the heaviness in her body and mind would soon drag her under. She was going to sleep defenseless in the same room as the man she’d tried to kill today. Yet at this point, she honestly didn’t care.

She just wanted to rest, consequences be damned.

 

[Ryees]

You'll be joining them.

Of course we will. Why wouldn't we be? The ceiling was acutely fascinating as he tried to stare through it, hoping that whatever lay on the other side offered him some escape from this mortal coil. "Anywhere but here" was the sentiment that kept echoing through his head, louder and more insistent with every repetition.

Kirin had been quiet during their meeting, listening more than speaking as was his custom. Habit dictated he speak as little as possible, and it had come in handy; he had escaped that room as, "My companion" from Lyra, leaving .GORGON with next to no information on him. Unless she started tracking people by their injury patterns, she would have no way to find him after he left. Which he would greatly prefer to do soon.

They had yet been given no details on their expedition save that it would be in "a few days." That would be enough time for him to stop bleeding and let everything scab over, which did mean that he would be unlikely to reopen his wounds in normal travails. But the ache would set in, and that arm would be incredibly cumbersome and unwieldy for weeks, possibly months. A .WRAITH attack would be manageable if the creatures in question were manageable; any sort of major .WRAITH or elder .WRAITH would almost certainly be too much and illicit a need to flee, especially considering he had all of twenty-six rounds to his name. The MP7 was tucked uncomfortably but safely under his pillow, the drain on his plasm to upkeep the invisibility low enough that he could keep the effect persistent with minimal drain. It would run out, eventually, but it was unlikely it would do so before he was able to find a font to draw fresh plasm from.

He considered the possibility of an attack on the road carefully. Ultimately, that would be fine with him; he could bail out, leaving the lot of them behind, throw open an .ECHO and get back to his apartment. He would gather his things, move what could be moved, destroy what could not, and burn the place to the ground. It was not a pleasant process, but nor what it an unfamiliar one; getting up and moving was simply something he did when necessary. There was a nagging though in that, somewhere, something that gently tugged his attention to it with insufficient force to consciously crystalize but enough to make itself known. He put it out of his mind as Lyra entered the room. When she would enter, anyway; he habitually let his perception hang thirty to sixty seconds in the future when idle, and in this place, he kept it closer to ninety. It kept him alive.

He slowly let her perception begin to return, freezing that frame in his head for the better part of a minute. She was freshly bandaged, in a new shirt, and without the vest on underneath he finally had a chance to really look at her. Having a few moments at rest had let his mind finally begin to process the events of the last day, and among the dregs of thoughts still processing were the more casual thoughts that struck him that had to be quashed at the time they came for more important thoughts such as, "How do I not die?" and, "Ow, ow, fucking ow, that bitch stabbed me."

Not counting her apparent willingness to stab him repeatedly, her list of traits was mostly positive. Aside from being cunning and inventive, clearly intelligent and driven, she was also, more irrelevantly—but somehow most at the forefront of Kirin's thoughts at the moment—very pretty. Red hair and a pretty face on top of a necessity-honed figure made for a pleasant sight; rather, it would have, were she not covered in bandages necessitated by his firearm. It took him a moment to understand the feeling that came with that.

The fuck do I have to feel guilty for!? Bitch stabbed me! His inner turmoil was not displayed on his face, but his eyes followed her as she sat down across from him. The look on her face was somewhat unreadable. Pensive? Thoughtful? Introspective?

"Hey." The words hit him like a sonic boom, the relative silence in the room making her voice seem comparatively thunderous to his ears. "What's your name?"

Shit. He had forgotten about that. He had escaped telling it to .GORGON, but it had somehow slipped his mind that she would likely be asking for it as well. His callsign, he was quite willing to give out—many people could read it anyway, so it was hardly sacred information. But his name was reserved for the precious few that he held as friends. Instinct told him to lie to her, and he quickly riffled through the bank of aliases he went by more commonly. Deciding on one, he answered her. "Kirin."

Are you MAD!? That was not an alias! His mental self was polishing the hammer it has used to bludgeon him upside the head. I know you can't talk to girls for shit, son, but you'd best be more careful in the future. You didn't even case the place to see if anyone was listening! It was true that he was so used to having an atelier established that he had not been considerate of prying ears within the room, but at the moment it was just them in the medical bedrooms. She did not respond, seeming happy with his answer and tossing into the sheets. The slow rise of sleep breathing came about her almost immediately.

He would come to envy that over the next hour as he lay staring at the ceiling, taking stock of his life. Immediate plans for the future began to come to mind, and it was to these comforting thoughts that he eventually drifted off to sleep, flat on his back with his hands thoughtfully laced over his chest.

 

[ClockworkCadence]

Lyra’s sleep was dreamless, her mind dragged too far down with exhaustion into a deep unconsciousness to even bother with drifting into fantasy. As soon as she gave up the idea of survival in favor of sleep, preferring to be killed in the middle of the night over staying awake for a minute longer, she was thrown into a wonderful rest that she’d needed so desperately. It was a peaceful sort of nothingness that dwelled in her head, overworked from the events of the night and needing a break more than ever before. Comfortable slumber. Rejuvenating idleness. Blissful emptiness.

At least, until she woke, and the consequences wrought by yesterday’s activities would swing by in full force and smack her in the face. Or rather, torso—heck, maybe even her whole body. She expected all of the soreness and tender pain her stiff injury would bring as soon as she attempted to move. She expected her body and brain to complain the moment she opened her eyes, wanting to sleep for at least another full day before they’d be willing to function properly. She expected to find a rather restless day—she was never good at just lounging around to recover from anything.

She’d been prepared for a lot of things to happen as soon as the day begun. Being awoken by a string of expletives, however, was not one of them.

Spring eyes squinted against the sunlight filtering through the dusty window as she grumbled in protest—though sleepiness still clouded her gaze, a bright laser of annoyance cut through the haze, ready to slice into whatever it was that had woken her up before she’d wanted to be. This focus settled onto her companion on the other side of the off-white room, a pained and frustrated expression plain on his face. It took a minute to piece together what happened in her slow state of mind, but eventually, she realized it—he was just as pained by his injuries as she was.

