Mishiro

Mishiro's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Close enough."

He was fumbling, caught off-guard by the sudden question, and if he thought the asking price for her lenience was a single awkward smile that just so happened to overshadow the usual melancholy that colored his face, then he was half-right. She caught herself wondering if Pinball wasn't conscious of it -- like so many other times prior -- as she lifted the tome with one hand and very lightly thwapped him on the head.

"Did you not pick this one in particular because you've made house in the ruins of a fallen civilization also?" At least, that was her guess after just the one glance. Mishiro drew back her hand and the book slid off his head and onto his waiting hands, falling open on the same page he had left off on. "You ought to focus," she said, gently chiding. "Or is there something else in your mind that's holding your attention?"

Another day drew to a close.

As the sun crept beneath the horizon, the pendants above the bar and tables automatically switched on, a warm yellow tone illuminating the cafe's interior in place of the natural light that flooded in through its wide glass windows during the day. [DELILAH] always closed at sundown. A number of its patrons were beginning to leave their seats, wrapping up murmured conversations or the things they had brought with them. Watching the flow of people in her peripherals as she went from table to table gathering up empty plates and glasses, she noticed a customer remained unmoving at the bar, his hands curled around a still-warm cup.

This one was familiar to her, in the same way that she knew by name every visitor that approached her seeking conversation. She could tell for the most part the look of a person who had something to say, so upon finishing her rounds, she unloaded the dishes on the sink for later and deliberately placed herself opposite Crux. Beneath a short overhanging ledge on the counter, she discreetly unfolded her accounts book.

His opening gave her pause, although Mishiro only appeared to click her pen shut and think for a moment. Delilah's proprietor, the original one, was kind but blankly inscrutable, appearing to exist in a reality entirely divorced from everyone else's. What must have gone through the boy's head, to even consider the thoughts of a woman so far removed?

"It's not an uncommon ambition but many lack the grit to actually follow through with it," she gently said. "And I cannot blame them."

That he seemed to hold prejudice over his own thoughts was something she wanted to inquire into. Did the idle folk think so differently of the frontlines nowadays? But another thing must hold priority. He wouldn't have asked without a purpose in mind. "What makes you consider it this late into the game?"

For a while, there was nothing. The girl at his side would not stir even if he called. But she was still listening to the castle. Half-awake and half-asleep, her thoughts passed through her like ghosts. The water flowed down the stream by their feet and the branches of the tree that dwarfed the shelter knocked against the roof above their heads. She felt, very faintly, the rhythmic rise and fall of Pinball's breathing, the careful movements of his arm. She heard the occasional rustle of a page being turned.

He read at a slow pace. It was a difficult text -- the sort that only Pinball would attempt to read for leisure, even if he didn't always get very far. She found it terribly endearing; often, the only thing that stopped her from fawning over him in these moments was the fact that it would break his quiet focus. So time trickled by and the pauses between each page turn grew in length. Then, he stopped.

Mishiro's eyes opened, her fingers reaching up to grasp the edges of the second, larger cloak that was now draped across her shoulders. Whether or not she was actually cold had no sway over how she unquestioningly held the cloth up to her chest. Her head turned to the side, loose strands of hair coming untucked from the opposite ear, half-closed eyes spotting the book left unattended on Pinball's lap. Carefully, she transferred it to hers and flipped it over.

Its pages were quite stiff. How old was this text? Marking the place Pinball was stopped on with a finger, she flicked through the previous chapter, picking up only the most interesting details as she went. It did not take her very long because nothing about Aincrad interested her on a personal level. Rather, she had a different curiosity that begged to be satisfied.

She turned to face Pinball, bumping his knee with hers. She had recognized earlier that he hadn't dozed off: he just had his eyes closed, much like she had earlier, and if he really was sleepy, he would have leaned more of his weight onto her. When she had his attention, Mishiro began in a tone that clearly indicated she was reciting off of what she had just read. "Year 1439. The second human settlement to fall, and also the last point in the available timeline. Where was it located and for what reason was it destroyed?"

The girl was holding the heavy tome with one hand, the other still clutching at his cloak. Open pages facing towards her, soft violet eyes peered at Pinball from above the book's top edge.

