[i]‘Unrest pulsed through the veins of Serenity, the city cried in pain as it bleed, as a battle with a virus was being waged-- no longer contained beneath some transparent surface, but now burning what, at least according to some, kept the city alight with life. With light. Someone prone to seeing symbolism might have considered the city akin to one giant Olympic torch, held by the Motum Diversum, the rebuilding of a civilization who themselves were but a reimagining of the society who lit the world’s first Olympic torch, with fire gifted directly from Prometheus.

The stokers behind the flame; Serenity’s namesake could be derived for what it did for Motum Diversum, and Dust as a whole. Serving as the [b]‘flame of Dust,’[/b] a thrice revived old world torch, changing owners like a baton, adopting different ideologies as it’s blown out by the winds of change… 

...Serenity is no longer [b]that[/b] old Serenity. New winds have blown through, winds that have been growing with this once great city since the beginning, helped it grow… we are the forces that have fought for you, for our city. We have extinguished the old flame with the blood of the corrupt and unjust, we have clipped the wings you have cried to for change…

The fighting will soon be over. Cry no more, a new serenity will soon return to you, New Sicily.’[/i]

A man sniff comes from particularly rat-like man as he sets a document upon a table, laden with others, “So,” His voice matches his face, with an Italian twinge, “Is this what we’re telling them? Where’s the part about us being charge, eh? Those yokels can’t tell their left nut from their piece!”

“That’s the best part Paolo!” A younger looking version of Paolo replies, “Those idiots don’t care who’se in charge! Long as we keep ‘em drunk with a coupl’a bullets to spare!”

Leaning back in the seat, Paolo considers the words for a moment, smirking and retorting, “Which idiotas? The civvies or the Castalias?”
[hr]
“Ora! Basta!” Lucania brought a hand down on the bar, in front of her, barely filling the main room of the Bitches Brew, was the last hope for Russell City; three Immortals that she barely knew, the few Castalias still loyal to Leoluca and herself, and whatever kind of cult her bartender had started. To say that she was not feeling inspired with confidence was an understatement.

[i]Christ, Mom, I knew you meant change… but this…[/i]

“We need a [i]plan,[/i]” she said, emphasis on the word ‘plan’-- the Wings weren’t going to hold out forever, in fact, it was her hope they wouldn’t. But once they were finished, she couldn’t try to lay claim to the capital city until the threat that managed to wipe out Motum Diversum’s finest was taken care of. “Leoluca, you take your boys and patrol the streets of the city, we’ve gotta keep civilian casualties as minimal as possible. You and I were attacked last night, Leo, there are still two-bit gangs running around looking for a come-up-- try and convince looters and anyone interested that they can make more helping out Lucania than they could ever lift from a store in a riot. If they’ve got a bias against working for an Immortal remind them of...” She thought for a moment, “Remind them of poor Adam…”

“You got it, boss.”

“Great. Excellent, thank you-- Okay, Bartender, I need you…” Lucania scanned the room, “Wait… where the hell is The Bartender?”

A scraggly looking woman in the crowd was the first to reply, “A spirit journey.”

Lucania’s eyes glazed over, “I’m sorry?” She was getting to be just a bit too old for all of this.

“A spirit journey.” Another meek man parroted.

“No, no. I heard you correctly, I’m afraid I just don’t… quite…” She gripped the bridge of her nose, “He went on a spirit journey?”

“Yes.” Someone else from the peanut gallery of the Bartender’s followers quipped.

“Okay, right, yes thank you. Is suppose I’m just asking what it is that an um,” She gave heavily exaggerated air-quotes, “[i]spirit journey,[/i]” Lucania suppressed a chuckle, “entails, exactly.”

The original was the first to speak, “He went to become one with the sands of the desert, so that he may prove his worth as our lord and savior by witnessing the heart of the world and wrestling with his ego.”

“How lovely.”

“He went to become one with himself and the world and all of our residual life energies. He went to die, rise and die again to seek his ideal, true self. To journey the cosmos, and find an ultimate truth, he will rise from the heat, to lead us to cold, decently aged barley salvation.”

“Hmm.” Lucania pondered, “He’s going to desert to lead you to beer?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

Lucania blinked, “Okay,” she addressed the group as a whole, “Are you willing to follow my orders until he gets back?”