It was an oddly human expression that she hadn’t expected from him—maybe from Kirin the pathetically injured traveler he’d portrayed earlier, but not from .LAPLACE the deadly treasure hunter. Then again, this wasn’t either man she’d seen before—this was just Kirin, whoever that was. She might have laughed at how odd this revelation was if she wasn’t terrified of the waves of pain that’d ripple through her bullet wounds if she did so.

Instead, the pain came from her shifting her weight and shuffling herself out of the stiff covers to stand, hissing air through gritted teeth at the effort. “Jesus, Kirin.” She muttered, a prolonged yawn interrupting her sentence as her senses tried and failed to crawl out of unconsciousness. “This your idea of a wake-up call? Because it sucks ass.” Her bare footsteps slowly plodded over to his side of the room, eyes forced to open halfway to not stumble into anything as a gentle hand found his good shoulder. “I get it, I know that can’t be feeling too pretty right now.” The sleepy gaze grazed over his face as she shifted herself under his arm, supporting his weight and helping him to stand so his injured side wouldn’t be strained from the effort. “Here, let’s get you downstairs—I’m sure someone has painkillers that’ll—“

Her sentence cut off abruptly, mouth still open mid-word as her eyes flew entirely open, surprise waking her senses. Wait, what the hell was she doing? There wasn’t anybody around, she had no reason to act like his concerned little friend—yet here she was, helping him like a damn bedside nurse. The realization hit her hard—she couldn’t blame this entirely on their little ruse, and he might very well notice that, too. She’d acted of her own accord, even if that was only because this damn acting was becoming too second-nature to her. Embarrassment burned her lightly freckled cheeks bright red, pushing away from the side of his body as she promptly faded into plasm, her body’s matter flying out of the room much faster than her physical body ever could. She blindly phased through a few walls before she calmed down enough to pause, deciding that having a destination would probably be more productive in distracting her from her stupid actions than just throwing herself through walls aimlessly.

That was how she came to find the showers, unsurprisingly strictly functional with only a modicum of luxury: the indulgence of at least a bit of privacy with thin curtains separating each stall from the next. She peered into one, finding bottles stacked neatly into the corner—she guessed most things were provided here, so the raiders could focus on training instead of wasting time on shopping trips. Quite efficient. As long as she could get clean, hopefully not upset her wounds too badly, and avoid a certain someone so she could stop pretending to be friends with him, she'd spend all the time in the world here.

Her content humming that had started during her shower as her thoughts drifted to happier things continued as she walked into the morning sun, hair still damp as a chilly breeze flopped a strand into her face. Her clothes remained the same as when she’d fallen asleep, but she made a mental note to find someone to ask about a change of attire at some point during the day. For now, her stomach threatened to eat itself, and the gentle scent of cooking enticed her towards the building on her left, coming upon a scene of utter beauty to her starved body—a wonderful bounty of assorted breakfast foods, all laid out across the span of a few tables. In her hunger-crazed state, she filled her plate much more than she probably should have, given the fact that she was a barely-welcome guest. However, she'd barely sat down before a familiar figure had found his way in to the tent—her gasp of surprise almost sent her into a choking fit, the clench of her abs electrifying a wave of pain through her torso.

Shit. She'd forgotten he was a human that needed to eat.

 

[Ryees]

"Ffffhhhuck!motheringshitstuffingasscock!"

Night had come and gone in the blink of an eye. Thoughts tried to enter his mind like fish tinking at the glass of their bowl, finding it just as impermeable as attempting to invade the wholly dense veil of sleep his mind resided within. Dreams, fantasies, nightmares; all were locked out and away as his mind turned off every non-essential function. It was a wonderful experience Kirin had hoped would last the rest of his life. Upon finding it had not, he had huffed a sigh and flexed his arms up, intending to brace himself up on his elbows to get a better look around.

This was a mistake.

The pain in his shoulder had dissipated as it lay still, muscular acids settling in and connective tissue beginning to form. Renewed movement of those tissues moved those acids, and broke up those connective tissue; this sent a fresh wave of blood and sensation through the area, and this was a mistake.

He flopped back into the sheets—this was also a mistake, but an unavoidable one—and took several deep breaths through his teeth, trying to find any sensation to focus on besides the pins-and-needles-and-battery-acid-and-molten-hate that felt as though it were attempting to make his nerves dance a jig on top of a bed of spikes laced with angry bees. It was not by his control or his consent that time seemed to slow down and insist he focus on feeling each and every micron in his shoulder commit ballistic suicide, the purest pain he had ever felt in his life threatening to send him back into unconsciousness.

He sensed something change in his environment, felt someone's presence come close. The intervening decades that had passed since he first sat up had given him enough clarity to realize that sitting up was a good idea, to get pressure off the wound, but there was little chance he was going to be able to do that on his own until this wave passed and he did so using only his right arm.

That arm became the focus of his attention, though, as he felt a gentle hand settle on it. He instinctively knew it was Lyra's, though an infusion of Veritaserum could not have forced him to explain how. Kirin's arm wrapped around her shoulder and he heaved himself up, carefully bracing his shoulder in a compensation pattern, then standing with her help. Upright, he was able to move without the pure force of hate invading through his brachial plexus.

Suddenly, his weight shifted, his arm falling through open air. Lyra was gone, phased and disappearing like a shade made of plasm. He blinked at the open door, naught but confusion in his mind.

Slowly, he let his mind wake up from both sleep and pain, and played the events of the last few moments through his head. ...Oh. Understanding hit him, and a smile spread across his lips that was wicked, amused, pleased, and infatuated all at once.

---

It took him some minutes to sort through what his plans were, but this medical room certainly seemed to be his place of residence for some time. As such, he saw immediate benefit in setting up a bounded field to keep track of the room, to see forwards and backwards within the space he would be sleeping, and so he walked the corners of the room, dispensing a mote of plasm in each corner. It was not necessary to walk the border as he did, but it eased the process and decreased the plasm expenditure, and with the room empty and nothing but time on his hands, the extra effort seemed worth it. It additionally gave him the chance to walk with his arm and find the best way to carry himself to avoid Zeus sniping him with bolts of glorious, smiting agony.

