You’re not exactly selling the new neighbours {Fade?]

Grace

[Awareness!?]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 5, 8, 9) ( success x 2 )

Grace

It's around noon when she shows up at the motel, runs into Doctor Madhouse, in his invisible van outside. Invisible, because he's totally naked and can't help it (so he says).

Whatever.

She's got her red coat on -- the one with LED strips sewn into the seams, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. It's a grim look on her face, when she knocks on the door, but the sight of Sepúlveda had her blushing, and the redness has yet to retreat out of her face, making her look an angry, blotchy mess. Somebody spilled red paint, or butchered the application of makeup? She never wears makeup.

"Hey, Alex? It's me. It's Grace," she says. It's hard to feel the presence of him. All she can sense is the lingering Work of Sera, and some other -- a river-feeling thing. None of it Alex.

Alexander

[Stuff inside. Diff 3, I think. ]

Dice: 2 d10 TN3 (2, 4) ( success x 1 )

Alexander

[Bah, and again]

Dice: 2 d10 TN4 (4, 5) ( success x 2 )

Alexander

The motel is nothing special, surrounded by a great deal of nothing special. It’s somewhere to stay on the way to somewhere else, rather than being an actual desination. The place doesn’t even seem to have a name: the sign outside just reads MOTEL. A closed-down pool sits in the parking lot, waiting for better weather. A few soulless burger chains sit nearby, attracting some of the truck traffic that passes through.

The room feels mostly like Sera, although with a little something stoic and psychedelic mixed in. There’s something of the elements starting to creep in, too, but no arctic chill. There’s a knock at the door and a name called, a familiar voice. Or what would be a familiar voice, had it been heard. There’s no answer. Maybe he’s out? Asleep? Either way, there’s a window open letting the chill air of spring into the room. Music from some random, local rock radio station leaks out.

Grace

"Alex? You there?" she asks, knocks again -- louder.

Well, shit. What is she supposed to do now, with the... clothes and all?

That, and all these wrung out feelings.

She tries the door, hoping maybe it's unlocked. Maybe he doesn't feel like being behind a locked door after so long?

Alexander

Again, there’s no answer to the knock or to the call. The door, though, is unlocked and pushes open with a bit of a squeak. The gurney and body bag still sit abandoned in one corner of the room. One of the beds had obviously been slept in, blanket half-thrown off the side of it; a broken lamp sits on the little table next to it. The small kitchen has a couple of empty coffee cups sat in the sink and a well-brewed jug of coffee sat in the drip machine. Above the sound of the radio comes the sound of running water, filtering through a closed door. That feeling of some river comes flowing through the door, something without start or end. There’s no sound apart from the water and the radio, and whatever traffic noise drifts in from some nearby highway or trunk road.

Grace

She creeps into the room. This place is something, humming like it is. The noise of water from beyond a door makes her think, okay, maybe he's in the shower? But still, no sense of Alex. The door, she closes, lest some wandering passerby see a gurney and a bodybag inside the room and begin to wonder what the hell is going on in there.

Then, she lays the duffel bag on the bed, and looks around. Places like this sometimes have little notepads, don't they? She could always leave a note. Sorry to have missed you. Here's your clothes.

Alexander

The sound of running water comes to an end, and there’s a new sound coming from what it obviously the bathroom: the sound of humming. It’s not a familiar tune; certainly nothing from any kind of music chart from recent memory. There’s the sound of movement, now – the sound of a shower curtain drawing back, feet padding around on a tiled floor, a towel rail squeaking as something is pulled off it.

The door swings open, revealing an Alexander. He’s changed: there’s less of him than there had been two months ago. His hair is longer and grown out, although the scruff on his jaw has been shaved back to nothing recently. Other than some scabbed-over knuckles, he looks uninjured. And, other than a towel, he’s not wearing anything. The beige scrubs had been thrown under the slept-in bed.

“Whoa, fuck!” The surprise of someone else’s presence here hits him; the sense of recent working in the bathroom might give a hint as to where his attention had been. Alex startles, looking quickly for something to use as a weapon, when...

“...Grace?”

Grace

"Oh! Shit! Sorry, I..." she points at the duffel bag. "Clothes! For you!"

If she was still getting over the sight of Dr. Sepúlveda, this doesn't help. The pink already in her face turns to red.

"I'll uh..." a cough. She points to the door. "Yeah."

The weirdest, most uncomfortable smile ever crosses her face. "Hi."

And bye, also, because well... Obviously Alex needs to get dressed now. Can't have a conversation with him while he's holding up a towel... She trots off to the door, quickly quickly.

Alexander

Alex looks from a rapidly-reddening Grace to the duffel on the bed as she draws attention to it. “Ah, hell, I thought Kiara was coming along this evening with some clothes. I wasn’t expecting...” There’s a deeply indrawn breath, followed by a long sigh. Grace has turned towards the door, heading rapidly outwards, but he calls out before she gets a hand on the door handle. “Wait.”

The duffle is grabbed and taken back into the bathroom, the thin wooden door closing with a shove from his free hand. His voice comes through the door, “I’ve had too much damned time on my own.” There’s the sound of the bag being opened as he looks through what’s been brought for him to wear.

Grace

Too much damned time on his own, he says. That makes her pause, though she doesn't really turn back around until he's safely back in the bathroom.

"I... can understand that," she says, and goes for a chair by one of the beds.

The duffel bag has new clothes in it, everything from feet to head. Socks, shoes of three sizes (because she didn't know his), jeans (of a high-end, boutique kind, in a couple different colors) and a black sweater. All this topped by a knitted maroon beanie. Underneath everything else, there's a couple of t-shirts that seem Grace-inspired. On one, a bored-looking black cat is pawing a mug of coffee off a table, with the text "I do what I want" underneath. On another, the text "Always be yourself! Unless you can be Batman, then always be Batman" dominates. Someone must have gotten sent the wrong size a time or two?

Alexander

There isn’t any more conversation while Alex is in the bathroom, although Grace might be able to hear the clothes being pulled out of the bag and looked through. A few minutes later, there’s some seconds of silence. Seconds with Alexander stood just on the other side of the bathroom door, forehead resting on it, before he heads out into the main part of the motel room. He isn’t sure how this conversation will go, any more than any of the others that are to come. Kalen, Sera, the others in the city. Would they treat him with suspicion about what he might be? Welcome him back? Only one way to find out... And, hell, it might help answer some of his own questions too.

The door opens and Alex walks back out of the bathroom, leaving the spare clothes folded and stacked on top of the duffle bag. He doesn’t move to sit, though. He starts the water in the sink, grabbing the two used – and probably only – cups to rinse them out. “You want a coffee? Or Sera has a ridiculous amount of booze stashed here.”

Stalling? Yep.

Grace

Sera's contribution makes the corners of Grace's mouth rise slightly. Why not? "Coffee with some booze in it?" she asks. Doesn't ask him how he is, because hey -- you just get broken out of prison, you're going to have feelings.

"Sera wants you to relax, I think." A pause. "Do you like the clothes? I didn't know what you'd go for, but the people at the store were helpful."

Again, not really discussing anything important.

Alexander

Alex sets the still-wet cups on the counter and pulls the jug out, giving it a sniff. The contents get thrown down the sink and the various cupboards are checked through until he finds a new filter. “I don’t know how much of this was for me, and how much is just for somewhere for Sera to run to. Or someone else to come to.“ He gestures vaguely at the walls, at the unknown resonance still lingering there.

Alex settles back to lean on the counter while coffee happens, with all of the gurgling and spitting that entails. He picked out a pair of blue jeans that are a little loose on him, along with the “I do what I want” tshirt. His feet are still bare, padding quietly on the floor of the room.

He absent-mindedly rubs his hands together, feeling the coarseness of his knuckles. “How are you, Grace?” The question is asked at the floor, or maybe his hands, but Alex does look over to her at the end.

Grace

The jeans are loose. She remembers a more solid Alex than this one, so when she tried to explain to the shopkeeper what size he was in gesture and comparison form, it came out wrong.

How is she? Well.

"Having fights with everybody," she says, smirks. "I don't know. Something about me and having opinions."

And, she's had to abandon the Office. And Ginger. And she can't be with the guy she loves. She's lacking in that usual playfulness today, despite the t-shirts. As happy as she is to see him back, she didn't really know how this meeting would go either. At least he wants to talk.

Alexander

Kiara had said something about people being mostly ok, and Grace had been one of those he’d wondered about. Grace, Kalen and Sera were the ones that he was (or, maybe, had been) closest to. But, then, the last time he and Grace had spoken hadn’t ended well, and there was the awkwardness of the party at the Chantry... “Who is everybody? I thought everybody pretty much got on ok?” An unspoken before, tagged on the end.

The filter gets towards the end of its cycle, but Alex doesn’t push off to fill the cups just yet. It needs a little more time to finish dripping first. “How bad is it really out there?”

Grace

"There's a bunch of new people in town," she says. "From New England, or somewhere up there. Where the Hermetics have declared war on the Technocracy again."

She lets that just rest for a bit, hanging in the air like a bad idea.

"Elijah found some amazing timing for telling me I treat him like shit, and getting pissed off at me because he didn't have a say in what plans were made for your retrieval -- because he wasn't at the meeting. He's called William now.

"To his credit, though, he wanted to send in an army after you. Better than some ideas people have had."

Like, for instance, just leaving him there to rot, because they were afraid.

"Right now, in Denver, there's no Mage armies patrolling the streets. Or Technocratic monsters either. It seems like they don't want a fight either."