The Bartender’s followers gave a collective shrug.

“Close enough,” Lucania shrugged in return, “Half of you patrol the perimeter of the city, the other half stay here-- this is our [i]base[/i], we fall back here, protect our call girls and the band… we do [i]not[/i] let the Bitches Brew fall, am I clear?”

No response.

Bringing down another fist on the bar, Lucania asked again, this time, at least eliciting a query.

Vladimira raised an eyebrow, “And, the rest of the city? What about that? Won’t do much good if the bar’s standing and everyone outside it is dead and every building is a pile of rubble.”

“You know, in that worse case scenario, that actually doesn’t sound too bad,” Lucania broke into a smirk, “I mean assuming we’re all alive in the bar.”

“True,” Vladimira folded her arms, “but a bunch of rubble and corpses give you neither money nor power.”

“You’re not wrong.” Lucania conceded, “But like it or not, we have got to plan for the worst case scenario… In the worst case scenario, we fall back here… However! If everything goes right…” She addressed the room, “And you bambini’s don’t fuck up too bad, the fighting should only get really bad in the outskirts of the city and the slums. Hopefully, that everyone uses bullets for money doesn’t mean they can’t afford to use a few as actual bullets, you know.. if the time comes…”

“Windcaller,” She pointed to Cullen, “I need you to go to the outskirts, take Octavia with you, you two will be our first line of defense should the Wings find themselves completely decimated--”

Octavia gave an exasperated sigh, “But--”

“[i]Aqcua la bocca![/i]” Lucania shushed, “Fire and wind, I feel like that’s a winning combination for dealing with a horde of hollow, don’t you?”

“I guess…” Octavia whined, “But--”

“But nothing!” Lucania sighed, muttering to herself, “[i]Mucchio di bambini…[/i]” After a moment, she spoke up, “Does everyone understand their roles?”

Vladimira leaned back against the wall, “And I’m guessing I have something to do as well? Probably involving yourself?”

“Yes!” Lucania made her way over to Vladimira through the room, now bustling with movement, “I need you to assist me in getting to a radio tower, preferably in one piece.” Lucania stopped short of the woman, noticing for the first time a certain harshness that complimented some of her features. Perhaps that was because this was the first time since yesterday she didn’t feel entirely blinded by her damn contacts? “We’re going to call your brother for reinforcements.” 
[hr]
The young boy who looks like Paolo shuffles past a group of guards and enters a suite. 

Entering what is the main living room of this suite, he finds it is pristine, larger than most regular houses in Dust, spotless and naturally illuminated from crystal windows and skylights. It is filled with modern art, weapons and women in various stages of being comatose. The walls are a barren, almost bone glowing white, and the carpet is a swirl of bright chinese red silk, and dak red persian cotton it is circular, with doors leading into other, presumably smaller, also circular rooms. all of the furniture is modern, white with red pillows and ovular. 

This is the Penthouse suite of the Castalia hotel. 

The young boy steps over a groaning woman. He carries with him a binder and a tray of refreshments. Moving briskly, he goes to open a door to one of the Penthouses many balconies. Two silhouettes are in front of him, lounging about before the view of the great ocean only a handful of people will ever get to see. Below the pair of emn is the city of [s]Serenity[/s]-- [i]New Sicily[/i]. 

To the left, far below, is the Juss Do’et Dam, the source of most of Dust’s power, now under new management by the [s]Castalias[/s]-- or rather, the [i]Rivera boys[/i]. To the right are some of New Sicily’s premiere beach settlements. Behind all three men, far below and in the distance, muffled screams came from the new city, peppered by distant gunshots and explosions. A revolutions was taking place.

“Take it all in, son.” Paolo sat in a recliner to the right, he spoke in a grating gravelly voice and he smoked a cigar that, up until about 16 hours ago, he couldn’t afford on his salary as Serenity councilman and advisor to the Don. Now he was the all of the councilmen, he was above the old wrinkled senile Don-- all his competition was dead, neutered or exiled. He had won, this city was his. He owned it [i]all[/i]. 

He could afford the Old World Cubans.

Paolo, rat-faced, overweight Paolo, reclining, dressed in half a suit and sunglasses that didn’t fit his face turned to the boy, coughed, and repeated himself. “Did you hear what I said, boy? Take it in!” He coughed again, “This doesn’t come to everyone! You stuck with me-- now we’ve won! You’ve earned this view, son.”