Satisfied with the room, he gave it a test; he nudged the small table next to the bed with his foot, then cast his sight back two seconds. The table was undisturbed; then, a second later, it shifted, as if by phantom touch. Satisfied, he threw his vision back another eight seconds, and left the medical bay.

---

Kirin's mind had been set on exploration, but his body had other priorities. The Sims bars told him it was food time, flashing red and forcing his stomach to protest loudly at each passing minute it remained empty. He had no idea which building here would contain the mess hall, but a very simple method revealed itself to him: Follow the smell of bacon.

Carefully avoiding eye contact, body contact, and every other sort of contact with anyone he did not recognize, Kirin strode purposefully through the camp, following his nose, until he found the open-door building with people milling in an out. Within was a cafeteria-style counter constructed from tables laid end to end, one end set with trays, one with silverware, and a crew of far-too-energetic-for-this-early workers dishing out what was not self-serve from behind. His eyes settled on Lyra, walking away from that line with what looked to be a geological landmark of food mounded on her tray. While he doubted her ability to clear it, he certainly admired her taste: that looked good.

The line moved quickly, and the injured raider was grateful for it. When he left it, his tray looked much like Lyra's, though he had everything separated by a finger's width and neatly piled within its own space. He trundled over to where she sat, noting a bizarre look of shock on her face that sent her into a sputtering series of coughs. He sat down across from her and wordlessly set the plastic cup of water in front of her, offering her a weary-sounding, "Morning," as his only words.

 

[ClockworkCadence]

It was odd to see Kirin in here with the rest of the raiders, seamlessly blending in as just another face in the crowd, just another hungry and tired man. He had an intriguing air about him that seemed to detach him from typical reality that most people experienced—or maybe that was just how she perceived him. It wasn’t that he never acted human around her—he was sleeping when she first approached him, for god’s sake—but Lyra’s inability to see him as a normal person mostly resulted from the fact that she just didn’t want to. He was a target, and murdering someone that she acknowledged as a human was so much harder on her morality and guilt than simply killing something she dismissed as inhuman. She convinced herself to ignore all signs of personable traits, which in theory worked very well, at least until she was surprised by every instance of shockingly normal behavior she managed to notice.

Moments like this, for instance. For a moment, Lyra wondered what was better—recovering from her coughs and having to look Kirin in the eye afterwards, or actually dying from choking and giving him the amusement of watching the oh-so skilled and dangerous assassin be murdered by simple breakfast foods. She almost chose the latter.

Instead, her hand darted out for the cup of water he’d offered, grateful for a chance to recover her breath, but absolutely frustrated with the embarrassment creeping onto her cheeks. Surely the next time she moved to dispatch of him, he’d end up laughing in her face. Her job of killing him might have originally been just Vincent’s orders, but at this point, she might need to kill him just so there weren’t any witnesses left to her apparent inability to breathe and her previous failure to keep illusion separate from reality.

She shot a look of “don’t you dare say a word about this unless you want to be eating your entrails for breakfast instead” before she forced a causal appearance on her face, not meeting his eye as she replied with a carefully neutral “Morning,” in response. A few forkfuls of egg were shoveled into her mouth, her mountains of food slowly but surely becoming plains as her focus drifted to his tray, noting the stark contrast of neat and organized against her “I’m too hungry to care, it’s all going to the same place anyway” pile. With an uncomfortable shuffle in her seat, green peeked up through the strands of fiery hair that had fallen into her face, carefully considering her words.

“So… how are you feeling today?” She began slowly, warning herself to be careful with this acting shit unless she wanted a repeat of her earlier incident. On the outside, she was the worried and injured friend, but on the inside, she wanted to tear his throat out—those two people should never mix. “I’m sorry your shoulder’s so fucked up. I really hope it heals alright.” The words expressed a genuine concern for his well-being, but her vibrant eyes shouted that she wished the injury had ended up much worse.

Deciding that that had been enough attempts at conversation for today, she focused back on clearing her tray, feeling as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks, given the shit-storm of events that had ravaged her mind and body. Her face was a blank canvas until a commanding and familiar voice drifted into the building from outside—it was .GORGON, up bright and early, barking at some poor goon outside for some reason or other. Somehow, this woman managed to have the skills to develop this fort and the willing followers to fill it, but how she’d managed to do either was the mystery of the century. Lyra’s attention flickered towards the entrance of the building as the tall and slender woman barged inside, the expressive colors of annoyance and mild amusement painting Lyra’s visage with muted colors as she watched.

“B-squad. You’re with me.” She called out to the room, already turning on her heel and slithering her way out the door, leaving the group to hurriedly deposit their trays and chase after her. They seemed terrified of her, as if somehow all of her tough-guy bravado was actually real. It was respectable that she was so direct and no-nonsense, but it was to the point where these traits appeared so inflated and stereotypical, they were laughably too ridiculous to be real, like distorting mirrors at a carnival.

“Huh. This should be good.” Lyra muttered under her breath, excitement blooming in a bright grin across her lips as she stood, grateful for an excuse to leave as she stole a piece of toast from the nearly-bare buffet, following the group out the door.

The sun’s warmth made the chill of the wind a bit more bearable as it rose higher into the sky, blanketing the waking fort with energy and life. Raiders milled about, some making their way into different buildings while others found their places on various parts of the training grounds. They had an air about them that exuded determination, discipline, and daftness. .GORGON stood towards the front of the group that had scuttled outside after her, her loud voice carrying all the way across the clearing as she instructed them…in archery?

Lyra snorted as she sat down in a patch of grass off to the side of their range, stifling laughter that shot pain through her torso as she watched with fascinated amusement. Archery? What was this, the Middle Ages? Was this for hunting or legitimately for fighting .WRAITHS with a freaking bow and arrow? Was this some sort of high and mighty goal of hers, to have her raiders trained in every weapon known to man, to make them versatile and adaptable or some shit? Maybe it was an "exercise" in focus or something? Of all the things this group could have been training for with their mediocre skills, archery?