Alexander

Now Alexander turns to the filter machine, although whether it’s because the coffee is ready, because it’s something to do, or some small way to break eye contact with Grace Is unclear. Maybe it’s all of the above. “Why did they come here? To get away from the war, or to bring it here? What did…” There’s the sound of coffee being poured, as that sentence fades to nothing. “How is Kalen?” Three small words, but a question with so many potential answers.

There’s a thunk and a hiss as the jug slides back onto its hotplate. “Well bad timing comes together just as often as we randomly bump into each other. But that doesn’t sound much like Elijah. I didn’t know him all that well, but he never seemed like the type to lead an army into battle. What happened to him?”

There’s more to say, but there’s something holding him back from giving voice to the words. “Whiskey?” Alex holds up a bottle, checking what he should pour into Grace’s coffee.

Grace

"I wish I knew what they were up to here, to be honest. Probably thinking that since Denver is a strategic target, somebody should be here to report back to the hivemind what goes on? Maybe they're here to take over the Chantry and turn this place into a pompous elitist Hermetic's idea of a paradise?"

She shifts in her chair, scratches her nose, because even she knows the look of utter disgust on her face isn't pretty. She really doesn't want to tell Alex what at least one of their ilk has said about his.

"One thing though, the ones who are here don't seem to be the type to run away from a war."

"Kalen is..." Not sleeping. Manic and beside himself. Kind of an exaggerated normal, if you know Kalen. "Well. He could be in a better mental state, but all of us could. He was very worried about you. I'm sure you knew that already," she says, huffs out a humorless laugh.

Alex asks about Elijah, and Grace responds tersely. What happened? "He joined the Order of Hermes." And apparently, that's all she needs to explain herself. "I'm being... too hard on him, I guess. He'd just found out about you, and freaked out. I lack any patience these days, though. Whiskey is a go. Very much some of that."

Alexander

[Per+Emp?]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 5, 5, 7, 10) ( success x 2 )

Grace

[Grace isn't usually one to speak of the Order of Hermes in such a directly insulting manner, seeing as how she practically lives with a Hermetic who is decidedly not a pompous elitist. This might lead one to come to the conclusion that she has found at least one new person in Denver clinging to the worst stereotypes of Hermetic arrogance, and yes -- is quite disgusted by what she found.]

Alexander

“Hopefully they’re not of the same frame of mind as the guys who thought firing up a war between the vampires and the Union without telling us was a good idea.” There’s a weary sigh as Alex turns back to the mugs. He had only been intending to add the whiskey to Grace’s coffee, but now he adds a slug to both mugs. This was starting to look like one of those conversations. “Please say that there’s nobody else looking to poke sharp sticks either of those particular ant nests.”

That look of Grace’s is noticed and studied, but it’s obvious that the bad taste doesn’t originate from him. (Although give it a few minutes and it might originate from the coffee.) “That’s a look. What aren’t you telling me?”

The two cups are held with one hand, a finger looped through both handles, and the bottle of whiskey picked up and carried over to the bed with the other. The bottle is dropped onto the bed, freeing up a hand to pass one cup to Grace before Alex sits on the edge of the mattress.

“Yeah, I can’t imagine Kalen took it at all well. He knows that I’m out?” It’s almost a rhetorical question, but there are reasons behind it. “Kiara told me that Ginger is dead, I wasn’t sure how well the news had been passed around. If you see him before I do, tell him I’m fine.” Fine: the universal term for not good, but nothing I want to deal with right this second.

His eyebrows rise in surprise when he finds out about Elijah’s joining of the Order, the rest of his expression hidden behind the cup that he’s in the middle of taking a drink from. “I really should spend more time with the guy. Well, with everyone, really. I guess I’ve been a bit distant. I guess it’s understandable that he’d freak out if he hadn’t heard anything, though. Just… wow. William. That’ll take some getting used to.”

“I doubt the universe will care enough to provide, but hopefully things will stay quiet for long enough for you to find your patience again.”

Grace

"Like I said. I really wish I knew what all these new people in Denver were here to do," Grace says, reaches a hand out for the coffee.

He asks what that look was about, and she sighs. Grins a sardonic smile. "Like I said, I've been having fights with people. One of the new people in town is a Hermetic who's got a tree trunk shoved up her ass, and is very very proud of herself for being so proud. It doesn't bode well."

She smells the coffee. Smells the whiskey in it, leans her head back against the chair. Alex is 'fine'. He certainly seems to be doing well enough to get coffee and have a conversation, which is about eighty percent of normal human interaction. Fine is an okay place to be right now.

"Enough about me and my personal communication problems, Alex. Do you have any idea of what you'd like to do next? It's okay if you don't. I wouldn't blame you."

Alexander

“You’re not exactly selling the new neighbours. Although that does sound like the Order that Alyssa warned me about.” Alex shrugs, taking another sip of his coffee. It doesn’t bode well, but he’ll wait and make his own judgement if and when he encounters anyone who looks like they’re sitting on something uncomfortable.

He shifts up the bed, enough so that he can swing his legs up and rest back against the headrest. His fingers interlace around the cup, holding it safely on his lap. “I’m not sure.” Alex rests his head back against the wall, the ceiling with its vague nicotine stains suddenly seems to be an interesting place to look. “I think I want my life back. Assuming…” Assuming a lot, but nothing that gets immediately voiced. “Assuming that I can. I know some things need to change, though.”

Serafíne

That's when the front door of the motel room opens. Oh hey. Here's Sera.

She has a key and well, Dan has the key. They aren't sneaking up but the key and the lock and the conversation and her very, very distinctive resonance that is as soaked into the walls of this room as it is into her skin. The wards are her own, after all. So the place - at least inside - feels like her even in her absence. More: between than anything else. Liminal, that is it: some refusal of definition, as if one could choose simply to let go of labels and exist in a state of possible/flux.

"What do you think needs to change?" A flash of her dark eyes over Alex. She is: remarkably sober for a Sera.

Grace

Sera walks in. It's an event that has Grace glancing at the door, giving a salute to those entering with her coffee cup. Someone else being here is a good thing.

"He's changed," she says, smiles a bit of a genuine smile at Alex, even as he peruses the ceiling, looking for omens in the splotches of brown. "You've melted, man. Flowed downhill, too from the feel of it. I'm sure you're up to the task of changing things. That part's easy."

The booze has made her coffee a bit cooler, invites her to drink it, which she does. Chemical happiness. A poor substitute for the real thing. Alex, though, with his wanting his life back, that's something to be honestly happy about, isn't it?

Alexander

The door wasn’t even locked, unless Grace had flicked it off the latch while he had been changing. Alex turns to look at the door as it opens, just starting to free his hands from each other to push up from the bed and… And settles back again, when he sees that it’s Sera (and Dan?) coming in. The urge to get up fades as soon as it had arrived, although the thump of his heart in his chest from the surprise arrival will take a little longer to settle. There’s something of his own, changed, resonance hanging over the room in addition to Sera’s, and maybe something of Jim’s. Some remnant of recent Work lingering.

What do you think needs to change?

“Mostly, me.” Grace says that he’s changed, and he nods, shrugs, meeting her eyes as he does. “I guess I figured some stuff out. Like how pushing everyone away isn’t good for me.” He nudges the bottle of whiskey with a foot, pushing it towards the side of the bed closest to the door.

Serafíne

Here is Sera, and Dan of course, sliding in behind her, a solid, tattooed hand on the creature's narrow should. That impression one has of her: the sudden, dirty glamour of her presence. Golden curls and a battered leather jacket. Sunglasses even (especially) in the cheap no-tell motel room where she once spent three days hiding out from: everyone. Everywhere, ashes in the back of her throat.

This glance for Grace, as she speaks. The dark glasses, the dark eyes. The sense of: attention, of awareness, of consideration. Neat little kink of a smile responsive to Grace's own. Then Alex.

"Not an easy thing to learn," Sera, quiet. The supple, blooming grace of her smile beneath the gleam of the dark glasses. "I'm glad we have you back so you can figure it out, though."

--

Does she notice: his jumpiness? His awareness. She must. She sees so much. Feels so much. Has been through: so much that she must recognize that moment of startement, movement, surge. Perhaps feels some resonance answer to it, somewhere in her body. Somewhere beneath her ribs, in her viscera. Somewhere.

"We brought you some clothes and shit. Some cash. A new phone." Dan hefts a reuseable shopping bag and sets it down on the bed nearest Alexander. He inserts: "Have a few other errands to run but we can come back later, if you want company. Or not, if you don't."

They'll hang around for another few minutes, but soon enough Dan reminds Sera that it is time to go.

Grace

Grace nods at Alexander, agreeing with him rather wholeheartedly. It's something she'd wanted to chew him out for the last time they'd met. He'd tried to isolate himself in order to protect everyone else, when that doesn't even stand a chance of working. But he'd kicked her out before she could get to that point.

He'll want company. She'll want to call Kalen and tell him to get his ass here, because Alex is just done with solitary anything, and as far as she can tell, doesn't blame anyone for what happened. Except, maybe...

"You didn't do anything to cause this to happen, you know? That's all on the idiot who thought it would be a great idea to kidnap you. Having pushed people away doesn't make you responsible for what happened," she says, gulps some coffee.

"Kalen blames himself, I think. Keeps kicking himself for going on vacation. That is about as ridiculous an idea as you blaming yourself, you know?"

Alexander

Sera’s is a flying visit, but he does manage to give her – and Dan - a small smile and some thanks for bringing along some more bits and pieces for him. Money, which at least gives him some additional freedom to get out and around the city if – when – he chooses.

