EGLANTINE & ARBALEST
April 16, 2090
Afternoon
Atlas Telamon
The Fifth King never shows its face.
It controls all, and oversees all, but not once have you seen the King itself— whatever it’s really supposed to be. You’d think that working here all this time, you’d have seen it at least once by now. That’s the first thing that comes to your mind, as you stand here in the elevator, the flickers of light from floors passed by visible from the grate. Four figures stand sentinel as you approach the heart of the Atlas, no sound but the hum of the lift.
The four of you are only vaguely familiar with each other, archival data flickering across your vision showing that you all are agents of the Sector. EGLANTINE, a spy and newer face at the Sector. ARBALEST, a Old World unit that survived the War. BALMUNG, a former military unit from a Noble family. ASCLEPIUS, a lab-rat shut-in turned combat medic. From the files, the two of them should be more familiar with each other than you with them, having worked in another unit before. You exchange glances, and BALMUNG shrugs, a half-smile, an expression of well, what can you do?
The lift grinds to a stop, and the doors open to a vast room, relatively empty save for the desk on the far end, walls on either end adorned with screens flickering with surveillance feeds and streams of data. The vast wall opposite of you have a clear view of the city, the endless night-life of the Lower Alexandria below. Sitting silently by the end, watching the city, she waits.
DOMINION. She who oversees the duties of the Sector Knights.
One of the nine Knights of the Angelic Order. Where the Fifth remained in the shadows, these nine acted in its place.
“I suppose you all know why you’re here?”
“I’ll skip the pleasantries.” She motioned to the screens, and images appeared. Maps of a Lower Alexandria district, faces and profiles of varied figures, activity logs, documents and briefings of previous cases. Among the verbiage you recognize key words— Harvesters. Arms Trafficking. Missing In Action. Crownless King.
“This is a case I’ll have you taking over. Normally, such a thing would be left to the police, but things have changed.” Two profiles appeared on screen, displaying two names. One, James Langley. The other, KHAMSIN. “Originally, this was just an ordinary case on human and arms trafficking, headed by the prefecture police. However, one of the investigators on the case— an unafflicted human— disappeared.”
You feel a ping in your cyberbrain, a file received, archives detailing the case available for you to review at your leisure.
She frowned. “Even then normally, this wouldn’t be as much of a concern, until one of our own agents decided to investigate the case on her own.” She brought up activity logs, showing accesses to the police database by the esper on the profile, KHAMSIN. “We allowed this, so long as it did not interfere with her normal duties, but she, too, disappeared.”
“This was a week ago.”
“Three days ago, we began detecting Crest activity that corresponded to her signature, out in the outskirts of Lower Alexandria. Territory known to be inhabited by a gang of Harvesters. Thus,” she says, steepling her fingers, “your mission. Infiltrate the compound. Investigate whatever business they’re conducting there. Find out what happened to KHAMSIN. And, if need be…”
She closes her eyes, as if meditating. “...If she’s turned on us, kill her.”
She ends in silence, looking over the four of you.
“Any questions?”
LILITH & 2D
Afternoon
The Madame’s Estabilshment
“Harvesting’s a competitive market, Königsmann.”
The Madame is speaking to you again, legs propped up at her desk, a drink in hand. She does this sometimes; just launches into speeches and lectures on the business of the underworld. Perhaps it makes her feel superior, to impart her ‘wisdom’ to those under her care, as if she were wisened, or experienced, a real master of her trade. Whatever the reason, LILITH’s used to it, and listens— or pretends to, at the very at least.
“Doesn’t matter if it’s legal or illegal, business is a cutthroat thing. Competitors crawling out from every corner. Everyone with a smile plastered on their face like a mask, a dagger behind their back. One day’s ally might be the next day’s backstabbing, lying, double-crossing son-of-a-bitch.” She grimaced, lips pulled back into a snarl. “Disgusting. I tried being reasonable, but it looks like some shit-for-brains think they can just take advantage of my generosity.”
She looks up from her glass, at LILITH. An expression of irritation and anger. “I’m a generous person, aren’t I?”
She also likes to ask questions you’re not supposed to answer.
“That’s right!” she says, without waiting for a response. “And do you know what people get when they trample on my goodwill?”
She pauses, a silence that lasts a second, two seconds, begins to stretch. It seems like she actually expected someone to answer this one.
An uneasy silence settles into the room. You look around, at the others.