“Holy shit. Please tell me this bitch Robin Hoods her tough ass through the badlands.” She murmured to herself, the thought of it sending tears of barely contained laughter and aching pain into the corners of her eyes.

 

[Ryees]

It was with a strangely pensive expression that he watched Lyra settle herself. The morning walk had cleared his head to proper consciousness now, and connecting the dots of their morning encounter to her outburst just then came in the moment before she sat down. He was exhausted, but that did not stop him from finding the amusement in her middle-schoolian coughing fit. The look she gave him as she sipped at the water could have cut diamonds and boiled tungsten, so he made no further comment—aloud, anyway. For all his temperance, he could not hide the cheeky smirk that tugged at the corners of his lips.

She set into her food, carefully and pointedly avoiding looking at him, and for a few moments, silence hung, broken only by the clicking of their silverware against the hard-plastic trays. The food itself was nothing exceptional, cafeteria food at its core, but more than once he found himself inhaling it all the same and had to force himself to slow down lest he end up feeling sluggish and bloated through the afternoon. He did not find much success in that, though, and in the end, it was barely ten minutes that passed before his tray was cleaned, mopping up the last bits of syrup with the edge of a crusty bread roll.

Lost in his head and his food, he actually gave a start when Lyra spoke—he had not been expecting it. "So… how are you feeling today?"

He considered that for a few seconds, asking it to himself first and really searching for an honest answer. "I'm... alright," he said slowly, working his shoulder in a slow circle. “Stiff, and putting any weight on it feels like the searing heat of the sun trying to burrow into my nerves, but I'm alive.” The look he flicked up to her had a subtle, hidden, "Thanks to you," attached to the end that he did not voice, that he did not intend for, that he could not avoid. Kirin let his eyes fall immediately, avoiding the message there.

"I’m sorry your shoulder’s so fucked up. I really hope it heals alright."

His eyes came up again, an odd mix in them. Surprise, first, his eyes flicking open wider and his eyebrows climbing. Those brows furrowed down, then, and perplexed followed surprised. A short sigh of frustration came out through his nose, followed by a questionably hurt flicker that dissipated almost immediately. It all went away in the space of a second, though, replaced by an appreciative smile coupled with a gracious nod. “It'll get better soon.” A thought occurred to him, and the glint in his eyes turned sharper. “It wasn't all taht bad, really, I made it worse by moving into it.” He let the jab be the last thing he said, fearing his life now more than he had the night they met.

.GORGON's voice echoed from the door, harsh and annoying, and Kirin stifled the urge to ultimate-frisbee his food tray through her face. A few men got up and followed her, as did Lyra, seemingly grateful to end the horrifically awkward breakfast encounter.

Kirin, though, had an entire shoulder that was demanding calories as sacrifice for its healing. His second trip to the buffet cleared out most of the remaining plates of food.

---

Ffffthunk!

The sound caught Kirin's attention as he left the mess hall, a cup of water in one hand and the last half of a crusted roll in the other. His distrust of this place had told him that it was best he front-load his meals, unsure when the next time he would get a chance was, or if the place would even still be standing by sunset; he was still unsure how this place had not already been razed to the ground, and not at all confident that it would not be by any given sunset.

Following his ears, he came around a building and found its source. Targets, dotted with carbon-fiber shafts, lined a section of the wall, and men with actual, factual, bows and arrows stood up-range from them.

Kirin barked a laugh in spite of himself, loud and sharp. His shoulder barked back, silently but much more painfully.

Lyra, seated in the grass just off to one side, turn her eyes from them to him, and he was thankful of the amused glitter in her eyes. If he had been the only one that found the absurdity in this exercise, he would have been completely alone in his internal cackling. He would have really preferred external cackling, but he was incredibly unenthusiastic about the prospect of his shoulder cackling along with him.

.GORGON's look was supposed to be intimidating, Kirin assumed, but he largely ignored it and waved at her and called, “You do you, Merida, we'll just be watching over here!” with an exaggerated wink he made sure she could see from the distance he kept. He thought he could actually hear here brain short-circuit, and he afforded himself a few extra seconds of precognition in case she really did try and physically assault him or turn one of those bows his direction.

The distance between him and Lyra was closed in a few long strides, and he made to plunk down next to her before thinking better of that and instead squatting and falling back on his butt more slowly. He shifted around and tucked his legs under him, letting his arm rest in the crook of his pretzel'd legs. “Aight, so what've we got?” he asked Lyra wryly, grinning cheekily and shooting glances at the gathered archers. “We got space for a Katniss, a Robin Hood, a Hawkeye, and a Legolas. Unless you count Daryl as an archer, but none'a these fucks have a crossbow, so I think that's our cast.” He pointed to a reedy-looking woman with blonde hair, altogether looking somewhat frail, but possibly fluid in her movements if her willowy body was any indication. “I got this chick for Legolas. He looks girly enough, right?”

 

[ClockworkCadence]

A short, ugly laugh erupted from Lyra at Kirin’s ballsy jab at .GORGON, expecting her to either shoot an arrow through the back of his head when he wasn’t looking or to visibly short-circuit with anger. Sadly, yet amusingly, only the latter occurred, the woman too willing to pretend like she was taking the moral high ground in front of her goons to retaliate. This was useful information—it might be worth testing the limits of her patience if it didn’t mean the entire fort might turn on the pair.

The man found a seat a comfortable distance from the woman that had avoided his gaze minutes before, but now was examining his face with amusement as he continued to bestow names to the raiders. This side of him was new. Fun. She shouldn’t have entertained the notion of actually conversing with him, but he approached her in such a casual way—their animosity was still apparent, but jarringly less so. Her mind seemed to make itself up about something in that moment. It seemed inevitable that she would acknowledge him as a human—being stuck here in this camp with him and having to pretend she was his friend left her no doubt in that fact. Resisting this only ended up with her embarrassing herself—so instead, why not just let it happen? Allowing this real friendship that might bud from the seed of their fake bond? It might make it a bit painful when the time finally came to kill her potentially newfound friend, but that was just a part of the job. She had to do what must be done. At least he might not expect her to backstab him later on—she could grace him with a painless death.

