[h3][color=c2b280]Levi Orienko[/color][/h3][hr][justify][indent][indent][indent]
The morning came with warmth and light, but Levi could still smell the old smoke clinging to the town’s edges, the kind that soaked into walls and the people alike. From the rooftop across the street, a paper bird perched lazily. It wasn’t big, no bigger than a sparrow, but its sight was his sight. The world below spread open through their tether.

[i][colour=c2b280]’Two soldiers by the gate. One half-asleep. Patrol rotation every twelve minutes. Three civilians sweeping the street. One… no, two? volunteers headed this way.’[/colour][/i]

His bird drifted down and landed gently onto his shoulder, before becoming a curl of ash. It was a habit now, watching his position, his surroundings, who was coming and going, who might be a threat or a friend. He didn’t like being surprised. Not anymore.

Years ago, the people who took him had made a game of surprise — lights on and off, footsteps in the dark, voices that said horrible things in a language he had yet to master. At nine, he learned that fear sharpens everything. At fifteen, he learned it could also make you vanish. And now, at seventeen, he used both like a second language.

Levi walked the last few meters to the New Town Hall gates, shoulders squared, eyes hidden beneath his fringe. The pack on his back barely shifted. The town itself was strange. Too alive for the wreckage it wore. Mango trees still leaned over the streets, green and arrogant against the gray. Children’s laughter echoed somewhere distant, and for a second, Levi had to remind himself this was post-war. Peace always sounded wrong when you’d lived without it too long. He stopped near the steps, gaze scanning the soldiers before him. Trust wasn’t something anyone here had in abundance.

His name came from behind him, loud and clear enough to cut through the morning heat. He’d known it was coming before the echo reached him — his bird had spotted the man a block away, moving with that confident stride that didn’t belong in a place like this. Bahram Mainyu — hard to mistake. The man carried energy like a fire under his skin, the kind that drew people in without trying. Last time Levi had seen him was in Siberia, both of them knee-deep in the shit that reeked of diesel, gunpowder, and blood.

For a heartbeat, the memory flickered — Bahram’s laughter somewhere between gunfire, a flash of color against the white. Levi’s lip twitched, a slight flush appearing at his cheeks, something close to a smile but not quite. He didn’t call out, didn’t wave. Just watched as Bahram made his way closer, that same reckless ease radiating off him. Levi could almost hear the warmth in it, the familiarity. He wasn’t sure what to do with either. 

He shifted slightly, gaze flicking past Bahram for a second — to the second figure further down the street. Black leather jacket, boots that spoke of travel. The man’s movements were calm, deliberate. Likely, another new arrival. Lubao was filling with strangers and ghosts, and Levi wasn’t sure which one he counted as.

He adjusted his pack, [colour=c2b280]“...Guess we’ll be working together, again,”[/colour] he murmured, voice low, words lost to the heat and the hum of the street. 

Whatever awaited inside the Town Hall, orders, alliances, ghosts of old wars: it didn’t matter.

He was here, he was free, and for the first time in a long time, he’d chosen the direction himself.
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[h3][color=efcc00]Archer “Griff” Griffin[/color][/h3][hr][justify][indent][indent][indent]
There was no surface. Only deep black and the slow pulse of something deep beneath it. Soundless. Endless. Heavy. Griff couldn’t tell if he was sinking or suspended; only that the black pressed against him from every direction, cold and absolute. It should’ve felt suffocating, but instead there was calm, the kind that came just before drowning. Then came the glint. Two faint embers in the dark. They floated before him, steady, patient. Watching.

[i]Didn’t you want power?[/i]

The voice wasn’t a voice at all. It came from inside his ribs, resonating through the cage of his chest, deeper than bone.

[i]You asked for strength, begged for it. You took it with both hands and you burned it all just as quick.[/i]

He tried to speak, but the deep filled his lungs. No words, only bubbles that rose and broke against the silence.

[i]Now look at you,[/i] the darkness whispered. [i]Small again. Fragile again, Weak! A waste of potential.[/i]

The embers flared, shifting to a molten red in the black, and for an instant they took shape — the faint outline of the gauntlets, warped and cracked, fading at the edges.

[i]THUMP.[/i]

The light rippled. The black vibrated.

[i][b]THUMP.[/b][/i]

The second came harder, a sound that shattered the dream and tore through his body. The black peeled away, dragging his consciousness upward like a hook through his ribcage. Everything blurred, the heat, the noise, the light, and the surface broke around him. He gasped awake. Air slammed into his lungs. Cold, sterile, sharp. He coughed, a deep, rattling sound, and the motion sent knives of pain through his ribs. Every nerve flared at once. His shoulder burned like open fire; his chest ached with every breath.

White ceiling. Ceiling fan. The low hum of generators. The faint sting of antiseptic. He blinked hard, squeezing away the blurring water filling his vision. forcing his eyes to focus. The room around him was dim but steady, infirmary lights, a bed beneath him, bandages winding tight across his torso and shoulder. Someone had cleaned the blood off him. He could still feel the rough drag of gauze along raw skin. His clothes lay on the chair beside him, folded. He raised his hands. No gauntlets. No weight. Just the plain bracers around his forearms, inert, cold, almost too light now.

For a long while, he just breathed. Each inhale dragged through his teeth, rough but real. The world didn’t sway or explode. The walls didn’t scream. There was no gunfire, no smoke, no roar of Noble Arms tearing through air. Just the low, steady hum of life returning. His eyes wandered toward the small window. Morning light slipped through the blinds, pale and forgiving. It hurt to look at, but he didn’t stop. He remembered the wind. The fall. The moment everything broke.

He could’ve been dead. He should’ve been dead. Instead, he was here when many weren’t, by his hands. There was no doubt this time. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the movement stiff and halting. His feet touched the cool floor, grounding him. For a second, he stayed there, hunched forward, hands on his knees, his breath rattling slowly through the quiet. No fire. No rage. Just pain. Just weight.
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