“Yes sir, mista Paolo, sir,” The young man did as commanded. Looking at the distant waves of emerald-aquamarine, he began to think. He knew that Paolo was addressing him as ‘son’ in the colloquial sense, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Paolo actually was his father. It would explain a lot, actually, he was utterly unqualified for this position, he knew it, he was sure Paolo knew it-- nepotism for your bastard child would explain that, and the physical resemblance. “It’s a lovely view, sir.”

“Ain’t it though!” Paolo coughed, taking another puff from the cigar, “You know, I look out at that and you know what I see? I see opportunity-- I see something to be conquered, I see a gem reserved for us lucky few, it’s why men like us govern from the top.”

Paolo’s companion, another overweight man in a chair to the right grunted, the young man remained silent. 

With water in his eyes, Paolo coughed again, “What do you see?”

“I guess...” The young man spoke without much thought, “A whole shitload of blue.”

Paolo frowned, “Alright wiseguy, what are you here for anyhow?”

“Oh!” The young man removed a binder from under his shoulder and handed it to Paolo, “Just delivering some initial reports-- the general populace actually supports us! We’ll have the Wings and holdouts cleared out in a few more days, but it seems this city is as good as ours.”

“Excellent.”

“Even better news, boss,” the young man began, “I hear reports of a horde of hollow about to decimate Russel, you know, if we’re lucky, that’ll do in Lucania and Leoluca.”

Paolo’s smile was toothy and yellow, his moustache quivered, “Excellent-- is there anything else?”

“Ahhh, just this food for Mr. Castalia here,” Handing off the platter to Paolo’s reclining companion, the young man exited with a sigh.

After another coughing fit, Paolo gazed with annoyed, narrowed eyes at his companion, a sweaty nervous looking man with a voracious appetite and slicked back hair.

Lucania’s father.

“Eating again, Lucky?”

Luciano tossed up a hand, as if to deflect the statement, “I eat when I get anxious, alright? I, uhh, It’s a real disorder-- compulsive eating-- I’ve got a sickness!”

Paolo leaned back, “You’re just nervous.”

“Nervous?” Luciano scoffed, “My fuckin’ Dad’s dead-- I had a part in killing him, we dismantled the family, I broke the code…”

“Someone had to pull the plug, Lucky.” Paolo said, “It had to be you-- who else could bestow that mercy? You know as well as I do it was time, Luck.”

“You’re right…” Luciano continued eating his caviar.

“The gang was dying-- the Old ways belong in the history books luck.” Paolo took another puff with a light cough, “We adapted with the times, now we run a city. Who could fault us?”

“I might just be worried about my brother, Lucania is my first-born, Paolo--”

“--I know, Luck.” Paolo replied, immediately trying to reign in his exasperation, “They’ll be fine, those two are like two-tailed roach scorpions…” He whispered to himself, “Impossible to get rid of.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing, Luck… Nothing…” Paolo tossed the half finished cigar over the ledge of the balcony, “Tell me, Luck, when you look at this view, what do you see?”

“When I was younger, I used to come out here when my father was busy. I swore that endless blue was God, or something divine…”

“And?”

“I grew up. Looking at nothing, thinking about God, it didn’t make money. You need to know people to make money.  built my Opera booth, I begun observing people, their little quirks--”

“Okay.” Paolo interrupted, “But what do you see when you look out there now?”

“Nothing.” Luciano shook his head, keeping his eyes on the great blue expanse, “Absolutely nothing.”
[hr]
Vladimira raised an eyebrow in genuine surprise, “Pardon my ignorance, but… [i]reinforcements[/i]?!” She watched the shorter woman as her thoughts churned. So Andrei was at the head of some organization, and they were going to call him for reinforcements? Just what did he have, a private army?

“Just what kind of organization is he the head of, RSB Group? Some other private army?”

She shook her head, “I mean yeah, sure, I can probably get you to a tower alive, but…” she let the sentence fade. Oh god, this was going to be an escort mission.

The ground gave a sickening squelch as Lucania took a tentative step outside of the bar. The rain had stopped, which was nice, but apparently the ground was still wet. She wondered how long she’d have to deal with wetness stubbornly absorbed by the ground. So far, she wasn’t a very big fan of the rain, it didn’t seem to serve any purpose but ruining make-up and hair. 