No peeking.

Another cold morning.

That time of the year when the days were short drew ever closer. She woke at the first hint of light through parted curtains, the lingering scent of ashes in the fireplace. Blindly, she reached past herself, feeling about in the space beneath the blankets for the warmth of another person. Her fingertips met fabric.

Nothingness embraced the mind in lieu of the body's anchor. For a short moment, everything was still once again. The unnamed dozed off for a few seconds longer. Then she sat up, blankets pooling around her waist.

A downward swipe of two fingers opened her interface. Immediately, multiple floating windows appeared before her, pre-configured to display at a lower brightness in the earlier hours of the day. She drowsily reacquainted herself with the waking world and glanced over the screens in her usual order. Some unanswered messages she had set to notify her from time to time, her shop NPC's daily report, a collection of to-do lists. The day that she was set to deliver several batches of fulfilled orders was approaching, which was a great indicator that she should drop by her residence soon – restock her shop and man it herself for a few days to ensure that everything was in working order.

Perhaps within the week.

She rose to her feet and disassembled last night's makeshift bed.

Pinball's castle was large, a more daunting place to fill out than her and Sibyl's residence – a place intended for two people with allowance for three more, give or take – but once the mystique had worn off, it wasn't that difficult to get around. He had let her build what was essentially a perfect duplicate to her residence's kitchen in an empty room that was in decent proximity to the other places she frequented. A great amount of her time was dedicated to crafting and today was no different.

Setting a cup of coffee to brew, she began her work.

There was a small portion of rejects that she polished off on her own as she downed a Crafter's Respite. It was still morning. A good chunk of her work was done and she had it in her mind to inquire into what her housemate was doing. Shutting the door behind her, the scent of freshly baked pastries wafted out into the empty halls.

She did not excel at finding people, unlike Pinball. It was always the opposite. All too often, she used to wonder about the implications of the fact that they only ever met on his terms, as if he were measuring out how much she could never give and exacting the same toll. But he'd led her to his dwelling place. He'd watched with unmistakable fondness as she acquainted herself with the halls of his house, opening and closing doors at random, silent in her awe, until she'd constructed a map in her head and could wander about the ruins alone. Here, after all this time, she knew where to look.

Sound ricocheted off the stone walls, sending faint vibrations up through the thin soles of her slippers. At the base of the stairs to the second floor, she paused, querying its source.

The front door–

She followed.

Not long after, the heavy wooden doors swung open with a long-suffering groan and she stepped out into the sunlight. The mouth of the wooden shelter faced the other way but she knew without sight that he could only be there. Pulling a short cloak over her bare shoulders, Mishiro rounded the makeshift structure and settled down beside him without a word. She peered at the open pages of his book for a moment before the laziness of the morning and her equally languid friend won out and her eyes fluttered shut. 

Pressed closely against his side, the woman's breathing turned faint.

"...Don't."

A hand laid firmly upon the hilt of Raidou's blade. The matador had a foot propped on the edge of the stage and she was peering up at him from where she stayed faithfully on the audience's side. Her hands were bare.

"You: a foreigner dictating that these nations indict one of their highest officials over your suspicions. Do you understand the weight of those claims, Raidou? Do you have proof, or are you about to draw your sword because you intend to carve it out yourself?" She drew her hand back, her voice icily calm, even as her words shifted to a more beseeching tone. "Please, stand down. Please don't escalate this situation any more than required. This meeting is meant to be civil."

She took a few more steps in retreat, placing herself at the podium, and addressed the representatives. "May I still ask some questions…?"

"Mr. Tiberius," she began as soon as she was granted permission. "Earlier, you described the cave-in as an attack, similar to the incidents in Srona and Ordsea. Caves can simply collapse on their own, especially if a lot of work is being done within their area, or so I recall. What makes you believe it wasn't an accident? And to add onto that, has anyone not from Dagan gone into these caves near the day of the incident?"

