[b][THE OMEGA - ROARK AND RUSLANA][/b]

[b][Captain][/b]
It was only when first light broke that the screams began again. 
Throughout New London, a light ochre hue had begun to settle across the rooftops: A temperate, clement tone, through which an unseasonably balmy zephyr travelled.
Wintertide, it seemed, was drawing to her end, and taking with her the last of her bulky billows, leaving the tawny morn unhampered, and its denizens- humble avian flocks, which passed sporadically but nonetheless formed the bijous of the empyrean- salient for all who could, and cared to, see. 
The Omegas were not amongst these spectators, however. 

The Cage- sometimes referred to in sardonic tones as “Lockdown”- was a moderately sized but long decommissioned prison complex, which perhaps rivalled Sundown’s pinnacle in width, but made no such boasts in height or upkeep. 
Its bulwarks were an anaemic sallow, devoid of most natural shades, discoloured by acidic cloudbursts and imbrued with the blood and bile of those who hadn’t the mettle to thrive within. 
The partitions were scarcely better- and in some situations far worse, dependent on who played patron to the cells they occupied- and the courtyard was littered with the likes of it’s abominable, beastly citizens, whom brandished blades and bullet alike quite openly, lest any think them feeble in a society where only the strong survived. 

The courtyard boasted no roof of its own of which to speak, but that made little difference: Even then, no shine would grace its coarse, cobbled flooring. 
For towering above the complex there stood two otherwise foregone monoliths, titans of iron and glass which had- when forsaken, and left to the mercy of the savage, unrelenting elements- yielded unto one another, and collided upon simultaneous collapse in order to support their own structures. 
The Cage lingers in their shadow, betwixt their bases: Torrents and deluge have pierced their canopies for two decades, but the sun has never been so persistent. 
If an Omega wished to feel their skin kissed by light, they would need to venture outwards, amongst the desolate relics of Old London: And in doing so, they would need to brave The Spectres. 

Even if ‘twere the case that these skyscrapers did not bedim the sky, though, it still seemed unlikely that any Omega would savour the morrow.
For even in the day’s zenith, it would be Herculean for any soul to ignore the screaming.

Amongst the inhabitants of The Cage, they were known only as ‘The Alpha’: Their names had become insignificant now, as had most things.
They were confined to an existence lingering behind iron bars, immured like the ogres they had become. 
Even amongst the Omega, they had committed the cardinal sin: They had relented to the call of the wild-man, and in doing so had allowed their primal drives to wax, until they had been rendered beasts, snarling and savage as the jackal.
Upon freeing their mind of Servitutem, they had surrendered it to instinct. 
At morn, they called out; at noon, they grew quiet; and when nightfall drew close, they howled until the moon reached her apex, before falling into still silence until next the sun rose. 

And it was amongst all of this- amidst the shrieks of men made animals, and below the lax, leaning structures which formed The Cage’s modern megalith- that Roark Swallows stood.
He’d risen betimes than he would have usually- before The Alphas, even- but had achieved little more than restringing his bow, and retraining his aim against the wool-woven targets to the courtyard’s east, as it’d seemed most noticeably adrift beforehand. 
This morning, his grip had seemed weaker, as indeed it was: The hand with which he’d once drawn his bow now bore a maroon-gauze cast, and had shuddered lightly with the effort of clutching the horsehair. 
Still, he’d been able to draw it, and that was more than he’d been able to say a week prior. 

Now, however, he stood idly atop one of The Cage’s ramparts, staring out at New London’s silhouette, his eyes hazed by the likeness of slow falling steam, and his lengthy black mane moving lightly to both east and west as breezes weaved throughout Lockdown’s walls. 
The fingers of his left hand drummed lightly against the cool steel of his bow, as a carbon-fibre arrow was twirled rhythmically between those on the right. 
“Buena Londres mañana,”he breathed in greeting to the waking world, “What pendejos’ve you got lined up for me today, eh?”

[b][Zordon[/b]
Ruslana sat up in her makeshift room, raising the back of her fist to her face and rubbing the crust from the inner corner of her eyes. Placing her hands down onto the thin excuse of a mattress, she winced as the squeak of the frame fell upon her ears. It always did that..and she'd always hated it. And yet, because she was still partially asleep, it never failed to catch her off guard. 

She raised her arms above her head, sighing as relief overcame the tension in her muscles with a loud series of pops. Her room could be described as...adequate, at best. It was just large enough to contain her single atop its forsaken squeaky frame resting beside the worn wooden nightstand. If she thought about it, she'd be sure it had seen better days. But, hadn't they all? 

