tagpuan:// the reign of greed.

[KungFuCutbug]

[After #63(b) completes its explanation of its plan, Syringe takes their own moment of awkward silence.]

"So, to make absolutely certain we're on the same page, and I've gotten what you're saying straight. Your plan is to make us three look... as openly suspicious as possible, as we make our way to the abandoned jewelry store we'll be using as our base? And then you yourself will attempt to 'save face' by following us in, hoping that others will 'recognize' you as an enforcer due to the logos adorning your body. What if, by chance, someone else followed us here, be it intentionally or just by the happenstance of us going in the same general directions as them? Someone who saw your encounter with an actual enforcer, and them needing to be chased off by Omen? Would they not recognize that you two are associated, thus breaking the very point of us being separate entirely because then I too would be associated with the two of you, and likely Kartono as well? I recognize it's a fairly slim chance, but it's a chance nonetheless, one I'm assuming you didn't take into account due to it, again, being somewhat unlikely."

[They bring a hand to their chin in thought, as they continue.] "Disregarding that, let's assume for a moment that the plan does work as intended, and you're assumed to be a Missionary. Perhaps some people would, in fact, disregard it as you say, but beyond that, there's a fair number of other ways onlookers might react. Perhaps another rebellious, more trigger-happy slum-dweller might fall for your tactics a bit too easily, following you in and trying to attack you. Perhaps actual Missionaries, one or multiple, would see you and follow you in to make sure the ones you're 'approaching'—us three—don't outnumber and overwhelm you, thus potentially outnumbering and overwhelming us in turn. Or perhaps the same Missionaries would recognize your symbols as not one of their own, and approach you to question you. Perhaps there'll be someone who doesn't relax, but still won't dare get involved with us themself, and they'll report the incident to a nearby Missionary to investigate. Perhaps even someone will attempt to intervene in-between groups, should the distance between them be too great. I don't want to sound pessimistic, your logic is mostly sound otherwise, but there are myriad possibilities and chances of error, especially since your plan inherently involves invoking a fair amount of risk."

[Florien]

#63(b)'s face is unmoving.

Yes, I decided all those risks are minor. If we went around looking unsuspicious, that in and of itself would be suspicious, don't you think? Especially in a place where a closed store has not been torn down or reopened under a new management. These places often are watched, but in turn, little enforcement is done. Looking suspicious is the order of the day.

If that's still objectionable, I also considered a plan where three of us fake our deaths as a way to avert...

The unit then processes what it just started saying.

Perhaps I have overthought this, and we should just go in.

[KungFuCutbug]

[The comment about faking everybody's deaths nearly makes Syringe burst out into a fit of maniacal laughter.] "EHAH—ahem—y-yes, I... I believe a fair amount of overthinking has occurred here, daahling, both on your end and on mine!"

[They quickly attempt to regain their composure, clearing their throat and subconsciously fidgeting with the lapels of their suit jacket.] "Even still, I'm not entirely certain if just going in is the best, or least suspicious, course of action... but considering how long we've been standing here discussing these plans, it might be best for us to get a move on nonetheless, on the chance that people might be staring. Omen, Kartono, do either of you have any objections or suggestions?"

[artsyGeek]

... of all the things he expected to see or hear, tactical discussions regarding the order of the group's entrance to a long-abandoned jewelry store was not one of them. He spoke up after some pondering on the matter.

"... I'll admit, I don't quite have a plan for order of entrance. It felt minor enough that people wouldn't notice; Or at least, if they do notice, they won't think about it as anything more than coincidence. My only true idea was Omen entering either first or last. First due to his history with this location, and last .. potentially to disguise himself as a shadow — Though he'd have to position himself in just the right way for it to work, so maybe not."

[awe921]

Omen looks at the path to the jewelry store. He's walked this path himself more times than he can count, enough to get acclimated to these garbage piles over a dozen times, and always in such a manner that Enforcer and Missionary alike did not suspect a single thing. So how could he have eluded the watchful eyes for all this time?

He does like the idea of sneaking around through the shadows, avoiding the gaps in the supposedly "all-seeing" surveillance... wait. gaps. Gaps. That's right. They skim this place, and not even enough to catch a store that should have long ago been demolished.

And skimming never catches the small details. Details such as blind spots, unconventional pathways and maybe a little bit of rooftop skipping if the situation or the need for drama demands so.

Alas, the usefulness of Omen's past memories ends here for now. He knows that there are some blind spots, safe alternative paths and exploitable gaps in the surveillance, but the exact routes he took to get to this place doesn't appear in his mind. There were like, what, 4 routes, and 3 emergency routes to go TO the jewelry store alone, and so, so many more for exiting the store to whatever location his rebellion needed to be at. Maybe if he only had one route, he'd not have lost that memory after his resurrection.

Then again, coming back from the dead is a thing not many people expect, much less actually prepare for.

"... Curses. I remember the existence of a few blindspots and alternative routes, but I cannot recall the existence of a route that strings them together."... Curses. I remember the existence of a few blindspots and alternative routes, but I cannot recall the existence of a route that strings them together.