She committed to the step, realizing already how bad of an idea her heels and long dress were already. Giving an internal sigh, Lucania at least had the good sense to wear black. Looking back from where she held the door open, she turned back to Vladimira, still inside the now emptying Bitches Brew-- they were leaving a golden sanctuary.

“Relaaaax.” Lucania tried to give her best faux smile to the woman, “My Windcaller and Octavia might slow them down, but they won’t be enough. I expect my Uncle and his boys will hold their own, but they simply won’t be enough.” She ran a hand through her hair, “Your brother has enough people-- just enough for strategy. I don’t doubt my message will be intercepted by all manner of spy, so the hope is we get just enough to repel the threat without arising suspicion, or letting anyone, Forsaken in particular, know that Russel may fall. I need you to keep me alive so that I can do this.”

Vladimira was not convinced. “So all I have to do…” she began, “is prevent various angry things that may or may not include a horde of hollows from killing you as we make a blind dash to a radio tower in the hope that my brother will be able to send ‘reinforcements’ in the hope that we’ll somehow be able to keep a bar intact even if an army fails to repel the approaching horde?”

She looked at Lucania, not in the slightest bothered by the mud as it squelched up around her boots, “Yeah, sure, I can probably do that. What direction?”

She stepped back inside the bar for a second, “If anyone touches my gun I will do unspeakable things, am I clear?” before stepping back outside into the rain. “People shouldn’t be much trouble, it’s the things that aren’t people I’m concerned about. Sure we shouldn’t just be doing our best to kill those?”

“Dash?” Lucania scoffed, daintily jumping from any dry ground she could find to the next, “Rushing is unladylike, Vladimira. I think we can afford to spend some time walking, thinking about our next steps-- Oh, we’re going…” 

Lucania tapped her chin, eventually taking another step onto something that resembled a half-submerged brick sidewalk, “The tower [i]should[/i] be this way, If memory serves correctly. I recall the building having its own power source, in the event of [i]“disasters”[/i] such as this, no doubt.” Lucania turned to Vladimira, “Really-- I doubt the hollow spiders will give us too much trouble, initial reports seem to suggest their main strategic advantage is their numbers.” Another small leap, she narrowly avoided the ribbons of the bottom of her dress brushing against the mud, “In an enclosed environment, they’ll make themselves fairly vulnerable to a group of trained men with sufficient firepower.”

Twirling around with a single heel, Lucania faced Vladimira with a calculating smile, “The people are always the trouble-- civilians, politics, opportunists-- Has Motum Diversum even launched an evacuation for the poor and working? These people feel abandoned, that’s bound to ripple into lasting damage, and that’s just domestic issues. The more I think on it, the more I think I-- [i]we[/i] your brother and myself, Wintergold, can step in and take over the role of governing body, but even if the transition goes smoothly-- and it won’t-- the moment the Forsaken sense weakness they’ll be on us like wolves, and that’s not even thinking of a Motum Diversum response…”

Lucania span on her heel again, twirling like a ballerina and smiling like a schoolgirl, “You have to enjoy the small reprieves, Vladimira!”

Vladimira folded her arms in amusement. Ladylike? Her? Maybe Lucania, but herself?

She snickered quietly to herself at that thought.

“So basically,” she began, walking forward in the direction Lucania was moving, “We kill the swarm after letting it eat the Wings, or whatever Hollow swarms do, and then bottleneck and turn their numbers against them, incite the people to armed rebellion aided by a small private army and repel the retaliation from both the Forsaken and Motum Diversum? Am I missing anything?”

She raised an eyebrow, “Yeah that seems perfectly doable. Shall we get a move on then?”

“Ohhh…”Lucania pouted toward Vladimira, “You know, you’re no fun, Vladimira. Just because the roses have become venus flytrap monstrosities doesn’t mean we shouldn’t stop and enjoy things when we can!”

“But what if I enjoy destroying those aforementioned venus flytrap monstrosities? What then?” Vladimira smirked, before letting the smile fall off her face, “Seriously though, which direction to the radio tower?”