This, she wasn't very optimistic about. Caves, one could easily control the entry points. Storehouses that were likely part of a town? She was under the impression that these territories, save for Ronbaru, were quite insular. Perhaps it was worth an attempt. "Mr. Percival, I would like to direct a similar question to you. Are only Sronians allowed inside or within close proximity to your storehouses?

"If you may allow me to put forward a theory." This time, she shifted her focus to addressing all of the representatives in general. "The fact that all of these incidents happened on the same day means that the group responsible for Ms. Brienne's attempted assassination is likely culpable for the rest. I apologize if this just comes across as mere conjecture, but it is my belief that all of your answers so far wouldn't get us anywhere unless they are pieced together – and on that day, there is certainly no other suspicious element aside from those bandits. The only thing left unsettled is their motive.

"Which is why I believe that despite his impropriety, Raidou's suspicions deserve consideration."

She hadn't been defending Hugh. She wished she had a better way to communicate that – they had the same conclusion, only it was for that exact same reason that she understood how flimsy the case they had built was. Couple that with his… conduct. If his attitude had gotten him thrown out, what would it have done for the credibility of his claim? She intended to apologize to Raidou later, but now that the accusation was out in the open, they had to press the attack before Hugh had the time to put more of his guard up.

"The services of Braso's knights come at a high price and based on Mr. Fudral's answer, only Ordsean officials can afford it. These former knights-in-training, already unsure of their position within Braso after having been disciplined, would surely be tempted at the prospect of earning a regular knight's keep, no? Furthermore, Raidou argued that there is a plausible motive. The political opponent, and her ideals of unity, the very thing these recent incidents put at risk.

"Mr. Hugh, I would like to ask a question. What can you say to all of this?"

//
trying to tie srona and dagan's incidents together with ordsea's (again). reframing raidou's thing from "you did it. you're under arrest." to "you might have done it, please defend yourself."

She nodded against his back. She chose not to elaborate further, intending it as a blanket affirmative.

At least he'd stuffed himself full of those sausages; she didn't think it likely that he'd make any more for the offered brunch. And besides that, she currently didn't have any preferences. She drew her arm back from Pinball's side and took a sip from her cup, using the pause to repackage her thoughts into words. 

"They lost me when they started arguing after that player asked about Ronbaru," she said honestly. She felt the need to clarify when, because when weren't they? Her focus shifting back where it was supposed to be, she unconsciously turned her head in the direction of the stage. This could be helpful to the both of them. "First I thought this was all just a prelude to the event proper. Then it became clear that we players were at least supposed to participate. I'm trying to be careful, given our position as foreigners and the stated purpose of this summit, but both player and game sides are acting in a way that perplexes me.

"So: it's not even a question that the same group that attempted to assassinate Ordsea's leader also perpetrated the other two incidents, disregarding the matter of whether there was some higher force puppeteering them or not. This is info a player learned from the floor's questline yet never communicated to the leaders themselves because the quest never provided for it. But they already hold all the pieces. I thought our job was to dig them out by asking questions. Get them to reach the same conclusion, and hopefully once they start talking each of them has something worthwhile to say about the incidents."

And then the loose ends of the questline are resolved. The leaders find a way to move forward. She did not say that out loud, because she was already skipping ahead. And then what? Her source had been silent since the early morning. She still didn't have the foggiest clue what was going on in that front – all they have been managing so far was averting more disaster, she suspected. 

If one accounted for time, she'd only made a few moment's pause. She continued seamlessly, her voice kept even as she approached the areas that troubled her. "I didn't expect it to be all smooth sailing, but I also didn't anticipate Dagan almost cutting off Ordsea and Ronbaru regardless. Half of what's been dug up so far are inter-territorial conflicts that have existed for years. And even for Cardinal, it's just a tall ask for players to broker peace between these regions in a single meeting, isn't it? Direct mediation, off-topic questions…

"These are things that should normally be off the table."