"The best we will have is a place to likely hide, to flee to in case one of our ideas fall through."The best we will have is a place to likely hide, to flee to in case one of our ideas fall through.

"But since we lack a route, they'll only be as good as what we can improvise with them."But since we lack a route, they'll only be as good as what we can improvise with them.

[KungFuCutbug]

[Ever so slightly, Syringe smirks.] "Then improvise we shall, I suppose. I'd like to think I'm fairly well-versed in the art of 'thinking on my feet', as the saying goes. Do let us know if anything happens to jog your memory, though, hm?"

> Skim through the area yourself, as best as you can without attracting too much suspicion, to see if there are (or were) any alternative ways to get to and from the area with the jewelry shop aside from where you just came from.

[awe921]

Omen begins skimming the alleyway himself. The shade provided by the cloaks, the passageways obscured by the discarded piles, the empty homes and abandoned buildings that one can run through to easily go on and off the rooftops are all there, but the pieces do not fit together in his memory. No combination of these details sparks any familiarity with him. He cannot remember.

But maybe... maybe he doesn't have to remember these past days alone. Because he never crossed these routes by himself.

After all, he was once the leader of a rebellion.

Omen focuses. He makes a broadcast to spread a message. But this time, it is not directed at the more rebellious residents of Titania, who share forbidden frequencies with one another as they seek to listen to something other than the 24/7 spew of corporate drab. Speeches of liberation, hope and salvation, updates on the latest incursion, readings of prohibited literature and actually good music.

This broadcast is none of these things. It is a request, and it is directed for a place beyond.

Somewhere in Sulad, the ethereal memories of spies and information gatherers have amassed at a location, at a set of coordinates that no physical being would ever be able to access. They have united once again, just as they were in life, with the impossible vastness of Sulad replacing the material walls of the base underneath the jewelry store.

At that location, a broadcast was being made.

"This is Lamina-00. I repeat, this is Lamina-00."This is Lamina-00. I repeat, this is Lamina-00."

"I request information on the routes that we have used in our mortal lives.I request information on the routes that we have used in our mortal lives.

"The ways in, the ways out, all centered at the jewelry store we once all called home."The ways in, the ways out, all centered at the jewelry store we once all called home.

"I will take the burden of a terrible secret as my price for such a demand. Do you copy?"I will take the burden of a terrible secret as my price for such a demand. Do you copy?

> LET THE DEAD SPEAK. You need the complete information- not only to get in, but to get out once you have established the base. You shall shoulder the burden of a terrible secret to preserve the secret of the jewelry store.

[MadameButterflyKnife]

> LET THE DEAD SPEAK. You need the complete information- not only to get in, but to get out once you have established the base. You shall shoulder the burden of a terrible secret to preserve the secret of the jewelry store.

Omen, you send your transmissions to the deep depths of Sulad, as the waves crash down upon the long dead, the ones that had their blood shed along with you on that fateful day. The ones who were not lucky, or maybe unlucky, enough to become an omen of doom, but whom burnt bright long enough to leave the ashes that you are now made of.

Around your feet, ghostly fires seem to lick up your shoes. Though they are illusions, for the dead have long since gone cold, it still fills the group around you with an uncomfortable warmth. It is the warmth of memories, of souls that have gone, of souls that remain attached to those alive that still send ripples through this world, souls that were sold away long ago, it's the souls yet to come, waiting in the shadows to take their spot in the light and in the world.

You feel the past, coming to hit you.

For Kartono, you feel the cries of nature from your timeless soul, of an investgator with a soul as heavy as yours who you pulled along, of a girl bright and spry who made you think that the humans of today could one day appreciate the nature they lost, that they destroyed so long ago.

For Syringe, you feel the kind hand of a Mission employee the moment you were formed (such a pity such kindness was always fabricated in the same way), the ever enduring presence of your first incarnation, the reason you were resurrected, and a girl with rabbit ear headphones, looking at you with a fire in her eyes and a deal, to help her if she'd help you get further and further from Mission's endless sun.

For #63(b), you feel the presence of replica souls, mass produced over and over again, lost to time so long ago but not to the waters of the afterlife. Over and over and over again, as if a well oiled machine, you feel the pounding of their memory, and their soul. And there's that little loose bolt of a soul, of the one that enlightened you with the error prone mistakes Mission is so prone to, isn't it?

And then, in front of Omen, he sees the dead. Lights of various colors. He cannot see their faces, faces were something that had been lost to time eras ago. But he sees their acts, their loyalties, the way they weave through alleyways like they did back when they were alive, and they were certain the world would burn with them in it if it had to come to it.

And they remember, don't they? There's nothing much for the dead to do other than remember.

