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

1

[revlon]

[ Quiet, they'd said. Not silent. But there's no keeping to that, not with the shuffle of their feet on concrete echoing in whatever dim, empty chamber they're being marched through; not when her breath and heartbeat threaten to drown out even that, roaring and pounding in her ears, amplified and trapped by the hood. Peggy Carter works to keep calm, she does not panic as a rule, but with the sedative still in her system and God knows what else sluicing through her veins, it's a struggle to maintain any sort of composure. (She's been through the war. She knows how long walks like these so often end.) The world is foggy, her mind spinning, and she wants nothing more than to pull off this wretched hood, break ranks, and fight free.

But she can't. Something has her in an iron grip even with the restraints left behind on the bus. She doesn't know what's happening, doesn't know how she got here, doesn't know why she can't remember anything except for the scuffle in the middle of a desert and the sharp crack of the butt of a rifle to the back of her head until — nothing. There's nothing. So she closes her eyes, black on black in the shadows, and follows the person ahead of her. Breathe. Walk. She's since lost track of the seconds and the steps, drifting like she had been on the bus. But then something — someone — snaps her back to the present, their hand digging into her shoulder.

It hurts and she means to say as much, but the pain actually helps, becomes a point to focus on, like pinching yourself to stay awake. Their voice comes next, a bare whisper, and she tries to wet her dry lips to answer. ]

No idea. [ Her voice is as rough as his, her first words in what feels like days. Peggy turns her head just enough to the side to speak to him, softly trying to clear her throat under the guise of a cough. Something tells her the guards can't know they're speaking. ] Who are you?

[ ooc; if this is much too late, feel free to ignore! holiday struggles... augh ]

[blyat]

[ooc: never too late!! <3]

[The terror of lost control has him seized in a vice trap, all of the air frozen in his lungs. The challenge begins with learning how to breathe in and out in measured gaps, how not to puke, and he thinks he's doing a decent job of it. No matter the shadowy world in the outer perimeter of his vision, Cain can put one foot in front of the other and continue breathing through the drugged delirium. That point of physical contact - hand on narrow shoulder, a radiating warmth - acts to ground his thought as much as the pain does for Peggy. It's not even his intention to grasp with such pressure. He just does it, without thinking, because the strength in his fingers and the realness of another person makes him feel better and more aware.

When she turns her head, he can only see the barest glimpse of a profile under the hood: curve of a cheek like a half-moon, the continuous line from brow to nose-tip to lips to chin, each peak dimly lit. She asks his name.]

Cain, [scratchy, low-toned, something volatile buried deep beneath it. Controlled, somehow, not by himself.] Who are you?

[And then before the woman can answer, he asks another question, bending his elbow so to minimize some of the distance between them without threat of tripping over each other's feet as they walk.] Hey, do you hear that? [Distant still, but growing louder -- a rhythmic sound. He feels it more in the soles of his feet than his ears.]

[revlon]

[ She draws a breath to answer, but he cuts her off before she can. Yes, she can hear that; more than anything else, she can feel it, a thumping bass that thrums through the concrete floor and into her bones. She must be imagining it, how the sound makes her ache, but there's a hypersensitivity strung through her nerves that could be due to the drugs weighing her down or whatever came before this. That's what horrifies her more than being marched through shadowy tunnels under armed guard. That, and she can't seem to make her body do what her instincts demand.

Christ. If this is a nightmare from her years in the war, it's the most vivid one she's ever lived. ]

Don't know what I'm hearing, [ comes her breathy reply, her focus there and gone in snatches. She won't recognise it as music, not when she's from five centuries in the past. Not that she knows that yet. ] Where are they —

[ Taking us? A guard comes up on their right and she snaps her head forward, waiting for them to pass. Hard to tell with the hood obscuring her vision, but she can hear the footsteps fade into the shuffle of the others. Then she turns again to add, softer: ]

Peggy. I'm Peggy.

[blyat]

[It takes time, and it takes guessing based on what it feels like, but Cain has an idea what they hear. Calls to mind secret, small, personal parties back home, happy moments amid a bleak existence that were carved out under the watchful eye of the Alliance. This still possesses an alien element he can't place, though his wondering is abandoned when she speaks - when she stops - when the guard passes, slowly, armed and impossible to take down.

He might try it, if only his will wasn't bolted down to the task of walking forward into the endless dark.]

Cain.

[Peggy's name he commits to memory, for as much as he can depend on the slippery grasp of it.]

We gotta get out of this. [Lowly hissed under his breath, still whispering, his whole body a tense extension of the grip he maintains on her shoulder.] Sounds like music. Don't know about you, but I don't wanna see what's coming next.

[But how, if they can't move?]

... You see anything useful? [She's got eyes in front of him, but maybe she only sees the next in the procession they're following. It doesn't hurt to ask.]

[revlon]

[ I've got a bloody hood over my head, I can't see a damn thing. The thought fires, sharp as anything, but it's too much of a mouthful when the rest of her feels like molasses. So: ]

No.

