the miles are way too long

[saviorexe]

WHO: Markus, Ardyn, V & various
WHERE: All around.
WHEN: The first half of IC November.
WHAT: This is basically a catch-all log for my characters.
NOTES OR WARNINGS: None, will add if any crop up.

[Closed starters below! If you want a thread, just hit me up at aurajen and we can figure something out!]

Comments

MARKUS & X'RHUN;

[saviorexe]

[It’s a long elevator ride up.

Markus’ only company is the smooth hum of the lift as he ascends past each floor, a lit button on the control panel indicating his pending arrival to the luxury penthouse. The interior is just as needlessly sleek and overtly modern as the lobby, and the android raises a hand to straighten his collar, brows pinching with moderate surprise.

When X’rhun had messaged him, touting that he had funds to spare for the safehouse and bar alike, this wasn’t what he pictured. This was a different sort of monetary flexibilty, the kind that can coat every square inch with the touch of luxury, an overabundance of indulgence that only the privileged could afford. Markus had asked where the credits came from (a substantial amount had been implied), and he was met with an invitation to come visit, coupled with a promised explanation.

So here he is, elevator doors sliding open. There’s only one direction to greet him when he steps out, a short walk down a hallway lined with glossy windows overlooking the city. Even the entrance is sleek, an ebony door that’s several heads taller than Markus. He has no doubt that there’s a security camera bearing down on him from some unseen corner as he reaches out, pushing a finger against the buzzer.]

[verflair]

[ It is possible that the invitation to come visit is, in fact, a part of the explanation.

X’rhun isn’t one to show off— okay, that’s a lie. He’s flashy and ostentatious on the regular, and if he but had access to his usual magic and wardrobe, he would only be more so. But it’s not in X’rhun’s nature to flaunt privilege and luxury, especially when he knows quite keenly what it is like to have neither. He didn’t ask Markus here to show off.

The buzzer sounds in the apartment proper, and dings in X’rhun’s implant, the security feed popping up on the corner of his vision even as he is on his way to the door. He wills all that mess away, bidding the front door open as he arrives to greet Markus.

Brightly, ]

Good afternoon, my friend. Do come in.

[ And he steps aside to allow his friend to do just that. ]

V & X'RHUN;

[verselet]

[New Amsterdam is unfathomably large, which means it is a writhing organism with constantly moving parts, alive and shifting. And to V, most of it is ugly.

The pollution that fogs up the morning air, the rat race times a thousand. Neon lights that are eye-catching in only how lurid they are, unbidden advertisements that fling themselves into his mind’s eye when he trails through a busy shopping district. V is a slow-moving creature, and the city only knows one speed — constant, never asleep, day and night cycling but meaning nothing.

Yet there are a few places where he can while away the hours, where the illusion of time slowing itself is almost convincing. Seated on a little stone bench, his black cane propped up next to it, under an archway of stringy flora? V supposes it’ll do.

He has the look of someone reading text scrawling across his implant, that glassy-eyed stare of a man’s focus cast elsewhere. But even this is derailed when a stranger, dressed in a pale suit with a scarlet shirt and matching floral-patterned shoes, passes through his line of sight. He lifts his eyes, and words slip out before he can filter them.]

Looking to outdo your surroundings? Even the flowers will be jealous.

[A compli….ment?]

[verflair]

[ Sometimes, X’rhun just like to get out of the house. He takes a lot of walks, has seen most everything the richer parts of the city has to offer from overpriced eateries to virtual museums and everything in between. It’s all very nice, of course, but now and again he just finds himself missing nature.

To that end, in a world where the very idea of plant life seems to be a myth on most days, botanical gardens are a wonderful invention. It gives him a chance to quite literally stop and smell the roses.

Most people keep to themselves, but this isn’t the first time he’s had a remark about his wardrobe tossed his way, and he turns to the young man that offered it this time. With a wide grin, he spreads his hands. ]

What can I say? I do so hate to be outshone.

V & PROMPTO;

[verselet]

[Settling in is easy enough, V having very little to his name. A handful of clothes, a handful of jandals shoes, a cane, various and sundry foodstuffs that Prompto had labeled as his when they went snack-shopping. The rest is embedded in his head, apparently — credits, his ID, everything that states that he belongs in this world when he could not feel more like a foreign entity if he tried.

