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

[retravel]

[ At the comment about the UN, he makes a noise of acknowledgment. Ah, yes, timeliness. The rest is supported by the occasional nod, his focus otherwise on their surroundings, interest in the path ahead and anyone who might follow behind them.

Before the Framework, Fitz was pro-Sokovia by the way of Agent Romanoff: One hand on the wheel means they can still steer. Now he isn't so sure. Few people in any world can be trusted with power over the powerful. So, while Carter's reference points differ from his own, that's what makes them uniquely informative. He'll have varied angles to consider when he lies awake tonight. ]

A great deal, I imagine.

[ an idle remark, imbued with a casualness Fitz only feels when working towards a larger goal. ]

How was the drop-off, anyway? It was unusual for us to face such difficulty reaching you.

[revlon]

Is that so?

[ Her pace slows unconsciously as she thinks back to those blurry snatches of awareness in the bus, the details too difficult to grasp or focus on for very long — like a dream, hours after waking. But her training hasn't failed her yet and she latches on to what she can recall. ]

You mentioned it earlier. The guards. Four of them and... one attendant on a bus. [ A pause as she skips ahead mentally; restraints, too sluggish to speak or move. They disembarked, all of them in white, compliant. ] We stopped in a chamber or tunnel of some sort; there was some light but not enough to see more than that.

[ The bass under their feet, reverberating through concrete, muffled music. ]

Maybe we were underground, but a level or two above the party because I remember just hearing it below us. There was another bus behind mine but I couldn't count the others in time. [ Peggy keeps her voice low, somehow aware this shouldn't be overheard. ] They pulled hoods over our heads and ordered us to hold on to each other and walk. I can't tell you for how long. [ If she weren't so out of it, she'd have kept track. The frustration bleeds into her voice a little. ] Imagine my surprise when they pulled the hoods off at the ball's doorstep instead of a prison or with guns aimed at our heads.

[retravel]

[ Fitz listens with rapt attention, hiding the fact that he does so by slipping his hands in his pockets, relaxed posture at odds with his sharp gaze. He tips his head to one side, leaning into her space, as if this is a friendly conversation rather than a classified one. Only when she mentions hoods do his brows lift, registering surprise.

Perhaps with unprofessional sentimentality, he wonders if she expected to die — if she had a last swing in mind before the reveal. He had, when Ward marched him across Maveth. They're spies and soldiers, but does knowing that any mission could be their last make it easier to accept the inevitable?

His respect for her grows, another incremental move of the needle at her bravery and factual delivery. ]

That's new. [ Unhelpful, Fitz. ] I mean, there were no hoods for the other four waves. And the drop-off points were more public.

[ A pause. His tone shifts, grave. ]

They're refining their technique.

[revlon]

[ Of course being killed is always a possibility — it's been in her cards since the day she said yes to the SOE and dozens of her colleagues never made it out of the war — but why on Earth would she ever let that interfere with the present? It's a fact you file away and carry on in spite of because cowards die a thousand times before their deaths and may as well do something good and productive with your life before it finally comes to an end.

Yes, they're soldiers and spies. And she's seen a great many get marched off with hoods over their heads, never to return. It's never been her, even when she'd nearly been hanged that one time; but for those agonising minutes underground, she thought: this is finally it. She wasn't afraid for herself but for who may have been with her. Mr Jarvis, Daniel, Jack. She'd have fought for them. The surprise isn't dying; the surprise is living as long as she has. ]

It certainly felt calculated, [ she agrees, although she knows nothing about the previous drop-offs except that their appearances were similar. ] The person at the door didn't even question our appearance, just let us in. We were separated immediately. God knows if the others have been found, too — or by who.

[retravel]

[ A pang for those left undiscovered, who may be lost for vital hours or found by the out-of-sorts, inexperienced, or prickly among their ranks. Nothing he can do now, with only himself to show Agent Carter the way. At least Bobbi has her eyes on the scene currently.