In near silence, she padded over to the shower in the corner of the room, devoid of it's own separate area and turned the dial on the wall to it's hottest setting. She stood still for a moment as the steam began to rise from the fountain of water before stepping into it, already having been nude. As the water cascaded down her flesh, she thought to herself of the morning ahead of her while her body carried out it's muscles memories. 

She was to meet with Roark after her daily routine and practice her archery, her new found love. Ruslana creaked the water knob back to its off position and stepped over toward the fine scrap of woven cloth hanging from the spherical handle on the wall. With little care to her delicacies, she dried herself off and dressed as she always had; her entire body covered from hr neck down in black cloth more thickly woven over her vital areas.

Reaching down beneath her bed, she slid her bow into the familiaring grip of her hand before sliding her torso between the strings and the curve, allowing it to rest on her shoulder. A small quiver attached to her hip and she was off to the cage, where she knew to find her teacher. 

As always, he stood upon one of the higher ledges and with very little effort, she sprang from surface to surface until she stood near him. "Why do you always choose here?" she drawled, her Russian accent still prevalent in her words, though diluted over time.

[b][Captain][/b]
"To remind me of what there is to gain," he replied simply, eyes unwavering from the bleak horizon. Slowly, the dull thrum of Roark's fingers beating against his weapon grew quieter, until he eventually relinquished the task altogether, "And what there is to lose." 
Then, he turned to face her, "In my lifetime, I've watched men walk into the sea, for money, for power. If I ponder long enough, perhaps one day I'll understand."
He lingered on that thought for a moment, before simply shaking his head, freeing himself of such meditative thoughts, "But, you don't care, eh?", he raised his bow, "You're here for this, sí?"

[b][Zordon[/b]
Lana kept her single eyed gaze trained on him, drinking in the way the orange shade of the early sun highlighted his masculine features. Roark was not an unattractive man.. but, he was her teacher and his words were true. She had come to meet him this morning to continue her lessons with him, not to stare at his face. Simply nodding, casting his philosophical response to memory for later deciphering, she slid her bow from her torso, ducking her head as she did so. "Yes Señor.." she smirked, giving him her best Spanish accent. 

Assuming the stance in front of him, she drew an arrow and notched it lightly. She could feel herself subconsciously relax her shoulders and bring her right hand to graze lightly at her chin whilst she stared past the arrowhead into the distance. Knowing he would evaluate her stance and make corrections to her body as necessary, Ruslana kept still with her back to him waiting for her respected teachers critiques.

"To remind me of what there is to gain and what there is to lose." she could hear his words echoing in her mind as she waited on him. Her eye lazily drifted from side to side, never straying to far from the point just in front of her arrow. It was not the most beautiful of views she'd seen or heard of but, there was a certain..beauty in the sight itself in the soft morning sun. Everything.. her mind suddenly clicked into gear, causing her shoulders to briefly tense. There is everything to gain and everything to lose.. her mind recited to him, almost straining to make sure he could hear her though she said nothing. 

"Well?" she asked, breaking the silence from Roark and her own thoughts that simply wouldn't shut up. "Has my stance improved?"

[b][Captain][/b]
"Improved? Yes," he replied, regarding her stance with his arms folded patiently across his chest, "Perfeccionado, though? Well..."
He un-gathered his arms, and paced lento to her flank, his frame docile and slack...
Then, quite suddenly, he swept his foot into her hind support, nudging it backwards just a few inches: Then, in rapid succession, he took her hand and raised it to the height of her cheek- as opposed to her chin- drawing her arm back further in the process, "Not quite, Dama. But you're quick with the uptake, that's a very good sign."
He withdrew, taking a few steps back, "And stop squeezing your bow. The tension of your string will keep it rigid, simply let the body rest against your thenar."

[b][Zordon][/b]
Ruslana felt herself smirk slightly from his initial statement, feeling it melt away as he continued his statement and critiqued her as she'd expected. She allowed him to nudge her leg and adjust her hand higher up to her cheekbone. It felt more natural and she rolled her shoulders slightly to adjust to the new position. As he mentioned her grip on her bow, she released it, letting it cradle between her thumb and fore finger before more loosely wrapping it in her grasp again. 

She let out a slow breath, allowing her lungs to to depress slowly in her chest. "And now? What do I get to shoot today, [i]Uchitel?[/i]" she asked, letting her eye drift over to fall upon his face once more. "Or do you plan on having me stand here all morning?" The last few words left her lips with a slight upwards inflection, intended as a joke and for a brief moment, she could have sworn she smiled.

