ARRIVAL LOG 005

[larkers]

WHO: Everyone
WHERE: New Amsterdam
WHEN: Night of August 23 (through to August 30th)
WHAT: The fifth arrival
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Coercion and loss of autonomy. Further notes at end of log.

> ARRIVAL LOG #005

Awareness comes to you in blurred snatches, cloudy fragments of sound and light, color, sensation. Hazy and difficult to grasp on to, but slowly aligning into focus. A series of regular, rhythmic beeps. A medicinal, astringent smell. The sensation of movement, a low hum and accompanying vibration under you. Your eyes are heavy, hard to keep open, but in the glimpses between slow, dark blinks you see four people in black body armor seated opposite you, as well as a man in dark gray scrubs. You realize there are others next to you. All of you in white scrubs, hair recently cut but at various stages of growth, restrained by straps across your chests, arms, feet, holding you to the bench under you. To your left, an armored interior door, two more people visible, the movement of dark streets and neon windows passing through a windshield. You try to open your mouth to speak, but it's as if your tongue is coated in tar, and you manage nothing more than an empty parting of lips. The vehicle stops. The guard opposite you stands and comes to unbuckle you from the bench, helping you to your feet. Your limbs feel wooden and heavy, slow to move. One guard opens the back of the vehicle: beyond it, a chamber only dimly lit by strips of light along the floor. The nurse moves to stand at the back of the vehicle, checking each passenger over one by one just before they're helped out of the vehicle, quick and methodical. She doesn't climb out after you, moving to sit as the last passenger is unloaded. The guards keep their heads down. Their actions are quick, firm, but not entirely unkind. Under your feet, you can feel the thrum of heavy bass vibrating through the floor. You see nearby that there is another bus, another load of passengers being helped out, lined up much like you are. Once you're all in place, the guards move down the line, pulling dark hoods over each passenger's head. Your arm is lifted, placed on the shoulder of the passenger in front of you in line. "Hold on," says one of the guards. "Stay quiet. Keep moving until I say stop." There is no will in you to fight the orders. How far you walk is hard to determine. Counting steps is difficult, and any concept of time passing stretches between the sound of footfalls and breathing - soon overshadowed by the music. Growing louder, closer, the heavy bassline begins to reverberate through the air around you, amplified by the acoustics of the place. Melody and vocals become audible, the chatter of a crowd. Finally, you stop, and the hoods are pulled off, following down the line as the guards walk back. You turn to look after them, but they quickly disappear into the darkness of the tunnel behind you. The door in front of you swings open, the full weight of the music washing out. A tall woman with sharp, geometric patterns of ink tattooed across her skin smiles at you with sharp teeth, glowing luminescent in the UV lighting above her. "First timers?" she asks, but doesn't wait for an answer. "Don't worry, those costumes are great. Come on, come in." As you move to comply, she takes each of your hands, stamping a twisting design on the back, shining bright in the UV light. "Welcome," she says, as she ushers you out of the lobby and into the noise and crowd beyond. "To the Insomniacs' Ball." ◉ Though entirely capable of independent action and thought, new characters will find themselves completely, unquestioningly compliant to any verbal statement which could be taken as a command or request.