For a block, a woman and child follow them, but carry on without them when Fitz turns toward a cut-through between buildings. On the other side, they'll meet the artificial river that cuts through New Amsterdam. ]

We have people looking all over the ball, though their capabilities in the field are... [ a rolling gesture, unable to find a precise descriptor. ] variable. [ As she'll well know, after meeting and dodging several. Please be proud of him for being tactful, Simmons. ] The ball will delay the finding, but it shouldn't impede it entirely. [ lower, talking to himself. ] Dangerous, but not deadly. That's what I don't understand.

[ The trafficked victims are always within reach, installed with the necessary wetware to survive but not given IDs of their own. Is this more calculated? Yes. Riskier? Absolutely. And, even still, not doomed from the outset. ]

[ snapping his fingers. ] Is is our local sponsors they want to avoid? They had a rather close brush, recently. [ Morningstar, when El had so nearly pinpointed one of their operatives, the nurse whose name and face are known among the anomalies but scrubbed from any other record. ] Can send you the debrief on that via the private network, once we arrive.

[ nbd. ]

[revlon]

[ Her expression is all the information Fitz needs when he references the others scattered throughout the ball. Most approached her leading with sympathy, commiseration — but anyone could offer that out of observation alone, with the supposed experience behind it nothing more than empty words. It's why she snapped at the man she ultimately left the party with; he'd been the latest in a long line of attempts and the only one who offered her a name to go on. Peggy supposes she owes some people an apology down the line for her behaviour (although if they have truly been in her shoes then they'll understand why she acted the way she did) — but that's not her concern now.

Dangerous but not deadly, the Scotsman says, and she's still not quite there with following along with his thought processes. Does he mean the dispersal of her group? Dangerous for whom: them or the locals of New Amsterdam? A question for later as he spins on... and loses her again. ]

Private network? What —

[ She wants to stop, maybe even admire the way the river slices through the bustling metropolis and leaves the only gasp of space in the sky she's seen since coming to the surface. It's a sight, to be sure: neon lights and the last of the setting sun's blazing orange reflecting off the water, the skyscrapers jutting out on either side of the riverbank like broken teeth. She's never seen a skyline like it. Peggy doesn't know where to look first, and she ultimately slows to a halt at the edge, voice soft. ]

... Crikey O'Reilly.

[retravel]

[ Ah, yes, Leopold James Fitz has explained time travel to a Russian from the sixties, texting to a Victorian, and the multiverse to someone who has never left the walls of their prison — the neural network and implants are just as doable, even for a vintage gal. It takes him half a minute to sketch out an answer, shading in details and reference points as he steps into the fading light by the river and stops a few steps after her, lost in his thoughts until Crikey O'Reilly wins his focus. ]

What on — [ What on earth is she saying? Why the hell did she stop? A glance between her and the world ahead. It's just the skyline. And, oh, right. It's the bloody buildings that scrape the sky and whiz with futuristic technology. Not at all like the world she will have known, even if he doesn't consider the hulking, black obelisks, eerily dotting the expanse of buildings (and stabilising the very atmosphere). As soon as it clicks, he allows her to have a moment to process silently.

And then, ]

Welcome to New Amsterdam proper, Miss Carter. [ he gestures outward and upward. ] One of 104 megacities left on this Earth. [ Fitz punctuates each syllable, ] In the year 2511.

[ Friendly reminder. If she had her doubts about the future, well, that's done now. ]

[revlon]

[ The moment is appreciated because as her hands catch on the railing on the riverbank, she thinks her knees might feel a little unsteady at the sheer magnitude and alienness of everything she's seeing; from the ground, it's dizzying how high everything goes, and it's almost like a reverse vertigo. Peggy never imagined anything could top the Empire State or the Eiffel Tower, but now that she's seeing it, she realises she can't be too surprised — mankind is always reaching for the sky, evolving, challenging itself to do better. (And rarely to be better.)

Distantly, she hears Fitz, and she huffs out a breath in lieu of a laugh, shaking her head as she brings her gaze back down to Earth. ]

Yes, [ she says at length, getting her bearings, ] you've said.

[ She believes him now, clearly. This isn't a dream. (She thinks it could be, but with how closely he watches her, she's not about to pinch herself where he can see.) Peggy draws in a breath and releases the rail, straightening up, eyes closing when the her head swims with it — maybe it's the heat, the hunger, the last of the drugs, or she just got up too fast. Or it's everything. ]

Did you say — [ Steady, Carter. ] Sorry, there are only a hundred cities left? [ She looks back up. Softer, ] Christ.

