Skai

Fashionably Late: A Crime Thriller Roleplay

I have a very rough draft of a character, but I'm not sure I'll be able to finish it by the application date. No hard feelings if miss it and you choose another applicant in my place :)

Fashionably Late: A Crime Thriller Roleplay

I have been lurking, and frankly I'm enjoying the characters that have been created so much that I figured I'd listen to Wraith and jump in. All I have left is to add some supporting cast, but I'll have that done by the end of the weekend.

Sheet Code

█ Charles Aponte

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█ ███ ██ █ S U M M A R Y █ ██ ███ █ CHARLES MATTEO APONTE AGE 35 GENDER Male ETHNICITY/RACE Caucasian MARTIAL STATUS Single SEXUALITY Bisexual ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

▅BIOGRAPHY▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ Charles Matteo Aponte was born between countries and temperaments, into a marriage that seemed, even in retrospect, improbably balanced. His mother, Elena Croft, was an American gifted cellist whose emotions lived close to the surface, who believed music was a moral language, a way of teaching the heart how to behave. His father, Lucien Aponte, was Swiss, a computer engineer devoted to systems, elegant logic, and the quiet comfort of precision. They met in Zurich while Elena studied abroad, two people speaking different dialects of devotion; hers loud and luminous, his restrained and exacting. Their love never burned theatrically, but it endured, and when Charles was born, they raised him carefully between New England summers filled with salt air and song, and Zurich winters shaped by glassy streets and disciplined silence. From his mother he learned how to listen for feeling beneath words, how sorrow could be disguised as humor, how admiration could be coaxed from strangers with the right cadence of voice. From his father he learned that order was power, that patience could outlast anger, that the most durable control was the kind no one noticed being exercised. Even as a child, Charles understood instinctively which parent to resemble at any given moment. He cried easily when his mother watched, clung to her skirts, absorbed her tenderness, but with his father he was still and observant, his questions sparse and exact, his attention sharp enough to be unsettling. Adults called him sweet, thoughtful, gentle. They never realized how often he was measuring them in return. His intellect emerged early but without spectacle. Charles did not announce answers, he waited to be asked. He did not correct classmates, he let them reach the conclusion themselves, then quietly confirmed it. By adolescence he was already practicing a careful choreography of humility, allowing others the comfort of competence while ensuring he remained indispensable. He skipped grades with apologetic smiles, graduated high school years early, and accepted attending Princeton with polite gratitude, as though opportunity were something he merely happened upon rather than something he had positioned himself to receive. At university he cultivated an image of calm brilliance, the soft-spoken prodigy who played cello late at night in empty practice rooms, who stayed behind to help classmates sort out their code, who never raised his voice even when others did. Profesors trusted him, peers confided in him. He learned that people revealed more when they felt unjudged, that secrets rose naturally in the presence of attentive silence. After graduation, he did not chase headlines. He chose obscurity, precision, and accumulation. He moved through several tech companies, improving infrastructures, solving failures no one else could untangle, never staying long enough to threaten those above him, always leaving behind the faint impression that things worked better after he had passed through. Managers described him as reliable, gracious, unusually mature. He sent money home. He called his mother every Sunday. He listened to his father speak about restraint, about how technology was a blade that cut both ways, about how the most dangerous men were not the loudest ones. Harvard’s fellowship program found him the way such institutions always did, quietly, reverently, as though brilliance were a natural resource that required stewardship. He immersed himself in behavioral modeling, predictive systems, machine learning architectures designed to anticipate human decisions before the mind itself had settled. He spoke often about ethics, about responsibility, about the importance of building tools that protected the vulnerable. His papers were elegant, his arguments persuasive, he asked questions that sounded like concern and functioned like reconnaissance. It was during this period that LUCENT first took shape, not as a corporation, but as a philosophy, that chaos was simply data insufficiently gathered, that morality was a variable influenced by environment, incentive, and fear, that people could be understood well enough to be guided without ever realizing they were being led. ▅CAREER▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ When Charles founded LUCENT at twenty-eight, the narrative wrote itself. The philanthropic prodigy. The half-European visionary. The quiet genius who quoted Rilke in interviews and funded youth orchestras in cities no investor could locate on a map. He spoke of privacy as sacred while designing systems that understood the precise geometry of its erosion, of connection as salvation while perfecting the architecture of observation. LUCENT grew with unnatural speed, not through spectacle but through absorption, threading itself into infrastructure, communication platforms, financial systems, and security networks until disentanglement became unthinkable. Every company he’d worked for in the past slowly folded into LUCENT, as if it were his plan all along. Charles remained, in public, unchanged by the ascent, gracious in interviews, reserved on stage, endlessly patient beneath the lights, always crediting his mother for his empathy and his father for his discipline, presenting himself as the fortunate convergence of art and logic, compassion and code. His name became linked with countless groundbreaking donations and side projects. Millions flowed into mental health initiatives designed to modernize crisis-response technologies, into digital literacy programs for rural communities, into refugee education platforms that provided classrooms to children who had no direct access to an education, into disaster relief infrastructure that promised food and shelter first and foremost. He framed these gifts not as charity but as responsibility, as though wealth were a temporary condition and stewardship the only moral posture it permitted. He spoke in the polished cadences of a man who had practiced sincerity until it became indistinguishable from instinct, threading ethics in AI, human-centered design, and the dream of a safer internet into speeches that sounded less like corporate addresses and more like benedictions. His interviews trended. His lectures went viral. Twice, committees spoke his name into the same sentence as the Nobel Peace Prize. Twice, journalists speculated about timelines, probabilities, inevitability. Charles responded with modest smiles, soft deflections, carefully worded statements about collective effort and unfinished work. He cultivated the impression of a man perpetually surprised by his own significance, as though success were something that happened around him rather than because of him. Both of his parents would have recognized the truth, if they had known how to name it. Elena would have seen how easily his kindness opened doors, how naturally people leaned toward him, how quickly admiration softened into trust. Lucien would have understood how deliberately he chose which doors remained closed, how every public vulnerability was measured, how every confession offered to him became another thread in a widening lattice of influence. Charles did not lose his gentleness as he rose. He refined it. He sharpened it into something precise enough to slip past defenses, persausive enough to gather loyalty, intimate enough to invite confession, and durable enough to rearrange entire lives without ever staining his hands. To those who know him only by reputation, he remains the rarest of men, a genius without arrogance, a billionaire without cruelty, a visionary without appetite for harm. To those who look closer, to the politicians he’s blackmailed, the whistleblowers he’s ensured were buried under lawsuits or character assassination, to the competitors he’s driven to to suicide via financial and social sabotage, he is something else entirely; a man who learned, very young, that control does not require force, only time, attention, and the discipline to be underestimated. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

▅_{SUPPORTING CAST}▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔	NAME Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat.	▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔	NAME Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat.
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔	NAME Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat.	▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔	NAME Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat.