> THE INSOMNIACS' BALL

The message from El comes the same as previous: insistent, not waiting for any active attempt to open it. Scrolling within your vision as if being written while you're reading it. I'm not saying bus #5 got past me, but our favorite mysterious human traffickers have gone seriously sneaky this time around. And I'm not saying I can't help you get to where you need to be, but I can't. This one needs legwork, because you're going to have to land invites to the Insomniacs' Ball. The Insomniacs' Ball is an open secret. A New Amsterdam urban myth, disbelieved by many and desired for by even more. A week long party held every year as the working schedule changes, as the city struggles between the oppressive heat and the shifting of sleep cycles. Whether you'd prefer to be asleep at night or day, the ball doesn't care - a rolling, 24/7 event that continues until it disappears, as quickly as it arrived. Its location is a secret. Existence frowned upon, possibly even shut down by the authorities - dancing until you fall down is hardly advisable while water rationing is in place. Yet every year the rumors spin again, the whispers, clues and tastes and photos shared on social media which vanish before anyone can really be sure what they saw. Whoever puts the ball together is as good at keeping their head down as Morningstar - and most likely greases more wheels, rather than trying to be a wrench in the machine. Either way, all El can do is point you to the same paths anyone else hungry for an invite is taking. THE PUZZLE Emerging on social media like proverbial white rabbits, clues in the form of bizarre symbols, phrases or riddles have appeared, hidden in images or tucked in VR simulations. Solving them isn't for the impatient. Some take more work than others, a knowledge of numbers or pattern recognition, or ancient cultural references. The answers come as new clues, pointing to locations in the city, to other VR simulations, to figures waiting in cafes or particular enemies in your favorite VR video game. A treasure hunt for the modern age, as each step is completed the participants are whittled down, but for anyone who reaches the end, the prize of an invite to one of the most mysterious pieces of New Amsterdam life is worth all of the work to get there. THE DARE The challenges start small. Stand up and sing in a crowded restaurant. Take a selfie at the UNA's front door. Eat a live scorpion. Soon it escalates, taking even the most jaded of adrenaline junkies on a rollercoaster of illegal and death-defying stunts. Joyriding a notorious gangster's hoverbike. Climbing a construction beam between two of the tallest buildings in the city. Standing in central square and declaring yourself to be a Morningstar operative. The risks climb higher and higher, and for some the stakes are too much. Others hold their nerve, eyes set firmly on the goal, the victory of holding an invite in their hands. THE BOON And then there are those who make no effort at all. Passed to them by the hands of lady luck, their invites arrive in their pockets, slid under their doorframes or hidden under a glass at work. Bartenders open up crates of stock and find a wedge of them tucked in amongst the packaging; bike couriers arrive at delivery destinations only to find a parcel waiting there for them. Whether targeted or purely a matter of chance, many attendants at the Insomniacs' Ball will have had the opportunity simply fall in their lap - and some may not recognize what they've received at all. However you've managed to get your hands on an invite, the directions on the back are the same - leading you deep down into the city's underground, past some of the darker corners and into some even darker ones. A rusted, disused door to an abandoned maintenance area wouldn't look like the place, but the intricate geometric design painted silvery and barely visible across the surface matches the invite you hold, and you know you've found the entrance to wonderland. Behind the door, lies a twisting network of tunnels and rooms built into natural caves, ultimately abandoned by the city when its insides proved too difficult to navigate. Now, for a short time, it's home to a carnival of revelry. Strobing neon lights illuminate snatches and glimpses of the crowd, glowing in pools of UV: a dense mass of people from all over the city, young and old, music and dancing flowing from chamber to chamber, clashing and mixing between. Extravagant, outrageous costumes mingle with simple streetwear, or with no-wear at all. People hand out masks, drinks, substances which it may not be advisable to consume. Sealed bottles of water seem to appear from nowhere, passed among the people, their source and seeming escape from the rationing in the city far above going unquestioned. Smaller chambers offer some respite for those who need to take a minute, catch their breath, or want a quiet corner to talk with a new friend. Other chambers contain more hedonistic displays, with most participants always willing to accept another into their number. No one seems to be in any rush - there's roughly a week to soak in all the delights, and you can even come and go as you please, the UV pattern now stamped on your hand allowing access back through the various doors, if you can find your way back to one. But you're here for a different purpose, and whether it took you hours or days to find your way here, you know that the party will end eventually - and anything more unusual which may be hiding inside will be revealed. ◉ The Insomniacs' Ball and the related methods of gaining an invite will last for one week, from August 23-30. New characters can be retrieved at any time during this, or can find their own way out and be discovered on the streets - just please be advised that they will not be able to survive in New Amsterdam without first spending time in the Morningstar safehouse and having their ID set up. ◉ We will not be dictating set pieces of the ARG puzzle or challenges - these are left to player discretion as to what your character would have realistically managed to solve or complete! ◉ The invite themselves are business card sized pieces of metal with an intricate geometric patterns etched on one side, and an address on the other. The address leads to a quick series of clues and locations which will take characters to the door as described. ◉ The same geometric design will be present throughout the ball, worn by some of the guests and doorpeople, and even carved into the walls of some of the caves. ◉ While in the ball, there will be rumors and whispers circulating about the owner of the ball being in attendance, and that particularly impressive guests may earn some special reward - or just guarantee an invite again next year.