After they leave, though, he does ask Grace, “Is she ok? She seems…different.” Simply a case of two months away, making her seem that way? The pressure of his situation? Something else? Either way…

“I know. This was…” Again, there’s a pause where there should be words. Something held back. He shakes his head, a frustrated little movement. “I know. And it wasn’t your fault, either. I know we didn’t exactly part on the best of terms, but I get that it was a mistake. One that that woman didn’t do anything to clear up. Did you know she came to my place to…I’d say apologise, but she wasn’t in the least bit apologetic. To be honest, I don’t actually know why she even bothered. But, anyway, I believe the term is ‘shit happens’. Which is most definitely has, and will undoubtedly do again.”

There’s a snort and another shaking of the head, although this one comes with a shadow of a fond little smile. “Throw something at him for me, will you?”

Grace

Grace nods into her coffee, when he says that their last altercation had been due to a mistake. "I thought maybe... I didn't know how you'd react to my coming by, at first."

She drinks some more, lets it warm her. "I'm glad you aren't still pissed off about that."

"But um, what's different about Sera? "

Alexander

“We all screw up sometimes. I was pissed at the time, but I got over it. And, honestly, I do think it was more aimed at Ihsan than you. She was enjoying her little game way too much to care.” Alex shifts again, bending a knee and tucking one leg under the other. “Besides, I have other things to be pissed about.” Another drink of the coffee, a thought of whether it should be refilled with more coffee or more whiskey.

“She just seemed strangely sober. She isn’t on her purification thing at the moment, is she?”

Grace

"Well. You know Sera. If she were on something all the time, that would be too predictable," Grace says, drinks more coffee with a smile.

"I'm glad that you want to rebuild your life. Among choices, it is a good one. And you know I'll do everything in my power to help you with that."

Welcome back

Kiara Woolfe

So, here is our scene: it's a motel room. The curtains are mostly drawn but for a gap where they don't quite meet in the middle, a chink where the light spills across the gap between two double beds. Alexander is laid out on one, the other has rumpled sheets as if it had been slept in but its occupants had long since left.

The room smelled faintly the way motels do, like old smoke and detergent and too much starch on the bed sheets. An old TV set in the corner, a fridge and kitchenette, a bathroom with the door half opened and towels on the floor. At some point in the last few hours, somebody had showered. The room clung to the stronger aroma of motel shampoos.

Those ridiculously small, cheap bottles.

What else is felt is: resonance. Serafine's lingers in the walls here and another, too. Fainter, traces of something stoic, psychedelic (Jim). Alexander's rescuers had no idea why Serafine chose this place, why she has a room paid up in cash here - perhaps Alexander does, perhaps he knew the Awakened that would come out here to the outskirts, with nothing but drive through chains and semi trailers in the parking lot.

-

It's late, middling to early, the light that trickles through the window is faint and pale gold. The sort dawn offers. Outside the snow has stopped falling for a moment but there's a crispness to the air; it's cold enough that the figure sleeping in a chair across the room has a blanket curled around her.

That Alexander's still form had been likewise covered.

There's a gurney pushed against a far wall; a black bag (a body bag?) folded over it. A medical kit on the table beside the sleeping woman in the chair.

And her: rejuvenation. Pulsing energy.

-

Wherever Alexander was now, it felt miles from a sterile room in a Union facility.

Alexander Brandt

[WP, just because it might make a difference to what I'm writing.]

Dice: 6 d10 TN7 (4, 4, 4, 5, 7, 8) ( success x 2 )

Alexander Brandt

Alexander is slow to wake. It’s not the first time in recent memory that he’s climbed out of a drug-induced unconsciousness, although this one was maybe deeper – harder to pull away from. For all intents and purposes, he had been dead to anyone who saw him. Oh, he had been warned that there were plans for his release. But he had thought there would have been some kind of warning when it finally came down to it. Some drug slipped into his cell for him to swallow, waiting for him to finally commit to whatever plan had been put together. But those thoughts were a long way away, just at this moment.

He had been resting on his cot, meditating and daydreaming as his endless amounts of free had allowed him to do, searching for some kind of freedom.

Now, as consciousness approaches in fits and starts, it’s the sounds of the room that come to notice first. The hum of the fridge, the banging of the pipes from the next room over. Some vague rumbling, maybe a nearby highway and the flow of traffic along its asphalt surface. They’re ordinary, mundane, run-of-the-mill sounds. But they seem important. Why are they important?

Alexander dips back into unconsciousness again for some amount of time. How long? Who the hell knows, he’s lost track of so much over the past months. But it is a dip, and the curve back up into wakefulness bends a little higher. This time, there’s more sensation. There’s something familiar about the beige scrubs he still wears, but the feel of the mattress under him and the blanket over...

He finally tries opening his eyes. The light is, thankfully, dim. The light passing through the curtains, an occasional ray of light passing through the chink in the curtains from a nearby neon sign, it isn’t a shock. Alexander lies motionless, just staring at the curtains. Thought still feels a little disconnected from body, but it’s slowly coming together...

Memory comes slamming back, and it’s almost a physical thing. The meeting at his station, his brief waking only to be shot down again... the repeated counselling, the invasion of his mind...

There’s a moment of panic when he thinks that this might all be some sort of game. (Still might be!) A moment which pushes him up from the bed, pushing the blanket back which bangs against a lamp on the bedside table and knocks it crashing to the floor. A moment where he almost rushes for the door, breaking for freedom. He isn’t completely lost to the panic, though. The window, the crack in the curtains, is enough for right now. Rather than the door, it’s the rest of the way to the window that Alexander rushes. He stands there, pulling the curtains back to look out at the world. Breath catches in his throat, and he doesn’t realise that he’s holding it.

Kiara Woolfe

The lamp crashing to the floor startles the woman in the chair to wakefulness. She'd been dozing, rather fitfully, for the last few hours. She doesn't make any sudden movements, the brunette, but rather watches with a half frozen sort of tension as the Orphan rushes to the window.

Drags the curtains back.

Sees: a Jack in the Box. Semi trailers and trucks and what must have passed for a swimming pool attached to the motel when the weather was warmer. Now, the tarp was covered in a fine layer of snow. The fence around it had a sign that declared it was closed for the winter. The world outside this room seemed: normal. Utterly unchanged. Cars speeding by and the low buzz of a TV in the next room over; footsteps banging overhead.

There's a rustle of clothing and the brunette in the armchair sits forward. The blanket sliding off her shoulders, revealing scrubs not so different to the ones Alexander found himself still wearing - the last vestiges of the disguise Kiara had adopted to rescue the Orphan.

"Welcome back."

There are dark circles beneath the Verbena's eyes; her hair a wild tangle around her features. She looks: drained, the pagan. But alert. If she's some hallucination, if this all was some new trick to beguile him into believing what was happening: it felt very real.

Down to the stale coffee resting on the table beside Kiara. "You're okay, Alexander. We got you out. This place is safe. They can't find us here."

A beat: "How do you feel?"

Alexander Brandt

[WP, same reasons]

Dice: 6 d10 TN7 (2, 2, 3, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )

Alexander Brandt

The window reveals that little corner of the world, with its ordinary burger joint and its ordinary trucks and ordinary trailers and its ordinary weather and it’s all perfectly ordinary and mundane. The sky – god, the sky, the sight of the dawn above this shithole town somewhere on the outskirts of the city... If he hadn’t been holding his breath, still hasn’t realised that he has, it would have caught then. Both hands resting on the glass, Alexander rests his forehead on the glass and just looks out.

Looks out, at least, until there’s a sound from behind him. Something soft that, the movement of clothing and the slip of a blanket, but from Alexander’s reaction it would seem like something closer to a gunshot. He turns, swinging round on the spot, to place the noise. There’s someone there, a figure dressed in scrubs. The same scrubs he’d seen after waking the second time, surrounded by guards with a medic disconnecting him from a fluid drip. There’s tension in his frame, something wild and uncaged and ready to spring. For Kiara, or for freedom. Fight or flight.

Welcome back.

There’s some familiarity that halts him. Some part of his unconscious or subconscious or some other part of him buried beyond his control. This isn’t some faceless medic, some unknown person sent to repair or monitor or... There was a familiarity in the voice and the movement, in the resonance coming from her and, hell, even from the resonance woven into the walls of the room. It was all familiar, and it did feel real.

So Alexander doesn’t charge her, doesn’t leap for the door. There is an exhalation, heavy and sharp, as his body’s need to breathe finally wins out and as it starts to really register through the dregs of whatever substance had been running through his body. The tension is still there, he’s still prepared, but there’s pause as his eyes dart from her face to the surroundings. The gurney and the body bag...

“I know you.” Consideration begins to slip into his eyes, pupils wide and eating in the light. Alexander hadn’t had a massive amount of contact with Kiara, but there had been some. “Horse. Right?” The tension slips a little more, although the movement of his shoulders gets a little more rapid. There’s a break in the eye contact as Alexander looks around the room, checking the parts that he hadn’t noticed in the moments since waking, before meeting her gaze again.

“I...” A simple question, asking how he feels. Four simple words. The answer, not as simple. “...don’t know.” There’s another break in the eye contact, a studied look down at his hands, which he bunches into fists to check the old scabs on the knuckles.

Kiara Woolfe

I know you.

Kiara's dark eyes rove his features, there's a sort of captured tension to the way they do, her body poised there on the edge of the armchair.

Horse, right?

There's a flicker of some quiet release there; a loosening of tension around her mouth; drawn into furrows across her brow. "Right." A smile edges across the female's lips and she rises from the chair, turning to idly fold the blanket over the arm. The pagan's clothing is faintly rumpled and her hair is perhaps a little longer since the last occasion they'd had to meet.

He doesn't know how he feels. Kiara seems to have been expecting about as much, when she straightens and turns back to face him, her expression reads a clear amount of empathy (perhaps too, this was another reason it was her here, now, when he awoke and not her partner in crime for this rescue).