[b][Captain][/b]
"Tempting, senorita," he jested in return, his features softening lightly in order to support a faint, playful smile, "The Cage could use some decoration, could it not? A statue, perhaps..." 
He tapped his chin absentmindedly with his bow's nock, as if contemplating it, before shrugging and shaking his head, "But, where would I be without an apprentice to train? Very bored, I should imagine."
With a brief- but nonetheless good-natured- chuckle, Roark gestured for Ruslana to turn westward, towards the other side of the prison complex.
Somewhere in the distance, just above the shifting figures of courtyard-bound Omega, and betwixt the withered trunks of what had, at some point, been decorative birch trees, there hung a small target, suspended from a solitary nail.
It was round, and divided into three gradually shrinking circles.

Roark, experienced archer that he was, was the first to take a shot.
He nocked an arrow- some thin, carbon-fiber affair, with tawny feathers in place of fletches- and drew back his bow string, until his fingers brushed against his cheek bones.
Then, he took a moment to calculate the variables- Air speed, direction and resistance- before relinquishing it from his grip, and allowing his arrow to take flight.
It hurtled across the courtyard at such a speed that it's journey was almost invisible- as was the nature of such projectiles- before burying itself towards the target's center, and vibrating softly. 
Roark lowered his bow, and flexed his aching, creaking fingers, "There's your target for the morning... make me proud of your training."

[b][Zordon][/b]
Ruslana turned as he gestured, looking into the corpses of trees once fully grown. She relaxed her bow, the arrow remaining notched but the string lax and loose. Without saying anything aloud, she just felt more at ease holding the bow than she had any other weapon. Her eye rested on a solitary target in the distance composed of three concentric circles. Just like Roark... He was always doing his best to challenge her. Watching in awe as her teacher effortlessly notched his arrow, she noted that he paused for the slightest of moments and let his arrow fly. Jumping her gaze towards the target, she caught it as it whistled through all three circles with ease. 

She scoffed, shaking her head and lifting her bow towards where his had just flown. "No pressure, of course." she mumbled, raising her back hand from her chin to her cheekbone and relaxing her grip on her bow, just as she replayed him telling her in her mind. Exhaling slowly, she prepared to release the arrow...and felt it slip prematurely through her fingers, flying way to far to the right of her target and falling entirely short. 

Pulling another arrow from her hip quiver and internally grimacing at her imperfection, Lana quickly pulled another arrow and was tempted to shoot it immediately to recover. However, she stopped and closed her eyes, hanging her head for a moment to compose herself. Inhaling softly, she looked up once more at her target and let her arrow fly, clipping the interior of the second ring. Letting out a loud sigh, she looked to her teacher. "Other than missing... what am I doing wrong?" she asked in an exasperated tone.

[b][Captain][/b]
"You're worrying," he explained, taking a step closer and peering over her shoulder.
"You are shooting as if the target might escape... it won't, promesa," he patted her reassuringly on the shoulder, "No Runner moves faster than an arrow. You don't need to shoot straight away... take your time. Check the direction of the wind, its speed... and then when you're sure you'll hit, finally let go. Sí?"

[b][Zordon][/b]
"Not even one with metal legs.." she hissed between her teeth, notching another arrow and taking her time in lining up her shot. Ruslana waited for a few moments, feeling a very soft breeze, she recalculated and adjusted her aim before allowing the arrow to slide out from her grasp. It soared through the hanging circles, clipping the third of the circles only barely. She let out a loud groan and paced away from her standing spot, her dark locks escaping the hood she wore. 

Angrily, she notched another arrow further away from where she was originally standing and within a single breath let the arrow fly, swiftly flying through all three circles without a hit. She smiled and turned to her teacher with a huge grin plastered on her face. "Perhaps my instinct is less worrisome." she offered him, shrugging though it was obvious she could not contain her excitement for having performed so well instinctively.

[b][Captain][/b]
Roark, however, did not find her performance as impressive: Instead, he found her attitude concerning. 
Perhaps she'd expected a pat on the back, or a [i]"Buen Trabajo, muy bien!"[/i], but Roark's tutors had never been so keen to reward [i]impatience[/i], and neither was he. 
Instead, he dealt her a quick- but fairly light- slap upside the head, distancing himself from her again as a frown etched itself into his face. 
"Malo," was all he offered her, tone stern, "Just because you are an Omega does not mean you are an [i]animal.[/i]"
He paused, scrutinizing her with his eyes, "You are not a cowboy, shooting from the hip! You are an archer! We do not rely on [i]instinct![/i]" he berated, his accent- a little tamer than it had once been- flaring up now in all of its fiery, Hispanic glory, "Entiendes? Comprendes?" 