The sight of a genuine smile vaguely caught her eye before she turned her attention towards the archers dutifully practicing. “Definitely.” She nodded at his suggestion as her gaze found the woman in question, practically a dead-ringer for the elf from the back. A snort of laughter rose from her throat as her finger jutted towards a dark-haired man, well-built with an intense focus on the task at hand. “Counting Daryl purely for this guy. He looks more homeless than badass, though.”

That was how the rest of their morning went, just ridiculing the focused raiders and exchanging plenty of laughs. It was amazing they hadn’t been thrown out of the fort. The jokes had paused during the transitioning time the group used to shift to the much more practical gun training, eyes meeting in genuine camaraderie that thinly veiled the distrust still within. The message was clear: they could have a good time together, but when push came to shove, they would turn on one another in a heartbeat. She would dig a knife into his skull, while he would take any opportunity to escape and leave her mission unfulfilled, or maybe even finish her off before she could reach him.

It was an odd blend of subtle animosity and somewhat uncomfortable friendliness that seemed to define their relationship as the days passed. Their conversations stayed light and short, just the way that Lyra preferred—at least, only with Kirin. If she didn’t have to form a friendship with him, she sure as hell wasn’t going to actively try to create one—her decision was to stop resisting natural camaraderie that emerged between them, not to actually search for it. With several of the members of the fort that weren’t absolute meatheads, however, she was much more interested in showing her true colors of quick wit, dry humor, and thoughtful care, all wrapped in her own signature spice and fire. It was with a few of those people that she sat a few weeks after she first set foot here, enjoying some midday sparring until the still oh-so lovely .GORGON—she’d found out her name was actually Meda—approached, snakelike eyes still ever-disapproving as she beckoned Lyra over.

“What’d ya do this time? Convince Eliana to let you sneak hot sauce into her food again?” A tan, blonde-haired man—Kaidan—chuckled, the aforementioned cook beside him shooting him a look before her attention shifted back over to Lyra.

“She doesn’t seem upset, so that’s good news. Well, any more peeved off than she usually does, anyway.” Eliana piped up, trying to lighten the situation as her friend stood, shrugging casually.

“Guess there’s only one way to find out. If she’s finally had enough of me, just put my grave in her office in a place where she’ll always stub her toe on my headstone.” The redhead followed after the wiry woman that had already begun her trek over to her tent, her footsteps crunching every once in a while as they fell into spots of snow. The cold wind slapped her back as she entered, promptly going to lounge in the chair as Meda nodded to her before walking back out.

In a few moments, two figures emerged into the small space, familiar icy eyes greeting her vision as she turned to face her companions. As expected, Meda sauntered over to her position of authority and business behind her desk, leaning over it intensely, but the effect of the gesture was lost on Lyra. She’d become so bored of her intimidation tactics over the past few weeks that she’d taken to just sort of drifting her attention to nowhere in particular until the woman finally decided to drop the act and start speaking—this time in particular, her eyes observed the fine but worn grain of the desk, tired from years of use. It was made of mahogany, she noted.

“Okay, I was gracious enough to give you two plenty of time to heal from your wounds. Now, it’s time for you to hold up your end of the bargain.” Meda began, gaze shifting between the two as she tapped a finger on the edge of a paper on her desk impatiently. “We have a squad waiting for you now. You’re to go with them and help them find the cache.” Simple, direct, curt—she knew what she wanted done, and she wasn’t about to hesitate to demand it. This was certainly much more preferable over something long-winded, at least. Almost respectable, if not for the air of over-inflated importance.

With a nod of acknowledgement, Lyra turned and made her way towards the entrance of the fort, too eager to finally get out and enjoy some real exploration again to bother with talking to her companion. She'd hated healing—more than once her restlessness caused her to push her boundaries too far to the point where she opened up her wounds again. But today? Nothing was stopping her now—after this, she could go back to more pressing matters, but for now, she focused on the task at hand. Her excitement led her into the fortified humvee, greeting the two that were accompanying them on this journey before they set off across the barren landscape towards the mountains.

It felt like it took years before she finally stepped down onto the frozen soil below, checking through the equipment she'd thrown on impatiently during the ride as she gazed around her surroundings. Knife, check. Pistol, check. Vest, check. Her list ran down a few other objects as her mind took note of where they had ended up, trying to find familiar landmarks to discern their location. Soon enough, a flat, chalky rock came into view, a piece of it missing in a jagged pattern that looked as if a giant had bit into it—they were east of the main entrance that had been caved in. With a determined smile, she whirled around to face her companions, affixing each with a look before focusing on the path ahead.

"This way."

 

[Ryees]

Hours turned into days that turned into weeks. Kirin's naturally sharp wit and penchant for sarcasm earned him some fast friends among the more rowdy soldiers—just the kind of people he detested spending time with, normally, but their disposition towards physical humor and a general physical lifestyle made them particularly helpful for physical therapy. He took full advantage of that, using them for their knowledge when necessary under the guise of friendship and immediately leaving them be as soon as he finished what he came for. He came "to hang out" and left because "his shoulder was getting sore." They did not seem to notice the correlation, and that was absolutely fine by Kirin's mind.

Interacting with Lyra had become a strangely normalized affair. They met up most mornings for breakfast, parted ways, met back up to mock some drill or generally cause trouble, then parted again. Like a bizarre roommate, they shared the camp space amicably, shared jokes with enthusiasm, and coexisted in the sort of peace that balanced atop eggshells laced in C4. He liked her. She seemed to like him. He had helped pull her out of the quarantine zone. She had severed the most important muscle group in his shoulder. Their affections were understandably asymmetrically reciprocated. Some part of him wanted to accept those smiles and laughs as normal; the "new normal" that his life was to become, anyway, as it did not seem like he was going to be back to his quiet apartment life any time soon. But the bubble of that new normal was pricked by the pins and needles his shoulder never quite relinquished.