The healer had, among her virtues (depending on who you asked), a good dose of bedside manner.

He's examining the old wounds on his knuckles. Kiara's eyes drop to them, she makes some quiet noise, a hm of recognition. "Right. Your knuckles. We didn't heal them for you. We could have, but - I figured once we knew you were okay, it was better to let you sleep off the drugs in your system."

Softer. "They dosed you up pretty well." Tinged with anger, though. There's a tremor of it that twinges at the edges of Kiara's words. She pushes the fall of her hair over her face. Moves toward the tiny kitchenette and detaches a coffee pot, holds it under the sink and begins to fill it up. Continues to speak, too, as if her voice could fill up the voids in his memory, could coax his lingering uncertainty out and replace it with something rooted in memory; strengthened with familiarity.

"Are you hungry? Serafine set all of this up. There's coffee and - " Kiara sets the pot on, turns and leans into the sink for support. "A lot of alcohol, shockingly." A brief smile. A thread of something perhaps he can catch hold of.

Serafine. Her propensity for everything in abundance. Stocking this room up with what was needed by her estimations. "We weren't absolutely sure how long you'd be out but I wanted to be sure someone was here when you woke up. In case you had questions ... " Kiara's eyes tick back to him.

Alexander Brandt

Kiara begins to move around, to tidy a little, as Alexander studies his hands. Nothing had changed, they had been slowly healing since... They had been slowly healing. As the body does, repairing itself after damage.

We didn’t heal them for you.

It was no small thing to twist the world to fix the body, he’d seen it often enough to know that it was possible. But these wounds were small and already well on their way to healing. He rubs his hands absent-mindedly as he turns back to the window. The room is cool, given the weather outside and the cheap way the place had been put together, but he still opens the window. Enough to let the cold air flow through and into the room, and it’s a moment that brings Alexander’s eyes closed again. Another simple thing, another ordinary sensation, but one that he hadn’t felt in months.

They dosed you up pretty well.

There’s a pause, there. They’re facing away from each other – him towards the window, her towards some part of the kitchen. Alexander’s mouth opens, taking a breath as if to speak, but no words follow. The breath turns into a sigh, and it seems that her words go unremarked.

They had both changed since their last encounter in the park. Her hair had grown a little, and so had his. The scruff around his jawline had grown a little – it hadn’t been shaved back too long ago – and his hair had grown out. A fringe draped down, tucked back behind his ears where it would reach. But, more noticeable, was how much less of his there was than before. He had been fairly solid, could have been an imposing figure if he put his mind to it. But he’d lost weight, that much was obvious under the scrubs. Alexander turns at the question about whether he’s hungry, and he turns towards the little kitchen. Resting back on the sill of the window – still content to feel the bracing cold breeze blow over his back – there’s another pause. Another flash of wariness, but it’s something that subsides again quickly. She attempts a little humour, but it doesn’t get a reaction from him. Too soon, maybe.

“Yeah, I’m hungry.” There’s a glance down at the floor, maybe something unvoiced, before a question does surface. “How is... everyone?”

Kiara Woolfe

Perhaps it will seem strange to him, once he's had time to process everything that happened. To hear the story told from varying angles. The rescue. The risks taken. Perhaps the reality that Andrés and Kiara had offered to be the ones to go in and reclaim him. At least, as far as the latter went, there seemed no good reason why she'd have done it.

Put herself into a situation like that for a man she barely knew. Knew enough, maybe. Trusted not to be her enemy.

Maybe it will be enough to convince him that whatever side of whatever sort of war they might have been dragged into fighting, the brunette standing across from him is on the same side. Maybe it will, but - it's too soon for that. The edges are too raw, bruised and tender and sharp-pressed upon.

Her attempt at banter passes over him and she doesn't, for what it's worth, press the issue. Seem offended. Merely waits for a beat, studying him with those fathomless eyes of hers before they too pass away and she nods, once. Breathes out sharply.

Decisively. He was hungry. Appetite was a good sign.

She turns toward the refrigerator and pulls the door open, there's some rummaging around inside; the rustle of a plastic bag and then a small plastic container comes out. One of those take away sandwich kinds with pre-cut triangles of bread inside. There's a handful of candy bars in the Verbena's other hand and she sets it all down for a beat: opens the container and studies the neat little prepackaged triangles.

Turkey and rye and who knew what.

How is ... everyone?

All he can see when he asks is Kiara's back; the set of her shoulders, the line of her neck. Can sense the pause, though. Can likely see it, the way you can sometimes. The natural consideration of a complicated answer: "Everyone is okay. Mostly." She turns with the container in hand, carries it over to him. Some twist of humor when she says: "I can't vouch for the nutritional value in that."

Alexander works for the Department, he's likely seen worse.

"Worried about you, but - they're good. You can ask them yourself soon enough." She folds her hands into the pockets of the scrubs. Hooks her thumbs at the edges. "This motel room is warded, you can stay here as long as you like. If you need time to process everything. I sent word out last night that we had you."

She frowns down at the worn carpet. "We'll probably have to get everyone together, figure out what comes next. But - " She lifts her eyes, gestures at the sandwich. "You should eat. Regain your strength."

Alexander Brandt

[Int+Med]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (5, 5, 6, 6, 6) ( success x 3 )

Alexander Brandt

[Arete, Time 1, sensing Time. Base diff 4, +2 because meditation is a new instrument for him. -1 for Flowing resonance, as it fits with his paradigm? So winging it. But lookee, new dice! WP, because.]

Dice: 2 d10 TN5 (5, 7) ( success x 3 ) [WP]

Alexander Brandt

The world, with all of its boring mundanity seems somewhat surreal. Unreal. Not quite as remembered, maybe. But it’s something that Alexander seems to cling to, right now. The simple sensation of flowing air, of the cold – he’s shivering now, but he doesn’t make any move to close the window or grab a blanket to cover himself more – is important. Not wonderful, although that might be debatable at another time, but certainly grounding. Little anchors that hold him in place. In this place.

Kiara works in the kitchen, putting coffee on to brew and fishing through the kitchen for something vaguely edible and nutritious. Alexander has turned back to the window, looking out of it without really seeing much of anything. He focuses on the sensation, the flow of air around him. It’s a tool to clear the mind, as much as clearing the mind is a tool for something else. There’s one way that Alexander has changed, and it’s one that might not have been noted too strongly by Kiara so far. It didn’t seem to be any surprise, though – there had been no suspicion that he wasn’t who they (he?) thought that he was. But that sensation of things being Frozen was no longer there. No slivers of a moment hanging in the air. No glacier in the mountains.

No, the glacier had melted. As Alexander reaches for the first time in way too long, there’s a feeling of reality rearranging itself slightly as his Will pushes against it. Somewhere alongside the pulsing, rejuvenating landscape of Kiara’s presence, there runs a river. Something intrinsically elemental and moving and changing and Flowing and ultimately Boundless. Without beginning. Without end. Alexander reaches out, no longer confined by the perfected work of the Union lining the walls and sucking any trace of dynamism and change out of the air. He reaches out into the flow of Time and stands there, motionless, as he lets it wash over him. He had been without a specific time for so long. There had been some hints, towards the end, but now... Now he knew exactly when he was. Another anchor cast out.

Alexander stands there motionless, as Kiara gathers her words and begins to speak. The Work, standing in that flow of Time, is almost overwhelming after so long. The connection, right now, seemed so much stronger than it had before. Not, exactly, as if he had more control over it. More... More like that very first day awake, when everything had seemed to have a little more colour to it, and a little more depth.

He is listening, though, and feels her approach. She might notice the shivering, now, the hairs standing up on his bare arms to trap what heat they can there. Alexander sounds almost distracted – he is distracted – but asks, “Mostly?” He can imagine who wouldn’t be ok. Kalen, probably. Kalen, ready to tear the world apart. And Grace? The last time they had spoken, they hadn’t parted on the best of terms. Now, at least, there was the chance to put that right.

Kiara holds the sandwich out, and a few moments after Alexander notices and turns. There’s an attempt at a smile, something grateful, but it’s forced. Something habitual, but not quite empty inside. The plastic wrapper is taken and one of the triangles pulled out. Half of it disappears into his mouth, and he turns again to look out of the window as he chews.

There’s a pause, between mouthfuls. “What comes next?” There’s another pause, mouth open ready to speak, but the thought is gone again. Another comes. “Do I just get on back to my life?” The rest of the triangle hangs in air, held part way to Alexander’s mouth.

Kiara Woolfe

The Verbena's sensitivity to the energies, to the base elements that made up the Tapestry; wove magicks together has grown stronger over the last several months.

The pagan's affinity for Primal workings have left the traces of her presence as a far more potent thing. The sense of Kiara, the wash of her essence is palatable. They often said it, about those Awakened who trained in the use and manipulation of Quintessential energies - that they began to radiate that very sense of Otherness that separated them from the Sleepers around them.

It had already been there, about the earth witch. That particular sensation she brought with her into a room. The way she stirred the hackles of a neighborhood dog being walked. The turn of those dark eyes of hers toward you.

The curl of blood red lips.

Now, it simply felt a little clearer, she would need to work a little harder to mask herself from those who would be drawn to it (her). Alexander's presence has grown stronger, too. The sense and shape of his Working as it flows out and cascades over the motel room; the tendrils of his casting. The Verbena's head tilts just so.

The hairs on her arms rising.

She moves away, after a moment, fetches two cups of steaming coffee. Makes some brief apology about the lack of milk. She holds her cup between her palms and blows on it to cool the contents before she takes a tip; swallowing and glancing at the Orphan as he asks a question.

The question, really.

