06-29-2023, 03:12:22 AM
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.
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.