@Sleepy Tani

TOM HIDDLESTON <3

Fashionably Late // The Wild Hunt

Whether it'll be a surviving a terribly awkward TMZ video or surviving another Hyperverse, I'm in.

Recollections: Linebreaker

Alyssa "Lyss" Burns

"Pour yourself a drink, put on some lipstick, and get your shit together."

_______________________________________________ Alyssa Burns She/Her | 27 | European-American | 5'9" | 145lbs _______________________________________________ Real _______________________________________________ Skills & Talents "My silence is not weakness." ___________________________________ [+] [Cooking] ⫻ Her grandmother taught her how to make a meal out of anything, no matter how little they had. [A Thief's Repertoire] ⫻ Lyss has professional skill in the line of work that some might consider thievery. She has the stealth, agility, sleight of hand, and the capability to deceive and charm with her wits and a dazzling smile. She started young with the basics, learning to pick locks, hot wire cars, and hold up her own in a fight due to her earlier failures. She understands how to navigate an urban, strange, or potentially hostile environment; how to appear confident in her movements while she gets her bearings, all the while planning her next move.

Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "This body is the same as mine, and yet it feels so foreign to me." This world's version of herself has an unblemished, striking look to her features. Her dark brown hair falls to her middle back, sleek and shiny, taken well care of. Her fair skin is soft to the touch, smooth and unscarred. Her eyes remain the same green flecked brown, and they still seem to peer into the soul of anyone she meets. The makeup that adorns her face is simple, just a neutral smoky eye and a dark shade of lipstick. Her long legs give her height, and her figure curves in the places that most mature women possess. The Lyss within this body stands confident, a ruse to deceive those who do not notice the tension in her muscles. Her face remains impassive unless her temper and sarcasm get the better of her emotions. The closet in this world also remains similar to her own, yet it lacks her collection of restaurant t-shirts that Lyss picked up as a server. The various leather jackets, sweaters, and jeans consist of dark colors like black, brown, maroon, or navy. She is not shy to show skin, but she prefers to balance out a tank top with her favorite leather jacket over top. The shoes within are simple boots or sneakers, preferring the comfort and reliability of them over a heel.

_{Psychology
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Life isn't black and white. It's a million grey areas, and I'm trying to find my way through them."

MAIN GOAL ⫻ When you've been scraping by for so long, the only thing your heart desires is a place to call your own and the peace that may come with that. Being thrown into a chaotic world, in a body that you don't belong in, may have changed Lyss's perspective on the meaning of peace. If she could just make it back to her own life, she could be grateful for what she has.

PHILOSOPHY ⫻ Rules are meant to be bent and broken. Morality is in constant flux. Sugar coating the truth does more harm than good. Lyss is prepared to do whatever she can to get by, yet beneath her selfish and stubborn exterior there lies a tender heart. What she stands to gain could also be shared by others. She'll never take advantage of someone's misfortune or weakness unless she thinks they deserve it, and if they deserve it she'll take them for everything they have.

SECRETS ⫻ Lyss will never admit to her constant yearning for connection and community.

SEXUALITY ⫻ On the off chance Lyss ever makes a move, it's on a man that can handle her.

FEARS ⫻ That even if she gives her all, it won't be enough. That no matter how many times she gets back up again, she'll never be the last one standing.

REPUTATION IN SHADOW ⫻ A stranger on the street may think she's a loner with RBF and an attitude. A woman set on where she's going, with little time to spare for the nonsense of Portland's streets. Her apartment neighbors once thought of her as the wild woman that lives down the hall, but they soon noticed the small acts of kindness that she would do for them. Like helping them carry their groceries up the stairs, neatly arranging packages left askew on their doormat, returning a pet that slipped out of the door, and the rare smiles sent towards the children that roamed the halls. The very few that truly know her, that share a drink, a meal, or her bed, see her as dependable, passionate, and determined. Even if her hotheaded, stubborn nature may get in the way of their affections.

FLAWS ⫻ Lyss's passion and stubbornness never gets in her own way, yet it can often cause issues for others, and she rarely apologizes for it. The best she can offer is a way to make up for it.

_{Backstory
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"When the world didn't give me what I deserved, I took what I wanted instead."

The Burns family name had no meaning, but they never cared. They had each other, and that's all they ever needed. They made the most of what little they had.

They lived in a small town just outside of Portland, Maine. A quiet, working class suburban hellscape whose yearly incomes just barely met a middle class standard. Her parents often worked doubles to make ends meet, sending her down the street to her grandmother's often enough to claim a room upstairs as her own. When Lyss wasn't in school, she was there to help with chores and the cooking.

Her grandmother passed just as she became old enough to stay at home alone. By then Lyss had picked up a group of friends, and without her grandmother to care for her and guide her, she soon earned a knack for mischief to fill the void left behind. It didn't help that her friends were just as bored and looking for excitement as she was, or the fact that her parents were too busy with work to notice the trouble that Lyss would cause.

When she was of working age, Lyss took up a serving position at a local diner to help with the bills. Life became easier for a while, until her father was injured on the job. With his income out of the picture, the Burns struggled to pay the bills. Their family connection became strained, and Lyss realized that the inequity and inequality in the world didn't suit her. That her family, and herself, deserved more than what they were given. So, Lyss decided to take it by whatever means necessary.

Eventually, Lyss moved out of her home and into the city, and into bigger and better ways to bring in extra money for herself and her parents back home. She fell into a friend group who was just as cunning, just as jaded by the way the world worked, and they made things work until the greed of a few spoiled the connection of a found family. Her lover was one of them. He nearly dragged her down with him when he made a foolish mistake that cost them their trust in each other. A few within their group were even sent to prison.

Lyss swore off of stealing to get by as she dealt with the damage of his betrayal. Instead she followed in her parent's footsteps. She worked doubles to make ends meet, and often lived with little for herself so that her parents could live the life they deserved. She was just making progress with this honest life when her former lover popped up on her doorstep...

... and she suddenly found herself in a world more cruel than her own.

_{Abstraction
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"She was able to do what?"

TYPE ⫻ ...

ABSTRACTION ⫻ ...

ABSTRACTION DESCRIPTION ⫻ ...

LIMITS ⫻ ...

WEAKNESSES ⫻ ...

^{Other
_{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"I just know she's going to be pissed if I get us killed."

Recollections: Linebreaker

Alyssa "Lyss" Burns

"Pour yourself a drink, put on some lipstick, and get your shit together."

_______________________________________________ Alyssa Burns She/Her | 27 | European-American | 5'9" | 145lbs _______________________________________________ Real _______________________________________________ Skills & Talents "My silence is not weakness." ___________________________________ [+] [Cooking] ⫻ Her grandmother taught her how to make a meal out of anything, no matter how little they had. [A Thief's Repertoire] ⫻ Lyss has professional skill in the line of work that some might consider thievery. She has the stealth, agility, sleight of hand, and the capability to deceive and charm with her wits and a dazzling smile. She started young with the basics, learning to pick locks, hot wire cars, and hold up her own in a fight due to her earlier failures. She understands how to navigate an urban, strange, or potentially hostile environment; how to appear confident in her movements while she gets her bearings, all the while planning her next move.

Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "This body is the same as mine, and yet it feels so foreign to me." This world's version of herself has an unblemished, striking look to her features. Her dark brown hair falls to her middle back, sleek and shiny, taken well care of. Her fair skin is soft to the touch, smooth and unscarred. Her eyes remain the same green flecked brown, and they still seem to peer into the soul of anyone she meets. The makeup that adorns her face is simple, just a neutral smoky eye and a dark shade of lipstick. Her long legs give her height, and her figure curves in the places that most mature women possess. The Lyss within this body stands confident, a ruse to deceive those who do not notice the tension in her muscles. Her face remains impassive unless her temper and sarcasm get the better of her emotions. The closet in this world also remains similar to her own, yet it lacks her collection of restaurant t-shirts that Lyss picked up as a server. The various leather jackets, sweaters, and jeans consist of dark colors like black, brown, maroon, or navy. She is not shy to show skin, but she prefers to balance out a tank top with her favorite leather jacket over top. The shoes within are simple boots or sneakers, preferring the comfort and reliability of them over a heel.

_{Psychology
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Life isn't black and white. It's a million grey areas, and I'm trying to find my way through them."

MAIN GOAL ⫻ When you've been scraping by for so long, the only thing your heart desires is a place to call your own and the peace that may come with that. Being thrown into a chaotic world, in a body that you don't belong in, may have changed Lyss's perspective on the meaning of peace. If she could just make it back to her own life, she could be grateful for what she has.

PHILOSOPHY ⫻ Rules are meant to be bent and broken. Morality is in constant flux. Sugar coating the truth does more harm than good. Lyss is prepared to do whatever she can to get by, yet beneath her selfish and stubborn exterior there lies a tender heart. What she stands to gain could also be shared by others. She'll never take advantage of someone's misfortune or weakness unless she thinks they deserve it, and if they deserve it she'll take them for everything they have.

SECRETS ⫻ Lyss will never admit to her constant yearning for connection and community.

SEXUALITY ⫻ On the off chance Lyss ever makes a move, it's on a man that can handle her.

FEARS ⫻ That even if she gives her all, it won't be enough. That no matter how many times she gets back up again, she'll never be the last one standing.

REPUTATION IN SHADOW ⫻ A stranger on the street may think she's a loner with RBF and an attitude. A woman set on where she's going, with little time to spare for the nonsense of Portland's streets. Her apartment neighbors once thought of her as the wild woman that lives down the hall, but they soon noticed the small acts of kindness that she would do for them. Like helping them carry their groceries up the stairs, neatly arranging packages left askew on their doormat, returning a pet that slipped out of the door, and the rare smiles sent towards the children that roamed the halls. The very few that truly know her, that share a drink, a meal, or her bed, see her as dependable, passionate, and determined. Even if her hotheaded, stubborn nature may get in the way of their affections.

FLAWS ⫻ Lyss's passion and stubbornness never gets in her own way, yet it can often cause issues for others, and she rarely apologizes for it. The best she can offer is a way to make up for it.

_{Backstory
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"When the world didn't give me what I deserved, I took what I wanted instead."

The Burns family name had no meaning, but they never cared. They had each other, and that's all they ever needed. They made the most of what little they had.

They lived in a small town just outside of Portland, Maine. A quiet, working class suburban hellscape whose yearly incomes just barely met a middle class standard. Her parents often worked doubles to make ends meet, sending her down the street to her grandmother's often enough to claim a room upstairs as her own. When Lyss wasn't in school, she was there to help with chores and the cooking.

Her grandmother passed just as she became old enough to stay at home alone. By then Lyss had picked up a group of friends, and without her grandmother to care for her and guide her, she soon earned a knack for mischief to fill the void left behind. It didn't help that her friends were just as bored and looking for excitement as she was, or the fact that her parents were too busy with work to notice the trouble that Lyss would cause.

When she was of working age, Lyss took up a serving position at a local diner to help with the bills. Life became easier for a while, until her father was injured on the job. With his income out of the picture, the Burns struggled to pay the bills. Their family connection became strained, and Lyss realized that the inequity and inequality in the world didn't suit her. That her family, and herself, deserved more than what they were given. So, Lyss decided to take it by whatever means necessary.

Eventually, Lyss moved out of her home and into the city, and into bigger and better ways to bring in extra money for herself and her parents back home. She fell into a friend group who was just as cunning, just as jaded by the way the world worked, and they made things work until the greed of a few spoiled the connection of a found family. Her lover was one of them. He nearly dragged her down with him when he made a foolish mistake that cost them their trust in each other. A few within their group were even sent to prison.

Lyss swore off of stealing to get by as she dealt with the damage of his betrayal. Instead she followed in her parent's footsteps. She worked doubles to make ends meet, and often lived with little for herself so that her parents could live the life they deserved. She was just making progress with this honest life when her former lover popped up on her doorstep...

... and she suddenly found herself in a world more cruel than her own.

_{Abstraction
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"She was able to do what?"

TYPE ⫻ ...

ABSTRACTION ⫻ ...

ABSTRACTION DESCRIPTION ⫻ ...

LIMITS ⫻ ...

WEAKNESSES ⫻ ...

^{Other
_{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"I just know she's going to be pissed if I get us killed."

The Symphony: Modern Magic

_{Tuesday, April 15th / Early Hours}

---

^{13th Mourningdove Lane}

Emmeline had tried her best not to flinch when The Archivist kindly referred to them all as wounded animals, yet her own body betrayed her. Her muscles tensed, knees locked, and that sensation paired with the feeling of dread that washed over her was enough to make her head swim. She'd been leaving traces of magic behind since that first day. If the Hunters were already in Twin Pines, they could very well be on her scent by now.

Her only comfort came from hearing a magical clairvoyant declare that they would all learn control, and even though his magic was impressive, and she would soon call it beautiful when he demonstrated it minutes later, she still understood that the future was always uncertain. Part of her still wondered if this mutual survival between them would only stand as long as they remained in his good favor.

Her eyes consumed the sight of what was deftly titled a Witchfinder's Dial. It was odd how such a simple device could doom them all, with its curious markings around the rim that she theorized were the only reason a thing lacking in magic could track the remnants of it- the trails that they all left in their wake as they struggled to handle the power unwillingly gifted upon them so many days ago.

Emmy decided then and there that she was going to learn everything she could about the Witch Hunters. How they tracked their victims, how they worked as an operation, their strengths, their weaknesses, any loophole that she could use to escape the fate they wished upon her, any ounce of hope that she could grab onto so that she wouldn't be helpless against an ideology that had been passed down through generations. The mention of a study, filled with books that held the answers within them, was enough of a relief to keep Emmy on her feet.