There's some flash of empathy, perhaps even pity, there before she replies. Eyes on her coffee, on the heat rising from it. "Do you think you'd be able to? Just - go back to everything. I may hate everything they stand for, but - the Union isn't dumb. They'll figure out what we did, the question is: what will they do about it?

The Police Station, your apartment. They probably aren't safe right now." Kiara's eyes find his. "Ginger's gone. Grace confirmed it. She's covering what needs to be covered, but - anything we had linked to it, has to go.

I'm not going to pretend I have all the answers. We got you out. That was what mattered. Whatever happens next, whatever we have to do. We'll figure it out. For now - " The Verbena breathes out sharply, sets her coffee cup down behind her. "I think you should stay here. At least until I can contact the others. Bring them here.

We can decide what needs to be done." The Verbana reaches out, tentatively, to set a hand on Alexander's arm. Wordless comfort, perhaps, if allowed.

Alexander Brandt

Alexander’s push against reality went a little further than he’d hoped. It was intended to be a momentary thing, something grounding. The effect lingers, though, the feeling of tide and flow and change clinging on for a while longer. It’s a reassuring presence in the background. Like some sort of supernatural comfort blanket.

Coffee is brought over, with a comment about the lack of milk. It’s something that is waved off, unimportant. Even if he had been a stranger to black coffee, this isn’t important. It isn’t a problem. The plastic packet with its single remaining triangle of industrially-produced sandwich is set on the sill, freeing his hands up to take the cup from Kiara when it’s offered. The steam rises, curling in the cold draft, and it’s something Alexander watches before taking a sip from it. It’s something else, something simple, that grabs his attention.

Another pause, as steam rises and time flows and the life of the city continues outside the small motel room. It’s time to think, to arrange words into something resembling order; time to find something to say that won’t catch. His reply to the question: “Maybe.” There’s doubt in his voice, but there isn’t an automatic rejection of the possibility. Maybe it was something he could regain: that ordinary part of his life, that something that grounded him. As to what they will do? There’s silence there. A second, two, three and then simply: a shrug.

Kiara tells him that his place, his work, aren’t likely to be safe. Another shrug. Ginger is no more, and that gets a curious look. But, again, nothing more. There’s nothing more to be said.

Alexander shows some doubt when Kiara says that he should stay here. There’s a flash of something feral, there; a flash of something that doesn’t – won’t be – caged. One set of walls won’t be swapped for another; one jailer for another. This isn’t an instruction, though – something with threat and force behind it – but just a suggestion. He gives a brief nod as Kiara suggests bringing others here. It’s probably safer, for the moment. At least until certain things are a little clearer in his mind. Certain, large questions that have yet to be asked, let alone answered. He does make a request, though. Clothes. Something he can wear, maybe so these fucking things can be burned.

There’s a touch at his arm, and it draws out another intake of breath. How long since a touch had been anything other than... The breath is shuddering, stuttering, as it draws in. His cup of coffee is clumsily set on the sill, knocking the plastic container and making it fall on its side. And then?

And then Alexander turns and wraps his arms around her and, eyes closed and clinging onto her as if she were the last person alive, he remembers a fragment of a conversation.

We need other people to be better people.

Kiara Woolfe

[Just cuz! Life 2, Coincidental. Base Diff 5, -1 (Resonance), -1 Quint.]

Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (2, 4, 7) ( success x 2 )

Kiara Woolfe

There were questions that still needed answers.

Questions for Alexander that he'd have to find answers for, search his memory for about the facility he'd been taken to; the interrogations and conditioning they'd subjected him to. There would be questions he needed answers for, too. From them. Questions that, right now, the Verbena who stands across from him with her warm dark eyes and gentle touches cannot answer for him.

There were, after all, reassurances that weren't hers to give.

No matter how badly she wishes she could.

Kiara Woolfe was a healer, by calling as much as trade. Fixing and mending what was broken was what she did and she did it, often, without any pretension of gratitude being returned her way. Didn't always expect or necessarily need it. She believed, the pagan, wholeheartedly in the righteousness of the Cycle. In what was natural and needed and balanced in the universe. Life was not made to be lived without risk, without bruising and tearing.

Humanity would never be a creature without flaw. That was the infinite value and heartbreak of them.

And they were, at their core: not so removed from humanity, these Awakened, that they did not break and bend just as surely.

Alexander wraps his arms around her and there is a moment of surprise; a quiet expression; a small, startled noise that rises in the brunette's throat before her arms curl around the Orphan. Before she slides her palms over his back and there's a flood of soothing energy, after a beat. Kiara's touch seeping beneath the scrubs he wears; infusing his bones and muscles and skin with a tingling; spreading warmth.

Soon enough, the chill he'd felt is forgotten.

"It's okay." She murmurs into his shoulder. And, at least in the moment, it's easier to believe it may be. "It's going to be okay."

That risk will always be there

Ms. Gray

It has been two or three days since Alexander received a visit from Keller. Meals come and meals go. A guard is posted outside his door, day and night. For the last several days, he has been provided with a copy of the daily Denver newspaper with his morning meal. At lunch: a copy of Time or The New Republic. At dinner: Science or Nature or National Geographic. It is as if someone were preparing him to be reintroduced to the world.

And some of the unbelievable news therein. To-wit: Donald Trump's status as the front runner in the Republican primary election.

The date on this morning's newspaper is Sunday, March 13. They have left everything in. The comics, the sports page. The endless array of glossy ads.

Sometime during the no-time that comes between one meal and another there is a hum, and a voice that is either in his head or in the room, which seems to be female, says -

"I have some good news for you, which requires some planning and which I would like to share confidentially and in person. To do so, I must have your word as an officer that you will not attack me should I join you."

Alexander

The time between trips to the white room to meet with Keller had seemed oddly separated, but Alexander just assumed that it was some way that his captors were trying to mess with him. The papers and magazines go mostly ignored, except the first. That one is skimmed over for a date: it’s a date which makes him toss the paper back to the floor, discarded, and makes him sink down onto the floor.

“Shit.”

Assuming that wasn’t some other attempt to mess with his head. (Assuming they were trying to mess with his head: the jury really was still out on that one, from Alexander’s point of view. Would he really know if he was the same man he arrived as?) Assuming that were true, he’d been here that long?

So Alexander doesn’t pay much notice to the delivered extras that came with his meals. They stay ignored; much like the food was beyond the bits and pieces that he pecked at to stave off hunger pains. No, he spends more time inside his head these past days than outside of it. He may have no power over this world now, but his dreams and meditations are another matter.

He’s lying on his bed, eyes closed and mind drifting, when the hum and the voice arrives. It asks for his word. His eyes open looking at the blank ceiling. “Good news? You’re done with me and releasing me back into the world, a better man? Oh please, I think we both know how much bull that is.” There had been time when he had been a good little prisoner, following the rules and trying to toe the line. More recently, especially since he went unexpectedly Seeking, he’s less restrained. He refuses to walk to the sessions with Keller. He has periods where he tried to punch and kick the walls, looking for some way to break free. Dry scabs still cling to his knuckles from the last one. He hasn’t made an active attempt to attack the guards again. Not yet, at least.

“Just do whatever you’re going to do and let’s get this over with.” Alexander’s eyes close again. He has very little expectation that the bluff will hold for much longer, or that Keller will make good on his promise to try to get Alex out. Whatever happens, happens.

Ms. Gray

It is not Keller who joins him. There are fewer trips out of the cell. Fewer guards. Fewer strange faces. A low hum and the doors whoosh open and a slender blond woman joins him. There is a quiet crisp-ness to her demeanor, her features are equal parts plain and attractive, distinctly unmemorable. The door closes behind her.

She has a small file folder in her right hand.

"I'm happy to tell you that arrangements are being made for your release. The Agent who arrested you has been transferred. Records are being wiped. You should be able to resume your previous post in the police department. The record will show that you were briefly hospitalized after being injured by a suspect, and required an extended period of rehabilitation up to your release. It will take several more days to get all the pieces in place, but an end is in view."

Alexander

This woman arrives, the sound of her shoes echoing slightly on the metal walls. Her entry doesn’t get much of a reaction from Alexander. Her little speech, however, does get him to open his eyes and look up at her. Maybe she keeps her distance, news of his first waking minutes here travelling. He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed so that he can sit up there, feet planted on the floor.

And all Alexander does is look at the woman, studying her, for some time. He’s silent. Watchful. There’s no threat in the silence, but maybe it’s something uncomfortable for her. It takes some time for the conflicting thoughts running through his mind to settle a little.

They settle on a question: “Why?”

Ms. Gray

"I'm not sure that you'll believe me, but the why is really quite simple. For me: I would rather spend my time working to put an end to the Zika virus and improve the lot of those families afflicted it than fighting a war with a handful of Ptolomeic Flat-Earthers over whether the earth is the center of the universe. Those are my reasons.

"And I am not the only one in my organization who feels that way."

Alexander

I’m not sure that you’ll believe me...

“I don’t know if I do, but then I don’t know if it really makes any difference. Either I’m free, dead, or as good as dead. But it’s clear that you and yours are the ones with all the control here.” He pats his knee, to emphasise the point. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t feel much sympathy for your situation.”

“So what’s suddenly changed? Doesn’t the world still need protecting from reality deviants like me?”

Ms. Gray

She is very quiet and very self-contained and she does not allow herself to be goaded. Instead, she stands there slightly apart from him, holding that file against her body. There are no obvious weapons on her person.

"The world does require protection from those who would - under the aegis of faith or voudoun or magick or allegiance to an alien named Xenu - exploit others' weakness and superstition for their own benefit. Ask the Untouchables of India whether they prefer a world of reason or a world of mad blind faith, they are condemned to the dungheap based on an accident of birth.