Life did, in fact, find a way, though, as time ticked ever onward. They found their groove, and Kirin found himself able to be much more relaxed once he had turned the entire compound into a functioning atelier. Spreading the plasm had taken the better part of a week, but in his mind, well worth the effort. A swiped plasm capsule had been all the surplus plasm he needed to refill his own tank, and once the atelier was set, the drain was self-sustaining, his natural plasm tick well enough to keep up with the upkeep costs of the field. Living five seconds in the future had always been a good way to calm his nerves. It kept him alive.

Finally came the day when the call rang out. Kirin had been lounging back in his bed nursing his arm after an unwitting physical therapy session when .GORGON's boots clopped into the doorway to the small bunkroom he had claimed for himself. One bed and one desk and one bedside stand, it was defintionally minimalist in a way that made him acutely miss his apartment, and Meda's presence made it feels suddenly all the more confining. He sat up, and she said nothing, but the look in her eyes was clear. She jerked her head. He sighed. She walked away. He followed.

His eyes had to adjust to the light of day, his room normally kept fairly dim. Sunlight reflecting off the patches of snow made a fantastic version of a laser beam that seemed to somehow auto-focus on his retinas, and it made his expression all the more sour as he floated along behind Meda. That had been commented on more than once; even when just moving normally, Kirin had a way of stepping that seemed to barely disturb the air he walked through. The raiders often accused him of "sneaking up on them," to which he frequently made a jest regarding incompetence. They never quite caught on that it was not a jest.

Kirin almost tuned out Meda as she spoke. He knew the drill here. Find the loot, leave it to them, you owe us so don't disappear anywhere, and so forth. He was a touch surprised to find that he was much more focused on Lyra, and that in his mind, this was her expedition. That spoke volumes, truthfully, but he silenced those voices before they could pipe up with any volume. He did not need or want any more reason to like her, yet.

They were given a paltry set of gear—a fixed-blade tactical knife, a worn handgun that might have once been a 1911, and a bulletproof vest a size too big—and stuffed into a Vibrating Hatemobile. Their journey seemed to last forever, and Kirin was annoyed by how much of it he spent staring at Lyra out of the corner of his eye.

Their trek up into the hills was easy enough, no ghouls jumping from the shadows to feast on their entails or men emerging from the rocks like Tuscan Raiders. And then their landmark came into view, which Kirin immediately dubbed the Man-Eater Stone. His vision flickered green, and matching text came above it. He would have no atelier, here, but he could still use his mods for what they could do on the fly.

"This way" sounded a lot to him like, "I promise I'm not leading you to die." With a sigh, he drew his knife in an ice-pick grip, crossed his gun hand over it, and lined up behind Lyra.

 

[ClockworkCadence]

Sharp focus and a sense of vague remembrance were the tools that carved out a trail through the rocky terrain, the pathway unsteady and ambiguous as the group made their way towards their destination. Once or twice, the cautious leader paused, her bright eyes shining as they roamed the landscape while the cogs of her mind whirred, trying to recall how to reach their endpoint. These breaks only lasted mere seconds, though, as intel about the place began to resurface to the forefront of her busy thoughts, gently encouraging a shift in direction and a renewed vigor of the adventure.

Soon enough, the process of adventure and analyze came to a halt with a broad and satisfied smile, light boot-steps clunking dully on a flat rock half-buried in the soil as she approached a bulging mound of dirt and small pebbles, worn down into a finely compacted wall by the chilling and harsh elements of the season. This had been an entrance into a cavern at some point, at least, until the .LOOT appeared somewhere down below—then all easy access points to the depths of the mountain became choked and brutalized beyond recognition, almost as if the .LOOT had become sentient and was defending itself.

It might as well have, considering how dangerous these damn things always were to acquire—treasure hunting definitely wasn’t for those without an abundance of skill and luck. A sidelong glance was cast warily at the companions tasked with accompanying them—Kai and Aric, she’d learned on the way over, but their faces were definitely somewhat familiar from at least one of the many rabblerousing mornings Kirin and she had made a habit of sharing. She wasn’t worried about Kirin’s abilities, but she wasn’t too sure if the men from the fort had any experience with any real treasure hunting past the paltry, easy to acquire .LOOT Meda always seemed to target. They probably weren’t here for any other reason than to keep an eye on them to make sure they held up their end of the weeks-long bargain, but the burden of keeping watch over these two would slow things down a bit whether they realized it or not, as they puffed out their chests at the prospect of their glorified yet lethal babysitting.

“Here.” The calm, calculating voice came, eyes surveying the edges of the buried cavern as if trying to see beyond the blockade into the deep depths of the unknown. “Hold on.” A rough hand settled onto the dirt pile, resolute focus and concentration taking over her mind as her plasm shifted, stretching into the soil and beyond, farther and farther as she felt the light pressure of the compact earth. Eventually, though, the pressure ceased, her plasm finding open air maybe a few dozen feet in, spreading out further to check how much space there was and if the path continued ahead. Things were feeling good. They could definitely enter here and find a pathway to follow.

She dusted off her hand on her leggings, a light brown spot of dirt stubbornly settling into the black fabric as she turned back to her companions. “It’s not too terribly deep. I can take us all through, but keep a hand on me unless you’d prefer to end up buried alive.” Her hand extended to Kirin, then, inviting him to take it as she motioned for the other two to come closer and grab hold of her other side. She’d been wary to use her abilities during her time at the fort at first, but this excursion was inevitable, and there was no way she was wasting time and energy on digging the pathway clear and leaving herself purposely without her extra line of defense of being able to phase through attacks just because she didn’t want them to know the extent of her capabilities. So she’d slowly revealed her ability—it wasn’t something people were entirely comfortable about still, but at least they wouldn’t be entirely shocked by it. She needed their trust.