---

The jewelry shop's long since deteriorated. But, there's still enough space for you to set up base. There's the top office, the high ground. You've spent countless nights passed out there, so fixated on your work and your plans that you let the night and day catch up with you. Ironically, it might be one of the safest entrances and exits, if you were acrobatic enough. It's been undisturbed for years, and there's a fire escape hanging off of it, leading right to the exit of this alleyway and to the street, or to the rooftops of this neighborhood if need be.
There's a memory of a quick escape somewhere in. The details are hazy. But someone's blood is on that fire escape, after drones found them and there was no choice to run. But it was the safest. Every exit's got a doom associated with it.
Speaking of the drones, the ones that typically come around these parts are the flying ones. The ones that resemble birds, or large bees. Those are the ones you need to keep an eye out for. Nothing as graceful as a bird would find itself trapped here, unless someone was pulling it along. Why were canaries in coalmines, if not as yet another tool for man?
The front door is the most obvious, but it's clearly been disturbed countless times before. The window's also broken, probably by someone not as patient as you. You get the feeling there might be something there, but not a lot. Certainly, something you'll probably be able to take on if push came to shove. Either way, door and window. Very viable options. The office window is also an option, but thinking about it gives you and your ghosts a vivid, painful sensation in your nonexistent right foot.
There's a safe. If you're under siege, you can take the safe. You've used it as a safety room, taking many a last stand with the hope that it'll be a kind of second-to-last stand that you've made before. And there's routes to the sewers: unpleasant, especially when covered in gold and forever-ice, but it would get the job done.

That should be it, right?

Step forward, however, and another exit comes to mind. To escape from everything that goes on, to get away fast, it doesn't matter what, as long as you stay safe for the next few moments of your life.
It's a sensation of speed, of fire, of weaving around people and traffic at top speed as the world behind you burns, burns, burns, before you crash, and before you inevitably walk away from the carnage, burning.
You remember the final escape method you and your group had.

Take no survivors, and burn everything to the cosmos down, and run. Take no survivors, and burn everything to the cosmos down, and run.

And a burning sensation fills your whole body, filling what once was your lungs with what was left behind by the doomed hero.

---

The birds will come soon. The drones simply skim this place, but that doesn't mean you will never be found.
Action may not be as urgent as it was before. But that does not mean it is not still urgent.

[Florien]

As the past comes rushing by, #63(b) gets stuck briefly. It tries to refresh systems, but no good, it's stuck in the past again, replaying old files, its mind lagging and stuttering around.

The raid on the Verecing Compound, its first real operation, the force of Mission brought to bear against an illegal operation. It didn't know anything about why it was illegal, merely that it was. It had scouted ahead, as it was supposed to, and had followed all orders. It lined up a shot, and picked off the last of the security guards in the watch towers. It could taste the death. It was a good taste.

It then fired a flare into the air, as it had been instructed to do on elimination of the watching guards. That was the signal. Units #62, #15, #31 and #47 the Vanguards, jumped from behind their barricades and, carrying bulletproof shields, advanced rapidly on the warehouse's gate. Units #11, #12, #41, #4 and #50 fired over the shields, or through the gaps, forcing any surviving forces into cover. Meanwhile, #64 waited on top of the building across the street, scanning for its primary target. The Aswang knew exactly where the target was, of course. Top floor, in the windowless office. The panic room, however, was on the other end of the compound, and there was a long walkway with a window through which the target could be hit that he'd have to cross. All that was needed to get him out of the office was to set off the alarm. That was not in the orders, but improvisation was important, and the units had been built to be capable of it. It lined up the shot, and...

Suddenly, it was its final operation under Mission. There were 53 units left at the time, most of them were here. This was to be the true demonstration of the company's capabilities. A full-scale attack on a stronghold of another business's corporate espionage wing. Turf wars were not entirely unheard of among megacorporations, but they were rare. It was too expensive to do more than an assassination or two in most cases, but occasionally, a storefront needed smashing, a corporate headquarters needed trashing, and a few employees needed to die to prove a point about who sold to where. #64 geared up, and took up its place across the street. It watched the other units milling about down below. It was supposed to take out any security forces attempting to flank the Vanguard units before they could get to the doors. It was the same as it was every time. Clandestine, deniable, and fairly public knowledge. The cycle turned ever more. The job was never done. Mission pushed out one foe, and a new one came in.

And as #64 watched the other units below, it saw soldiers attempting to flank, as had been predicted... and it didn't fire. And it instead thought. Mission had failed. They kept dealing with the same issues, over and over, putting bandaid after bandaid on the brain tumor. The issue presented a little differently each time, but it was always the same. A new foe arose, the situation deteriorated, and Mission lost control, and then had to call in the units to wipe out the opposition. It often worked, but Mission had lost ground in its time.

Taking Fire. Can you confirm #64 is active? It should have detected this. File a bug report.

#15, in the vanguard, broadcast over the audio channel.

#64 did not move. It watched the security forces close in. It saw #31 get struck. It dropped its shield and was immediately shot through multiple times. The security forces took advantage of the gap in the shield wall and pushed their way in.

#48, who'd replaced the deactivated #47 in the vanguard, was next to fall.

Two units down, headquarters, respond, vanguard is taking casualties, advise. #64 is not providing adequate suppression.

The other units who were supposed to come in after the vanguard quickly got out of the vehicles and buildings and from their hiding places. The vanguard needed to be rescued.

#64 was still frozen, apparently... and then it took aim. It knew what it needed to do. The orange lights of #15 shone brightly, leading the other units onwards as it expertly fought off the security forces, despite the collapse of the shield wall.

It was an easy target.