"With that said: I don't believe that it requires protection from you and I have worked very hard, with Agent Keller's supervision, to effect your release and to ensure that you are released in a manner that is least disruptive to your life. Had I been the agent you encountered, I would not have taken you in to custody. I hope that you will understand that he did so because he believed that you had information about a young woman who caused the deaths of twelve people."

A quick, crisp half-smile. "Please understand that I tell you this not with the hope or expectation of convincing you of the righteous of the Order of Reason, but because I would like you to understand the context of our meeting. And your release.

"Which brings me to the next subject. We have made contact with some of your kind. One or more of them, I expect, will come to retrieve you - under cover - within the week."

Alexander

Alexander stands and takes a few steps – truthfully that’s all that he can take before facing the wall – and there’s a reaction that this woman may not be expecting. A shuddering of his shoulders that come along with a brief, joyless laugh. He turns to face her, but keeps his distance.

“I always thought it would be someone from the Order I said this to first, but fuck you.” There might be more that he wants to say, but he holds it back and turns to face the wall again. His hands balls into fists and relax again, while the movement of his shoulders show an increased depth to his breathing; whatever he’s holding back is enough to fan his anger. But this woman is apparently offering a way out. Although a way out that doesn’t make an awful lot of sense.

He speaks, but his voice is controlled. “If I’m so insignificant that you can release me, why can’t I just walk out of here? Why do they need to retrieve me? What aren’t you telling me?”

Ms. Gray

Ms. Gray whethers Alexander's verbal assault with an admirable degree of equanimity. There is, however, a certain spasm of something that curves her mouth and knits - so briefly - her pale brows. Some internal shadow darkens her eyes: a moment's deep consideration before she expels a slow breath.

" I never said that you are insignificant. I said that I believe the world requires protection from a whole variety of charlatans who use superstition to wield power over others to their detriment. You do not appear to be one of those charlatans.

"Therefore, I am putting both my life and my freedom on the line to get you the fuck out of here. I am not the only one who is risking my own life, limb, and autonomy in order to give you back yours. You cannot walk out of here. We have to erase the records of your arrest or render them so highly classified that no one in Denver will ever know who or what was held in this room for the past several weeks. The officer arrested you has been transferred to another facility more than 6,000 miles. Most of the guards assigned to you have been transferred, or will be transferred, too. That is why you cannot walk out. As far as most of my associates will ever know: a subject was arrested and held here, and transferred to a more secure facility with all appropriate precautions in place.

"Do you understand now?"

Alexander

She can’t see his face, but she can see that his hands relax once more and don’t ball up again. Instead, Alexander plants them, palm flat, against the cold metal walls. A strange feeling, that. Cold in a way that normal metal isn’t. His breathing relaxes, too.

Quiet, this. “Hardly the release you were happy to announce then, is it. Don’t get me wrong, I won’t be sorry if this does turn out to be the last few days I see the inside of this metal box.” One way or another. Alexander still isn’t entirely convinced that this isn’t some game; some scheme to get him back into the Awakened community in the city as some kind of unknowing infiltrator. Given this conversation, could there be any question as to whether the conditioning had taken? Or maybe it had..?

“What happens after? You say I can return to my life, but can you really say that I won’t always have to look over my shoulder for you guys? Or your more... aggressive colleagues. Someone manages to find the files, or works out that I never arrived at whatever hole I’m supposed to be shipped out to, or you and Keller get caught and someone goes fishing in your heads.” Alexander turns at this, but there’s still no approach. Instead he rests back, back against the wall, with his arms crossed in front of him. “Or another agent just happens to pass through the department and works out what I am? Assuming that’s even was what happened with Weston. That puts you at just as much risk, if not more.” It hadn’t, after all, been any great challenge for Weston to get him here in the first place.

“What happens then?”

Ms. Gray

"All of those things are certainly possible. And I cannot tell you what will happen at the end of any of those eventualities. If you would prefer to stay here and avoid those risks, I will see about calling off the operation.

"For whatever it is worth, I am not without allies, and we have enough access right now that the records of your arrest should be destroyed. You will have to live with the risk that you will encounter another Agent in the course of your work. Most of us do not arrest Disparates and Throwbacks on sight, however, not without clear provocation or a reasonable belief that the subject repesents a danger to unsuspecting civilians.

"Still, that risk will always be there."

Alexander

There’s a sigh as Alexander knocks his head back against the wall several times. They’re gentle, a dull thud against the metal, until the last one: a little harder, a little louder. “Given the option of those risks or the certainty of worse if my presence gets noticed here again, I’m hardly going to stay. Whatever happens, happens.” Fatalistic? Maybe. Fated? Never.

“Would you believe me if I said that of the Awakened that I have met who live here, all of them have been trying to remove dangers to the Sleepers? Tradition, Orphan, whoever. This is our home. Nobody wants to get back into any kind of conflict with you.” Some of the others come to mind, making him quietly add: “At least, I hope that’s still the case.” Whether the disappearance of a single, Orphan apprentice would be any great concern to those of the Order who hoped to stir up a battleground in the city was something that he would, hopefully, wait to see. “Just so the lines are clear, do the Traditions get that same courtesy?”

“And what happens now? I assume you need something from me to make this work.”

Ms. Gray

Her pale brows flick upward as he assures her that all of the 'Awakened' work hard to remove dangers to 'Sleepers.' Something about her expression is plain-as-day: she does not like either term. She does not favor the implications. No, more than that: she rejects them on a real and fundamental level. And the somewhat patronizing egalitarianism inherent in that rejection is clearly evident on her face.

But: she is not going to tell him why she believes he is wrong. That, too: hopeless. "I prefer that we simply stay out of each other's way, and avoid reigniting some ruinous war. As for what happens next: I do not require anything from you. Simply your awareness and your consent. Once the arrangements are finalized and we know that your team and on site, we will give you a preparation that will take you into a deep hibernation and conceal your life signs so that you will appear to be dead to both physical and superficial magickal examination. The cocktail will last for several hours. That will be enough time for your associates to remove you from the facility and for us to move the pieces around and destroy the electronic trail.

"Until then, I suggest that you read the periodicals we have supplied you with: enough, at least, so that you will be as conversant with recent events as your co-workers when you return to work."

Alexander

In a different situation, there might have been some pleasure in getting such a reaction from someone so intensely arrogant. (Hell, Alyssa would probably be proud.) But all that exchange does is reinforce the basic differences between them: differences that may well have come from as early as her Awakening, or whatever she chose to call it, and from the way they had each been introduced into this life. Neither was at fault in that. They were simply different.

There is hesitation when she talks about this preparation, though. He didn’t trust this woman, any more than he’d trusted Keller, and he was still sceptical about the whole situation. The distaste is equally obvious on Alexander’s face. “Is that really necessary? I mean, wouldn’t it be quicker and easier to get me out of here if I didn’t have to be dragged or carried?” Unspoken: I’ve hardly touched the food and drink you’ve given me, and now you want me to neck something unquestioned?

Ms. Gray

"It is absolutely necessary. A living person will trigger every security check and be seen by every camera in the facility. A corpse, in a body bag - "

She is not reading his mind. She does not follow the natural progression of his thoughts to the unspoken question.

Alexander

“And two strangers roaming around won’t be noticed? Won’t be picked up by every camera they walk past?” Given the degree of organisation that she’s talking about, it’s a question is likely to have already been asked and answered. But, still, there might be some way to manoeuvre out of having to take Alice’s Drink Me potion.

Ms. Gray

"Not if they wear an appropriate skin. Beyond that, the less you know about the arrangements, the safer this project will be."

She does not know that he is trying to avoid Alice's potion; and in any case: she intends to use gas. As she said: she does not need anything from him to put the plan into place.

"If there is nothing else, I will bid you goodnight."

Alexander

Alexander’s eyes close again as he rests his head back, gently this time, against the wall. He’s motionless until there’s a small, sharp nod. Acceptance. Consent. He really doesn’t like this plan, but it’s really the only possibility he has for getting away from here. There are no other options. So he agrees, still expecting to see a little glass vial with a hand-written note roll through the door at some point in the future.

He stays like that as she turns to leave, but tries to catch her before she reaches the door with a, “wait.” He opens his eyes again, studying her as he pushes off from the wall so he’s standing on his own two feet. His arms are crossed across his body, some subconscious barrier between them. “Assuming you’re telling the truth about all of this, thank you.”

Again, something unspoken: If you’re not, I will find you in my next life... The words may be unspoken, but there’s a fire in his eyes as the thought passes through his mind.

Ms. Gray

She does turn, briefly, her chin lilted upward, her pale eyes fixed and intense.

"I am sorry for what you've been through, officer."

"Goodnight."

And then she turns to go; and he is alone, once more.