The room itself resembles a dimly lit office, desks and all, two couches seated around a coffee table. One man lies sprawled out on one of the couches, bleary-eyed and struggling not to fall asleep. A girl sits hunched over at one of the desks, fiddling with a few screens as she listens. A few more of the Madame’s attack dogs. Given her rant, and the company, you can guess why you’re here.
Monitors hang up on the walls, most of it details of transactions and logs and the like, and one stands out in particular. The image of an unassuming man in a suit, and his accompanying profile and transaction history. A man named Mr. Baldwin.
A business partner— former business partner, if the Madame’s temper was anything to go by— in the arms industry, who bought Crests off her group for the manufacture of Crested weaponry. While you aren’t too well-informed about her affairs in the Harvesting business, you remember some rumors
You have a good suspicion on what your next job might be.
She glares about the room, seemingly still looking for an answer. “Well!?”
The man on the couch starts at that; he actually began to doze off. He gets up, rubbing his eyes, and blearily looks about the room. His gaze stops, as he squints, mouth slightly ajar. You follow his gaze to the corner of a room, staring at an unfamiliar face. He furrows his brow.
“Who the hell’s this guy?”
VIDOFNIR
Afternoon
Lower City Safehouse
It's been three weeks since you’ve last seen your King.
Business as usual, she’d said. An investigation of her own. Why she didn’t bother to bring anyone along, even those the closest to her, you don’t know. All you know is that she must be safe.
The King’s Crest in your body still hums with her strength.
You’re at one the Wings’ safehouses on the outskirts of Lower Alexandria, the basement of a seemingly abandoned warehouse. For how barren and derelict the rest of the building was, strewn with scrap metal and empty shipping crates, the basement itself was rather cozy— though that may have been from you making this a place called ‘home’.
One of many homes, but home nonetheless.
Stashes of weapons. A pile of sleeping bags. A fridge full of snacks. An antiquated, Old World gaming set. It was a humble place, but not a bad place to be. But you feel restless staying here, doing nothing. You’re here to guard the place, as your partner is to relocate some refugees from across the Mediterranean. You’re worried.
Getting up to the roof of the building’s easy. There, you wait, looking out at the city.
Lower Alexandria. Cast under the shadow from the Atlas up above, it’s an endless night-life out there, neon signs and flickering lights, the distant hum of the crowd. Somewhere out there, she’s fighting.
Your reverie is broken by the chime of your phone’s ringtone.
“Vido.” A woman’s voice, but not your King. Another one of you fellow Knights, one you haven’t talked to much. You can’t quite recall her name, but her voice is only faintly familiar, only that of an acquaintance. You probably don’t know her well.
“You busy? Well— no, nevermind.” She clears her throat. “Whatever job you’re on, you’re off it. Finn being sent back to take over for you. Something’s come up.”
“It’s a job for someone with a bit of tact.”
PENANCE
Afternoon
A Worn-down Church
This marks the third disappearance this month.
“—Was it because we joined this church? Do they have something against us—”
“—We can’t let them do this to us. We have to fight back—”
“—the Lord will protect us—”
“—like how He didn’t protect them?”
You look out on your congregation, the crowd abuzz with worried murmurs. Anger. Loss. Doubt. Fear. Emotions palpable in the air, and you can’t blame them for it. This really is worrying.
Numbers have begun to dwindle, but you know the others are safe. Yet even now, this atmosphere of fear grips them enough that they don’t even feel safe in this house of God.
This must be addressed.
You sift through the files of your archive. You know all your attendees well, knew them by name. To you, a loss of a follower isn’t just a blow to the Church’s growth, but the loss of a friend.
James Langley. Alicia. Marie Dreyer.
The last of them was the most recent disappearance, reported to you just this morning. What was all this? Kidnappings? Murders? Defections? You know not if this is a matter of your Church being targeted, or a threat faced by the whole city, but you know this is something you cannot ignore.
Father Heinrich, a long time ally since you’ve established this church, approaches you wearing a serious expression on his face. He leans in close and whispers.
“We have a lead.”
He glances out to the congregation, at the panic and doubt brewing beneath its surface, and looks back at you. “When you are available, I will be waiting in the back.” With a small bow, he takes his leave.
You turn to face the crowd, a group of about fifty today, and as you look up they fall silent, their murmurs and whispers cut short.
They watch you, expectantly, breaths bated and eyes expectant.
Originally Posted by Dullahan
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