> THE SAFEHOUSE

Access to the safehouse is a hatch hidden behind stacks of empty storage shelves in the back of an abandoned supermarket in an outer district of the city. The immediate area is similarly abandoned, empty stores, flanked by several blocks of dive bars and clubs which cater to more niche tastes. A place where people can come and go unseen, or, if seen, not spoken of. A dark haired woman called Gaby is ready to greet the new arrivals and get them settled in, brusque and no-nonsense – she'll be open for in depth questions later, but will advise everyone to ask the people who brought them in for the beginning bits of information. ◉ The safe house is a large open space, filled with rows of basic cots set up to sleep a large amount of people. Basic, but outfitted with everything necessary for daily life. A few doors lead to back rooms for storage, medical care and a large communal bathroom, and past the long rows of cots there is a communal kitchen, fully stocked, and an eating area. Privacy is at a minimum. ◉ New characters will be asked to pick their beds, and provided with a change of (second-hand, mismatched and somewhat threadbare) clothes and basic toiletries. ◉ While there were previously also NPC occupants of the safehouse, natives to New Amsterdam, these people have now been moved on to somewhere safer. A few of their belongings remain, discarded or accidentally abandoned. ◉ Gaby will make it clear to all new arrivals that if they have any requests or queries, they should contact her or El. ◉ The drugs making new characters compliant will remain in their systems for a few hours after their being dropped off by the guards before finally beginning to fade. They will be gone entirely after a night's rest. In the meantime, they may want to be careful of what others say to them. ◉ New characters will be given rudimentary access to the network on arrival in the safehouse, but will not have their ID set up yet. They will be able to make posts and replies, but their messages will be anonymous and they do not have inboxes yet. ◉ New characters will not be allowed to leave the safehouse until FOUR DAYS AFTER THEIR ARRIVAL AT THE SAFEHOUSE. These 4 days are for them to adjust, learn about the world they've arrived in from their fellows, and for El to speak with them and work on setting up their IDs.

> FINAL OOC NOTES

Welcome to Meadowlark, newbies! You're now free to post to the network and logs comms. To reiterate, your characters will have no IDs or inboxes, nor be allowed out of the safehouse until they have been there for four days. At that point it's expected they'll have gotten a good idea of their new situation from their fellow characters, and will have discussed their background and job potentials with El in order for their false IDs to be set up. If you have any questions or ideas about how you'd like to get your character involved in the world, or if they'd like to join Morningstar, please head over to the plot engagement post and drop us a comment! For questions specific to this log, there is a thread below. Please check out our December calendar rundown for a look at things happening this month. As a reminder, AC this month will be a check-in only. AC will be posted on December 20 and close on December 27. If you do not reply to AC, you will be considered idled and dropped from the game. We will not post a warning list.

> NAVIGATION

Comments

the ball

[strove]

[Like Markus, Clarke is all too prepared for the event. Her top doubles as a vest, with the entirety of her outfit seeming as if it's made out of worn leather (of course, it's not: but it's 2511, so it's reasonable to assume that pleather doubles quite nicely). Rather than don a mask, she's chosen to wear a thick coat of green eyeshadow around her eyes, stretching between them and then outward like a mask. Some of the mask has begun to wash away thanks to the perspiration and heavy activities, but a party like this doesn't offer many opportunities for touch ups.

Her hand goes to her forehead, measuring precisely how hot she feels. (Hint: very hot.) When Markus offers, she nods, glad for the break. Glad to just share anything—which doesn't seem like much.

There is a part of her that wonders if she should say anything. Remark upon business as usual. But instead, she holds out her hand for the bottle.]

Would you believe that most people are here for a party? [And not their general lines of inquiry. She looks amused, so it's not that she's bothered by it. Clarke expected as much.]

[saviorexe]

[The part of Markus that wants to align himself with both art and fashion wishes that he had splatters of UV paint streaked across his own face, in a menagerie of color that might act as a mask. But the rest of him, happy to dally and fade into the background until he feels more comfortable in the raucous noise and drink and drugs and music, is happy to just be dressed in normal, vaguely smart-looking street clothes designed for comfortability.

He’s definitely going to get paint on these new sneaks sooner rather than later, though; he can already tell.

Markus relinquishes the water to her. Having just arrived, his own need for it isn’t quite as pressing.]

Sorry, am I mixing business with pleasure?

[CAN YOU HEAR HIM OVER THE NOISE, Markus has to truly raise his voice to be heard.]

I didn’t know you were just here for the music and the crowd.

[Because this is definitely not his kind of scene, personally.]

[strove]

Loki took me out to somewhere much tamer back in July. [Not long after they arrived. The city was in shambles, and she was still mulling over the fact that she had been pulled away from a place devoid of life and planted somewhere that was full of it. It had been overwhelming, especially coupled with the desire to escape. She wanted to do that, wanted to leave it all behind and get her own answers, and she had to adjust. Quickly.