Four paths: four choices

Alexander[Stam+Meditation]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (4, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 6 )
Alexander[Er, +2 successes because I forgot to tick the box for his Stamina spec.]
veritas[Buddha, somewhere: Dayum, son.]
veritasOne day is much like the next. Something has to break. He knows his cell with an intimacy he knows nothing else at all except perhaps his own body. How well does he know his own body? He knows how many paces it takes to compass its confines. He knows how the light will fall on his tray of food before it falls or as it falls no matter where it is slid. He knows how long it will take them to clean up his blood or bandage his knuckles should he punch the wall so hard. Be silent, be secret, be safe; Keller is on your side; this must look as though it is working. He knows how his voice will echo and he knows the dampening Effect of the walls. He knows the Sessions by now, the ambient wash of noise. He knows his own heart, perhaps, a little better; it is all he has to comfort him, and to keep him, and to see him through to the other side of -
This. This interminable imprisonment.
He has been meditating. He has been meditating for hours. He is gaunter, perhaps, Alexander Brandt; he is winnowed down to a harder man, and he has been for hours and hours and hours and hours boundless and flowing and not here and not there and his mind has been balanced perfectly and he has been at rest and he is open his mind is open he should be hungry he should be tired he should be distracted his body should want him but none of these things weigh on him or if they do he is boundless he is flowing he surpasses he is meditating and has been, very well, for a long, long, long time, what time? There is no time; come unhinged from time; let this be peace; let this be the moment of turning inward and
Here is Alexander.
He is inside his own head; perhaps meditation has gone over to dream, to sleep; perhaps he has trespassed on his own myth. He is inside his own head, but he seems to actually be:
in some wild grove, ringed by tall oak trees, their uppermost branches scorched and blackened; their leaves gold, rattling; their roots twisted, gaunt, reaching toward the center of the circle he stands in. Some wild grove; as he stands, one fat rain drop plops, and then another, and he knows he has something to Do -
knows also that he does not need to give in to this impulse, this feeling, this need; it is transitory, it is part of this place he has come willingly and with open eyes, and he can be whatever it is he wants to be here.
Maybe.
AlexanderTime, it flows. Second after minute, after hour, after day, after week, after... If flows but, here, it seems unchanging. Not Frozen any longer, but still Static. Trapped in a repeating cycle of: waking, washing, eating and drinking enough to take away the pain of hunger and the grip of thirst; the sessions with Keller, only to be returned to the cell again and left until the next meal is delivered.
The only alteration in the pattern is when Alexander gets to shower, and then only when he behaves. Every couple of days he was taken out of his cell and allowed a short time in an empty shower block. There was no sign of anyone else having been there. There was no sign of anything that he had tried to leave before: writing in the steam on a mirror, a message written on the wall in soap. There had, however, been freedom from the metal panelling in the cell and its ability to such any kind of dynamism from the air. It had been a brief opportunity to try to Work. It had been something simple, a small effect to work out how long he had been there.
He had been caught.
So now there wasn’t even that break in the endless repetition, and Alexander had lost track of how many meals and how many sessions and how many days he’d been here since then. There had been talk of getting the privilege back at some point, but he’d lost track of when that was too. Some day.
There had been days when Alexander had tried to at least do something – try to get some sort of exercise or movement in the cell, but its limited size made that difficult. He had even flicked through some of the books, although that hadn’t lasted long. Pages had been torn out and made into paper air planes, something to stave off boredom for a little while.
Alexander still made an occasional attempt at defiance. Some days he would refuse to walk from his cell to the white room where Keller would meet him. He was dragged. Once or twice he had tried to fight again. That had led to more guards and his being cuffed while out of the cell until he settled down again and the conditioning seemed to be taking effect again. He had punched and kicked and screamed at the walls, leaving bloody marks on the metal. He had drawn and written on them in his blood. He had tried to dig away at the corners of the panels with his fingers and with the plastic utensils that came with the food. There wasn’t a scratch in them, and the walls were always clean again after his daily counselling.
Alexander was trapped. Physically trapped, at least. He still had doubts as to whether he was still the same man who was brought here... some time ago. Keller still told him that the conditioning was a show, but it seemed to have been going on for so long that minor change after minor change could have been slipped into his mind: into who he was. He had no way to escape that: he just didn’t recognise the threads of Magick that were being used, he couldn't block or deflect or, even, understand if there was anything more going on.
Mentally, though? Alexander had found some small freedom there. He was left alone, for as long as he didn’t appear to be in any danger of seriously hurting himself. That left a lot of time. Time to look inwards, rather than outwards. Time to meditate and daydream and lose himself in the flow of thought. Sometimes he’d recall old memories, trying to run through them and pick out small details. Sometimes, he would just let his imagination go and see where his stream of consciousness would end up.
And so Alexander has been lying there, seemingly asleep, on his bed for what must be hours now. Since returning from Keller, however long ago that had been. A meal had been dropped off and taken away again, untouched. His body had barely moved, barring an occasional unconscious movement to remove pressure from some part or another. Time just continued to flow around him, and he just drifted along with it.
It is that drifting of his consciousness that settles in this grove. It’s not from memory, although certain aspects seem familiar: the blackened trees with their golden foliage. The sky above is aflame with the light of dusk: dark enough that the shadows of the trees stretch long into the grove, but still bright enough that the stars are not yet showing. Dark clouds break up the sky, glowing softly in the light as they bear the promise of oncoming darkness.
The grove is where his consciousness settles, and it is where it remains for now. That sensation of something to Do pulls against him, promises a chance to further break the bounds of his confinement and perhaps make a change to something. Alexander appears how he would have been before his interminable incarceration. Hearty and health and ready for the outdoors. Ready to explore.
Alexander[Per+Alertness]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 5, 6, 7, 8) ( success x 3 )
veritasExercise to stay sharp, fighting just to fight, paper airplanes when reading pales. He could make paper cranes. Isn't there a legend about folding a thousand and one paper cranes, and getting your wish? There's a slim children's book which is taught in most first grade classes about that particular legend. Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes by Eleanor Coerr. It's a sad book, as many children's books taught in the American public school system seem to be, about dreams deferred and loyalty.
Here in the grove - the circle grove, the oak grove, the oaks crowned by blackened (lightning struck) branches but still thriving, still flourishing, here in that particular grove - where the sky is aflame, is molten behind the dark sketch of branch-work, where the shadows begin to grow long, and Alexander gives in to the quest this place has for him, the urgent need to -
He has something to do. He is ready to explore. The knowing what the thing to do is doesn't just come to him; he'll have to go forth, find it. But here are places he might go: to the east there seems to be a dense clot of brambles, of thorns and low-lying plants and there is a crooked path through it but the way there will be very hard. He might go to the west, where there is again a faint thread of path, on what seems to be a hill going down and down again - this grove is atop a hill, or mountain, and while the thorny bramble-y side makes the descent difficult to pick out, the fairer side does not. If Alexander goes to look down that-a-way, he'll see - very distant - a fire. It looks man-made; it strikes at him, a bronze bell swinging in his heart. If he looks toward the thorns, he'll see tufts of pale fur, caught here and there, and drops of blood - maybe that will strike him in a different way.
To the North, there is another hill; a small, narrow bridge swinging from one hill to a cliff face, sheer, which drops down and down again, and there seem to be clouds there glinting gold with the dying sun's last rays.
And to the South, there are more woods, more oak-trees interlaced, and a subtle change in the season - a lightening of the air.