[retravel]

[ Fitz hesitates, but he ultimately steps to close the gap between them, placing a guiding hand on her clothed shoulder to steady and guide her. Just a nudge onward, where lights twinkle in the distance, growing brighter as the sun fades. ]

[ gently, ] The future hasn't been kind to this world.

[ this, he says, hinting at the many worlds theory. His tone turns solemn. ]

Humanity's impact on the earth — industrialisation, technological advancements, carelesslessness — has led to climate change and catastrophic geological phenomena. [ For now, he leaves out the world wars which ravaged the planet, knowing how that information might shake her, despite her impeccable composure. It certainly rattled him. Do they never learn? He keeps his hand in place for as long as she'll allow. ] Earth no longer resembles what we know, [ we, again he's with her. ] Large portions of land mass are now underwater, while others have been turned to uninhabitable wastelands.

[ only a short pause for that to sink in before he grasps at a thin shred of hope. ]

But what you know isn't gone. Time's only our perception: A line. Just 'cause we're at one point on the line doesn't mean the points before and after don't exist. You can go back to Point A the same way you travelled to Point B. [ a beat. ] In theory.

[revlon]

[ Surprisingly, she doesn't shake off that hand. Not immediately. Ordinarily she would, especially coming from a man she's barely known an hour. But just like the bonds formed in combat, there is the beginning of something in a shared traumatic experience; awful though it is, it's not something to be discounted.

And she does need that point to focus on as he brings the context of this world — this world — into the foreground. She breathes in slowly, deeply, and listens with an expression that flickers from a frowning thoughtfulness to something a little more subdued. Almost sad. But she shutters it away a heartbeat later, reflexive, and she gently shrugs off his hand and turns away to look out at the city again and the river cutting through it. So they've created incredible things in this far-flung future, patted themselves on the back for it, but at what cost? ]

"Time is the longest distance between two places," [ she quotes after a moment. Shakespeare is more her speed, but she had run lines with Angie for an acting class of hers. It seems painfully apt now. Peggy presses her lips into a line, not quite a smile. ] That's what we're dealing with, then? Time travel into a... possible future to what we know. One of many, is that what you're saying?

[ This world. Can they still change this? Is that — ]

Why do you think we're here?

[retravel]

[ As the city awakens, the whir of machinery and chatter of evening (morning) crowds rises.

When Peggy shrugs, his hands drops, slipping back into his pocket without comment. He recognises the quote, too, mind belatedly supplying its precursor I didn't go to the moon, I went much further. Yes, that's true. He did, for time is the unit of distance that keeps tearing him and Jemma apart, unforgiving in its march onward, but they've all been dragged beyond the radius of their perception. And Peggy slots together all the pieces he offered her, spread across the expanse between them. Naturally, gaps remain in the image, with only small chunks of the jigsaw in haphazard clusters.

The buzz of nearby groups increases as they spy a waterside market up ahead, opening stalls for commuters to snag breakfast. ]

Yeah. [ and firmer. ] Yes.

[ As for her question, his features scrunch together, tension coiling and rising and and and — Fitz exhales, sweeping a hand in front of them. ]

I think someone has a greater purpose in mind for us all. [ experiments, tests, weapons, sleepers. ] That's why we call it the cosmos. From the Greek for world and order. Even if we can only understand the world as randomness and chaos, from our limited vantage point, there is order. And we're tools to overthrow or maintain it, one way or the other. We're useful, and we're being used.

[ Though it may seem like a nonanswer, it reveals a great deal about his perspective on their kidnapping. Ordered, not random. Purposeful, not experimental. As he will soon tell Markus, the earth was rattling long before we got here. They're the response to perceived disorder, not chaos in and of itself.

And tools like anything else. ]

[revlon]

[ The riverside is, perhaps, not the place for them to discuss any of this — although this is certainly the time. It's giving her a headache but not too much of one that she can't take what he puts down for her, plot it in her mental map of this fix they've all gotten themselves into. And she has to accept this as real, even with having encountered a man like Dr Fenhoff who could create fantasy from words. Because even if it isn't, knowing it's something to escape is enough.