At least that world is little smaller when they’re both sequestered within their new place. He's learned that Prompto is a handful all on his own. Full of energy and too-late-night-texts, of prodding questions and intense curiosity. Optimism, tinny laughter, wide smiles. V couldn’t be any different, meaning it’s an adjustment, but at least his roommate respects his space. Respects a closed door, when he hasn’t the energy nor the inclination to entertain him.

But today is marked by a length of silence that has V wondering if Prompto’s wandered off without telling him. A venture to the living room supplies his answer: his roommate, limbs sprawled along the couch cushions, lying down with his face turned away.

V steps forward. Quiet fills the air, but only for a moment, because he takes his cane and pokes at the young man’s shoulder.]

Tell me you’re still breathing.

[mercurio]

[any other time, this would have made prompto react loudly with an exaggerated and startled reaction. however, prompto moves sluggishly to the poke on his shoulder, seeming to unfold from what was his home for most of the day. he doesn't move too far, though, hugging one of the cushions close to his chest and displacing it from its position, the change in position only making him move about to retain the same kind of energy from before.]

[he rubs at his eyes and offers something of a sleepy grumble, the press of the couch on his face obvious from the red marks all over one half of his face.]

[it's really unusual for v to begin conversation with him--definitely not something prompto holds against him by any means--so the difference in their interaction, currently, has him trying to make sense of why he was approached at all. he peers at v with confusion behind his bangs (clearly, all the effort he did on this day was to get out of bed, go to the bathroom, and then claim the couch as his own). the words finally register:]

I'm breathing.

[which... doesn't say a lot, but the sadness and loneliness anchored in him for the past several weeks have started to bruise onto his more creative and enthused responses. it's been harder to try and edit his pictures, to hang out with people, or to overall just want to interact with anything at all. he actually called in for work, unable to sleep the night before and thus unable to wake up on time at all. his energy is just not there, and not feeling up for doing anything just ... makes him feel worse.]

Wassup, dude? You need help with something?

[v needs something, is what his brain concludes. prompto can be useful to others still, so at least he still has that going. he fails to remember his camera (the one from eos) fell off the couch, and is lying face up on the floor.]

V & DICK;

[verselet]

Meet me here. I'd like to speak with you, if you have the time.

[A location is sent, a dropped virtual pin in the middle of a spider-web map of the city. A bustling entertainment center, often filled to the brim with shoppers and late-night excursionists looking for some fun. Not V's usual scene, but curiosity is a fresh motivator that will only go stale once he’s had his fill of all there is to be seen.

Admittedly, that might take a while.

Still, if Dick chooses to meet him, the hour is late in the evening, but the VR arcade is strangely alive with customers, cast in the glow dark booths and LED plates that indicate where to stand to begin any number of games. V's choice is a very large virtual claw machine, its facade visible when one draws near enough, peering "in" to spy the prizes stacked up in its belly.]

[preceded]

on my way.

[Even if he's not quite sure why the meeting was requested, he's prompt with his answer. It could range from anything serious, he knows- like a further appearance or memory of the people who'd taken him to the Haunted House, now that the ordeal is over and his mind has had time to settle- from the mundane. Needing a further foot hold in this world and looking to find it in one familiar, if only because they were in this together, and met early.

The location is a bit of a surprise too- even if he's familiar with it. He's dragged Damian there more than once, in an effort to inspire a bit of fun in his younger brother. It's a solid one though- it's usually heavily populated, meaning most conversations aren't going to be overheard, and that if anyone wanted to get to V- they'd have a hard time doing it without drawing any attention. This isn't like the fighting ring or seedier bars down town- people aren't likely to look the other way.

He doesn't live close- so it does take him a few fair minutes on the public transportation side to get there, and then a few more to locate V within the building- but once he does, he's a bit surprised. The claw machine is so reminiscent of something found in his own time, and hardly all that interesting in comparison to some of the newer tech. He wouldn't have pegged it in particular, to catch V's attention]

Have you tried it yet?