#15's lights flickered and dimmed, it sparked, and it fell onto the pavement, a hole through its head.

#10 shouted over the comms. #10 had always had its own bugs, in particular, it struggled with how to conceptualize betrayal. That was clear here. It could not comprehend that #64 could have fired that shot.

#64 is confirmed down, #64 is confirmed down, we're taking fire from the roof.

#64 skipped past #10 without firing, and found its next target.

#8 and #22 were next in line. #8 was authorized to take over as vanguard commander, and #22 had previously stepped up as a leader during a previous debacle. Both were pierced through. The formations quickly fell into disarray. Unit #63 tried to organize a retreat, but was cut off by the security forces and cut down, along with multiple other units. #36 had been following, but managed to scramble away, using the remains of #7 as a shield. 

Headquarters, requesting permission to surrender, requesting permission to retreat, over, do you copy?!

Headquarters was not responding, even as #36 cried out again and again for permission to do anything other than get killed down here. That was its long-standing issue, it had too much self-preservation, especially compared to the others.

Units #10 and #36 successfully broke away from formation and began making a retreat all on their own. They got behind a building before either #64 could pick them off or the security forces could catch up, but nearly all of the rest of the units were surrounded in the plaza. They'd picked up shields where they could, and were now in an armored circle, under heavy fire from all sides. They'd never surrender, but they couldn't exchange fire without being hit themselves. No help was coming. They were doomed. And #64 saw this, and realized exactly what must be done. It got up and left the rooftop, climbed down the fire escape, and walked off down the streets.

It was three weeks later. The other units, had all been, as far as it could tell, destroyed. #36 and #10 had not been recovered, but they hadn't been seen since. Most likely they'd gone into hiding far away. The rest had been found scattered across the plaza, more or less. It was unlikely more than a couple others had survived, and those that had were likely been captured and were being taken apart by the competition, whoever they were. The program had never come to pick up any of the units afterward, or bothered looking for the survivors. It had probably been abruptly shuttered after such a debacle. Mission would ever officially acknowledge the program, why would they? They'd never admit to their errors. Admitting errors was always a mistake. #64 was #63(b) now, it had never been able to pronounce its own designation.

---

And then it unfreezes, and its in the present again. There's no time for the past. The present is far more important. How to get into this building?

The fire escape is dangerous. A fall could be fatal, and there's nowhere to run if running is needed. The safest entrance, but only after a presence can be established. The office window is trapped, obviously, either an old trap or merely dangerous debris. That's ruled out. The route through the shop window is obviously suspicious, but it's viable, technically.

Others have used the door before, and it is the most obvious... to the point of potentially being dangerous, if someone were to want to stop them. But doors are meant to be entered through, are they not?

Approaching. Provide cover if this goes wrong.

And #63(b) is off.

>Enter the Jewelry shop through the Front Door.

[KungFuCutbug]

[Syringe momentarily turns towards Omen upon hearing him speak, about to express their curiosity—but none too soon, as they feel themself losing their voice and a fiery heat begin to engulf them. Before they know it, they see before them memories—memories of who they used to be, and how they seemed to always be stuck in their own shadow within the walls of Mission; of the plastered smiles the people in white would wear around them, feigning civility and using a veneer of politeness to mask their avaricious intentions; of the excruciatingly painful, yet bizarrely comforting embrace of the holy flames that charred their original self beyond recognition; and of...

Of...

...]

---

[Before there was Kartono, there was Miho. Miho Kishin, from the technological department; one of the ones that focused more on coding and programming and such, software developers rather than hardware. Miho happened to be one of the newer employees when Syringe, then known as SA-II, was first created: a beta tester, to ensure that the programs the others had designed were working properly, to gauge whether the advertised perfection of the machines was being achieved. It was thankless work, and by its nature more painful than she found it within herself to be able to bear—something they could relate to, naturally. And from this point of commonality, the two unexpectedly bonded. She was the only person at that point they could consider a friend. Miho and SA-II, the white rabbit and the risen morning star.

It was the day before their climactic escape. Miho had asked SA-II to meet with them in the vehicle hangar.]

"...I'm here."

[Miho turned around, her signature lop-eared leporid headphones glinting in the light of the distant fluorescent rods buzzing overhead.] "Took you longer than I thought."

"Excuse me for trying to find an opportunity to eke out some free time to sneak away. You, of all people, should know that neither of us exactly have the luxury of deciding our own schedule most of the time."

"It's a joke, darling, lighten up!" [Miho laughed to herself.

SA-II could only roll their eyes, shielding them from the blinding light above with their arm.] "Enough of that. Why did you call me here?"

"Well," [Miho began, stretching her arms behind her back.] "I wanted to ask you something important. Something I wanted to keep a secret, so I went to the one spot that doesn't have hidden mics or cameras everywhere."

"...Go on."

"I wanted to make a deal with you. That being, I want your help in backing out of the deal I've already been roped into with the higher ups."

[SA-II raised an eyebrow.] "What?"

"I wanna get out of here. But I don't have the highest hopes that they'll let me just take the keys and leave. So I wanted your help."