Clarke isn't always great at working on other people's terms. Getting here in the first place involved that.]

I liked it, but I'm here for our people and any signs as to why they'd be left here. Of all places.

[Unless it's yet another show of power.

It could be that, couldn't it?]

[saviorexe]

I would prefer tamer.

[He admits it without any shame inlaid in the words. This is not where he thrives, but it is where he can stand in the background of all the action, observing and shifting his focus to aiding anyone new. Or to even swoop in and help old acquaintances, if they find themselves in trouble sure to stir in a place like this.

Markus raises his voice to be heard over the blast of crescendoing music.]

Need a second pair of eyes? I'm thinking of weaving through the dance floor to spot anyone who needs help, but I'd hate to do it alone!

[Another admission of non-shame. The writhing mass of bodies before him? Looks like the maw of hell. Come with him, Clarke.]

[strove]

[What lies ahead of them could be daunting and overwhelming—could be, if it weren't a few levels above the club that she and Loki had attended before. Clarke wouldn't be here if she couldn't handle it, but had been a much needed reminder of the throng of pulsing life in this world. There is so much of it that it's unavoidable. Markus is evidence of it, too, both in proving his selfhood and being here—proving that his people deserve recognition every day he wakes up.

(When he shouldn't have to do that at all. Shouldn't be forced out of his body.)]

Right, let's go out there and spot someone. [If it's Markus, she takes it to mean it as he says it, but she still smirks. He's intuitive enough to guess why, she figures.

Clarke extends her hand to him.]

Let's go.

[saviorexe]

Then off we go. To spot someone.

[A quip back, good-natured, the tail-end of it probably lost in all the noise anyhow. Markus is quick to take her hand, not caring awfully much for the empathy bond that kicks up to life, its faint glow lost in the neon. After Clarke had cured him, there’s not much more intensity that can be shared between them — unless something horrid happens to either one of them now, then what they’ll share tonight is likely harmless at best.

Markus radiates calm, mostly. Stepping into the dancing crowd, a spray of color arches over them and lands in a mist across their heads and shoulders. The android frowns a little, dotted in neon green; the empathy bond relays a very vague kind of exasperation in her direction.

Again, this definitely isn’t his scene.]

You know— [Agh, he can’t be heard. He speaks loudly, straining his voice.] You know, this ball is proof of progress on my part! I can’t imagine having to deal with something like this the day I arrived!

[Leaving it in vague terms since they’re out in the open, even if the point is probably moot. No one is really paying attention to just another two people trying to cross the dance floor.]

[strove]

[Markus' radiating calm is actually some form of relief for her. Compared to that day in the park, it's nothing. And it's also precisely what she expected once she came to know him more. That calm is how she's tried to present herself in the past, but she's failed. Trying to seem calm and even tempered can mean that you come across exactly the opposite way. Clarke is living proof of that.

It helps here, even with that little hint of exasperation. In fact, that just gets answered with amusement.

When he speaks, she answers with a squeeze of her hand and a sense of reassuring him. If nothing else, at least she feels comfortable delivering these emotions in return. Being able to take someone's hand as she prefers is a point of comfort for Clarke.]

You've come a long way! Though I can't begin to imagine how this still feels if you're not used to it! [The closeness of bodies, everyone pressed together, and the constant threat of dehydration. What is it like to be inorganic but alive, forced to suddenly feel frail and incomplete in a world full of people all too used to it?

Speaking of, she adds,] Though I bet you'd prefer this experience without the threat of dehydration!

[She offers a quick smile with those words. Clarke knows that her own club experience had been a way of embracing life in her own way. For her, it was just ... the number of people. They could live their lives without the threat of war. It's still overwhelming to behold. The decadence of this party is another way of really seeing that.

She decides, then and there, that Markus will have to see her way of looking at it. Soon enough, that is.]

[saviorexe]

[He shares that relief. Clarke is one of the few with whom the empathy bond might have that kind of consequence, the sort that straightens the spine and makes one press forward with a sense of solidarity at his back. Like this — a small squeeze of her hand with his own fingers to confirm it — Markus accentuates the reassurance. Hopes that she can feel as solid on her feet as he does, somewhat selfishly indulging himself in the connection for now.