If she couldn't trust the man before her, that had once been apart of a genocidal following, she could put her faith in the books he had gathered over his many centuries of life to keep her from their pyres.

As she followed the group between the large wooden doors to the study, Emmy found herself momentarily stunned by the amount of texts held in just one, grand library. The wealth of knowledge held within the room could only be considered priceless; easily compared to what was lost in the burning of the Library of Alexandria. Emmy was sure that she could find all of the information she needed here as her green eyes roamed the shelves. They halted on the painting that looked down upon them for only a moment before they continued on. The regality of it's occupants, and what it might mean about their host, did not concern her when this much knowledge sat before her.

Her gloved hand reached for a book nearby, only to quickly drop back to her side as The Archivist drew her attention towards the screen that appeared on the empty wall.

---

While the other's expressed their feelings with colorful words, Emmy's breath left her chest in a whoosh of air. A dizzy spell forced her to find rest in the nearest chair, her heart palpitating within her chest as she processed what they had all witnessed. Her composure broken by what could have been a horrible demise for one of their own.

She glanced towards the short-haired woman, the target of the Hunter's wrath. Emmy expected her expression to be just as horrified, just as shocked, and yet anger burned there instead. The companion within the woman's grasp shined brighter, shifting erratically, and she worried for just a moment that it would catch the study on fire. Hoping that their host would be able to teach her how to reverse time on precious words rendered into ash. If it were even possible.

Emmy gripped the chair's wooden arm as frustration began to build again, listening to The Archivist refer to the armed militia as if they weren't a true threat. It almost seemed like he was boasting about the perfection of his former methods. Emmy released a breathy scoff into the room in response. The weapons and technology those "larpers" carried seemed effective enough. What could their magic do to prevent that poor cabin from collapsing in on them? What use was her own magic against that?

As if in answer, Emmy finally noticed the condition of her gloves had changed since she last looked upon them. She released her grip on the chair, before her gloves could dissolve completely and leave what was already an older looking piece of furniture in a terrible state. As she held her hands in her lap she looked over the well-worn fabric. They'd been brand new when she put them on earlier that evening.

Her brows knitted in disappointment, the feeling only growing when she noticed that the others were already beginning to pluck books from the shelves without disintegrating them. It seemed like any excess of emotion, whether it was excitement, stress, or anger, allowed her magic to run its course unchecked. If that was the key to control, Emmy would surely be discovered before she could even begin to turn the lock. She wrung her hands within her lap as she sat back in the chair. At least the gloves had spared her from owing the wealthy elf a hefty amount in compensation.

The conversation had continued during Emmy's moment. She'd picked up enough to figure out what was coming next. Their host's revelation enough to anger the few in the room that understood what his surname meant, and yet Emmy was not shocked. Instead she was intrigued, her eyes returning to the painting behind Ravensmere to focus on the children portrayed there.

Despite the others musings about the wilderness, beasts, Tic Tac?, and getting their wills together, along with the properly described nature of the Ravensmere name, which also made her question her own safety among the halflings in the room, one question lingered on the forefront of her mind.

"If you're the ex-communicated Witchhunter, and your brother is soon to return to Hunting, then what role does the girl in the portrait have?" She asked from her resting spot, eyes flitting back to look upon their host. "You've only mentioned the brothers tonight. Who is your sister?"

Commencement: A Farewell to P.R.C.U. [COMPLETE]

---

_{Location: hell}

Human: #5.095 Bird of Prey

---

_{Interaction(s): N/A}

Previously: Fight or Flight!?

“--don’t–”

Haven hated his name. Hated the way it made her feel. Hopeless, small, lesser than, weak, broken, terrified.

The only thing worse than his name was the sound of his voice.

The static shocked her. The high-pitch of electrical whining filled her head and made her feel sick, pressing her hands to her ears did little to ease the noise that consumed her mind. Her ears were ringing by the time it settled, still recovering from the vampiric man’s sonic scream from the day before, and yet her keen hearing still picked up on the raspy breaths of her captor.

Haven stilled. Her neighbor had summoned him like a bad omen. His voice echoed off of the concrete and iron and it was all she could hear. Her own thoughts smothered and choked under his oppressing timbre. Dread quickly took hold of her heart as he began his speech. Feathers bristled and ruffled behind her, poking further through the bars that separated her from the other poor souls in the prison.

She stared at the crimson stained wall across from her, heart beating loud enough in the silence that followed his words that she could have sworn she heard it echo off of the walls too, and fought against her mind to stay lucid.

His voice erupted.

Images flashed and burned of his enraged form above her as she lay beneath him. His spittle hitting her cheeks as total panic seized her and broke her composure. Haven scrambled for the closest wall to her and pulled herself into a tense and trembling crouch where she tried to hide from his fury.

She could feel the gentle touch of his hand against her cheek in the aftermath.

Her heartbeat only continued to rise and she began to feel the familiar pain of growth sprouting at the center of her back. She fell forwards onto her hands, nails failing to dig into the concrete as she clenched them and dragged herself to the middle of her cell, heat building in her muscles and skin.

“No.” She choked out. This wasn’t the time for an episode. She shouldn’t be healing in this place. They would only steal her wings again. This place was meant to break her, to shape her into something entirely new. He’d see her growth as blasphemy against his procedures.

Yet nature did not heed to the musings of a madman. The pain of bones extending and muscles building and skin stretching, feathers forcing their way through fresh and raw skin to ruffle against the air in her cell. Haven grit her teeth and held her sob within her chest so that she wouldn’t alert her newest companion beside her.

Daedalus’s words filtered in and out of her overwhelmed mind. The very air she wheezed and sucked into her tightening lungs was poisoned. Three doses. Three survivors among the many.

As her wings extended behind her in a gruesome amalgamation of flesh and piston rending itself anew, rapidly growing to a length that began to surpass her former wingspan, Haven grappled with the thought that becoming one of those three would only mean further pain and suffering. If she subjected herself to this slaughter, debased herself so harshly that she’d take a life for a chance to see the sunlight again– the smallest hope that she’d ever see Rory again– would it be worth it?

Death, while it may come slowly and horrifically, seemed like such a peaceful ending to the unfair life of Haven Barnes.

The buzzer sounded, and crimson light bathed her contorted form.

Figures were passing by her cell already as her heavy wings slumped onto the concrete beside her. They paid her no mind, maybe even considered that the poison had already claimed enough of her that she was no threat to their survival. She could hear the beating of fist against flesh already. The few ruthless ones among the prisoners had already begun the massacre.

She took one single breath, enough to fill her raw lungs with enough oxygen, poison too, to last her for as long as she could hold it. She’d been designed by her DNA to survive in places like this. To live on little oxygen and filter out most of the toxins that could be in the air. She’d unknowingly inhaled enough of the neurotoxin, before Daedalus announced his games and during her growing process, that she could feel a small ache forming at the base of her skull.