Peggy turns to study him in the fading light, listening sharply, and she thinks how he wouldn't be out of place at the SSR or the SOE with how he thinks and works a problem. Clever, yes, and succinct, but with a keen understanding of the world and how others fit and move through it. They would have snapped him up in a heartbeat in 1945. A second later, she realises — they do, just decades later. No wonder.

Useful, indeed. And SHIELD wasn't the only one to see that. (In him, in them as a pair, the group of displaced as a whole.) ]

Then it's our duty to find out precisely what for, isn't it, Mr Fitz. [ Not a question, but perhaps the first true acknowledgement of that we he keeps looping between them. ] Now, as much as I'm enjoying our little chat about time and space —

[ She straightens, angling her head back towards that market. She can smell it from here. ]

Shall we, before I faint in the middle of your tour?

[retravel]

[ She strikes him as someone too sensible for hope against hope — it's indefatigable determination, tinged with aspirations for the better, that leads her to bandy about terms like duty and trudge through the quagmire of the new world with only the most necessary of rest-stops. He admires her for that. ]

We shall. [ adopting her more formal phrasing, just a little. His mouth quirks, not quite a smile but as close as he gets on a day as unsettling as this one. ] And I'll show you what I was talking about earlier.

[ They pass under a glittering archway, signposting the market for when lunchtime occurs in the dead of night. With her acceptance of the we, if only for now, Fitz takes the liberty of tipping his head into her space to whisper his next explanation. It won't do to be overheard discussing everyday technology as a novelty. Their pace becomes a stroll, ambling through other couples and solo workers. ]

Everything is automated. [ In the Fordian sense. He checks the dates: 1947. Hm, bit borderline. Best add, ] From automatic and before that, automaton. [ He doesn't doubt that she thinks of the former, but he traces it back further. Automaton conjures images of a once unreal future, one that they now inhabit. It interweaves the robotic and the human, laying the groundwork for their own biorobotic integration. ]

As you suspected, [ when Peggy skittered her hands across her body, searching for something. An injury, he now surmises. ] we've been altered to meet the industry standard. [ a slippage of compassion there, where he speaks of humans as if they're prototypes, not people. ] Machines, computing devices — computers have become compact in the last few centuries. Small enough for personal use, for handheld carrying, and now for integration with our finest supercomputer, the human brain. [ His eyes flicker, scanning the stalls that ping as nearby offerings and selecting one specialising in plain sandwiches, at least for NA's typical fusion fare: SWITCHBACK. It only takes him seconds to search the menu for his regular order and place it with a blink. ] We connect wirelessly and issue commands with a simple thought, in lieu of manual input.

[ Fitz turns on his heel, waving for her to follow. ]

Like so. [ a fake smile at the vendor, whose darkened under-eyes betray his lethargy from the schedule swap. ] Number 14.

[ At the stall, he holds out an open palm, his order already wrapped in a compound imitating paper (made to disintegrate within the hour; no waste) and handed off shortly. Three guesses as to what he bought, and the first two don't count. ] Cheers.

[ Now with food in hand (already being opened, so he can take a generous bite, hungry and dehydrated himself after trawling the ball for lost souls), he steps to the side and shares the menu with the nearest device — her own, so it pops up as an invitation, ticking across her vision without alerting the vendor to her status as a digital ghost:

@leo.fitz would like to share SWITCHBACK's menu with you.
> ACCEPT
> DECLINE

For once, he doesn't watch her, allowing her privacy in this moment. Whatever she asks for, when she finds the words to request it, he'll order and retrieve. ]

[revlon]

[ Fitz is incredibly lucky Peggy is not only the top agent with the Strategic Scientific Reserve — albeit a field agent — but that she's close friends with one Howard Stark. Because this isn't her first rodeo in having the mechanics of a thing laid out for her, even if the technology is far more advanced than either she or Howard could imagine in the mid-21st Century. She's seen computers take up entire rooms and basements (like the lab in Brooklyn that gave them Captain America) and she's seen Howard refine and modify the camera to fit into a fountain pen. If one man could do it in the 1940s, it's unsurprising that the world eventually caught up and expanded on all of it.