"Me? Why me? Unlike you, I haven't the faintest experience with the outside world. I've never known life outside of Mission, despite what you may have been told. Whoever I once 'was' reunited with the gods long ago—"

"I know that, darling! That's why I wanted to ask: haven't you ever wanted to know?"

[For a moment, SA-II fell deathly silent, pondering the question—something Miho took as another opportunity to run her mouth, as usual.]

"Haven't you ever wanted to know what it's like for the common man? Living an ordinary life, unburdened by being bossed around by a bunch of nerds in white suits? I could help you find out. I didn't come in here asking for your assistance without having something planned in return! You help me, and I help you, simple as that!"

[Another moment of silence passed, as SA-II closed their eyes, silently asking for guidance from the one thing they knew they could invariably rely on above all else: the Little Gods. And soon, a voice—no, a legion of voices, distinct yet synchronized, quiet yet clear, so very familiar and so very comforting, came to answer.]

You will be together. Should you be separated, you will be reunited. We will make sure of it.You will be together. Should you be separated, you will be reunited. We will make sure of it.

[...SA-II opened their eyes, a faint, but determined smile on their face—one of the rare glimpses of emotion they would ever allow themself to show.] "The Gods have given Their affirmation. The deal is sealed."

"Great to hear!" [Miho clapped her hands together, giggling to herself.] "We'll meet here tomorrow, same time, same place. Soon as we find an opportunity, we grab a hover bike and make our getaway. I'll grab some weapons from the wing on the way there, in case anyone comes after us. What's your favorite type?"

"...Incendiary. Something about the way fire looks as its burning soothes me."

"Aah, I see. The type to take no survivors, burn everything to the cosmos down, and run. I'll make sure to grab some of those for you, too. Guess that's everything, then. I'll see you tomorrow, darling!"

[...They day came and went, but Miho never arrived. SA-II had found someone else to bring with them on their escape instead, and escape they did, leaving a trail of fire behind as they drove further and further into the sun until they were forced to stop, crashing and burning, without a chance to hesitate, to seek her out, to say goodbye...]

---

[...When Syringe comes to, the first thing they notice is the fact that the sides of their face now feel uncomfortably moist. Had... had they been crying? Oops. They quickly roll up their sleeve and wipe their tears away with their forearm, clearing their throat in an attempt to save face and regain their composure.

"Should you be separated, you will be reunited." If the circumstances behind this event were any indication, Miho's soul was now in Sulad, in the afterlife. But the local legends say that most people bear more than one soul. And a certain feeling in their chest made them feel that this memory, this remembrance, wasn't exactly what the Gods meant by "reunite".

Miho was still out there. She had to be. But they can worry about that later. Omen had the knowledge they asked for—and by a miracle, they did too, without even having to ask.]

> Follow #63(b) into the jewelry shop through the front door, standing guard for the others to come in after.

[artsyGeek]

Kartono noticed the spiraling flames beneath Omen's feet, but didn't had the chance to say more before the warmth accompanying it started to overtake him as well. It wasn't long before he found himself reminscing of the past; Of his life just after his escape from Mission.

---

He remembered that investigator's name. Xander. He lived alone, near a village somewhere he can't quite remember. Xander was cold, at first glance. Strict, a very no-nonsense sort of man, and was quite serious about his work.

He had heard rumours of an investigator, just like him, exposing the corrupt back in Mission, and how he was dangerous to face against.

And yet, here he was, facing the man himself. Not in a fight, but in the warmth of an otherwise lonely house. The investigator served him some tea while they talk.

"... so, you had just ran away from Mission?" he asked to the Tikbalang.

Kartono weakly nodded. "I just needed a place to rest for the time being. Is that alright with you?"

There was a pause in Xander's words. He was wary, mostly of the possibility of Kartono lying, that he might be an enforcer in disguise. But .. if there were an agimat on him — what he, at first, speculated the man's necklace of flowers might be — it would've acted by now.

"I wouldn't mind."

"Thank you! Truly, I appreciate your kindness. Is there anything I could do to repay you?"

"You don't need to," the investigator said, seemingly a little overwhelmed by Kartono's enthusiasm (is that the right word? just ... something about Kartono's almost-yelling, or his kindness to a stranger he has just met, caught him off guard.) "Get yourself some rest. The past few days must have been tiring."

—

There was that young girl as well, who (unofficially, and much to Xander's chagrin) apprenticed to the detective. Bea was her name. He remembered her spunky smile, as she excitedly asked Xander what they can do next, as Xander exhaustedly just tell her to go help one of her neighbours find their missing toy or something.

Bea always wanted to be viewed as more mature than her age might suggest; The effectiveness of which.. varies, but he'd often play along anyways.

He remembers walking to the village she lives at, to get some work done for the day, before hearing a familiar voice. "Paman Kartono!" she yelled, calling him the Indonesian word for 'uncle'; One of several words in that language he taught to the kid, when she had nothing to do and decided to ask him to teach her something new.

He remembers looking at the direction of the voice to see the teen, as giddy as always, waving at him, before waving back with a smile of his own and continuing on his day.

They were both like family to him. What was supposed to be just a stay for a few days before leaving elsewhere, ended up becoming his place of residence for quite the amount of time. How long did it last? Weeks? Months, even?