The longer she lingered, the more deaths would happen outside of her cell, the more the poison would claim her for itself, the higher the chance that someone bigger and stronger would find her alone and add her blood to the wall.

That’s where the stains came from, right?

Haven faced her open cell door with an expression that lacked any emotion at all, hazel eyes dull and weary. She’d boxed them all in the moment she decided to grasp for the small chance of freedom this could provide her. She was going to be one of the three to get the antidote. She was going to endure the horrors that awaited her afterwards.

She was going to see her sunlight again even if it meant tearing her soul apart to do it.

---

Her world was a blur of flesh and blood, pain and nothingness. Feathers littered the blood-soaked ground where she had carved her way through the chaos. A few had been torn from her, ripped, bitten, broken where her wing had been twisted and used to fling her against the door that separated them from the fresh air outside and the metallic scent of the air within.

She’d taken three breaths since she left her cell. One to recover from a blow to her stomach. Another sucked in through her teeth after her head collided with the nose of another. The third was more of a gasping tremor. Her raw lungs expelled any air she’d been holding the moment her back hit the solid metal door.

Gravity pulled her to the ground, cheek splitting against the concrete as her head followed after her chest. Her hand splashed into a warm and sticky puddle that belonged to the last victim to fall from her current threat’s cruelty. Bile rose in the back of her throat and threatened to choke her. Emotions leaked out of her cracking composure with each life she took. She had never been so brutal before. Some she had plucked into the air like a bird of prey and silenced forever. The others she’d fought with fist and teeth. She couldn’t remember how many now. She was sure that she would remember each one the next time she fell asleep.

Haven grimaced where she laid but pushed herself onto her hands and wobbly knees despite the grief that was slowly taking hold of her. She stood tall again as her attacker laughed at her weakness, and drew her blood smattered and sore wings against her back. She couldn’t afford to be flung around again. Green and gold glared at him through her unblemished eye, the other quickly swelling shut, upper lip pressing into the broken and bloodied skin of her bottom.

He was already moving slower than he had in the beginning. The poison was working its way through him quicker, with his deeper breaths that were wasted on taunting words and larger moves. She’d seen his brutal nature at the start and had hoped that someone else would take him down before she was given a taste of it.

Now, with only five remaining among the bodies that littered the floor, he’d finally turned his malice towards her.

“You’re tougher than I thought, little bird.” His thick accent was grating against her eardrums. “I’ll have some fun with you before I put you to sleep.”

Haven grit her teeth. The single grey horn that protruded from his forehead swam in her vision for a frightening moment before she blinked to bring him back into focus. Unsure if the pounding in her head was a result of the toxin, or from the impact with the door and the concrete below it.

He lunged at her in a mighty movement that matched his rhinoceros nature, his muscled arms reaching for her smaller frame with bloodied hands and a vicious grin. Haven swiftly extended her heavy and aching wings out beside her and whipped them downwards. They lifted her into the air above him, the gust created by them disturbing the blonde hair on his head. She made it a foot above him before his meaty hand wrapped itself around her ankle.

She was quickly yanked downwards. Her wings beat hard as she fought against his pull, back burning with pain, and only when she realized she couldn’t escape him did she snap her wings inwards. She fell with his pull. Her arms clung onto his shoulders and she used the moment of surprise to grapple herself onto them. Her free leg swung itself around to the other side of his head before he could stop her and she crossed her legs in front of his chin and cupped his head with both hands.

Nails dug themselves into his skin and eyes, and she began to squeeze her thighs against the sides of his cheeks.

An angry roar erupted from his chest when the pressure in his skull became unbearable. The hand that gripped her ankle tightened its hold of her until she felt her bones crack. The other grabbed at her thigh, squeezing it, pounding it, but she did not relent. The pain that bloomed in her ankle, her grief, her anger, and fear, only added to the strength in her legs. She soon roared with him and their cries filled the space with their shared anguish.

One arm was wrenched free from its hold of his head, flesh tearing away under her nails, but it was a futile attempt. The bones in Haven’s wrist snapped and still she squeezed and squeezed. She could feel how close she was to ending the fight with each second that passed. It was almost done–

The beast of a man, in one final attempt to free himself, threw them both backwards. Her shoulders took the hit first, landing on the mangled body of a woman, saving her head from hitting the concrete once more. The force of the man’s head as it landed, crashing into her pelvis underneath, made her scream. Pain exploded in her hips, enough to push her past the last limitation of her legs.

The sudden pop that followed silenced her immediately. A warm liquid splattered against her stomach, chest, and face, coated her thighs and hips, pooled on the ground under her. She didn’t look down. Didn’t want to see what the remains of his head looked like. She could hear him gargling his blood until he drowned in it. His grip quickly went limp around what was left of her wrist and ankle.

Caught in the aftermath of her violence, Haven allowed herself to take a painful breath. Slowly, agonizingly, she pulled herself out from under the man she’d ended. A single tear escaped down her cheek as she collapsed among the carnage.

How many were left now? How much more could she take? Was it enough blood for him? Was he going to be proud of her for it?

She stared at the ceiling above with a fractured mind and soul and thought of those she loved.

What would Rory think of her, if he knew this was what she had to become to have a hope of seeing him again? What would Harper see if she looked at her now?

A brutal killer.

A predator.

She felt like an animal.

She didn’t feel human anymore…

The Symphony: Modern Magic

_{Tuesday, April 15th / Early Hours}

---

^{13th Mourningdove Lane}

If not for the barrage of questions and insults being hurled around her, Emmy's stomach would have been fluttering with butterflies thanks to Happy's wink.

Instead a dull ache formed at the back of her head.

Finally, their enigmatic host began to speak before more variations of the same questions could be asked. Though the way he looked at them now unsettled her. Emmy couldn't tell if it was hate or something worse. Her body tensed, those dark green eyes followed the moment of his hand as it caressed the silver at his fingertips. Like he was a predator surveying his prey.

Her assumption couldn't have been more astute.

What he was saying... it was all the information Emmy could have wished for, and much more than she would have expected. She didn't fully register it until he spoke of children's bedtime stories. Her mind flickered back to those nights with her mother, of the fables that had been read to her.

To know that the stories she'd heard as a child were true, it made her wonder if her mother had known all along. Perhaps her ancestors had passed them down as a cautionary tale. Or maybe... maybe this man's ancestors had wiped out those of her bloodline that once possessed it.

Witch Hunters.

Emmy's head throbbed. She wobbled subtly where she stood. Either the world was shifting beneath her feet at the thought or the headache was messing with her balance.

She tried her best to regain her composure, but the more the Archivist said the more she realized the danger that magic had brought into her life. She was beginning to understand the irony that this man, with his history of murder and hate, had been gifted with what his ancestors eradicated from their world.

Her head swam as it turned to look at Lena, jaw slackening as their host announced the fiery woman as the Witch Hunters first victim.

