07-01-2023, 02:25:55 AM
> Look in the vault again. There should be a map amidst the scattered notes. Hopefully... If Omen finds the map, look at any possible plans his past life might have made that they can finish right now.
There is indeed, a map amidst the scattered notes. Befitting of Omen's more traditionalist stance, you'd decided to take your chances with the physical feel of paper on your hands, and the ink running on it instead of a digital facade leaving lines across a screen. A risk, yes, but one that's paid off for you in your next life, from the looks of it. Where those screens would have become long outdated, glitched out, waiting for an update that never comes until they break down, the paper has stayed pristine, if faded. It's the good type of paper, the kind that resists decay. And the ink, though long dried and faded, can still be read.
It's obviously not the most updated map. There's marked buildings, safe homes that have long since built over, and old "blank" lots that now reach to the skies. But there's one place, one of said information centers that #63(b) had mentioned in passing, that still stands.
It's one of the oldest buildings that Mission still uses, for the simple reason that it works, and that replacing it would be exceptionally more expensive. The Mission style of architecture has always been one of dominance and grandeur, rose windows with the company logo letting light into lobbies of infinite people, blocky buildings with graceful spires. They were almost like castles, for the modern-day royalty.
This building, specifically, was mostly brick, instead of steel and concrete, as most of the more modern buildings were. It still had the design principles, but it was from an older era, updated and refurnished to finish the times. It was one of the few fragments of the past that Mission was willing to keep holding on to.
And it was a perfect target, both then and now.
In the cracks of Titania, there is art, peeking through the cracks. Colors that peek through Mission's metallics, chromatic little pieces that bleed through, the closest thing that you can find to the wildflowers that once sprouted from this place, or the feathers of colorful birds, the real kind. The last little hint of chaos in the new order.
If you make your way to that old brick Mission building, you'll find such art. Specifically, a blue haired girl who seems to glow underneath the dispersed light from the haze and smoke, her hands covered in paint and color, and one eye that seems to be a dying star amongst her radiance.
> Alzena.
You stand in Titania, under a morning that has just arrived. The days are consistent here; twelve hours of day, twelve hours of night. Perfectly symmetrical, orderly, just as things should be. Just as things have always been for you, under your routine back when you were nothing more than a mere battery, barely conscious until the day you protected them. A cruel awakening, but one you refuse to back down from.
You feel the energy of this city waking you up, what remains of ghosts fading away back until night comes, the speeding cycles of people hanging on to dear life as they weave through traffic, up and down ramps and buildings, as they make their way to their workplaces, people wearing masks of plastic and metal as they overlook you...it's all so overwhelming.
And behind you is the symbol of your old rulers. Mission LLC. The building is tall enough to cast a wide shadow, one you barely manage to avoid being in.
And maybe it's a gut feeling, but you think someone like you is nearby. Someone who's escaped as you did, and someone who will refuse to let their future here die.
There is indeed, a map amidst the scattered notes. Befitting of Omen's more traditionalist stance, you'd decided to take your chances with the physical feel of paper on your hands, and the ink running on it instead of a digital facade leaving lines across a screen. A risk, yes, but one that's paid off for you in your next life, from the looks of it. Where those screens would have become long outdated, glitched out, waiting for an update that never comes until they break down, the paper has stayed pristine, if faded. It's the good type of paper, the kind that resists decay. And the ink, though long dried and faded, can still be read.
It's obviously not the most updated map. There's marked buildings, safe homes that have long since built over, and old "blank" lots that now reach to the skies. But there's one place, one of said information centers that #63(b) had mentioned in passing, that still stands.
It's one of the oldest buildings that Mission still uses, for the simple reason that it works, and that replacing it would be exceptionally more expensive. The Mission style of architecture has always been one of dominance and grandeur, rose windows with the company logo letting light into lobbies of infinite people, blocky buildings with graceful spires. They were almost like castles, for the modern-day royalty.
This building, specifically, was mostly brick, instead of steel and concrete, as most of the more modern buildings were. It still had the design principles, but it was from an older era, updated and refurnished to finish the times. It was one of the few fragments of the past that Mission was willing to keep holding on to.
And it was a perfect target, both then and now.
In the cracks of Titania, there is art, peeking through the cracks. Colors that peek through Mission's metallics, chromatic little pieces that bleed through, the closest thing that you can find to the wildflowers that once sprouted from this place, or the feathers of colorful birds, the real kind. The last little hint of chaos in the new order.
If you make your way to that old brick Mission building, you'll find such art. Specifically, a blue haired girl who seems to glow underneath the dispersed light from the haze and smoke, her hands covered in paint and color, and one eye that seems to be a dying star amongst her radiance.
> Alzena.
You stand in Titania, under a morning that has just arrived. The days are consistent here; twelve hours of day, twelve hours of night. Perfectly symmetrical, orderly, just as things should be. Just as things have always been for you, under your routine back when you were nothing more than a mere battery, barely conscious until the day you protected them. A cruel awakening, but one you refuse to back down from.
You feel the energy of this city waking you up, what remains of ghosts fading away back until night comes, the speeding cycles of people hanging on to dear life as they weave through traffic, up and down ramps and buildings, as they make their way to their workplaces, people wearing masks of plastic and metal as they overlook you...it's all so overwhelming.
And behind you is the symbol of your old rulers. Mission LLC. The building is tall enough to cast a wide shadow, one you barely manage to avoid being in.
And maybe it's a gut feeling, but you think someone like you is nearby. Someone who's escaped as you did, and someone who will refuse to let their future here die.