[b][OMEGAS - The Cage][/b]

[b][Captain][/b]
[i]“How goes the training? I must say, I have had quite an odd day so far. Everyone kept giving me odd glances, and asking if I was alright.”[/i]
Roark hadn’t sensed Tabitha coming- he rarely did, but the dying whines of The Alphas made that generally difficult task far harder- and thus had his back to her as she approached, eyes fixated on his young, Slavic apprentice.
So when she spoke, it caught him mildly off guard: Roark jumped very slightly, then tossed his eyesight over his shoulder, “Eh?”, and froze in place. 
“…jesús dulce,” he murmured, quietly, his brown eyes steadily glazing over at the sight.

Roark, for the most part, had never considered himself a ‘fashion snob’: But he’d been born and raised in Madrid, which had been one of the fashion capitals of the [i]world[/i], so he supposed he had a hereditary eye for style…
[i]This[/i] was not style. 
What it was was some gaudy, amaranthine relic: A sagging cloak on a shapely form…
A familiar one, too.

Roark had spoken very few words to Tabitha when the two had actually [i]been[/i] Runners- even in those days, Roark had refused to wear a tracksuit, instead opting for a pair of shorts and an admittedly rather tacky denim jacket- and when they had spoken, upon Maggie’s insistence,
(“You have to meet my family [i]some[/i] day!” 
“Sí, but must it be [i]today?”[/i]
“Yes!”)
They’d said very few memorable things to one another.
But that tracksuit… he could never forget that tracksuit. 
And seeing Tabitha in it now was like being visited by a ghost: Next he fully expected to hear Maggie calling him from afar. 
But that call never came, and slowly he was dredged out of his memories. 

He blinked, slowly, before eyeing the young woman up, “And, uh… [i]are you[/i] feeling alright, amiga?” he asked, in a cautious tone, “You’re wearing decided less, uh…” he trailed off, and then gestured to the leather of his cuirass.
Then a thought struck him: [i]He[/i] was the one clad in leather today. [i]He[/i] was the tall, imposing figure, barking orders at a younger woman.
A slow, dramatized expression of dawning realisation suddenly overcame his features: “Dios mío!”, he yelled, suddenly, [i]“I[/i] have become the dominatrix!”

He leaned back, feigning agony, before he straightened up again, a playful smile creeping across his face. 
“And that makes you the whipping boy! So tell me, whelp…” he paused, and grinned, “… what is with the crazy get up, eh?”
He glanced back at Ruslana,“As for training, it is going extrordinar… extraordir… ex… ah, [i]fuck![/i]”, the Spaniard exclaimed, stomping his foot irritably at his own lack of English vernacular, “Well! Training is going [i]well[/i], isn’t it Ruslana?”

[b][Zordon][/b]
Ruslana spun on her heel at the sound of another persons voice. Her fingers twitched around her bow, nearly jumping to her waist to notch another arrow. Roarks recognition of the woman, however, eased her tension slightly. She shifted her weight from one foot to another, a slight sway noticeable in her hips as her eye scanned over the woman. Her face was vaguely familiar and Ruslana felt like she had at least seen the woman in passing though, which a much different attire. 

[i][b]"I have become the Dominatrix!"[/b][/i] she heard Roark announce, giving him a strange glance. [b][i]"And that makes you the whipping boy!"[/i][/b] Ruslana was now fully listening to the conversation and admittedly, more interested than she would openly admit to. Her eye fell onto Roark again, watching him struggle with a word and she felt the corners of her mouth tug downward. She could relate to struggling with the language and fought away a strong pang of compassion, an emotion she'd been raised to recognize as weakness. 

[b][i]"Training is going well, isn't it Ruslana?"[/b][/i] Ruslana blinked quickly, her thoughts lingering too long on Roark being a Dominant, this woman being the whipping boy and... her being the 'victim'.. "Um, yes.." she mumbled, clearing her throat and placing her bow across her torso as she had earlier. "If you have become the Dominatrix and she the whipping boy, what does that make me?" she asked, before her tact could stop her. Quickly she raised both hands in a surrender motion. "Inquiring minds want to know what part I play."

Smirking, she extended her hand to the woman. "Ruslana. I've seen you before but don't believe we've met." The moment of candidness surprised even herself but, Roarks method of doing things had been rubbing off on her since she had begun her training with him. Not that she minded entirely. It had made life a bit easier when she approached situations in a less aggressive manner.

