07-01-2023, 14:22:46 PM
(This post was last modified: 07-01-2023, 14:23:34 PM by MadameButterflyKnife.)
> the roof.
You find yourselves climbing a nearby building, to make it to the top of a nearby building. Fulfilling #63(b)'s suspicions, you are in fact, not in any place resembling the Mediterranian Desert. In the distance, you see neon-drenched bridges, chaining together the archipelgo this city is built on, barely visible through the humidity and the smog.
The target location is just barely busy. It's just past the 10-6, but before the 9-5. There won't be many people to get in your way. The entrance is guarded, of course. You can tell the task is important, because you can feel something in the air when you see those Missionary guards. Kartono, you specifically feel the familar power of the mountains and the seas in the mist as you examine them, your skin feeling suffocated by the adrenaline coursing through your veins. It's the same feeling you felt all those years ago, when you and other tikbalang took the hand of those Mission suits, thinking they'd be your defense against the recklessness and chaos of other men.
There's another service entrance, but it's even more heavily guarded, surprisingly. Well, maybe not surprising. Mission's never had too much trust or respect for the locals, the ones who they relied on and on whose back the city laid upon when they did the jobs those high class suits were too afraid to do.
However, if you manage to get through that entrance, it'll certainly be easier to get to what you need. The common worker works inside the walls, as some of you remember, so that they don't have to be seen by the pale eyes of Mission cubicles. They ruined the careful aesthetic of this place.
And from down there, you see the blue haired girl, preoccupied with her own art. Her energy and power permeates into the paint, and the resulting image feels electric in a way not even the streetlights can drown out.
You find yourselves climbing a nearby building, to make it to the top of a nearby building. Fulfilling #63(b)'s suspicions, you are in fact, not in any place resembling the Mediterranian Desert. In the distance, you see neon-drenched bridges, chaining together the archipelgo this city is built on, barely visible through the humidity and the smog.
The target location is just barely busy. It's just past the 10-6, but before the 9-5. There won't be many people to get in your way. The entrance is guarded, of course. You can tell the task is important, because you can feel something in the air when you see those Missionary guards. Kartono, you specifically feel the familar power of the mountains and the seas in the mist as you examine them, your skin feeling suffocated by the adrenaline coursing through your veins. It's the same feeling you felt all those years ago, when you and other tikbalang took the hand of those Mission suits, thinking they'd be your defense against the recklessness and chaos of other men.
There's another service entrance, but it's even more heavily guarded, surprisingly. Well, maybe not surprising. Mission's never had too much trust or respect for the locals, the ones who they relied on and on whose back the city laid upon when they did the jobs those high class suits were too afraid to do.
However, if you manage to get through that entrance, it'll certainly be easier to get to what you need. The common worker works inside the walls, as some of you remember, so that they don't have to be seen by the pale eyes of Mission cubicles. They ruined the careful aesthetic of this place.
And from down there, you see the blue haired girl, preoccupied with her own art. Her energy and power permeates into the paint, and the resulting image feels electric in a way not even the streetlights can drown out.