He stared her down for a few long seconds, before exhaling deeply.
He'd overreacted, he knew that: But in this world, a mistake as simple as this could lead to another body on the rooftops.
"You want to talk about instincts, chica? Instincts are what we rely on to [i]survive.[/i] You want to belittle yourself to an animal? Bueno, whatever. But I will remind you of this one thing, sí? If you are relying on instinct, then you are the [i]prey.[/i] Tu entiendes? You are on the [i]losing[/i] side of that battle."
Then, Roark lifted his bow again, holding it straight-out and to his left, "You can be prey if you want to, but me? I'm the predator. I don't train no prey." 
He then turned his bow-holding arm to the horizon, and the scarred silhouette of Old London, "And when we're out there, on the battlefield? When your target is moving, adrenaline is flowing and there are members of your team getting in the way? You better take that moment to consider your shot. Because if you don't pause, if you don't make it count? They are not going to make the same mistake. Churchill Gunner will not hesitate to kick you right off of that rooftop, and neither will the rest of his silly little sector, comprender?"

Slowly, Roark lowered his bow, and then jerked his head towards the target once more, "Again. Properly, this time."

[b][Zordon][/b]
Ruslana felt the smile melt from her face and once again, she felt like the little girl being chastised by all the men in her life. Always belittling her and telling her how she was not cut out for...anything really. She bit the inside of her lip, listening to his words as separated from herself as she could manage. "I am no prey.." she hissed between her teeth, feeling them grind against one another as she slowly lifted her bow once more. 

In truth, he was right. He always had been. Sometimes that small fact got under her skin but, it always wore off and most times within minutes of the initial irritation. Lana simply wasn't used to someone being so correct about her with so little effort. He was no prey, that was certainly true. He was a fierce predator. And she respected him above all else. SO, she notched another arrow and closed her eyes. Inhaling slowly, she let the air fill her lungs and exhaled slowly, exhaling the anger with it so that all that was left in its absence were eased muscles and focus. Opening her undamaged eye and leaving the other still clenched shut, she took her aim and after careful consideration, let the arrow fly. She was pleased to watch it soar through all three rings, much like her teachers had the first time. 

She was elated, but this time she was much more subtle in her response, turning to face him and bowing her head slightly. "I am predator. Please, continue to train me." she asked, knowing that her reaction could have caused him much disrespect, and rightfully so. "I will contain my temper. I swear it."

[b][Captain][/b]
Roark returned his weapon to its resting place on his back, and folded his arms again as he glanced towards where Ruslana's arrow had finally struck.
For a moment, he didn't reply: He simply contemplated her words, and her actions... then, he offered her a sage nod, "Bueno, muy bien."
He turned to face her again, his features having calmed considerably and his irritation sated by her heeding of his words, "Of course I will train you, mi amiga," he assured her, tone softened, "That was a good shot. Keep practicing like that, sí? Patience is, as they say, a virtue." 

[b][SPECTRE - GILLIGAN GUNNER][/b]
A thick, silver brume had settled upon the thin, arid air, carrying with it the unsubtle, pungent savor of dried tobacco, and a texture which seemed almost viscid to the touch. 
It hung there, static, as if suspended by the room’s gelid atmosphere, uncharacteristic for even London’s coldest days, and in doing so had rendered the room dusky, and silent.
The sun’s incline was obscured by a series of rattan shutters, motionless for the entirety of their life: The windows were firmly sealed away. 
As for the glass walls which had, at one time, allowed employees to spectate the room’s owner as if he were an attraction, there for their own amusement, they too were impeded: The pallid, synthetic light of the offices were incapable of penetrating the smoke’s unshifting layers, and their sinister stillness had given most the only encouragement they needed to remain hushed.

But sooner or later, all perfect balances must be recalibrated: And for that to happen, they must first fail.
When the office door opened, it seemed that the tempo of time saw fit to re-steel itself, and forced its way across the room’s threshold. 
As if commanded, once stationary smoke began to twist, and pirouette, as it precariously danced its way forth, and rushed through its newfound entrance to pollute newer, fresher lungs. 
And as it receded, it left scarcely anything in its path; Save for one aged, wooden desk, stained a shade of smoked hickory; A scarred leather executives chair, and its occupant… 
Gilligan Gunner, the face which had languished a thousand souls. 