[b][Prince][/b]
[i]”And that makes you the whipping boy!”[/i]
Tabitha folded her arms, a bemused smile crossing her lips, “Oh, really now? The dominatrix, are you?” Tabitha approached him, bending over to look him in the eyes (even though their height difference really wasn’t that great), their noses lightly bumping against each other, “Roark, dear…” She stopped herself – She was about give a long lecture about how he was the one who put that Runner girl out of her misery when she was broken and battered after Tabitha had her ‘fun’ with her, how she relished in causing pain and seeing people cry out in agony… But she decided to let Roark have his fun; it wasn’t her right to ruin that for him. Instead, she grinned playfully, “I wouldn’t be a whipping boy if I was in a sundress and floral underwear.”
[i]"If you have become the Dominatrix and she the whipping boy, what does that make me?"[/i]
Tabitha stood up straight, her playful grin widening as her coy gaze slid over to Ruslana, “Well… As his faithful student, surely [i]you[/i] would be the whipping boy in this equation, Ms. Valov?” She snickered, “Don’t you agree, Roark?” Tabitha graciously took Ruslana’s hand and shook it firmly, “I don’t believe we have met. Though with my infamy amongst the Omegas, I’d be surprised if you hadn’t heard my name somewhere. Tabitha Reynard, a pleasure to properly meet you, Ms. Valov. I hope you’re co-operating with Roark in your training.”

[b][Captain][/b]
Although the display was only momentary- a micro-expression, lasting only a second and almost unperceivable to the naked eye- Roark was both extremely uncomfortable and fiercely defensive when Tabitha made her approach. 
Instinctively, he found his shoulders tensing, and his feet slipping into an age-old combatant stance.
His lips curled up- just for a microsecond, barely long enough for even [i]him[/i] to realise it’d happened- to give him the likeness of a snarling dog, and his eyes almost seemed to harden under her scrutiny. 

Roark valued very few things in this husk of a world: But over these last few weeks, his personal space had quickly become one of them. 
Everything about him was designed to preserve his newly formed bubble, he’d come to realize: He boxed so he could [i]push people back[/i], and he notched arrows to make sure they [i]stayed[/i] back.
Perhaps that was a consequence of being tortured by your own side. 

Still, Tabitha was- kind of, sort of- a friend. 
An ally? 
Something like that.
Thus, his discomfort receded just as quickly as it came, winking into- and then out of- existence, all in the space of a second.
His shoulders dropped, and he held back some small, guttural noise of discomfort as Tabitha juxtaposed him with a grin.
[i]“I wouldn’t be a whipping boy if I was in a sundress and floral underwear.”[/i]
He didn’t respond, he simply stood resolute as she straightened up again.
He didn’t even move when she passed to greet Ruslana.
[I]”Hijo de puta,”[/i] he hissed, mentally, to himself, [i]”I need to get a hold of my temper. Who needs another mad one around [b]here?[/b]”[/i]

[i]“Well… As his faithful student, surely you would be the whipping boy in this equation, Ms. Valov? Don’t you agree, Roark?”[/i]
“Eh?”, the Spaniard lifted his head, having been drawn once again back into the real world.
He chuckled softly, as slowly the light nature of the situation overcame him again, “Oh, sí!”, he grinned anew, “Most [i]definitely![/i] So keep it in mind, next time you misbehave, signora!”, he made a whipping gesture.

[b][Zordon][/b]
A twinge of anger flashed through Ruslana as the woman gave her a name that she did not carry. As she continued talking, Ruslana felt her mind wander to memories of her family and her anger was quickly replaced with homesickness and she stood still with an out of focus gaze. Her eye had been resting upon Tabitha as she spoke, looking to Roark as he faltered to respond to the woman, snapping her back into the present with his playful response. Lana turned to Tabitha and shrugged her shoulders. "I only do as my teacher commands of me." She internally decided that she would not bother with correcting the woman of her surname. After all, what were the chances that it would ever matter in this new home of hers. "What brings you here this morning to this [i]lovely[/i] establishment?"

[b][Captain][/b]
"Si, and-" Roark interjected, "-At the risk of sounding repetitive, what is with the get up, amiga?"

[b][Prince][/b]
Tabitha tilted her head, noticing a falter in the Russian’s expression. Creasing her brow, she napped her fingers, “Ah! Of course, wrong name. Ms. Oryol, was it? I do apologise, you remind me of someone else I knew… I intended no offense.”
[i]"I only do as my teacher commands of me."[/i]
Tabitha snickered, her lips curling back into that playful grin, “Take it from me Ms. Oryol, that’s certainly something a whipping boy would say,” She chuckled once more, arms folded.
[i]"What brings you here this morning to this lovely establishment?"
"Si, and at the risk of sounding repetitive, what is with the get up, amiga?"[/i]
“I didn’t want to wear the usual clothes. It was just a feeling, I’d worn them all day every day for just… Too long,” She shrugged her shoulders casually, “It was a mere whim that is all. This is the only other outfit I own. I’m not sure why I held onto it for so long…” Tabitha’s eyes fell to the ground as she creased her brow in deep thought, “I… Suppose even I can be known to cling to the past,” She mumbled to herself. For a moment she stood silent, lost in her thoughts. Eventually she snapped back to reality, shaking her head, “I was just here to see how Roark was handling your training, that’s all. I know precious few people around here as well as I know Roark,” She shrugged once more, “So I often seek his company.”