//
refreshments table pt. 2. using pinball's question as a springboard to sum up the rationale behind all of her (non-)actions so far. girl literally cannot fathom why they aren't cooperating.

this is a strange way to start, but one really does not know what to expect with andromeda -- eternally scatterbrained merchant girl. the world could literally end and an would still be apologizing over the most inane things she can think of. it’s only good fortune that this hard left turn landed them someplace meaningful.

she didn’t know there was a misunderstanding. she’s trying not to be too rigid with her criteria for friendship. it’s not that complicated, she concluded years ago in an entirely different world when a group of students adopted her, a complete foreigner, into their clique, and there are at least levels to it. she and an aren’t close, but they call on each other when they need it and she likes an’s company. it’s just a surprise to her that it’s an who’s lagging behind.

case in point, an’s entire face turns as red as her hat. she opens and closes her mouth, kind of like a goldfish, and her fingers twist among themselves so tightly that they turn pale. a strangled sound escapes her mouth.

mishiro has those few seconds to internally fuss over the possibility that she had just said something the poor girl thought too forward, but an soon rallies herself and puffs, “okay, sure! we… we definitely already were, but it doesn’t hurt to clarify.” 

she says, as if it were her idea in the first place. mishiro is not bothered, but this is where she’d crack a teasing smile -- hey, think i can’t see what you’re doing?

“so we should also talk about you…!”

“me?”

an’s eager stare clues her in that they are supposed to be in agreement over something. but, no. she really can’t follow.

“you know, the benefits!” an fists her hands in the edges of her sweater, determination flooding her down to her stance. mishiro is utterly lost, but she lets it happen anyway. “like the texting thing. do you, er, always talk like that? oh. oh, you do. ahahahaha, i mean, i don’t have a problem with it personally, and i can’t possibly ask you to adjust for me, after we just became, um. clarified that we were always friends, but is this really you letting--“

“excuse me, ladies?”

“you’re not excused!” an yells.

and freezes. then she spins around and gasps. “no, nevermind, i’m sorry!”

she is easily forgiven. despite the dwindling number of players at the beginner level, floor one has stayed true to its image as a homely starter town, even after aincrad’s reset. its resident npcs are exceedingly kind and understanding of foreigners. the image of the man that just approached them is elderly and dressed in a dignified manner, and largely unoffended. it shakes its head, as if to wave off an’s apology. “no, i believe it is i who should apologize. i was in such a hurry that i did not realize the two of you were having an important conversation.”

perhaps she should have asked an to sit.

“no, no, no!” an waves her hands in the air, still flustered. “it’s fine. did you need something?”

“my name is dorian, and i am the mayor of this town. i am in need of some assistance and you both appear quite capable.”

a quest! mishiro vanishes her notebook and watches player and npc with mild interest. she’ll likely decline, but she won’t rid an of the opportunity. on the lower floors, these things aren’t usually time sensitive. with an nodding along, the mayor launches into a scripted explanation of what it needs done: debt collection -- and it’s a wild goose chase, no less. she just has a few questions.

“you couldn’t hand this off to someone you’re more familiar with?”

an whirls around to face her. “mishiro!”

“understand, young miss, that i have been an official of this town for years,” the mayor proceeds calmly. “i know that i am in charge of a good and upright citizenry.”

“but you’ve no errand runners of your own at this very moment? my friend here has been a resident of this town for years, and i am sure she can attest to everyone’s character also, but i want her to feel secure in her home, knowing that her city’s affairs are being run in an orderly--“

“mishiro, wait, wait, wait!!” 

and so sudden are the hands grabbing her by the shoulders that she ends up pinned against the lean of the bench, stunned into silence. an isn’t even putting much of her weight into it, she just hadn’t expected that anyone would be attempting to physically topple her. mishiro peers up, past the curtain of an’s duckfluff white hair, as the merchant girl bares her teeth into a feigned smile at the npc. “please don’t mind my friend. it’s really, really no problem at all. we accept and we’ll be back with the money asap!”

the mayor doesn’t comment, falling back into its scripted dialogue. what happened just now is irrelevant, apparently. “excellent. now i believe you should start with zackariah, the alchemist…”

"--keep that tongue of yours in check. Else I will--"

"Did you know that they have a refreshments table?"

"Mn."

"--sowing distress with no grounds. Unwise for anyone without--"

"That guy needs an ego check bad. And cocktail weenies."

"I need a cocktail weenie," she said automatically.