ARDYN & SNIPER;

[daemonized]

[It’s a larger office than the one he once possessed on Eos. Sleek but still exuding feng shui simplicity, with an executive desk of dark trim and bold lines, as if created with the intent to intimidate. The windows, lining the wall behind it and tall enough to reach the ceiling, frame Ardyn’s form — he sits in his chair and spins.]

Oh, what a bore of a day!

[He laments at the ceiling. Ardyn kicks out a foot and stops his lazy momentum against the desk, facing the window. He thinks that the view should be impressive, were it not for a neighboring building blocking near half of the skyline, casting a long shadow that reaches into his office when the sun is at just the right angle.

An elbow presses into the arm of the chair, and he slowly faces the door in a lazy half-spin. A brow is raised expectantly, as if someone or something might step through to save him.]

Now, where’s my coffee...

[deicider]

[Ardyn's not the only one who can't help but think of home at the heart of this foreign city. The way Sniper moves through city hall—the self-possessed confidence of someone who doesn't expect to be questioned—had been refined over years of casual intimacy with crossing the threshold of Romanova's imperial columns, walking through the gardens at Versailles tucked against the arms of heads of state. The clean, corporate corridors of city hall, cramped in a building stretched thin reaching for the sky, seemed surreal in comparison. Like a maze in a dream.

With that in mind, the half-shadow covering Ardyn's office seems symbolic.]

Oh, come on. You heard me coming.

MARKUS & KYLO;

[saviorexe]

[Orchid purple. It’s the name of the paint he has smudged across his fingertips, splattered in dappled spots up his arm, and more squarely on his elbows where he must’ve leaned against the half-finished mural without remembering.

It’s a volunteer effort, a conglomeration of images all melded together across the side of the small community center. Local artists and laymen alike creating patches of bright and energetic color to bring a little more expression to the poorer part of New Amsterdam, and not a single one worth their salt hasn’t been christened with paint in some form. There are even a group of younger children, laughing as they skitter here and there — leaving their marks of stars, animals, flowers, stick figures — practically covered in the stuff.

Markus, he has the sleeves of his grey tee rolled up in a instinctual effort to keep neat, even if it is a moot point. He’s working on filling in the outline of a patterned background, chevron lines that turn squiggly and looping, when the shadow of a nearby observer falls over his work. The android turns his head, faintly smiling.]

We could always use another hand, if you’re interested.

[warfares]

I'm not sure I have much skill.

( his eyes roam across the mural, briefly, trying to parse it — or perhaps he's simply admiring it. after all, the last time he'd been anywhere near something this lovely, it had been the shrine he'd found during the lantern festival, and he had been less focused on taking it in for the sheer pleasure of it.

it's a striking image, he finds: all bold lines and bright colors that feel like they shouldn't come together half as well as they do. if there's a deeper message, it's buried in abstracts and ornate curls. something you could lose yourself for hours in, once it's done. )

How long have you been working on it?

MARKUS & SIMON;

[saviorexe]

[He hadn’t known Catherine well, but in their passing conversations, she had mentioned Simon — someone from her world, someone who sounded a bit like a friend. And he knows Simon (still not all that well), just as Markus knows the potential ache of losing a familiar face to the void of not knowing. Not knowing where they were, not knowing if they were safe, not knowing if they would ever return. It’s the worse kind of uncertainty, and he’d rather make certain that he’s not alone in dealing with it.

So he sends a text, asking to meet, not mentioning the subject of friends disappearing or even their last correspondence with each other — that time in the dreamscape, with Simon walking into warped memory.

When they meet at the suggested spot, a little food place tucked between two buildings, Markus greets him with a—]

Hope you’re hungry.

[Or... snack-y, at least. For some fries!]

[theseuschip]

[ Markus happens to be a nice guy Simon would like to get to know better. Of course, that’s almost incidental at this point; that invitation could have been from pretty much anybody, and he would have taken it, just for the distraction from the pointless tunnel of rumination about Catherine up and vanishing. Did she wind up what she was before they got here, a digitized brain, strained to a flashing, smoking death in the Omnitool by Simon’s weaponized denial? Or simply where she was before — now human, teleported instantly to the bottom of the ocean with no protection from the crushing pressures of the abyss? Is she anywhere or anyone at all?