His frown was thin, and straight: A pair of pale, slender lips, through which one particularly prominent- and inhumanely sharp- fang protruded.
His skin was ivory, and without tarnish nor taint…
But by far, his most prominent features were his eyes: White as the eggs of spiders, and unblinking, always.

Stanley- he who had dared to open the door- fumbled nervously with the file he’d been clutching to his chest, stepping into the room as the door behind him slowly swung shut, and plunged both he and Gilligan back into the unstirring darkness. 
“U-Uh, Sir,” he began, anxiously, “I…”
He paused, and exhaled deeply.
Stanley had been a Spectre for some years, now: He’d taken lives, and hunted the Omega relentlessly with the unforgiving ferocity of a wild cat… 
But even then, his confidence was none in his better’s- his progenitor’s- presence. 
“I have some news.”
A short silence passed between the two, before some rough, oxymoronic sound came forth: A voice which was both harsh and soft, as though it were a whisper spoken loudly.
“Go on.”
“We’ve… we’ve detected movement, on the ground level, sir. We think it might be runners.”
“I see.” Gilligan replied, coldly, “Then hunt them.”
“Well, sir, I-I was just thinking-”
“Hm?”
“Well, it’s just… it’s only one group- The Omega, they call themselves- that are actively antagonising us, sir. Shouldn’t we… shouldn’t we just focus on them, and leave the Runners to their lives? O-Of course, I’m not questioning your orders! But the rest of the Runners seem harmless, a-and-”

His pleads were cut short by sudden, heavy thudding of some great mass being dropped upon Gilligan’s desk. 
A long, metallic blade: Thin, carbon steel, folded to perfection and as sharp as the snake’s tongue… starting at Gilligan’s knee, and remaining in lieu of limb.
“Enough.”
Stanley yelped… but Gilligan made no movements. He simply tilted his head back, to stare at the ceiling.
“Spectre, I recall… when I was still very young, you see… reading of the practices of the old world… and the article that stands most prominently in my memory, is one regarding the burning of snakes.”
“S-Sir?”
“Are you familiar?”
“No, sir.”
“Hrm. There were people, in the old world, that would burn snakes by their hundreds of thousands, when they were at their weakest… clustered together in writhing masses, for fear of otherwise dying in the oncoming Winter. And they did it because, in their eyes, these snakes were the avatars of evil: Serpents, whom had coaxed us from Eden and let loose our predecessors into the dustbowl that would one day be our world.”
“I’m not sure I follow…”

“But they weren’t achieving anything,” Gilligan continued, unphased, “They were attacking the [i]symbols[/i] of evil, but not evil itself: They treated the symptoms, without ever truly pursuing the cause… and whilst it’s true, those snakes might have lunged to pollute their veins, if given the chance, their numbers were small, and when they were alone, each snake was fragile… terrified.”
“… sir?”
“Tell me Stanley, have you ever read The Bible? No, I suppose not: We live in a Godless world, you and I.”
“Do… Do you believe in God?”
“No… in a world where a man cannot escape me, a God will fare no better. An idea must be carried by stories, but no longer do men have the tongue for it. They’ve been made docile, by drugs… or else, deceased.”
“Then why did you mention it?”
"Revelations, 22:13, 'I am the Alpha, and the Omega. The first and the last. The beginning and the end.'"
“Alpha?”
"The Omega are the end. They are the symptom. They are our ball of snakes… symbols, nothing more."
“And the Runners?”
"The Alpha. The carriers of the dreamers disease, of which this city must be purged. Do you understand me, now?”

Stanley nodded.
“Very well… now leave me. Or don't. Either way, you will [i]depart.[/i]”

[b][RUNNERS - CHURCHILL GUNNER][/b]
At mid-day, when the sun seemed her most potent, hanging invitingly above and leaving a beautiful azure expanse in lieu of what had once been a tense field of flocked clouds, Churchill made his way to Sundown's entrance, and began the rigorous process of...
Leaning against the gates, and awaiting Sector V's arrival.
For a few moments, he considered summoning them in the same fashion he had earlier: But he supposed it was a situation that actually only ever worked out when (a) he was exceedingly lucky, and (b) it was funniest. 
Still, he'd have paid good quantities of hot chocolate to have seen the look on MacReary's face again... he might even have given up his lucky tartan shorts to get a picture of it, framed.

With a soft yawn, he folded his arms across his chest, and glanced down at his stilts, watching for V's reflections in their surfaces. 
"Any minute now, Church... any minute now."