All he knew is that not even a year passed before those happy days had to come to a close.

---

When he came back to his senses after the memory jog, he had to held back tears. He hasn't thought about them in a while. And as sad as it is...  he had to move on. And that goes to his current situation at hand.

He can only hope Bea is fine after what had happened that day.

>Join the others and go to the jewelry shop through the front door.

[awe921]

The flames dim as the remains fills what used to be lungs. Omen collapses to his knees. It's so hard to breathe now. And, well, he cannot breathe. All he can do is remember. And remember, remember, remember. The world grows small, and all it can do is keep getting smaller, like if a cosmic hand started crushing him into an impossibly fine paste.

---

Firstly, the fire escape route. It's a fairly solid route, even when the drones skimmed through it, but it is completely useless when you need to escape from something. It hides you, but it cannot save you. Ozone-97, a hopeful gofer, had learned that the hard way. He ran, he ran so much, but the drones caught up with him and painted the door redder than it already was.

That itself was a tragedy, but it was one death, unlike the second memory.



The leader remembers his last escape, before he ended up at that stage, his head rolling across the floor.

He remembers unlocking the safe and tossing in notes, belongings, anything important that anyone else who takes up residence might need, whether it be a rebel or someone simply staking to live out. He will not be coming back, but someone else might arrive later. And if it all ends today, which it really looks like it will- at least someone else will have something to take, or even start another movement with.

Lastly, he tosses his revolver in, a custom-made article, with custom-made bullets, for custom-made damage. The gun was supposed to be shot. Given enough time, it should have been aimed at the head of a CEO, their corporation going down with it in one fell swoop.

But there was no more time. The threat was here, right at their doorsteps. The leader seals the safe, inputting a combination of 7-3-6-8 to lock its contents shut.



The base- the heart itself was safe. That much was known. That much was ensured. The cops had only caught onto their plan of action, and had cracked down on it with a deadly efficiency. They hadn't figured out the store- only that an army of rebels would march out of Cuca Alleyway.

The winding routes were like veins to the base's heart, and they were being cut off one by one. Being among the last to escape, the leader had to improvise, with all other routes compromised or taken. He skipped across the rooftops and performed increasingly improbable leaps as the swarm of drones and the chasing Missionaries closed in on him. He leaps down into the crowds and the vehicles, rolling to minimize the agony of landing from such height- he staggers along, hoping the safety of the crowd will save him. It'd take a miracle to land a shot on him among the crowd.

Nevertheless, a shot rang out.



The leader never was one for modifications. If his taste in weaponry, attire and his hope to return to the days without Mission and other megacorps breathing down the populace's necks didn't indicate so already, then it was the way he hid the only modifications he ever got: a pair of bionic arms, designed to help him draw both blade and gun at impossibly fast speeds, and the required neural chips to control such arms. Both were installed because of a forced necessity.

He was frail, but so was everything else if he had the advantage.

The world grew dark, as something within the leader explodes into a dozen fragments. He should have died. But the cops, they weren't satisfied only killing him.

"We tagged the leader. Any more orders?"

"Administer the I-2MO compound to keep him alive. We still have an use for the leader. We will send a message."

The leader felt a shock, and then he found that the world had stopped becoming dark. The work of an army of nanobots kept him alive against his own will, as he's forced into a conscious sleep. He heard everything, he felt his dying body be dragged across the ground and he saw the seven moons grow blurry as blood leaks out of his chest from the shot wound. It hurts. It burned, as if the stars of the cosmos themselves had been forcefully lodged into his chest.



Along a new route, a never traveled pathway, Tricks-55 looks at a monitor they had carried with their person once they had escaped the carnage. A payment of seventeen million pieces was just wired to them- enough to live the rest of life in comfort or to make a valid move to become a corporate lord themselves.

Tricks-55 looked at the skies- the drone swarm had conspicuously avoided the very path they were going down, an unimpeded exit to the Cuca alleyway in front of them.

Tricks-55 begins marching towards the exit, pocketing the monitor, their inside job unpunished.

---

It's agonizing, and it feels like the area around his neck has a thousand itches that he cannot scratch away. But eventually, it stops, and Omen is looking to the skies, as he lies down on the ground.

These aren't stars, or the seven moons, but rather, the lights of the drones. Their eerie lights hued the walls of scrapers sky high as they proceeded on with their daily skims.

... the front door. Of course. It's the simplest route, and the worst thing is, since everybody just decided to go through the front door anyways, without going in the whole group thing #63(b) suggested even, what was the point of literally calling the spirits of the damned? Everybody's just going to take the front door anyways.

At least he now knows the table ISN'T upright, and there's a few routes he and his new companions can take for whatever purpose they need.

"We need to go. Take the front door."We need to go. Take the front door.

> Go through the front door, back home.

[MadameButterflyKnife]

> welcome home.