And that was that. Pinball needed her somewhere so she was thoroughly rerouted. She didn't really know what cocktail weenies were – her immediate assumption was that they contained alcohol, which she was averse towards but not entirely unwilling to try on occasion – so when they arrived at the finger foods table, Pinball had to point her towards a plate of bite-sized sausages dressed in a brown sauce. It did not rouse her appetite as she had hoped, nor did the other offerings on the table, but she tried one to abide by her words.

Barbecue sauce… and something else she didn't like. Was that some type of wine? She certainly thought she caught the faintest whiff of it. Mishiro's expression did not convey her displeasure, but the verdict was implied from the way she lacked the enthusiasm towards grabbing anything else. She hadn't been eating anything in general, lately. Still, for want of a reason to keep them near the concessions, she filled half a paper cup with fruit juice and took a tiny sip.

She returned to Pinball and wrapped her free arm around his waist. She was behind him, part of her pressed into his back, and she'd have rested her chin on his shoulder if they were at the same level, but on account of his height, Mishiro had to resort to peering past his side instead.

(this was the dilemma. the stage had calmed down some since destin's arrival. even raidou was shut down, but the frontliner was the sort that got right back up when you kicked him and he had moved on to claiming a place at the roundtable. improper, but at least the entire lot of them wasn't thrown out for all that commotion. she was still hopelessly lost on a couple of vital things -- why were they now asking about crystals? -- but she had questions that could surely guide the discussion forward. this was where she'd walk back up to the stage.

…if she were alone and she weren't staring the other concern right in the face. if it hadn't sought her out.)

"Try the heavier stuff," she said, gently pulling him away from the appetizers as one would with a preoccupied cat. She'd ease up her hold when he goes, but she'd resume that same close proximity when they were both settled down some. Maybe they weren't going back to their seats; some other pair had probably taken them at this point. "You were not long after me. Did you have breakfast on the way here?"

//
refreshments table. preoccupied.

the merchant girl has been typing for twenty minutes straight -- mishiro leaves her to compose her dissertation in peace.

her pen resumes its original course across the paper, copying over her earlier writing with a steadier hand. she is in the storage room on the second floor of luther's residence, temporarily converted into sibyl's study. every invaluable thing its owner had chucked in here to be forgotten was carefully packed into crates, and the crates stacked one on top of the other, pushed up against the walls, freeing up enough space to summon a meeting table and three stools, that when pushed back all the way, could barely afford anyone leg space between their person and the trays of documents, newspaper clippings, and unfinished maps currently being housed underneath the room's centerpiece. they had gathered here earlier, for the first time since the dawn of new aincrad: sibyl standing beside the door with their eyes closed, luther in the stool in front of them, and mishiro at the farthest end, her arms stretched out across the papers on the table, the heat of the sun warming her back. 

the sole agenda of their meeting was the construction of the new house and mishiro's attached café. progress on all ends was slow, which falls entirely within her expectations: she hadn't even inquired into the possibility of setting a soft deadline. for her part, with a distressing lack of other things to busy herself with, she is shouldering as much of the load as she can. today, that entails tidying up and writing notes. she makes it a quarter of the way down the first page of three on the cleaner draft before her hand starts trembling and she resorts to straightening out the papers they had brought out earlier instead. when the soft bell of a received message finally arrives, she has almost put their short exchange out of her mind entirely.

an makes a tempting offer, though mishiro is curious why it took her nearly half an hour to write a single paragraph. true to an's memory, mishiro hasn't taken the tutorial quest and previously didn't have any reason to once she started to grasp things on her own. but with the storm bringing great change to aincrad in both environment and mechanics, there is no safer place to regain one's bearings than in a quest expressly designed for it. she pulls up the interface's keyboard, about to type up a response, but the texting bubble appears once again.

and it doesn't stop. she watches in mild amusement as three more messages appear in quick succession. it brings up the mental image of an, behind her counter, or at her workbench with a pile of those unidentifieds that she loves so much, or draped across a random crate of junk in her shop, tapping at her keyboard with that vigor reserved for things she finds most enjoyable. mishiro waits for more follow-ups, and when none arrive, she writes her response.

mishiro: i'd be glad to join you.
mishiro: now?

an: HUH
an: OH i
an: mean yes, now!!
an: (⁠つ⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)⁠つ
an: mish, thank you thank you thank you!
an: go here. xxx:yyyy. the one with the fountain. where you comin from?

the fountain, she says? luther loves his street views. mishiro does not have to pull up her map to confirm the coordinates of her current location, not when she could walk backwards and be greeted with a topside perspective of the very same scene an sends her a picture of, but she likes her confidence backed on many angles. 

mishiro: already there.