Alexander[Wassat fur? If a bear went that way, I ain't]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (6, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 4 )
veritasThat fur belongs to no normal animal, no animal in the whole wide world that he has ever come across; he thinks - because this is a dream - that he remembers hearing about a fabulous beast the tears of which might cure any ailment, and this fur matches the story. Of course the story was dark; it probably had a German sensibility to it, and the fur is as soft as fresh-fallen snow, and also as glittersome.
AlexanderFour paths: four choices. Well, five; the choice to do nothing and stay here is already discarded. Alexander walks the edge of the grove for a few minutes, scanning the various views for what they have to offer. It’s almost something elemental: travelling towards the air, into the earth or towards the fire. He pauses by the brambles, crouching down to study the fur caught on the thorns. It isn’t from a living animal, if one considers the animals known to the mortal, material world. But this place isn’t the mortal world, and it probably isn’t material either. Not considering how he got here, anyway. This is a place of dreams and ideas and concepts, maybe with something of the spirit world combined.
Alexander doesn’t really know. This is all new ground to him, the exploration of dreams and guided meditations. Nobody had explained where the mind goes when the body sleeps; there had always been more pressing matters to worry about. Monsters and Nephandi and the Union. There had always been a promise of Wonder, but it had been an elusive promise to bring to reality for Alexander. Maybe now he’s starting to find his own.
But it is the path through the brambles that pulls him. The blood, there, doesn’t seem as if it was torn from the creature by the brambles there. The tuft of fur left behind could be something left in a panic to get away. The path looks hard, twisting and dark and edged with thorns. It’s the direction he wants to go, but then... this place isn’t exactly real. Alexander knows how easily Awakened are able to twist the material world to their wills. Surely it should be easier here. Hell, he’d already done it once by calling a Ferryman to look after little Alex. It doesn’t need to be much. Maybe the path just needs to be a little wider, or just a little less packed with brambles and thorns and plants that would try to grasp at his boots as he pushed through them.
Alexander[Per+Lucid Dreaming
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (6, 7, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 5 )
veritasThere is no wind rakes through those brambles, the dense thicket of thorn and whip-slender branch; all which might catch, all which might keep, all which might make a way impassable, difficult to pick over, but Alexander decides to (through the path of righteousness go) concentrate and change the world around him just like he'd done when he was Seeking (does he feel closer, here, to his Avatar - whatever, whomever, it is? Could he summon it again, too?), and this is what happens:
The difficult way becomes less difficult. The path widens, and how difficult it is to catch; blink, and he will miss the subtle ballet of thorny vines diminishing, drawing back, ebbing, as a tide that leaves behind a gleaming lacery of foam a witch-way a walk-way and they draw up, too, draw above, so there is more of a tunnel for Alexander to go down should he still wish to follow this way, and the dirt beneath his boots will be packed. The path is more clear; the path after the animal is less, for the thorns and vines where there were blood-drops have changed their configuration, but he can still find the animal's way if he looks: some drops there, and some fur there, and it will darken the further he goes (those thorns have packed him in above, the path still wide and gracious for him now), and the ground is so rough-hewn it almost seems as though it might be stairs he walks down.
They were never stairs; the ground only holds that impression.
AlexanderIt’s different, here. Before, Working with the tools that Alexander had started to call his own, forcing his Will on the world seemed harder. The world fought back and resisted, the threat of Paradox always hanging overhead like some legendary sword waiting to fall on the unwary. Here, change seemed easier. He had nowhere near the ability to make these kinds of changes while awake, so it’s surprising when he pushes against the fabric of this reality and it shifts further than he expected. Where he had hoped for something smaller, a way through that was a little easier, this small part of the world changed as the plant life flowed back; separating like the biblical sea and curling up and around to create a clear path.
“Wow.” Alexander stands motionless for some seconds, stunned by the transformation. He looks around the rest of the clearing, checking the rest of the grove for change, before turning back to his path. Alex crouches down, pulling a tuft of fur away from where it had become caught, before stepping onto the path. The fur and the drops of blood lead the way: he simply follows where it leads.
Alexander[Wits+Survival]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 3 )
Alexander[Dex+Athletics]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 5, 7, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )
veritasThe tuft of fur is so much gloaming in his hand; it has a nap to it, a weight; but it feels slinky-soft, there's a smoke-kink at the end where the pale fades away to a yellowing cream - truly it is beautiful fur; the animal's pelt must be lovely; the animal itself must be hunt-worthy, and maybe that is what happened. Maybe the beast was injured in a hunt, which would mean there are hunters besides Alexander; wouldn't it? And could he join them? And would he want to? Maybe he must find the beast before they do. Maybe he needs its tears. Maybe: there's something to the sheer fun of exploring.
He follows the blood trail. That's to the good. He doesn't lose it.
And he doesn't lose his footing, either; not even when the path suddenly plunges down, becomes almost vertical, or at least seems to. Those rocky not-stairs are carved into the hillside and he might be part mountain goat, for how well he follows. The thorns are still tangled around him and it might be tempting to reach out to them for purchase, something to hold on while he is making his descent, but Alexander knows better.
Up ahead, he can see a massive tree, with a hole beneath it: a cave. Beyond the tree, it looks as though the world is suddenly inverted, and after a dizzying moment he'll realize it is not inverted at all:
There just happens to be a lake so still, so calm, that the blazing sky is perfectly reflected, and everything is sharp and crisp which lies on its surface, and mirrors only dream of such perfection. The blood trail leads to the hole beneath the tree, but there is something strange at the water's edge.
Rows of shoes. High spiked ridiculous heels, like he has seen Serafíne wear, ballet shoes like he might've known Lucy and Delilah wear, and then boots like Ian has worn, shoes that look like standard issue shoes suggested by the police force of Seattle, shoes that look like his mother's after a long day's work, shoes that look like they belong to children: bright poppy red. Shoes that belong to every Awakened person he has met and half-remembers, even Keller. Shoes that belong to his ex, the one who cheated on him. They're all facing the water.
AlexanderAlexander holds the tuft in the palm of one hand, stroking and flattening it with the fingers of the other. It gives no clue as to the size or the shape of the animal that it came from, only that it’s likely to be wonderful. A thing of wonder, in this place that he thinks came from somewhere in his mind. A thing of wonder that might be hurt (if its tears can heal, can’t it heal itself?). Hunted, maybe. He had hunted, with snare and trap, or gun, or, on rare occasions, with a bow. But this isn’t a hunt for him, at least not in that sense of the word. He has no desire to kill this beast, to steal its skin and feed on its flesh. He tracks it to see it. He follows the trail of its blood and fur because of that push to Do something. To protect it? Maybe even that. Its tears? They are its own. What he is comes from his past: he doesn’t seek any miracle to take that past away from him, not even the pain.
The trail turns and drops and drops, but Alexander is able to keep his footing. Reaching out would be risky; likely to leave a trail of his own blood on the brambles, a spotted trail of his own essence dotted over the ground behind him. He manages to stay upright and negotiate the descent, keeping his feet steady on the treacherous ground.
Alexander pauses, again, when he reaches the bottom of the descent. He takes in the tree, standing unsteadily as his gaze skims past the line of shoes and over the perfect reflection of the water. (Is it water? It seems too perfect. Like the idea of a mirror given form, without the imperfections than are part of its physical creation.) The trail heads into the cave, and there is still the urge to follow it. But he steps to the edge of the lake, careful not to accidentally disturb the shoes. He stops next to the shoes that he recognises as Sara’s, the ex he left (ran away from: coward) in Seattle, nudging them slightly straighter with one of his own booted feet. He looks up from the shoes and across the surface of the lake, reflecting the fire in the sky.
Alex intends it to be a short stop: he intends to return another time to spend more time here, or exploring the rest of this place. He assumes that will be possible.
Alexander[Perc+Alertness]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 2, 3, 9, 9) ( success x 2 )
veritasAlexander is getting better at meditating, at going inside his own head. Here, where he is imprisoned (and he is still imprisoned; he should never forget), that is good. Will it still be good if (when) he escapes?
Because he does not disturb the shoes, they stand silent and empty sentinels. When Alex straightens Sara's, nothing happens to disturb the perfect surface of the lake, but off across it a lightning bug flickers in the gathering dusk, erratic and unsteady weaving brightness which seems to come out across the water. Water on fire; sky on fire; little luminous insect.
And he notices, too, the cresting of a tree in the center of the lake, and in the tree a cage. Easy to miss at first, for it is a cage that seems coaxed into shape by the tree itself, the tangle of branches so; and inside the cage there is something, or someone. Can he tell from this distance?
He cannot.
AlexanderWho knows what will happen if Alexander escapes his cage: nothing is Fated. Assuming Keller wasn’t lying, he might find a way to get Alexander out. Or he might run out time in his stall to protect Alex, and some other jailer might end his life. Weston, maybe. If Keller is lying and the daily sessions are slowly changing the man that Alexander is, then the question may well be moot when the person he becomes loses the need to find some way to break free. If some other breaks him out? Well, who would be insane enough to try to break him out of here. For now, and unless someone chooses to skim the probable or potential flows of time into the future, the future is uncertain. Fluid.
But for now, this is his escape. His way, in some form, to escape his cage. A thought crosses his mind, a question of whether he would be able to stay here. Leave his body behind to whatever the Union wanted to do with it while his mind continued to explore. Maybe even find some way of contacting the other Awakened who were still in Denver. But, then, would that just bring them here looking for him? A difficult question. One for another time.
Another tree, this one in the lake, pulls in his attention. This one with a cage; no, forming a cage, trapping something inside its branches. It’s not something he can make out from this distance, but it’s a sight that gets something burning inside Alexander. Fire in the water, in the air, and now in Alexander. There’s a temptation to try to tear it open from here, releasing what’s inside. But he isn’t reckless here, as this world of dreams is still mostly unknown to him. For all he knows, there could be something dangerous caught and held. A nightmare? He doesn’t know. But he’s never going to work that out from here. He needs to get closer, but the question is how.
Wings? Could he pull free from the bounds of gravity and fly there? Hell, one way to work that one out. And at least the water should be a forgiving surface if he should fall.
Alexander[Per+Dreaming, so doing the WP thing because it would be a shame to disturb the water]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 5, 6, 9) ( success x 3 ) [WP]
veritasHe thinks he should have wings to aid him, pulling free from the bounds (be boundless) of gravity, and so with a push of effort, he has them. They unsheathe from his shoulder-blades, pinching the skin and tugging it taut it is not painful exactly but it feels strange that awareness of new appendages he has never had before or felt before certainly not in this life anyway and they are wings that an owl might have, but sized for his body, and somewhat cumbersome on land except that they sheath so neatly against his back and he can feel the muscles strain and ache when he opens them. He can flap to gain altitude but it would be easier to leap from some high thing, altitude already a grace-boon given. His wings will make no sound; they are an owl's wings.
AlexanderIt’s a strange thing that happens, but this has already proven itself to be a strange place. It seems right that he should be able to change himself – at least his ‘physical’ self – as much as the world, so it’s not entirely surprising when the wings sprout from his back. As the skin stretches out and bone and feather and cartilage push upwards and outwards, the shirt this embodiment wears tears and shreds as they pass through.
It’s a brief thing, this change that brings owl wings to his back. Alexander steps away from the shore, and its line of shoes, before working out how to stretch them out. It’s an experimental thing, but one which seems to be tying into memory quickly. He experiments a little more, flapping them to try to get some lift. It’s difficult, but he could fly from here. Less effort, maybe, to climb the tree a little first. He scans its surface, checking for hand and foot holds that would left him gain a little height before flinging himself into the air, with a route that wouldn’t catch at his new appendages.
Alexander[Str+Athletics]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 4, 5, 6, 7) ( success x 2 )
Alexander[Dex+Ath too]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 7, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 4 )
veritasHe is fleet-footed on land, traversing a steep path. He is fleet-footed leaving land, going nimble up a tree that has few handholds and is awkward to climb those wings dragging as they do but his body still human and this might be what Icarus found when he leapt from a cliff and flew toward the sun. Alexander is not flying just for the joy of flying, however. He is flying because he wants to check something out. He is caution-fueled, ready and readied, and in spite of the wings he makes it to a low branch, avoiding anything and everything that might cage him in the tree, might bump up against his wings: they aren't just some objects attached to him, that he must guess at how they relate to everything around him based on their weight, must remember the general shape of them. They are part of him and he can feel how close they are to branches.
And when he finds a high place, and launches himself from it, he glides and then he flies.
Out across the water, toward the tree which is also a cage, and whatever lies within it.
And it is work, carrying himself like that. Hard work, but good work.
--
And then Alex wakes up; he is woken. It is time for his next 'session' with Keller, and on this point, no matter what it is he is doing, the Technocratic Guards are very firm.