Why didn’t he say more to her when he had the chance?

And for as short as his time in PATHOS-II was, it left more than its share of pockmarks on his psyche. A mastery of the art of getting from one place to the next while dwelling on the feeling of progress instead of why you’re doing it or what’s actually going to happen when you get there has been one of them. Enough so that when Simon approaches the table (arms crossed; it passes a single-glance-from-a-local test), he just looks slightly startled for a moment to see that there’s food on it— ]

Oh, thanks.

[ —and to be remembering how they’ve only spoken or seen each other under weird circumstances and Simon doesn’t know why he was invited here. But Markus is acting totally normal about it, so he will too, offering him a small smile as he takes the seat across from him and plucking two of the fries from a pretty towering quantity of them. ]

How’s it going, Markus? Happy to be... [ not “home” but. ] uh, back?

[ Of course, Simon is prepared to discuss only the nightmarish weather on their trip rather than the actual nightmares. Not that Simon doesn’t also have some hardcore benchmarks to measure those against. ]

MARKUS & AMOS;

[saviorexe]

[“Dingy” is the best word to describe it. Dingy, low-lit, full of the sort of people you might expect to frequent dingy bars; nursing a drink quietly to themselves, or speaking in low tones. Or not caring for either, and instead spiking the atmosphere with raucous laughter, the aggressive clinking of glass. Stereotypical neon lights, humming and blinking, cast all patrons in strange shades of color, many of the signs fashioned after playing cards — fitting for the title of the bar itself, The Ace of Spades.

It’s not Markus’ usual haunt, but not so hole-in-the-wall for him to care. The first floor of his low-rent apartment complex acts as a bar at night, so the atmosphere isn’t so quaint as it is oddly familiar. He’s usually wishing for a quiet evening, and usually he isn’t disappointed — but usually is not guaranteed, and when a shot glass goes flying just inches past his head, exploding in shards as it hits the bar top, he knows that “quiet” is a lost cause.

It had started with a wayward comment about the beer labels. The tastelessness of a design sporting an anti-synthetic life sentiment, back in Oktoberfest, had been remarked upon only nebulously from Markus. Another handful of patrons took the subject and ran with it, and cajoling laughter turned into a patronizing comment from within the group, turned into offense, turned into anger, turned into individuals standing up and threats being exchanged, turned into the whole bar thrown into an angry tizzy.

He figures now is as good of a time as any to leave, scooting his bar stool out when he stands, only for him to be knocked into someone else as a man is shoved drunkenly into him, causing a domino-effect of falling-on-your-neighbor, as the place explodes into a full-blown bar fight.

hi nice to meet you, stranger]

V & CAROLINE;

[verselet]

[He had heard tell of the underground fighting rings, meaning that his newfound curiosity would drag him down in that direction, too. And what he sees is about what he expects — raw, vicious altercation, fists gone flying and knocking into skulls. Split lips, black eyes, adrenaline coursing and the area filled with the stretch of sweat. Big blocky letters scrolling across their implants, plastered against the walls and above the ring itself, the names of the competitors not meant to be forgotten.

V manages to keep balance with the majority of his weight pressed into his cane against the floor, even as the audience is constant movement, knocking into his shoulders as they jeer with life after every strike is exchanged. He’s managed to find a spot close enough to where he doesn’t need the heads-up display in his implant to view what’s happening — close enough to where he’s sure he can scent the copper tang of blood in the air.

One man is taking a beating. His moves are easy to see, telegraphing them from miles away. His opponent is calmer, more patient, reading the other like a book, and V thinks that it was a mismatched round from the start. Not that anyone cares, when it comes to fighting that isn’t strictly by the books.

Another hook across the jawline, blood spraying in a fan and spotting against ring’s floor. V shakes his head, making peanut gallery commentary to someone standing next to him.]

He should’ve yielded five minutes ago. He’s already lost.