They were already in town. They were already seeking out mages, those who's abilities were far more obvious than the rest. Lena was a target, and Emmy looked around the room as she wondered who else may have drawn their attention. Her eyes rested on Khushwant next to her and a pang of worry for him accompanied the next throb that drew her gloved hand to her temple.

Emmy turned forwards again and attempted to hide the gesture by brushing her hair back from her face.

She sighed softly as she listened to Lena's fantasy of escape. If their host had spoken of a townhouse at the top of the hill instead of a cabin, Emmy would have been thinking the same thing. Run, run far and as fast as she could. Ensure that her father wasn't caught in the pyre that would become her home if she stayed. Emmy didn't blame her for wanting to flee...

and yet...

"They're everywhere, aren't they?" She asked as the Frenchman's rantings finished. Her voice was low, just an exhale away from exhaustion, and yet it carried a quiet strength to it that demanded an answer. "Running wouldn't make a difference. They won't let us live, even if we choose not to use the magic."

Emmy took a breath then, and stuck her chin out as she squared her shoulders. Her eyes met with The Archivist's cold gaze. "How do we learn to control it? How do we keep them from finding us?"

How could she keep her father safe, from both the ones who would want her dead, and from herself with this new, unstable power?

If their fates were truly intertwined with this man, then how could they all benefit from the help of someone who knew all their could be to know about the ones who sought to put them on a pyre?

Commencement: A Farewell to P.R.C.U. [COMPLETE]

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{Location: Turning Winds Home for Youth - Joliet, Illinois}

Human #5.088: Carrying a Piece of You

^{_{_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

_{Interaction(s): Alex (@Qia)}

Previously: Not Meant to Stay

Anabel’s jaw had tensed while she listened to Alex speak.

Her mind was waging war with her heart as the wind carried his words away. Trust was rarely given in their world. Anabel herself knew the beauty and danger of it. She’d been burned before, evident in the way she carried herself in the halls of the home and made little to no effort to interact with the other teens. Perhaps it was the understanding between them, the way they had been able to read each other easily from the start, that made it possible for Anabel to speak to him. She understood him through her history, with the kind heart that had fought for another and was then trampled when it had been left behind, and he understood her with his ability. While she may not know the truth of what he was able to discern in her presence, and would likely shut him out if she did, it was obvious that they were connected through it. What she seemed to struggle with now was whether she wanted to open herself further to him, as just Anabel and Alexander, and without any other influence to coerce her.

Despite her reservations, she pressed onwards.

“The girl that escaped years ago… She was like a sister to me. Younger, but wiser in different ways. She struggled with her… ability. It made her feel alone. I couldn’t be there for her when she really needed me.” She took a breath, her eyes peering out into the city like she might catch a glimpse of that friend among the lights. Her body language remained rigid and aloof, and yet her words were revealing a side to Anabel that Alex had never seen before. “I wonder… if I could have helped her with an ability like you have.”

“Maybe.” The word barely left his lips. Hushed. Noncommittal. Alex wasn’t in the business of giving people false hope. Hope was a dangerous thing—something fragile that shattered too easily in the wrong hands.

But then his fingers twitched against his knee, restless, his mind chewing on the thought, turning it over like a stone in his palm.

“Or maybe it’s not about what you could have done,” he continued. “Maybe it’s just that some people are gonna slip through no matter what. No matter how much you care. No matter how hard you fight for them.”

He let out a short breath, half a laugh, but without humour. “But if you had an ability like mine? I dunno, Anabel. Maybe you’d have saved her. Or maybe you’d just know exactly how much she was slipping before it happened. And maybe that would have been worse for you.”

Because knowing what was coming didn’t mean you could stop it. It just meant you had to live with it longer.

“But if she was like a sister to you, then I’m guessing you did more for her than you think.” A pause, then, almost to himself, “People don’t always get saved. But they do get remembered.”

His gaze found hers again, searching. “Maybe that’s why you’re still here.”

Alex’s fingers curled against his knee again, that same aimless restlessness, like his hands should have been holding onto something that was no longer there. The cigarette the other had tossed away, perhaps. Or something older, something lost before he even knew to grip it. His mind, too, wandered, gnawing on the gaps in her words, on the pieces she hadn’t given voice to. Something about it stuck to him, and before he could convince himself to leave it alone, the words had already slipped free.

“You never talk about what you can do.” It wasn’t an accusation, just an observation, laid bare between them. “That girl you lost… you said she struggled with hers.” He hesitated, then asked the question carefully, aware that he was treading on ground he might not be invited to walk.

“What about you?”

Anabel’s brow rose just a fraction in response. A moment of doubt flickered in those green eyes, a shadow of the guarded nature she used to protect herself from those kinds of questions. It almost seemed like she would brush him off, or that she would shut him out again to keep her secrets safe once more. Yet she answered him, her words chosen carefully, as if he couldn’t see the flickers of memories attached to her awakening and the consequences of it.

“It’s not mental, like yours. It’s… passive, in a way, but I need to focus to use it.” Her eyes shifted between his, as if searching for his motivation behind the question. “If I push too far, I could also do something I’d regret.” A hint of a smile played on her lips. “There’s a reason I was transferred here, after all.”

For a fleeting second, that small smile caught him off guard.

Not a smirk, not a sneer—nothing laced with sarcasm or built as a wall. It was something real, stripped of pretense, and that made it stick. He didn’t know why. Didn’t know what it was about that moment that felt like the first thing in this whole damn place that wasn’t performative. But it did. And something about that truth, small as it was, unsettled him.

And before he could stop himself, Alex reached.

Not physically. Not with intent. But with that automatic pull—an instinct woven into the places where his ability lived like a second heartbeat. His ability moved the way breathing did. He didn’t mean to touch anything, didn’t mean to reach beneath what was visible. But the whisper of awareness extended outward before he could rein it in. A pulse. A brush against something he shouldn’t have touched.

And then—

It hit him back.

Not with force. Not with rejection. But with weight.

Like knocking against something that didn’t just resist—it outright refused.

It wasn’t a barrier, wasn’t a wall meant to keep people out. It was something deeper than that, something intrinsic. It was pressing his palm to the trunk of an ancient tree and feeling, in his gut, that no matter how hard he pushed, it would never be moved. Not because it fought him, but because it was simply rooted too deep to be swayed.

His breath snagged. His mind recoiled, snapping back like burnt fingers yanked from a flame. His grasp curled into nothing, nails faintly digging into his knee before he realized he’d clenched his hand at all.

That had never happened before.

For a moment, all he could hear was the low hum of the city, the distant wail of sirens somewhere in the streets below, the rush of wind clawing at the rooftop. His grip loosened—had he even realized he was holding on to something? To what?

Slowly, he ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, flexed his fingers, and let out a half-breathed chuckle—casual, but off.

“Huh.”

That was all he said. All he could say. But it was enough. Enough for the unease to coil beneath his skin, slip into his bones, and settle there.

He forced his shoulders to relax. To let go.

But something had changed.