“Che vuoi! Distensione!” Lucania began, making a quintessential Italian hand gesture, with palms upturned and fingers brought together, “Believe it or not, I actually am taking us in the right direction, we go straight a few more blocks then turn left, past the district gate into the richer part of town. Shouldn’t be too hard to see from there, it’s the tallest tower in the white collar district, it’s got a sky needle and everything.” She skipped from one semi-dry stone to the next.

“You mean it has an antenna.” Vladimira snarked, “The thingy that lets it send signals to other antennas. Generally a long, tall, and thin thing so the signal goes far.” Putting on her serious airs again, she asked, “Any real resistance we can expect to run into? I’m not really at 100% right now, so don’t expect me to be able to fight a war. I’m not really concerned about people, but you never know.”

She pulled her pistols out of their holsters, checking both of them to make sure they were fully loaded, Comrade as well, just in case someone hid behind something. Looking back at Lucania hopping from dryish stone to dryish stone, she sighed in exasperation. “Just take my boots, we need to hurry.” Her boots landed on the mud with a wet squelch as she pulled them off, “Just throw those on so you can stop worrying about your feet, please.”

“Vladimira…” Lucania looked at the pair of muddied, well worn boots wordlessly, a neutral expression painted onto her face, “Your boots... they don’t match my dress. You can’t possibly expect me to wear them with a sound mind.”

Bending down, Vladimira scooped up a handful of mud, “Put on the boots or I throw this mud at your feet. And ruin your dress, at least until it’s washed.” 

Lightning crackled, thunder roared, and the light from a nearby bolt illuminated her face, frozen  in a manic grin, eyes wide and driven mad with power as the forces of darkness overtook her.

“Mud all over your pretty dress, unless you join me on the dark side!” She thundered before letting out her best maniacal sardonic evil laugh as the lightning flashed once more, casting her eyes in malevolent shadow, thunder boomed, and mud of dress-despoiling dripped through her fingers like a dark, primordial, ancient ooze.

Lucania’s lips parted as Vladimira readied herself with the mud-- the wet soil from the Russell City slums wasn’t even really ‘[i]mud[/i]’ so much as it was a ‘[i]mud-like substance[/i]’ years of grime, muck and all kind of unpleasant human and animal byproducts dripped like the most horrid pollutant from between Vladimira’s fingers. 

Lucania quaked in her heels, trembling on her brick island. She needed to run.

“I swear on the good lord…” Lucania pointed at the wretched filth ball, eyes wide like a sand doe caught in headlights, “If you even come near me with that… Vladimira… I swear I will scream!”

She took a step back.

Vladimira took a step forward, then another. “The boots, they call you.”

“The boots…” Lucania takes another step back, almost slips, and regains her composure, “Are an absolute fashion faux pas!”

“Ah, but see, what if you need to run in those pretty shoes of yours? Imagine the horror, splattered in mud and whatever else in this… whatever this is. The. Horror.” Vladimira took another menacing step forward as she opened her hand to let Lucania view the sludge it held.

Lucania grimaced at the sight, “Th-the whole point of you being here is that I shouldn’t need to run!”

Vladimira stopped, raising an eyebrow, “I’m not bulletproof. Not even a little bit. My job is to keep you from coming down with a bad case of death, which might require you to run.”

“It shouldn’t if you’re good!” Lucania shrugged, “I have nothing against running, I’m just not going to do so in mud. Vladimira, a woman has her limits.”

Vladimira sighed, “I’m good at killing things, escort missions? Not so much. Just put on the boots, so that you don’t slip or something and fall in this… sludge.”

Lucania sighed, with a pained expression, she placed a heel in the mud, “I’ll just clean the heels later,” shaking her head, she elaborated, “by clean I mean burn, of course. I’d much rather lose a pair of off-brand heels than have those clunky things clash with my Old World designer one-piece. There are only three like it in the world, you know. I must do it justice.”

Rolling her eyes, Vladimira wiped her feet on a nearby more or less clean rock and slipped back into her boots, “Clunky, sure, but also nigh indestructible.” She began walking towards the tower, “Honestly, what persuaded you to wear a dress like that in these circumstances? Surely you’ve got something more suitable for, oh I don’t know, life or death scenarios?”

“I refuse to fear death, my dear Russian companion,” Lucania followed Vladimira toward the radio tower, mirth in her eyes, “If I’m to die, I’d much rather do so in Balenciaga’s finest.”