But this rocks her to her core. A lot of this day has and she's doing her best to keep it all straight without throwing up a wall and saying she's through. Peggy has seen the interface flickering in her vision, washed out by the party lights before, but impossible to ignore out in the world (hence the headache). She had assumed it was some kind of holographic Times Square, visible to all — and in part that's true, but now she realises those are pinged by her proximity and aren't physical signs or menu boards. They're in her head.

There's a device in her head. Bloody hell. That's what Fitz had meant back at the shop. He was being kind, then, sparing her the details but there's no sparing her now, not when it's so integral to the world they're trapped in. ]

I see.

[ Literally. Figuratively. It's faintly said, as she trails after him, watches him complete a transaction that must have occurred in the blink of an eye and begun with a thought. That joke about fainting might become true if it weren't for her iron will and sheer bullheadedness to remain bloody calm at all times.

It's the only reason she doesn't jump when the alert pops across her vision, the first one ever directed at her. Peggy inhales sharply, looking at Fitz like she means to ask him how to accept it when — she does. The mere thought of it. And the menu flickers to life in an instant. Her shock and amazement must be tabled for now because they are in public and this tech is standard, unremarkable; she'll pick it apart later. Her stomach and head ache and that's only partly because of how famished she is, but she can't unpack how distressed this is making her feel, how horrifying it is that someone was in her head. Later, later, later.

For now — a hamburger. The safest option, the most familiar (until she takes a bite and realises it isn't real meat), which she relays quietly to Fitz before saying, ]

We can keep going while we eat. If that's all right.

[ She wants to sit. Every bone in her body wants to sit with the exhaustion and the weight of this information. But they can't be overheard and, just like the party, the press of the crowd is a bit much for how overstimulated she's already feeling. ]

[retravel]

[ Fitz passes off the second order and a reusable bottle of water (which costs an exorbitant amount, quadruple the usual, in this drought; the purchase earns a wince from him and lifted brows from the vendor, who takes him for a sucker). As he does so, he allows himself to stare once more, taking in the barely contained shock in her features — the slight creases that few would notice, without the sharpness of a spy's eye. She reminds him of Jemma, sat quietly in their restaurant of choice after Maveth, overwhelmed despite the empty space around them. What's worse than an unfamiliar place? Why, the uncanny, which makes a home in what you thought you knew.

With a nod, he resumes their prior pace. The increasing foot traffic (and obvious weight of his disclosures) means he pauses his debrief. And for a fleeting moment, he presses his hand against her shoulder again, directing her toward an exit halfway through the market with a parting squeeze of reassurance. They can walk alongside the soon-to-be bustling area from beyond its loosely-defined framework of stalls and lights.

Their shared passion for food (and justifiable hunger) provides the perfect excuse for extended quiet. ]

Sorry if it's a bit shit. [ He eventually interjects, scratching at the underside of his jaw as he does so. Awkward. ] The meat. I mean. [ wrinkling his nose. ] It'll be a substitute.

[revlon]

[ She appreciates the quiet, even if she doesn't like admitting she needs it. But he seems to understand that, even though his second offer of physical reassurance in a short span of minutes makes her more uncomfortable than she can voice aloud right now — it's not his fault. She's just not that kind of person, even under these extraordinary circumstances, and with a pang she realises how much she misses the silent steadiness of Mr Jarvis or the Commandos (not Dugan, he's never been quiet a day in his life, but Gabe, maybe, or Monty). Even with her newfound companion at her side, Peggy does feel so impossibly alone in this foreign future.

She can't accept the true weight of that right now because she feels... too vulnerable as it is, a little too raw and open; uncharacteristic of her. She's been out of sorts since waking up in that bus and every time she thinks she gains some measure of solid ground, she loses it again. So she buries herself in her meal, too ravenous to register the taste or texture until a few sloppy bites into it, and shakes her head when Fitz breaks the silence, swiping the side of her thumb across the corner of her mouth (ketchup). ]

I've had worse, [ she manages around a half-chewed mouthful. Sorry, did you think Agent Peggy Carter was a perfect lady at all times? Never meet your heroes, kids. ] Meals, anyway. [ Lightly, ] Not entirely sure if I've had a day half as horrific as this one. And I lived through the bloody Blitz.