[b][Captain][/b]
"She jokes, of course," the Spaniard assured his apprentice, "She actually seeks me out because of my [i]incredible[/i] charisma," he jested, "The fact she knows me is just a coincidence, sí? Convenient!" 
He gestured to himself, "That, and I too look good in leather, no?", he smiled wryly.

[b][Zordon][/b]
Ruslana could not contain the smirk that crossed her face. The friendly banter between the two was something she had dearly missed. She suddenly felt compelled to be a part of that friendliness only for an onslaught of reality to bring her to her senses; she barely knew these people. Yes, Roark had graciously taken it upon himself to train her and she was ever so grateful for it. But, it seemed almost out of line for her to participate in the almost flirty conversation.

Deciding for herself to ignore the booming inner voice of her father reminding her that she was not to step out of line, she chipped in. 

"How could any one resist your never ending charm and the way you wear your leather!" she exclaimed, a playful tone in her voice. However, as a short silence drew on after her comment, she became increasingly self conscious. "I-I jest, of course." Ruslana added, rubbing the back of her neck nervously.

[b][Prince][/b]
Tabitha feigned rubbing her chin to hide a wide, snickering grin. Many retorts ran through her mind, ranging from playful to just downright sadistically cheeky, but in the end she simply settled for a coy, "How indeed," with a chuckle.

[b][Captain][/b]
Roark made a jovially confident pose, totally oblivious to the ulterior sentiments of either comment, "Sí, how indeed!"

[b][RUNNERS - SECTOR V][/b]
When Eva had addressed him, Churchill had returned that same, uncertain smile she wore: It boasted a light-hearted enthusiasm, but both knew it was a hollow crow. 
“Smile and bare it for the children”, that had always been the unspoken motto. 
However, this was a short-lived similarity: Upon recognising her own discomfort, Church’s expression wilted into a softer, more empathetic one. 
[i]“If you’re going to be leading the way, I’ll take up the rear. If you don’t mind, that is. Wouldn’t want to step on your toes, or anything.”[/i]

He remained quiet for a moment, and simply smiled at her, his eyes warming slowly as though they were two pools of gradually melting ice. 
Then, he clapped his hand against her shoulder softly, and leaned a little closer, so that nobody else might hear them.
“Whatever makes you comfortable, alright?”, he whispered to her, “Just promise me you’ll keep up.”
Then, he withdrew, and cracked a genuine, playful grin.
“Feel free to step on my toes, Eva. As long as you tell me where you found them, first.”
He nudged her lightly, before turning back to the rest of Sector V.

“You hear that? As punishment for showing up late and [i]giving me sass[/i], Eva’s going to be taking the rear on this,” he turned to Melanie, “And you’ll be keeping her company, I won’t hear anything to the contrary.”
He gave her a quick raise of his brow, just to assure her he said it all with light-hearted intentions.
He then gestured between the two of them in mock seriousness, like the head-teacher addressing a dissident student, “No staring at my legs. Just because I’m wearing shorts doesn’t mean I’m a piece of meat.”
He waggled a finger in sportive disappointment, and then returned to his Sector as a whole.
“Acacia: You’re a medic, I don’t need to explain to you how hard this is going to be on our bodies. So you get excused from missing my lecture… [i]this[/i] time, at least. Keep us all in one piece, you might just get another free pass.” 

[i]“So, besides heading down below, what other possible problems could occur?”[/i]
Melanie had inquired, from out of the blue.
Churchill turned to face her, again: She seemed… uncomfortable. 
[i]“Should we expect armed resistance…?”[/i]
He paused, and frowned again.
“It’s impossible to say. There’s no reason to expect Omega or Spectres on this occasion, but… we can’t rule them out. And I can’t say The Black Church won’t be run by a shotgun preacher, either. So you’ll need to be on your guard, alright?”
He threw a glance around, making eye contact with every member of his team for at least a few fleeting seconds each.
“I believe in you lot. You won’t let me down.”