It wasn’t just in the moment—it was in the way his mind kept circling back in search of an explanation that wasn’t there. Instinct told him to brush it off, to shove it somewhere deep where it couldn’t touch him. But instinct also told him something had moved beneath his feet, even if he couldn’t yet name what.

Because for the first time, he had been on the other side.

For the first time, something had made him feel small.

Not powerless, not weak—but insignificant in the way that a wave is insignificant to the shore. A force colliding with something vaster, something immovable, something that did not need to fight back because it did not need to move at all.

His hand dragged through his hair, fingers lingering at the nape of his neck as if they could loosen the knot of tension winding through him. He exhaled slowly, piece by piece unwinding himself. He wouldn’t ask. Wouldn’t pry. Wouldn’t try to untangle whatever the hell had just happened.

Some things weren’t meant to be picked apart.

This felt like one of them.

Finally, after a long moment, his voice slipped out—shaky in ways that only he would notice.

“That sounds… rough.” A breath, a humourless chuckle, something weightless enough to pass as normal. “But at least that means you’ll never have to worry about something giving, I guess.” His fingers flexed again as if testing a grip that wasn’t there. “It’s all in your hands.”

Unlike it was for him.

“Everything comes at some sort of cost,” Anabel murmured, her smile having faded quickly. Her eyes lingered on his hands. Ever observant, even if she didn’t understand the meaning behind their movements. “Control didn’t come easily.”

Alex ran his fingers along the seam of his hoodie. No shit it didn’t.

“Yeah, I get that.” His voice was even, but there was something in the way he said it—like he wasn’t just agreeing, but understanding.

“When my ability first kicked in, it felt like I had to be on top of it every second, or else it’d run me instead of the other way around. ” His thumb pressed against the stitching, the smallest pressure. “Took me too long to realize that half the time, I was just making it worse.”

He shrugged like it was nothing. Like it was just something that happened.

“Anyway, still figuring that one out. But if you ever wanna compare notes….”

A corner of Anabel’s lips tugged upwards, but she neither acknowledged his proposal nor accepted it. Instead, she offered another piece of wisdom, another part of her history lost to the system they had been placed in.

“My friend’s ability came around before mine. Hers was physical, something outward instead of inward. It grew like it had always been a part of her, like it was just under the surface her whole life.” Those green eyes of hers were glossed over now as she looked forward. Lost to bittersweet memories. “She tried to control it, too. Kept it hidden until she ran out of ways to hide it.”

“Eventually she lost control of it, but… It freed her, in a way. She coexisted with them.”

Glimmers of the small and wary girl from Anabel’s memories sparkled at the edges of her mind, except this time Alex saw a glimpse of a different version of that girl. Her skin was unmarked by cruelty, hazel eyes shined with admiration, and a shy smile danced on her lips. Anabel’s younger hands were there, turning the girl, gently smoothing sleep-tousled golden brown hair back from her face before travelling downwards to do the same to adolescent tawny feathers. Faint giggles could be heard before Anabel’s voice broke the silence that had fallen while her mind wandered.

“Maybe you could learn a lesson from her,” she said before taking a breath. “Or maybe she was just one of the lucky ones, and the rest of us will be grasping for control our whole lives.”

Anabel stood straighter now and tucked her hair behind her ear, mentally brushing the nostalgia away as the bitter overcame the sweet. “She left before I could decide.”

Alex’s hazel eyes lingered on her, studying the way her words oscillated between wistful reminiscence and something tangled in the fibres of the past, left unresolved. They seemed to reveal the kind of burden people carried without realizing how deeply it had woven itself into their being. He recognized it—not in the specifics, but in the way it clung to her, refusing to be shaken loose.

“Guess she simply made her choice before you could,” he eventually murmured, his voice edged with something close to understanding but not quite sympathy. “Not much you can do about that.”

The boy tipped his head back slightly, gaze tracing the vast stretch of sky that had long since devoured its stars. “I really do think now that some people are just born knowing when to run. The rest of us…we hesitate. We hold on. Even when we shouldn’t.” A pause, thoughtful, before he added almost absently, “Maybe that’s why some walls, even if they’re more like doors really, just…stay closed. Maybe…that’s the true difference maker here and the reason why you’re still here.” And her friend, whom she still clearly cared for, was not.

The thought uncoiled deep in his gut, something that didn’t sit right but didn’t yet have a name either.

What happened when someone buried a part of themselves so deeply that even they couldn’t reach it? When a wall wasn’t built to guard against intrusion but to entomb something that was never meant to be let out?

And if—by chance, by force, by fate—someone came along who could pry it open…

Would they be ready for what was waiting on the other side? Would opening something that’s been potentially shut for so long even be a good thing?

Alex hummed.

It was just a thought. Just a question. Nothing to do with him.

And yet, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that one day, it might. That one day, he wouldn’t have the luxury of another one of his maybe’s.

“I only hesitated once,” Anabel began with a frown. “I wanted to run when she did. Thought that maybe I could find her before she went too far.”

“Then I realized that I would have tethered her to the earth if I did. I knew that on her own, she had a freedom that most others don’t.” Anabel smiled wistfully. “There’s nothing out there for me, really. Not unless a place that teaches us, accepts us exists. I’ve stayed because I know how to survive here. It may not be a home, but it’s comfortable. If they decide to send us on our way at eighteen, I’ll figure life out then.”

“So what happens when eighteen rolls around and comfort’s not an option anymore?” Alex asked. “You wake up one day, and suddenly there’s no ‘here’ left to stay in. No safety net, no familiar walls. Just… choices.”

He let that hang for a beat, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

“Where do you go then? Do you pick the place that promises you a future? Somewhere that looks at what you can do and says, ‘Hey, we’ll make something out of you’? Or do you pick the place that lets you disappear?”

Anabel turned her body to fully face him. Her arms rose to cross in front of her, a sign that her brief moment of veritas would soon come to an end. The questions, while they weren’t wrong in any case, seemed to have become a bit too uncomfortable for the ink-haired girl.

“What if I don’t want anyone to make something out of me? What if I want to choose my own path?” Her tone was flat, not accusatory or abrasive, but near hypothetical. “The system has watched us our whole lives. Disappearing doesn’t sound so bad.”

Alex watched her intently, picking up on the minute shifts and microexpressions most people wouldn’t notice. Her posture, loose just moments ago, had begun to stiffen. The openness she had let slip through the cracks was already retreating, pulling back into something more fortified.

He was almost out of time then. Shame.

With an exhale, he shifted his weight, pushing off from his perch. His sneakers met the rooftop with a muted scuff. He stretched his legs, testing the stiffness that had crept into his joints from sitting too long, then raked a hand through his hair, tousling it further—not out of any particular thought, just another idle habit, something to keep his hands from betraying anything else.

Then, without hurry, he cast one last glance toward her.

“Take it from someone who barely exists…disappearing’s not the same as being free, and it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. You can go where no one’s watching, sure. But that doesn’t necessarily mean you stop being what they made you.”