[retravel]

[ As they round a corner, he throws the paper in a designated bin for degradables with a precision shot (practiced with his powers), a light on the lid flickering green at his correct distribution. Together, Fitz and Peggy walk a safe distance apart now, denting the distance left to the safehouse. From afar, they might seem like coworkers, shooting the shit on an accidental run-in during their commute. Moderate surprise registers in the widening of his eyes, tracking the sloppiness and swipe of ketchup across her fingers.

They don't mention your heroes' manners at the museum, now do they. ]

The bloody Blitz. [ His turn to be caught off guard, a startled chuckle tumbling out, covered by his hand. ] Right. [ Her reference points may be less fantastical than his own, but no less potent in their scale and horror. Every bit of hideousness they encountered during the world wars was as new as aliens and inhumans. Peggy Carter understands the root of their troubles. Of course she does, after championing the effort to chop off every rotted leaf and branch — to stop its spread through the whole of the SSR and the wider world. ]

We've not long to go now. [ even-toned. ]

[ Literally and, well, regarding the required information for life at the safehouse. He cuts right, into another alleyway that tilts downward into the lower levels of the city. This one sports more graffiti than the last, a signifier of the neighborhoods shifting once again. Much of it rallies against the rich, corrupt elite of NA, but a few lines reference more recent happenings. HAVE YOU SEEN THE LIGHT? most of all, sketched in a brilliant blue and likely to be painted over within a few hours. Drawings of the creatures (both massive and small) from the monster attack persist, too, on their way down.

When the path narrows, Fitz leads, edging out in front. ]

But there's one more thing you should know.

[revlon]

[ Despite having received her food after him, she polishes it off at the same time and tosses her rubbish after his. She doesn't have a napkin or a handkerchief, despite reaching for one out of reflex, so she does the next best thing without breaking her stride: she swings her new-old rucksack around to pull out a corner of her scrubs and dabs at the corners of her mouth. Somehow, her lipstick is still impeccable.

But that's been trained into her too, hasn't it? Beauty as duty, the posters proclaimed through the war. To look sharp at all times was patriotic in of itself; it represented and inspired strength, the British spirit unbowed under Germany's bombs. It's the same here. If she's put together on the outside, maybe she'll begin to feel it, too, just like she did through the war. Because Fitz is right that World War Two, as it became known, saw some of the most awful and advanced warfare known to mankind at that time. And Peggy, leading the charge against HYDRA with Captain America and his Howling Commandos, saw things the world could never know about.

She has weathered rough seas. This is rougher than most. But she can do it. So Fitz says there's more and she mentally braces herself for it as they weave through the streets. ]

Very well, [ comes her steady reply, after a swig of much-needed water. ] I do feel as though I should have been taking notes this whole time. [ She shoots him a glance as the path widens again and she falls into step alongside him. ] It can't possibly be more alarming than the last thing you told me.

[retravel]

[ Their shortcut slices across a diagonal underground and takes them through to an outer area, seedy, like the one by the caves. Even still, they have several blocks of abandoned buildings and stores, dive bars and niche clubs, to go before they reach their destination.

Another huff of air, not a laugh this time. ]

Wouldn't bet on it, Carter.

[ The Miss dropped in his sudden burst of black humour. A sidelong glance at her follows, brows arched but expression otherwise flat. ]

How many people like us did you touch back in the club? [ then, dryly. ] Or was I the only one who had the honour?

[ Of the arm at his throat. Nope, never gonna let that go. ]

[revlon]

[ Charming neighbourhood, she thinks but doesn't say. If they're headed towards a safehouse, then it makes sense to set it up on the outskirts or at the very least in a part of town not often frequented. She also thinks this is a good spot for an ambush, but Fitz has been straight with her this entire time (far as she can tell) so perhaps that assessment is slightly unfounded.