[ No, she doesn't want what's waiting for them at the end of this long walk. And no, she can't see anything. The lights are dim through the fabric obscuring her vision, just hazy washes of flickering yellow with long stretches of blackness in between. Always, the shuffle of footsteps; always, the persistent thrum of the bass beneath their feet, her heart in her ears.

She wonders if anyone else here has combat experience. If they broke ranks, could they take out the guards? Or would it be a death sentence to try? (It's one to stay silent and compliant, too.) She tries to recall anything about what came before this, if she remembers a prison, a conversation with the others. Nothing. ]

I can't remember anything. Can you? From before.

[ This walk, this tunnel, that bus. ]

[blyat]

[Even if instinct lingers somewhere deep in him, he can't obey it. That frustration rides higher than everything else he feels, from the persistent ache in the front of his head to the soreness of his throat to the loose, elastic weakness of his limbs. Telltale signs, as much as can be guessed.]

Nothing. It's all just... fucking blank.

[And that is terrifying, to have such a large gap of memory, cut out from the scenes playing through his head.]

I was - I was dying. I remember the blood. Then it was... nothing.

[Something sticks in his throat. In good time; another guard passes, near their shoulders, blinking in and out of focus as light eclipses that tall, broad silhouette.]

Did the Alliance do this? [He can't even imagine yet she won't know what or who he means.]

[revlon]

[ He was dying. Good Lord. What miracle of science, just short of a supersoldier serum, could bring a man back from the brink? Of course, she's been in combat, so she knows sometimes an injury can look worse than it is. Plenty of men have woken up in the aftermath, surprised they'd survived at all. But either way, it's disconcerting — the last thing she remembers is being knocked out, presumably captured.

And then what? Delivered here? To what end? ]

— the Alliance? [ She wonders if he means the Allied Forces, but the war is over. Then she wonders if he means the Arena Club. Either way, there's no recognition in her voice when she repeats after him. ] Who are they?

[blyat]

[Cain gnaws his lip, grits his teeth, and then grasps for some clarity in his response. It seems impossible to him that this woman wouldn't know the Alliance. Only, when was the last time he spoke to a woman? Not since leaving the colonies. The surreality of that grips him surely as a fist around his chest.]

If you don't know, then... [Would an explanation help? He doesn't want to be dismissive, not now, when they're both feeling through the dark.] A military federation. Controls pretty much everything.

[All at once, the line halts. Cain can't see far ahead - but he makes out a square silhouette in the shadow, its face upraised from a wall. A door? When it swings open the music hits like a physical wave. His hand firms its grip on her shoulder.] Peggy, still with me?

[revlon]

[ Military federation that controls "everything"? It makes her frown, that thought piercing through the whirlwind of everything else. Does he mean the occupying Allied troops in Europe and the Pacific? They're still working to rebuild. But if this man was on the other side of it, the turn of phrase is understandable. (None of this is understandable. But all she knows is that they're in this together, them and the rest of their group.)

That is, until they come to a stop. Despite her strict training and unshakeable will, she feels her heartbeat and breath pick up as the adrenaline floods — they've stopped. Nothing good can come of that, surely. She has the impulse to reach up with her free hand to grip Cain's at her shoulder, another anchoring point, but she balls it into a fist at her side instead. Just in case. ]

Not going anywhere, [ she replies, voice steadier than she feels. She can hear a guard moving down the line, but no pop of gunfire. She isn't sure why until her own hood is whipped off her face and she finds herself squinting in the flashing lights spilling over from the door up ahead. ] What the bloody hell —

[blyat]

[Cain's turn comes in quick succession, a shove and a yank, head unveiled to the strange world that soon surrounds them. The lights are almost debilitating. Eyes dilated from the dark and the drugs, he struggles to adjust when confronted with so much color - bowling over senses in a technicolor wave.

In the shuffling movement, he's lost the hold on Peggy's shoulder. The guards are gone. A woman stands ahead, smiling with needle-point teeth, serrated white edges and strange inked patterns on her visible skin. She takes his hand and stamps the back so it glows blue-white and eerie. Don't worry, those costumes are great. Come on, now.

Compelled, Cain ducks ahead, through the opening passage of the door.]

Peggy? [Instinct has him searching for her.] What the fuck was that? What's this? [He brandishes the design on his skin, still rattled, feeling anger begin to sink in to replace compliant confusion.] Are we supposed to be wearing a costume? 'Cause this doesn't feel like one.

[revlon]

[ Her senses are overwhelmed and going into overdrive — the music is almost deafening now with the thumping bass and sharp, piercing electronic notes that are foreign to a woman from the mid-Twentieth Century, the strobe lights blinding, cutting straight through a mounting headache. Somewhere in the chaos, they're separated, and she's a capable woman in even the most harrowing of circumstances but her stomach swoops with the loss all the same.