And it sure as hell didn’t mean you get to be who you were supposed to be.

He didn’t push it, however. Some truths didn’t need force—they only needed to be spoken aloud or seen for themselves.

And whether she let them in or shut them out, that wasn’t his call to make. It never had been.

If his words made any contact with the immovable barrier within Anabel's mind, Alex couldn't tell. Anabel's defenses were raised once more, there to protect her from questioning herself or even raised purely out of stubborn pride. She offered him a single nod, to acknowledge his words, to respect what he'd said, and yet she turned to face the city once more. No goodnight, no final quip to be made. She leaned back against the wall, her silhouette outlined by the lights. Alone in her thoughts once more.

Little did he know, what he said would soften that immovable wall within her over time.

The single wave of his influence continued to dance against her mind, eroding the barrier she kept herself hidden behind, and eventually reshaped the shoreline into something new.

Only for it to be washed away completely shortly after her eighteenth birthday. By the place she believed would allow her to build a foundation for her future.

The Symphony: Modern Magic

_{Tuesday, April 15th / Early Hours}

---

^{13th Mourningdove Lane}

Emmy guessed that her question would go unanswered long before chaos erupted.

It was all becoming too much to bear. Her life was peaceful, filled with silences that stretched for hours unless she decided to put on some music or venture out of her home. This meeting, though she had no expectations when she first arrived, had somehow gotten far too loud too quickly.

Happy's playful banter was a temporary relief. She found herself resisting a smile as she tried her best to listen to the introductions. Until his own introduction, and display of his magic, left her out right staring at him in awe. She had to quickly shut her mouth before he caught her looking at him like that.

But really, starlight? Soul perception?

If the others had mentioned their ability, it was quickly lost in Emmy's mental catalog as their group seemed to ignite.

The Frenchman seemed to notice something in the shadows. Emmy immediately felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. As if his aggression towards the mysterious shadow trigged something instinctual within herself, too.

She found herself shifting towards Happy, who she now realized had been the one to move closer to her in the darkness before, as her head tilted back to look at the source of Lefebvre's unease.

Her eyes may have revealed her envy as she watched the figure become a man, who drifted towards the ground with ease like he'd had magic for years. Could this be...?

No. This man wouldn't have given his name if he was The Archivist.

Those intense eyes the color of violets made a sweep of the room. Calculated, observant, and perhaps amused. They lingered on Emmy for far longer than she expected them to. Her own eyes met his, the dark shade of green carrying a touch of curiosity to them as they narrowed. She came close to breaking eye contact first, but fortunately his gaze moved on before her cowardice could take hold.

“Will you fucking shut up for one minute?”

Emmy sucked in a sharp breath through her nose. The sudden outburst clamored through her head. She glanced Happy's way in the hopes that she could hide her startled reaction with a smart quip, but it seemed the woman that had been muttering beat her to it.

“I’m sorry, I’m Pom.”

Followed by another named Rowan, who also apologized for absolutely no reason at all.

Emmy gave Happy an exasperated grin instead as her eyes crinkled in amusement. "This is... an interesting group." She whispered as Pom went on about her ruined pie, proffering it to the intensity that was Azure. At least the moment of misunderstanding offered her a chance to recenter herself.

She glanced towards the scene playing out before them, and her eyes travelled around the room. She tried to put faces to names that had been offered and only managed to match a few. Her eyes lingered on Rowan in the back of the room. She recognized her from the library, years ago. Another old acquaintance had seemed to be involved with magic as well. After a second of thought, it looked like a few other locals were here too. Emmy had seen the one that startled her around the docks a few times, and she'd been served by Pom at Norm's Diner on the rare occasion that her father decided to venture to support Norman Jefferies' daughter Shelly.

The lights flicked off once more, and Emmy then turned her head towards the entrance to see who else had arrived late for the meeting. The room was once more illuminated, followed by the distinct sound of heavy feet travelling across the marble flooring. The newest addition arrived, and Emmy found herself smiling softly at the sight of another pie in their hands.

"Apple or cherry?" She asked Happy under her breath.

The smell of apple and lake water reached her nose before he could answer her.

Lena's smile may have been genuine, but Emmy cringed a little as her joke didn't land as well as the fireball's owner had intended.

In fact, Emmy resisted the urge to show her disappointment in the early night's events for the next five minutes. Her gaze followed The Archivist through every movement. She'd guessed he was Elven after she'd seen the multitude of artifacts and art that filled the mansion with historical prestige. She wasn't surprised by his stature, his height and features practically screamed Elf.

Though he was nothing like her mother had been. This man exuded what every rich, academically excelled, and pompous Elf carried on their shoulders.

Pride.

While she bit her tongue about his comment on timekeeping, like she wasn't literally a walking clock, she couldn't control her reaction when those condescending eyes travelled her way. She stood a little taller, stuck out her chin just a bit, and her eyes seemed to challenge him to look down on her. She didn't like the way this man spoke to them, looked at them, and instantaneously decided that none of them were worth his time.

Lena's musing and Jackson's rebuttal to The Archivist's statements did little to ease Emmy's mood. She did have to applaud them for getting such a busy man to stand still for longer than a second, though.

Emmy took a breath as her gaze flickered around the room.

Since this Archivist presented himself in such a rude way, she considered leaving before he could spew more insults their way, but then it would gnaw at her forever that she didn't find out why this man had invited them all there. Especially now that it seemed he had extensive knowledge on magic, given his crude appraisal of what magic had brought him.

She could hold her tongue to let the others ask their questions first. Let them pull the pertinent information out of him as she listened and drew her own conclusions. Perhaps she could remain a quiet observer for the rest of the night in the hopes that she would avoid his scrutinizing gaze. He definitely wouldn't be happy to learn that her magic was as unstable as her blood pressure. Considering the letter he sent her, and it's specific phrasing, she had a hunch he already knew.

So, why should she bother to stay silent? Why shy away from this obvious challenge? She came here for answers, after all, and it seemed like most of this group wasn't going to hold back either.

She was just about to take the lead, ask the first question, but the Frenchman beat her to it. She was shocked to hear the flick of a lighter, and could only watch as he lit up a cigarette inside of this centuries old mansion. Were those... claws?

Did he seriously just put out his cigarette on the floor?

The scent of nicotine and burnt paper reached her nose and only made her headache worse. Especially after the Lefebvre revealed a very personal piece of information about his awakening. He did ask one of the questions Emmy had been wondering. How did The Archivist know what magic they possessed? Where they lived?

A few more of her own questions were brought up by the young man with the dirty tongue. This time the admission struck a chord within her. She empathized with his lack of control, and was even grateful to hear that she wasn't the only one struggling with it. Her gloved hands moved to clasp in front of her once more, as she prepared for more questions to be hurled towards their host.

Emmy chose to wait, then, and could only hope that all of her questions would be asked and answered without drawing The Archivist's attention her way.