Then he loops their conversation back to the first minute of their meeting and there's that little prickle of wariness at the nape of her neck. Still holding on to that, is he? (Can she blame him? Really?) ]

One gentleman got especially familiar, [ she says at length, her expression mirroring his own. She means handsy and she means Johnny Jaqobis, but that's neither here nor there. ] I suspect to try and check for scrubs. I handled it.

[ Not quite like she handled Fitz, but that's up to him to decipher. She won't correct him if he thinks it was the same. Reputation and all. ]

Otherwise, no, not that I recall. Why do you ask?

[retravel]

[ Somehow, his brows climb higher at that. How the hell did anyone get away with forward when he almost died for dodging questions, huh?

Fitz dips his hand behind his head, fingers threading through the short hair at the back of his neck. ]

When you had me pinned, did you notice anything off? I mean, did you feel anything, ah — foreign is the word, I suppose.

[ It's hard to broach the subject without a concrete touchstone. ]

[revlon]

[ He was just the last straw in a long line of frustrations; wrong place, wrong time. It was nothing personal. And she'd say as much if he ever voiced that aloud, but the conversation takes a turn she doesn't anticipate and as his brows raise, so do hers — sharply. ]

Did I feel anything, [ she repeats after a beat, bemused, ] when I had you pinned?

[ It's too vague. And something he ought to clarify. ]

[retravel]

N — no, no, wait. [ A hand raises, opening and closing as he searches for a nice way of putting this. Okay, she must have been occupied, distracted by emotions of her own and chaotic surroundings. She may be Peggy fucking Carter, but she's not all-knowing, and she was clever enough to get out of the party fast, too. Why should the specific theory of emotional transference come to mind? It hadn't for him, until Clary was patching him up in the cramped medical ward, the contact prolonged and specific in its nature.

He does away with the last vestiges of his tactfulness, seeing as it only serves to distract from the point. ]

Emotionally. I mean emotionally. [ waving both hands, gesturing between them. ] The lot of us are linked, an empathetic connection, activated by physical contact. It feeds back like the computer in here — [ tapping his temple ] — like the neural implant, I mean. Feelings transfer, not thoughts.

[revlon]

[ A lot had happened in that very short span of time where they were pressed flush together, her forearm braced across his throat, bare skin to bare skin. A lot of it had been overwhelming, too, so it takes some doing for her to even think back and peel apart those tense seconds — and he's right, she had noticed something foreign in the moment, fraught though it was. ]

I think I did feel something, yes, but I...

[ It's quietly said, brows lowering only to knit together. She remembers fear piercing through her anger, out of place. And more precisely, she recalls the wave of icy calm before it had been pushed back by something else. (Something that was hers.)

Peggy pauses by a corner where battered fence and boarded up shop meet and she looks at Fitz — really looks at him, as discerning as if they were touching now. If he hadn't told her everything else leading up to this revelation, she wouldn't have believed him half as readily; but technology, she can understand, to a degree. But something as organic and indefinable as emotion being traded like notes? She's a spy, trained in the art of understanding the human condition and manipulating it as well as her own. The implications of such a naked, unfiltered vulnerability unsettles her deeply. ]

It's just us? [ The displaced, she means. ] How is that possible? Why?

[retravel]

[ When she pauses, he does the same, easing to a stop a few paces ahead of her. Fitz angles himself to hold a conversation with her face-to-face, as they haven't properly since she slammed him against the cave wall. A pang of sympathy manifests in mirrored features, brow creased. Despite his acceptance now, he can understand her difficulty. His time in the Framework cultivated an intimate familiarity with all sorts of inhumans, some whose powers were comparable in nature — telepathy, not empathy. Their potential laid the foundations for his (imperfect) understanding of this world's peculiarities. ]

Yes. [ A beat. His mouth twists downward. ] I don't know. [ Another beat. He suffuses his words with a rawness, born of his desperation to understand and inability to do so, at present. ] I don't know.

[ delivered off with a firmness at odds with his full body shrug, shoulders lifted and neck down. ]

I have theories — myriad and inconclusive — and they're only that.

[ Nothing, he has nothing but uneven pieces. ]