"--but I can't for the life of me figure out how or why."

Mishiro nodded. "Thank you."

They were getting there. Ideally, they would have spoken amongst themselves more the moment they realized there was a solid case for the attacks being connected, but this wouldn't be so much of a game if it solved itself at the slightest hint of player input. She already had an inkling as to the attackers' motives, and possibly a way to nudge the leaders in that direction, but she wasn't going to monopolize the floor any further.

She hung around near the front of the stage, just long enough to hear oji's question. Then back up the aisle she went.

"--and even if we find the culprits? What of it? They'll--"

Was that acceptable…? 

She sent a dubious glance at the outspoken player's back. But she wouldn’t stop again, not for them or anything else -- not until she’d returned to her seat and was twisting around to peer at something behind them, in the general direction of the entry gates leading to the foyer. There were now two concerns in her mind, quarreling for attention. She snatched one up to silence it and moved to sit properly, smoothing out her skirts. 

“--and what of Ordsea? and Ronbaru? You’ll sit by--"

They were still talking. More and more, she was starting to reconsider the angle of her next line of questioning. Fact: the first time yielded a good result. She was not sure if she could replicate that if she continued to hammer down her theory further. Because, in line with that outspoken player’s words, it suddenly stopped being about that theory. It didn’t matter whether the attacks were connected, for Dagan, Srona, and Braso were dealing with supply shortages in the aftermath, and they believed they could cut off the other two that they harbored a latent distrust in and be left none the worse. The burden now fell on Ordsea and Ronbaru to justify their part of the share, that their worth equaled the rest.

And she wasn’t sure if this was something outsiders could even have a say in.

//
no questions. back to observing. looks like an internal matter to her. reluctant to intervene.

“--if I may, this is not an area to blindly throw out accusations--”

Mishiro stood up. Wordlessly, she left her seat and made her way down the aisle.

“--only because I find the rest of your statement far more--"

The theater was not dark because they were not watching a play. There were movements among the audience but very few towards the podium. But she wasn’t in a hurry, and if she happened to catch a few onlookers’ eyes, they would sooner return to being enraptured by the spectacle unfolding onstage. This, they could do.

“--because I actually care. I wish the rest of these representatives would do the same.”

Mishiro's steps slowed to an almost-stop, her thoughts lagging even further behind – she could see the back of the player who had never left the allotted space in front of the stage since he first walked up to it, and she didn't want to get caught in the line of fire. 

Really. 

At least something decent came of it. The leaders' dialogue ran its natural course. It put her in an awkward position, watching them reassemble themselves and come to a conclusion – or at least Fudral did. That was the immediate problem solved: they weren't pointing fingers at each other anymore. How to hammer down on Fudral's point? She lingered, standing by the fourth row as she mentally ran through the script, line by line. 

Braso's rogue knights were only spoken of in conjunction with the attack on Brienne. Then what of the first two? She realized, a touch too late, that there was really nothing concrete tying them to the cave-in and the fires. 

But they were the only suspicious element…

She was missing some information herself. Before anyone else can speak up, she briskly walked up to the designated point before the stage, passing Oji without a glance. "I would like to ask a few questions," Mishiro began, modulating her voice to a level above her usual soft tone. "Mr. Percival characterized Srona's fires as sabotage. Have the other regions suffered these same attacks as of late? And what could you recount to the public about these events?"

Raining down too many questions at once would be detrimental. She would pause, listening carefully as she had been right from the very start. Following that, if it hadn't already been answered, she would raise her hand and continue as soon as she was called upon again. "Just a follow-up. When did this all take place? Did they all– occur on the same day?"