But it’s mostly for his own sake, as they push through the moving mass of people. He’s not sure what he would liken it to, if he were to think about it — maybe like shouldering through a thick forest with too many branches, if those branches were drunk and dancing and oblivious to anything else beyond their own narrowed focus. It’s through some means of a small miracle (or Markus’ own stubbornness to focus on Clarke’s words), that he can even pick up her reply through the din.]

There’s a lot that I’d like to experience—! [He wonders if she can catch the smallest, smallest tinge of sarcasm employed in those words, the thinnest coating that Markus will rarely use when the circumstances call for it.] Mostly it’s to avoid places like these in the future!

[He’s having just a grand old time, and he’s barely just arrived. Markus isn’t suited for a bass beat that makes his bones shake, the proximity of too much body heat, the strobe lighting that has his pupils adjusting wide in the dark and the punished for it moments later.]

Don’t tell me you’re actually enjoying all of—

[Fate laughs at him from above. It takes the form of a thick spray of paint to adorn the partygoers below; but Markus’ and Clarke’s timing is just perfect enough for them to take the brunt of it.

Florescent blue splatters down on the both of them, cutting off Markus’ words, painting his clothes as if they were an empty canvas just begging for the attention.

Why.]

[strove]

[Between the paint and the soup in her not-so-distant future, Clarke is going to have to get used to liquids being projected in her direction. Clarke was about to say that she doesn't mind it—it's not her scene, but there's something about reveling in life that is difficult for her to overlook. And that is, at the moment, precisely what she's doing: reveling. Managing it.

But for now, her hand reaches up to touch the wet paint in her face, all too aware that she must look ridiculous. Markus does, anyway.

And then the feeling passes, right before she reaches out to touch his face, drawing a line with it, all to make it more "artistic" in its presentation.

Clarke is an artist, so it's not actually a futile gesture on her part.]

I don't mind all this, exactly! [she finally says, a smirk forming. Her hands move, dropping to his shoulders, fingers spreading out as she plays a little more with the paint.]

Though I believe it got a lot better.

[saviorexe]

[Markus is very aware of his ridiculous state, even without having to gaze into a mirror to confirm it. And being always cognizant of his appearance, even in a passive sort of way, when it’s so upended like this? Every single imperfection is difficult to ignore when they pile up from each angle, but at least it’ll soon reach the point where his caring becomes replaced with an annoyed sort of resignation. When he’ll merely accept this is how the ball will be, this is how some humans define a fun night — to the point of delirium, apparently — and he’ll just be a stone thrown into a river rushing too quickly by him, hoping to survive it.

For now, though, he’s still at the caring stage.

Clarke’s fingers brush against his skin, smearing paint across the bridge of his nose. It’s like warpaint, now, as if she’s preparing Markus to go into battle with a flag flown high — a fitting metaphor, likely. Markus allows it, but his nose wrinkles a little bit like a child’s would.

She’s as covered in the stuff as he. She seems fine with it. Markus should realign his expectations of this place, should set the bar lower so he can be just as… comfortable.]

With what? Time? ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do’?

[strove]

If life had gone differently, I would have been more into this. [It's a surprising fact to share, Clarke is certain of it. By now, Markus knows about how she had to be responsible for her people. All of the other kids wanted to lash out or be irresponsible or free from rule. In that position, she had no choice but to step up. After a year of solitary, she felt separate anyway. Time in solitary isn't her favorite.

Her fingers reach up, brushing over the paint and moving it back into her hair. Washing it out with the current restrictions would be miserable, but she's done worse with her hair. At least this is paint and not sticky seeds and fruit turned into something else.]

I can't do it all the time now ... [And she certainly can't bring herself to take part in the drug-induced haze that many people are. That's giving up too much control.] I never lived that life. But I can go with the flow.

[After touching her face again, moving some of the paint over.]

So, maybe I wanted to be a Roman. In a different life.

[Where she owed no one anything.]

[saviorexe]

[There's something both poignant and amusing about her words. Markus can't be sure which overrides the other, so they entangle themselves in some strange dance in his mind, and all he can do is offer an exasperated huff that becomes lost in the bass beat.

He watches with an artist's interest as she moves pigment around on her skin. If he were to strain appreciation out of any of this, at least he could try to admire the slipshod composition of color and shocking illumination that plasters itself across every single individual here.]

Go with the flow. Easier said than done-

[But solid advice all the same. As if accepting this, Markus brings the tips of fingers up to his forehead, then drags them lightly down his face. Warpaint, indeed, the streak of neon leaving a trail down the curvatures of strong features.]