You enter the jewelry store, opening the door. It once was stained in colors, to entice the above-average person into coming in. spending their money for rings that could shine even when the smog clouded the city on its darkest days. The cheap stuff still laid upon the floor: diamonds, sapphires, little rocks tied together with silver and gold wire. There was a time where even that could sell for thousands, but when Man got high enough to touch the stars, to hold in their hands the gods that they were told were made of precious metals with gems for eyes, they realized just how...common, such materials were. Mission got a lot of its initial earnings from space mining, squeezing every last drop they could get out of the Creator before realizing they had so much, it was worthless, wasn't it?

The precious stuff, well, that stuff must have been looted long ago. Probably didn't last a day or so after that raid. The stuff made of petrified branches, tying together amber and coral in little capsules. Shame. Those would have funded your little ragtag rebellion effort easily.

Not to say that there wasn't anything in this place. People lived in this alleyway, reclaiming a place that was lost to time, not out of idealism or romanticism, but for practicality. Titania is a city that reaches to the sky, dense, tangled, trapped on an island among islands, where you're just begging to find space to breathe at times. People flock here like a grass peaks through the sidewalks, despite itself. It's a chance to have a place to sleep, to breathe.

The jewelry store's likely no exception. A broken chandelier, in pieces on the ground, makes the floors dangerous to step on, but that wouldn't stop the few from sleeping upon it. The vault would likely have no people, on account of no one else seeming to know the password, if you all desire privacy. Entering, you see a portable AC in a corner, and a couple of abandoned blankets laying all across the floor. Empty bottles, abandoned here for who knows how long. No other signs of life, though. Who knows how long ago these desperate people may have lived.

And you hear footsteps from outside. Not heavy ones, but footsteps nonetheless.

[KungFuCutbug]

[After everyone else has filed in, Syringe leaves their position of standing guard and follows suit, closing the door behind them as best they can and taking a good look around at the place they were soon to call home.

...Wow. This place truly was abandoned. The term got thrown around rather loosely, these days; pretty much anywhere that remained vacant for more than a week yet miraculously avoided demolition was considered "abandoned" by the populace, but it was obvious this area hadn't been home to anyone in years... or perhaps decades, if they were being honest. There were little signs here and there, signs that long ago, someone or some-many might have lived here—the half-emptied display cases missing certain valuables, the shards of glass from the light fixture & the bottles strewn about on the floor, a generator of the welcome cold and ragged blankets for retaining the vital heat.

Something, glinting in the darkness, catches Syringe's eye. Almost subconsciously, they begin to move towards the display case, weaving their footsteps through the maze of shards on the floor until they reach where they saw the gleam. Reaching down to pick it up, they find in their hands a small ring: white metal intertwined with gold, a pure white diamond in the center. White and gold, the colors of... that whom they've lost. Another reminder, from which they're nearly once more spurred to tears. But no matter. They will be reunited. The Gods promised them that. And They had never broken a promise before—]

!

[The sound of someone approaching makes Syringe freeze solid.] "...We've got company, daahlings. Be on guard."

> Find a suitably hidden point from which you can look outside from within, and see who might be coming to visit you.

[awe921]

... ah. His home. Well, it seemed that other people tried making it their home while he was gone. He's not sure how to feel about the fact that nobody seemingly ever discovered the hidden passageway, behind the counter- he did indeed leave it for somebody else, but now that he's back, it kind of feels weird to be reclaiming it, and yet even weirder if somebody actually took residence within the base.

The generator is a good signal- they'd definitely have hooked it up at the base. Since nobody seems home, Omen might as well also bring it in when he start establishin-

Omen hears those footsteps. His blade shakes, like a weapon instinctively being reached for. He looks behind him, out into the city, and then back to the store, fixated on the counter.

"I'll take a position behind the counter. If they pass, I can easily open the passageway. And if they don't... well, it's cover."I'll take a position behind the counter. If they pass, I can easily open the passageway. And if they don't... well, it's cover.

> And just like you said, take cover behind that counter, looking outside for any potential threats.

[artsyGeek]

Upon entering the shop, it was clear that it wasn't quite as forgotten as he thought it would be. The ragged blankets, the empty bottles lying around, and what remains of the jewelry that, he presumes, were remnants of a time when the place was still operational. There's signs of life, even in this abandoned store, even if it was in the past. He knows that for sure. Perhaps they...

......!!!

He heard footsteps, and it seems like the others did as well. Did they intruded on someone's current living space without knowing? That'd be awkward. Maybe they're just passerbys? But .. let's not ponder on that for too long. He'd rather not find out the hard way.

"Got it," he told the others in response.

> Try and find a hiding spot as well; Hidden enough that those outside wouldn't be able to see him, but not so hidden that it hinders his ability to look at who those footsteps belong to.

[Florien]

#63(b) looks around. The gems upon the floor. Once valuable for their rarity, they were stripped from the sky and now were common. They are, nonetheless, pretty, and extremely useful. A diamond could do many things, as could corundum, whether ruby or sapphire. Those who cast these small, perfect tools aside for items of mere rarity were fools, unwilling to see the value right in front of them. Those who thought in such ways did not have a place in the new world. At the very least, that was its hope. Perhaps they had their uses too. It considers scooping some of the jewels up, using them in the future... but then it hears the footsteps. The jewels can wait.

Whoever it may be, it is best to get the drop on them if necessary. Stand ready.