Feeling her companions’ warmth on either side of her, a deep breath gusted out of her lungs, the faint glow of plasm beginning to envelop her as it slowly began to expand. The two men from the fort tensed, their emotions trying to destabilize their forms, but she held them together as she led the first step into the mountain. They might have influence on how hard this task would be, but she ultimately held the reigns on whether they came out unscathed or were missing a few limbs that were severed and buried somewhere behind them. The plasm of this place was dense and a bit difficult to travel through, especially as she had to worry about more than herself. Their lives depended on her. It was a bit nerve-wracking, even though she’d never care to admit it—but this was .DUALITY now. She could handle this.

And she did—a sigh of relief was the first sound within the cave as they regained their solid forms on the other side of the buried entrance. Her body leaned against the cold walls for a moment to recover a bit, a small globe of her plasm dimly lighting the area in bright green to keep an eye out for any danger. From here on out, there was no further data on this place. Whatever they found within would hopefully be worth the mystery end result that lay in store for them. And so, they set out into the unknown.

The structural integrity of this place was sketchy, at best, but considering the fact that the .LOOT was somewhere underground, it was surprising the area wasn’t in worse shape. The high concentration of plasm affected many things—the .WRAITHS they’d certainly encounter, the odd pathways they’d have to take, but none of that was as outwardly apparent as the destabilized environment. Heck, geographic anomalies were usually what tipped people off to there being .LOOT nearby—it was sort of a trademark sign. The technological distortions in the environment caused by the plasm resulted in all sorts of corruptions to the very fabric of reality in this world.

Corruptions such as the chunk of a subway station they stumbled upon a few minutes into their journey, tile walls crumbling as the electronic signs flickered eerily with information about destinations and arrival times and whatnot, the cave’s high amounts of plasm reacting with the technology and attempting to bring it back to its former glory. The group steered clear of the missing data creating a gaping sinkhole near the far left side of the area, the dusty floor below abruptly giving way to a damp stone as they began a descent down large stairs that looked as if they came from a Roman amphitheater. The atmosphere was tense, eyes darting into the shadows for .WRAITHS as careful footsteps tested the ground before shifting their weight for fear of falling through the ground at any moment.

Soon, the path forked, stones ending in an oddly grassy area that must have come from somewhere recently, as there was no way any sort of plant life would survive down here for more than a few days. Both ways forward seemed to stretch on as a normal cave might, though the sounds from each path were a bit concerning—something windy down the left, with something that sounded like rushing water on the right. Her plasm stretched down both ways for a moment, but she couldn't find anything odd or inherently dangerous—whatever lay ahead of them, it was much deeper within. With a small bit of interest, she noted a small dent in the stone wall to the far right, as if a path had once existed. Her plasm vaguely explored past it, indeed finding a tight open space that might just fit a human.

.DUALITY turned back to her companions, shrugging as her eyes searched each face. "Alright. None of these pathways seem like a wonderful walk through the park. Thoughts?"

 

[Ryees]

It was with surprising readiness that Kirin slipped the knife back into its sheath on his belt and took Lyra's hand. It felt entirely natural up until the moment that his hand touched hers; then it became an odd struggle of sensations that would have had him grimacing if not for the Extra Spooky Cave that quickly descended into. And if not for the sudden loss of his entire body mass.

His instincts screamed at him to let go for a moment, but after that knee-jerk reaction, they instead redefined .DUALITY as the singular lifeline remaining in the world as they began to phase through solid objects in a way that quickly informed .LAPLACE letting go would be a mistake. So instead of letting go, his hand clenched down on hers hard, not for fear, but for certainty that he would not be re-atomized inside a boulder. So perhaps a little for fear.

He hellscape they traversed became a comfort after they were in it and .LAPLACE had his body bound once again by solid atomic bonds. Landscapes riddled with data corruption pointed to a relevant .WRAITH population while the mismatched environments suggested a long-standing plasm corruption that semi-regularly filtered into the real world, stole away part of its aesthetic, then returned. In another scenario, he would have begun setting boundary motes setting himself up for a hasty retreat if a fan was sprayed with fecal matter. For now he contented himself with throwing his consciousness forward as far as he could stretch it, nine seconds' delay in reality giving him some comfort and security that he knew would be sorely lacking in the coming hours.

.DUALITY paused ahead of them as the path forked, and it took .LAPLACE no time to gravitate to the left even before she spoke. And when she finally did pose her question, he answered firmly and immediately.

“Rogue's Rule,” he chirped, leaning against the wall of the cave and pointing down it. “Left. Always left.”

 

[ClockworkCadence]

The response elicited a small chuckle from the redhead, nodding in affirmation as she began to make her way in said direction. “Fair enough.” Her response was offered over her shoulder as she took the lead again, feeling wisps of air ghost strands of hair across her face. The sensation of a breeze this deep into the earth was disconcerting, to say the least—this definitely shouldn’t be a natural phenomenon. Something was corrupted down there, and heavily, judging by the tight pit of adrenaline starting to seed itself in .DUALITY’s stomach.

The feeling grew worse as the path winded ever downwards, just bland cave walls and an eerie suspense building at the lack of corruptions except for a few patches of missing data in the walls and the floor. There hadn’t even been any .WRAITHS in their path yet—understandable, since they must be much closer to the plasm’s source, though concerning because they had traveled a decent distance already. How far away was this .LOOT? Every step further down made the trip back up to the surface harder and harder. That was one of the hardest parts of treasure hunting—a raider might find their way to their prize, but they could easily fail to bring it back out from the dark fangs of the corruptions and .WRAITHS. Someone inexperienced would just try to tear open an .ECHO for an easy way out, only for it to become quickly corrupted by the nature of the area. The hard way out was the perilous, singular option here.

That fact was becoming harder to face as the rumble of thunder suddenly growled from somewhere further down, trained muscles tensing in an automatic preparation for defense and evasion as the sound reverberated against the stone walls.

“Was that…thunder? But how?” A baritone voice piped up behind, breaking the tense silence that had been plaguing the group. Emerald eyes shifted to meet the warm topaz of Kai’s—rather, .CRADLE’s—his youthful face riddled with confusion and a bit of well-guarded fear. That’s right—Meda never went for valuable .LOOT like this before. She’d only find the paltry stashes .WRAITHS gathered from unlucky travelers or the occasional plunders dropped through an .ECHO. It was too risky for a group of average raiders to find .LOOT caused by high levels of plasm coalescence. The instability caused by such an event proved to be too dangerous, and it was smart of them to avoid these types of excursions.