//
sit down srona. she's fishing for answers. asking for a recap to put other territories in the spotlight. asking for a timeline also. might be useful in general. working theory is still that the bandits from braso are the perpetrators of everything. she's trying to find a way to link them to the cave-in and the fires.

-> third task, 5

-> third task, 4

-> third task, 3

-> third task, 2

-> third task, 1

-> second task

-> first task

-> climb up the mountain (3/3)

-> climb up the mountain (2/3)

-> climb up the mountain (1/3)

//

Clipping her sunglasses to her collar, she pushed open the door to Cintamani. She took off her cap as she descended the two steps into the shop, fixing the latch around the wrist of her right hand – the one not occupied by shopping bags filled with groceries and various items of interest she had picked up from the weekend market. The last item on her agenda was a small personal purchase, hardly worth disrupting the workflow of the alchemist she’d tasked to restock her crafter’s respites.

“Hello. One of your damage potions, please.” Her eyes wandered over the rest of the store’s selection, briefly taken in by the more mystical concoctions on display. Was that... bottled air? “Just the one. Thank you kindly.”

//
buying one (1) liquor of light.
800 col sent.

Not that it required an answer. Neither of them had anything better than a guess at this point, and she was just wanting to see if Pinball had something for her to pick at.

And with the first question out of the way, she already had plenty.

First of all, Alchemist Percival was rather getting on her nerves. Having taken perhaps the worst loss out of all the affected territories, his frustrations only seemed to have grown since his part of the questline ended, and he had brought them all to the table, airing out accusations like a common rabble-rouser. For them, the safety of Floor 27, their respective territories, was on the line. There was no other time that required composure and a willingness to listen and cooperate more than the present.

She ran through the dialogue in her head, partly tuned into Dagan's representative. (Oh, that didn't sound very helpful either.) What did they have to work with? A rehash of old info -- likely for the benefit of the players in the audience who had never learned of the questline. But the response had gotten derailed. Would anything change if the panelists were pressed to speak specifically of new developments on the case? Not the Sronian, not at the moment, but if another one of the attacks were brought up.

Pause the thought. She reexamined her emotional state, feeling out the irritation.

It was just data.

They could manipulate it, if Cardinal let them. Returning to her earlier suspicions, a breakdown of the relations between any of the regions in Floor 27 could not be good for the player population. (Though she still could not say what the opposite may lead to. It distressed her, somewhat). You'd think more non-living persons would be lining up to speak out of pure morbid curiosity, if not concern for their lands. Once, she passed that stretch just before the intersection where an accident had taken place. The smaller vehicle had crashed into an empty building that no one was renting and utterly destroyed its façade. No one had gotten to fixing it up yet. She had asked her aide to take her to the restaurant across the street instead. Six months and a story long faded from the public eye, and she could still see the curious glances, the questions and all the tall tales. They never seemed to stop talking.

The floor was open to players. She parsed through the last question's words -- a 'foreign' instigator? She would have hesitated to put that term to use, especially when players themselves could be so easily lumped in with that qualifier. Suspicion was the last thing they wanted, as mediators. Still, the fact that it was posed as a suggestion more than a query piqued her interest. If they wanted to nudge this meeting a certain direction, it would be worthwhile to see what they were accommodating of.

Eyes on the stage, she mentally sifted through a list of questions. One at a time.

//
more thoughts. white space intentional. observing.

: FLOOR ONE.

Day ___ of taking Sybil’s patrol.

She was sure this strange man had made camp near her Floor 3 residence years ago. Now one world-devouring storm and one change of address later, this entire ensemble had appeared yet again. She lingered at the edge of the only table in the camp, perusing a list of the items in store. A little pick-me-up was in order. “One crème brûlée,” she said, tapping a finger beneath the writing, “And the breakfast fry. Thank you.”

Back to patrol. He’ll be gone as quickly as the first time, and unless he started tripping up their protective wards, she saw no reason to mind.

//
BUYING: crème brûlée (1) & breakfast fry (1)
1000 col sent.