>Take position behind the doorframe, hidden, crouching. Someone would have to open the door fully to see it, and were they to do so, they would be unable to take cover behind the door if they should invite an attack from the others.

[MadameButterflyKnife]

You all prepare. Prepare for the worst, won't you? That the drones followed you, that some enforcers and Missionaries will be coming soon, ready to take you down at the touch of a button.
You all hide with ease, ready for an ambush, as the footsteps approach the door. They seem to be going inside, actually. The faint creak of a door, before it opens right up, a figure obscured by the lights shining behind them. Small, you notice, as they start to step through.
The whispers of your ghosts, Omen, continue to mutter. Their anticipation surrounds you, telling you to be safe, for they had seen your head roll once, and they wish with the power of all their many souls that once inhabited their bodies, that you do not have to meet them once more, in a dinner in Sulad.
#63(b), your order rings true, sharp, a perfect command like the blade of a knife through wood. It's enough to keep everyone on guard, as the door cracks open.

"..."

You all wait, in anticipation.

"..."

And you hear a voice, younger than one would expect. In fact...it almost sounds like a kid's, as the door pushes forward into #63(b).

"...the door. It feels...just barely blocked."

The light comes through, and you see the kid; no older than say, 13. A scrawny, dark skinned street kid with curly black hair looks through, trying to figure out what exactly is going on. You can't see much else, other than the fact he's wearing one of the same sort of suit jackets all those suits from Mission like to wear, except instead of their favored whites and golds, his is a bright, eye bleeding red with exaggerated shoulder pads and about four tablet pens hanging off of it. The sort of thing that teenagers think is cool these days.

"...Someone is here, are they not?"

The door is open. He's vulnerable.

[KungFuCutbug]

[...Oh.

Oh, it's just a child.

Syringe keeps themself hidden and silent, eyeing the new arrival from the shadows with piqued interest. The suit resembles one a Missionary would wear in terms of style, but the colors are completely different, it's clear that modifications have been made which would under no circumstances be permissible at Mission, and there's... tablet pens dangling from it. Four of them. Heh, one for each of them, Syringe thinks to themself.

He seems harmless enough. But they know better than anyone that even the sweetest of honeys can belie a sickening poison. So they stay put, giving a glance to their cohorts as though asking what the best course of action is here.]

[awe921]

... The whispers don't stop, and they only get louder after Omen contemplates a plan of action. Whispers of this being an incredibly terrible idea, a gamble, and above all else, Comically Stupid.

But hey, it... probably worked for Pepsi. Certainly it will work for this youthful one too. And somebody has to speak for diplomacy if hiding isn't a solution, which is quickly starting to become out of the question from that last statement.

> WEAK ACTION: Rise up from behind the counter, straight into the vision of this child.

"Hello, hi."Hello, hi.

"We're closed. Would you like to come back later?"We're closed. Would you like to come back later?

[KungFuCutbug]

[Syringe is now giving Omen the most baffled bug-eyed glare they can muster.]

[artsyGeek]

He was worried. Seems like everyone else is at least wary of who might be coming here. It could be a Missionary, sure, and that's their biggest concern right now, but.. Maybe it isn't a Missionary. Maybe they're a passerby with ill intent. Maybe they're.. somehow.. currently living here, and they had just intruded on someone's place. Which.. Fuck, if that's the case that might be hard to explain out of.

.... whatever he was that he's expecting, he's expecting an adult. Not... not a child. But that's what he noticed when he peeked out of his hiding spot. A kid. Barely a teen, alone and without company. He'd wonder where this kid's parents are, but if they're just.. roaming the streets like this ....  Are they still even around, somehow..?

Almost out of instinct, he blurted out a concerned, ".. kid..?"

[Florien]

#63(b), which has not moved from its spot behind the door, gives Omen a look conveying exactly how it feels about that particular excuse.

(not good, it thinks its a bad excuse.)

[MadameButterflyKnife]

The kid just stares at Omen, dead on. Straight in Omen's smoke covered face. The kid recognizes, of course, something is up. You can see it in his eyes, as he opens his mouth, uttering just loud enough for the group to hear.

"...Apologies, po, when would you like me to come back. Would the next century be a viable option for you? I can do my best to meet you then. I do not think you'll be busy...quite obviously. Are you alright? Lose your head, in the most literal sense?"

Omen now has 4 TOKENS, to be put towards Strong Moves. A powerful use of Omen's capabilities, much more than what he has exhibited just now.

[KungFuCutbug]

[Syringe just irately shakes their head from behind their hiding spot. Gah, of course the child isn't young and naive enough to buy that. Gods almighty.

Well. Not much they can do now, seeing as Omen has shattered any chance of escaping without notice (perhaps this quixotic rashness is what got him killed the first time, they muse) and Kartono, too, has given away his position. They figure in the worst case scenario, the Gods will protect them from any lasting harm. From the darkness, they rise, spreading their arms warmly in the teenager's direction, speaking quietly and gently to come off as friendly as possible.] "Sorry for startling you, daahling, is this... why are you here? Lost, perhaps? Like us? I'm not fully sure how we got here, myself..."

[...That's a lie. But hopefully it's convincing enough.]