She twists around at the sound of her name, shouldering through the crowd, and her hand catches onto his arm — bare skin to bare skin, but the glow in their chests is easy to miss in the vibrance of their white scrubs under UV lights. His emotions swirl with hers, mirroring anger, confusion, yawning horror. One more thing on top of everything else, so she doesn't realise anything is wrong. (Because everything is wrong.) ]

I don't know — [ She doesn't do well with not knowing a damn thing. She still can't understand why they were kept alive after that long march. ] I don't know, it's — [ Her breath catches, she wrestles the rising panic with an iron will. It registers in the empathy bond, suddenly stemming the flow with something sharper, more grim. Determined. ] We can't stay here.

[ But she's already lost sight of the door, jostled through the dancing, heaving throng. ]

[blyat]

[It isn't clear at first what happens when that eerie blue glow blooms between them, swallowed in the chaos of color, and all he registers is the pressure of touch on his arm. Cain mistakes it as the intensity of his own emotions, a doubling effect of heightened anger and disorientation triggered by the circumstances.

Then sweeps in determination, angled like a blade, rigid and set apart from himself. It's not his, and yet he finds himself drawn to it, turning toward Peggy. The bleary confusion is in his eyes.]

This way.

[You're right unsaid, as if something in that tether between them has motivated him away from blind raging anger into action. He loops an arm around Peggy's back - not constrictive, just a guide - and uses his height to see over most heads. In the end, he'll lead them into a nearby passage that branches away from the main too-crowded entrance, where it's dimmer but cooler, where they can breathe.]

Fuck. This is a nightmare. Did you feel that? [They've separated now, but he's still reeling.] It was like everything got more intense.

[revlon]

[ This way. It's a command that tugs at her, compels her to follow — but she'd have followed anyway, she thinks. (Right? It's hard to gather her swirling thoughts, clashing impulses.) Peggy would ordinarily shrug off being led, especially after being forced to march through the underground for an indeterminate amount of time before this, but it's the only way they can move through the throng without being separated so she appreciates the practicality of it. But she can't help but notice the strange amplification, almost an echo chamber, of the emotions running through her.

Maybe it's nothing. Maybe she's just being hypervigilant, hyperaware. It happens.

Once they're clear and apart, she shakes her head at his question, jaw tight. I don't know, she thinks to say again, but she hates admitting that so soon on the heels of the first time. Not knowing won't get them anywhere. They need to get out there and get some damn answers. ]

We've been shut up in the dark for God knows how long, [ she says, leaning against a wall and closing her eyes, trying to focus. The music is making her head pound in time to the bass. ] Of course it's all bloody overwhelming.

[ A beat, a breath. Then: ]

We stick out like sore thumbs but we can't keep hiding in here. We have to go.

[blyat]

[At least sheltered from the immediate chaos of the crowds and lights, it feels easier to direct the forward track of his thoughts. The disorientation is a powerful effect on his mind, making it difficult to form and follow instinct, but at least he can breathe here by the wall in the cooler shadow, away from the entrance.

Cain turns his head toward her as she speaks, piecing each word through the distracting gauze of sound. How long have they been in the dark? His eyes ache, superimposed reflections of light left over when he closes them.]

Where are we supposed to go? [His breath is calming, slowly.] What do we do?

[Looking toward her as if for direction. Or guidance. Or something beyond the complete lack of certainty he feels.]

[revlon]

We have to blend in.

[ It's her first instinct, bred into her from training and a hard life in the war as an agent of espionage. Cain needn't know this; and, in fact, it's not an unreasonable leap to make even if she wasn't who she was. The circumstances have already been so overwhelming, they need to smooth out the rough edges however way they can. ]

We should — [ She inhales, refocuses on him. ] We need to split up, we'd draw too much attention as a pair. Find clothes, cover these up if we can. Meet back here.

[blyat]

[Reasonable, and not his first instinct. Cain's not sure what he would have done without the suggestion. Gone wandering for the entrance, maybe tried to walk right out into the night. He could've asked strangers for guidance, but - better not to. It's as she says: they're too noticeable in these outfits, together.]

Yeah. [One hand lifts, rubbing his forehead in a broad stroke to clear the cold layer of sweat gathered along his hairline.] Yeah. Let's do that.

[His eyes focus on the crowd briefly before returning to Peggy.]

Be careful, okay?

[revlon]

[ Always, she thinks. But that's never a guarantee or a reassurance. So: ]

You too.

[ Her stomach feels like the minutes before leaping out of a C-47 into the inky night sky before trained habit overtakes base instinct; the steadiness will come with the muscle memory. New playing field, same game. Blend in, get information, get out.

She places one bracing hand on his clothed shoulder, silent. And then — ]

See you soon.

[ She won't. They won't. They'll get separated in the crowd, pulled every which way by grasping hands and commands before escaping on their own or with help. But Cain was her first contact in New Amsterdam and she won't forget that or him in the dizzying aftermath. ]