He gave a few seconds for that sentiment to sink in, before straightening up again.
“Well then. If nobody has anything else to say… it’s time for our descent,” Churchill turned on what would have- at some point- been the ball of his foot, before gesturing for his Sector to follow him to Sundown’s main gate. 
The gate had, at some point, been a foldable driveway that Sundown Cola Inc. had used to get ingredients delivered directly to their factory itself, as opposed to the car-park. 
It had been a great convenience for them: And it was a great convenience for the Runners, too. 
Now, it was a drawbridge: A massive, umber slab of resilient stone, tethered by a series of chains and monitored at all times by at least two standing members of Sector X. 

Today, when they arrived, it was Maggie awaiting them, arms folded and a dark red rucksack hanging limply from her shoulder.
As they approached, she engaged Church: “Afternoon, golf ball cheek.”
“Say what you want, my bruise’ll disappear but you’ll always be ugly.”
There was a pause, before the two suddenly hugged tightly.
“You better not die down there,” she warned, “If you die, I’ll find your ghost and I’ll kick its ass.”
Churchill chuckled, “I don’t doubt it for a minute, you psycho.”
After a minute or so, they pulled away, and Maggie tossed him the rucksack.
“There’re the supplies you asked for. And if you run into any trouble… just call for me, I’ll come running.”
Church grinned playfully, “It’d take two days for you to arrive. So unless we’re combatting a cult of narcoleptics…”
“Don’t rule it out. Remember that Omega with diabetes?”
“No.”
“That’s because I found him first. Now get out of here, you suicidal fuck-head.” 

Church nodded, and shook Maggie’s hand, before the drawbridge descended behind her, and she stepped aside.
Sector V trailed on out: Until it got to Acacia and Kenna, whom she stopped suddenly.
Then, she knelt down to their height, and eyed them with her one retina. 
“You two are the fresh meat, right?” she asked, “Good. It’s your jobs to make sure the rest of V doesn’t do something stupid.”
She glanced over at Church, Klaus, Marina and Henry, all of whom had stopped to stare back at them.
“I love them to pieces, but between you and me? Fucking clueless.” 
“I can hear you,” Church assured her, from some ten feet away, “And I think that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said about me.”
“Don’t get used to it, spring-heels,” Maggie straightened up, and clapped Acacia and Kenna on the shoulders, “If he says something stupid, refuse to do it, alright? Seriously.” 

And with that she sent them on their way, watching Melanie pass- it was hard to tell if she was staring, with one eye- and winking encouragingly at Eva as they crossed paths- but again, it was hard to tell if it was [i]actually[/i] a wink- before bringing the bridge up against behind them.
Churchill was already slowly climbing off of the edge of Sundown’s northernmost neighbour, a massive granite affair that had, at some point, been a law firm.
He gestured for Sector V to follow.
And they did.

For the most part, the climb was fairly uneventful: There was little conversation- although Klaus and Churchill exchanged some words of annoyance in German whenever they came across a fire-escape too rickety to rest on- and the air around them all was tense. 
It became immediately apparent what Churchill had meant about the effects of over-oxygenation as they slowly got lower and lower, however.
Every twenty minutes, Church would shatter a window or crack a weak piece of drywall so that V might rest their aches for five minutes, and catch their now oxygen-rich breaths. 
“It sounds like terrible advice” Churchill had told them once, after they’d descended a few miles, “But try not to breathe as much. You can probably hold your breath a lot longer down here.”

Breathe held or no, though, the climb was a grating one: Soon they’d descended almost half way down, and the night had fallen upon them so quickly that they’d ended up climbing in the dark. 
It was here they made camp: On the hundredth floor down, they’d broken the window of a computing department within the company, and set up a place to rest for the night.

From that rucksack Maggie had provided him, Churchill withdrew a blanket for each of them, and a bedroll on which to use it: They were thin and quite uncomfortable, but in that respect were not too dissimilar from their own mattresses. 
He arranged them in a circle, and then took the liberty of taking one of the stainless steel bins the office had to offer, and filling it with newspapers found deeper within his bag.
Lastly, he withdrew a series of tin cans, and a lighter: He lit the newspaper alight, and tended to the spark for a few moments, before it began to spread.
Soon, a steady fire was cooking, and Church packed half of the tins back into his rucksack.
After doing this, he broke a shelf off of a metal filing rack with the butt of his club, and placed it over the fire, before propping his cans up on top of it.

“Alright everyone,” he said, sitting down on his roll and gesturing for his friends to do the same, “This is supper for the night. When the cans start hissing, Eva should probably start stabbing them open,” he explained, resting his golf club across his lap.
The tiredness in his eyes was a lot more apparent by firelight: Dark rings hung beneath his emeralds.
“You’ve all made me really proud, today,” he smiled wearily, “Tomorrow we hit The Black Church, so I want you all fed and rested…”
He looked around.
“How’re you all feeling?”