“Weather corruption.” .DUALITY replied simply, turning back to the path ahead as she sidestepped a gaping hole in the floor. “Much worse than your average storm, though. High concentrations of plasm can cause all sorts of crazy shit. You’re welcome to disobey Rogue’s Rule and take another path, if you want.” The sound of footsteps shuffling closer to her as they descended was her answer, mentally heaving a sigh at the added burden of keeping them from getting killed making this journey much more difficult than it needed to be. At least she had .LAPLACE here to help shoulder some of that burden.

The barely-there brushes of air against the skin had gradually turned into forceful gales of wind as the path seemed to lead into a larger area. The white noise of rain had faded into the background noise of their silent journey a little while ago, but was now rushing with clarity and force.

Finally, they found their way into a large, open space, the only thing betraying that they weren’t somehow outside were the slick, gray walls enclosing the place in a circle of torrential rain and slippery stones. Heavy, dark clouds hung in a thick miasma above, bright flashes of lightning crackling like fireworks above, veiled somewhere deep within the wall of haze except for the occasional branch breaking its way through into the open air, loudly rumbling and shaking the very core of the unstable area. The force of the wind was strong enough to devote a concentrated effort towards not getting pushed off-balance, while the rain reduced a considerable amount of visibility with its intensity. All in all, definitely not a good place to be.

.DUALITY wiped strands of soaking wet hair away from her face as she made her way into the area, tensing as she detected motion in the corner of her eye. They weren’t alone here, of course—but the sight of what had actually moved caused her to wince. They were definitely getting closer—a few .WRAITHS lay dead over to the right near the wall, their corruptions too debilitating to allow them to live for very long. One in particular had the misfortune of forming a corruption that had resulted in a random amalgamation of metal parts to crudely replace a part of its back, charred almost beyond recognition from the amount of lightning that must have struck it. The .WRAITH that had moved and caught her attention was dragging itself slowly with its front limbs, its back limbs swallowed by missing data. The further it moved, the more of its entrails it left behind, intestines slowly unraveling from within its body and falling out of the gaping hole.

The sight almost made .DUALITY feel sorry for the creature, corrupted beyond repair. If it hadn’t come here, it could have avoided its life being cut so painfully short. Like Icarus, this .WRAITH had found its way too close to the plasm’s source, its greed, hunger, and whatever else that might drive it ultimately becoming its downfall. Yet the same could be said of any raider—they all knew the risks, but that small but enticing possibility that they could reach greatness was worth it all.

The same could be said about the group here now, soft wingbeats in the air quickly becoming louder until an alarmed screech pierced their eardrums.

.DUALITY whirled around, a large, birdlike .WRAITH coming into view, vaguely veiled by rain. Most of the time, when .WRAITHS approached an area this dense with plasm, they ended up like the poor carcasses encountered just seconds ago—corrupted, disfigured, dead before they even get close to their destination. Yet sometimes, a very lucky one might actually make it—they might stumble upon the epicenter of the plasm coalescing deep within corrupted areas, and feed upon its power, transforming it into a terrifying being.

Transforming it into a creature like the one that began a sharp decent towards them.

 

[Ryees]

.LAPLACE's eyes sharpened, listening keenly ahead of them as they entered the rainy cave. It was a short enough journey to feel brief, but the seconds dragged on. The baggage, was .LAPLACE's concern. .DUALITY was unlikely to be a liability within a fight—at worst she would abandon them, phase through the walls and disappear—but in the others, he had negative trust, actively expecting them to make the situation worse at any turn they chose. They were unaccustomed to this, more used to having their hands held by .GORGON while hunting after caches that .LAPLACE most likely would have simply decided in his own practice were not worth the time. This cache, though, was more his style. Here, he felt in his element.

And so it was that when they opened up into the cave, he immediately stepped aside, out of the way of the tunnel they had entered through and into an outcropping of stalagmites laden with verdant crystals. He leaned against it, bending a knee into the hollow and taking a moment to himself. Living five seconds in the future had its benefits, but it left him feeling dehydrated and edgy, his mouth working to get any moisture into it in hopes that it would stop his teeth from being on edge. He felt like he needed a bath, the oily feeling of the corruption leaving his skin damp and prickly in the cool subterranean air.

The pack of forlorn demi-creatures did not surprise him, and in fact he was grateful for their presence. They would not be any real threat, but it meant that the hunting party was officially in hostile territory. If they were to meet any of the local .WRAITH population, it would be soon. And if in answer to his thoughts, a throaty screech scratched its way into their ears, echoing irritably around he cave walls.

The piece of his perception that was rooted in reality took a look around, scanning their entourage with the intent to gauge readiness. He could not say he was impressed, though it did appear that .DUALITY at least would not get her ears nipped off. .LAPLACE stamped down a mild surge of protectiveness, writing it off as instinct: Protect the strong, guard the assets, let the chaff fall aside.

He brought up the handgun, leveling it at the air above .DUALITY's head and waited. The looks from the squad went ignored, his eyes intent on that space. Then, that screech came again, feeling erroneously hot and dry in the cool, damp cave. In the present for the moment, he flashed his mind forward.

Two shots rang out, pounding once through the bird's chest, the next through its skull. Reeling and dying, its wings curled in and it came suddenly faster, its shadow darkening atop .DUALITY until it landed with a sickening smash atop the woman.

The mental shake of his head forced a rewind.

Two shots rang out, pounding once through the bird's shoulder blade, and the next through the arched bones of its wing. With another horrifying screech, it veered, spiraling to the ground a handful of meters away.

The breath .LAPLACE had been holding wisped out slowly between his lips, and with it, so too did two carefully placed rounds aimed not at the creature's head or center of mass, but at its left wing. By his prediction, killing it would see it fall atop .DUALITY, and that would simply not do. Breaking the more fragile bones of its wings would ground it for a much easier kill, and protect her in the process.