-but maybe I should've been Greek, instead. But the question is Athenian or Spartan?

[Go with the flow, a willingness to enjoy and learn new things, new experiences. Or to dive head-first into the battlefield of the dance floor, meeting anything that would push them away with unrivaled determination?]

[strove]

[For a brief moment, it amuses Clarke how much Markus reminds her of Bellamy, caught up in the parallels of history and the awkwardness of this moment. Bellamy has pretended to be comfortable with situations like this in the past, but Clarke knows the truth now. There was a reason why she had wanted them to meet in the first place. Markus is somehow both head and heart, whereas Clarke and Bellamy are one of each, divided between the two and better together to make up both halves of a whole.

Somehow even here, on the dance floor, she's caught up in that.

Clarke is mock-thoughtful as a result, both caught up in thoughts of Bellamy and in Markus' presence.

But finally she decides. It's not a hard decision.]

Definitely Athenian. [What she knows of history reinforces this fact, though Bellamy would have to be present for her to double check.]

I think going Spartan would feel more suffocating for you. False, even.

[saviorexe]

[She seems distracted, and for a half-moment Markus thinks that it’s not because of his own words, or the terrible concussive beat of the music engulfing them, or the spray of paint that’s sprinkling them in a light shower of vibrant green even while they both stand there, having this conversation. It’s a deeper sort of consideration, but the android can’t unearth more than that — can’t read her mind, can only wonder at what she might be thinking, her eyes still in his direction.

When she finally gives an answer, he wonders if Spartan versus Athenian is what she had really been contemplating, but it’s a satisfactory one all the same.]

You may have seen that side already.

[Dug up from something ugly, that day she cured him. He’s more than willing to leave it there, layered beneath himself.]

Maybe not so much false as it feels wrong. Suffocating might be the right word.

[Are they going to wax poetic on the dance floor? Markus could hook himself into the comfortability of it, as opposed to bumping shoulders against warm bodies in an attempt to traverse the space. But down comes another messy line of paint, coming down in a sheet from one end of the dance floor to the other in one of the bolder displays—

Markus, despite himself, can’t help but twist his mouth into a grimace-grin, and lifts an arm to shield Clarke from the inbound paint assault.]

I’d move if I were you—! [He manages a slightly belated warning.]

[strove]

[Markus' stature does well to protect her from more paint, and only a few splatters hit her face around his arm. It doesn't bother her much, but she smiles just the same, leaning into him and pressing her hand against the small of his back as if to thank him. The longer they stand here, the more likely their conversation is to wander—and the greater chance of their throats being screamed sore, all to be heard over the throbbing base.

Remaining close, she turns and tucks in near his chest, all to prevent herself from having to scream all the more. The intimacy will all but inevitably cause their chests to glow, but she refrains from skin to skin contact for now, managing it.]

The way I see it, we have two options. We take our lesson as one learned, and leave the crowd to consider the wisdom of it. Or we let that lesson come to us later, as more time passes. [Before she finishes speaking, there's another sign of paint splashing down, this time in a bright orange hue that wouldn't look good on any woman with Clarke's complexion. She doesn't seem to mind, but she does wince when her fingers come away with orange. Yes, she's aware it doesn't work on her, too.]

I leave it up to the Athenian to decide.

[saviorexe]

[Markus doesn't mind it, being a creature that always seeks connection. Clarke is a good friend, and they've shared too much already for him to shy away from her drawing him close. He actually places a hand on her shoulder, leaning in close to her ear, words briefly unobstructed by the noise.

Intimate or not, it's hardly a strange sight here on the dance floor. And the empathy bond, kicking up between them again, reveals Markus' simmering amusement, despite how chaos swirls around them like a storm.]

I think-

[Oh, there's the orange paint, and Markus closes his eyes against the sprinkle. Neon lands on his lashes, and he's quite the phosphorescent thing now.]

-the Athenian wishes to push forward until we find something that resembles a bar. What does the Roman find that agreeable?

[strove]

I think the Roman is just fine with that. [There is a long moment where Clarke herself seems to glow. It helps that her hair is the right color to catch light, and the right length and level of crimping to help her along. She inhales for a moment and then moves forward, acting as if she's the taller of the two at the same time, expecting the crowd to part for her. It helps that the paint seems to make her glow as she does.

Of course, before she moved, she did take hold of Markus' hand to pull him with her. There is a bar somewhere to be found. They just have to risk the parting of the Red Sea to get there.

(Or whatever metaphor would be more suitable.)]