[gasping]

[ of all caroline's many ideas for how to spend her errant evenings in new amsterdam, this is probably one of the worst. if not the worst, certainly the least thought through. blood sprays out across the ring, the scent of it thick in the air, and though her attentions are meant to be focused on the audience itself — listening for conversations about her friend, for name drops of one high-powered woman in charge, for anything that might give a little bit of a clue — she finds herself instead entirely focused on not lunging forward to sink her teeth into the weak neck of the losing fighter in the ring.

calm, caroline. keep it together. you can do this. there should only be a few more minutes, and then you can bolt outside and claim you got queasy watching the fight.

for now, though, you've got to answer the person standing to your left, because they've asked you something and it would be outright rude not to answer. or said something to you. either way. ]

Yeah. [ so eloquent. she swallows, tongue darting forward only to note the sharp tick of canines forming a point behind her lips. goddamnit. ] It's not usually this bad.

[ does she mean to sound almost wistful? no, but the near longing colors her tone all the same. ]

V & LÁN WÀNGJI;

[verselet]

[He didn't have the time to appreciate the art displayed in public before. He had been busy ("busy" would be one way to describe being disoriented and utterly new), but now, each piece is eye-catching enough for him to stop and appreciate, if even briefly, before moving on to the next.

This one has calligraphy running across its composition, beautiful strokes flowing downwards as if it were its own separate entity. He could prompt his implant to translate -- he'd receive something immediately -- but art was made to act as conversation starters, weren't they? A man stands nearby, and though V has no way of knowing if he's the artist or another man milling by, the question is directed to him regardless.]

So do you know what this says? [A vague motion with the hilt of his cane at the calligraphy specifically.]

[wangxian]

[ busy is as busy as does. to be idle is to waste and to waste is to be without. lan wangji would be in understanding of these things, having spent his many evenings since arriving here scanning what has been gathered and what has been shared. he had listened too, to information spilled to him. from the mouth of one familiar, attentive and in part comforted. if there is precious little else to be left to what he knew, then he is glad to be here for what is. even if it meant—

and yet, there are times that lan wangji finds quiet. he finds it tucked in the alleys, in the lay of art both old and new. here and there, he sees elements of what he thinks might be what he himself is trained in. he sees steady strokes made by steady hands, painted in ways he has now come to tamper with. and in this way, he finds himself in memory of long sleeves smoothed and even. he finds himself in memory of lantern light and incense, his hand curved about the ink brush as he copied all from which he took some interest. and yet, there is much more to learn even without this, this capacity to feel what it is he drinks in. and it seems he is not alone in this, his body still attuned to that which moves about him.

the sound and motion of the cane draws up more than his attention, but this recollection too is caught more in the eyes than it is in the broad of his expression. (recently, there had been a girl, but this story had long reached its own conclusion. there was nothing more that they could do, that they could do for the man who she had traveled with— but, it scatters in the wake of this stranger's question, the soul of it divided as the man within the story's is.) still, his reserved manner does not belie something rude. it is only that he seems a step back, observant and dutiful as he answers with all seriousness. ]

Yes, [ he says, without pause. he does not say it is because he has written it himself, but there is a tinge of something quiet, absent in the way his pale eyes travel back to the neat lay his own writing, this aspect the only portion he may truly touch with his own fingers in the space that is afforded.

upon his tongue, the words wish to come as 云深不知处. just as written, but there is no use in it. they translate, as all else does: automatic, but it does not strip from him the way the syllables run smooth. it comes like a cold spring, like the rounded edge of river rocks. he's said this once. he's said this many times before. ] The Cloud Recesses.

[ he glances back again. ] That is what it says.

MARKUS & LÁN WÀNGJI;

[saviorexe]

[Markus, on the other hand, has the pleasure of being able to recognize Lan Wangji, not having forgotten the quiet-toned man he made coffee for in New Tokyo. He’s a little surprised to see him here, along the temporary artwalk of festival entries — though it’s a pleasant kind of surprise, and the android approaches the familiar face, a smile on his features and a question on his tongue.]

Your name is attached to that one. [He gestures to the man’s piece, just a little down the way. They had exchanged pleasantries during their first meeting, and of course that included an introduction of names.] It’s impressive. I was surprised to see it.

[That’s his hello, shaped as a compliment. His grin widens by tiny degrees.]

I’ll take it as a sign that you’re managing to adjust to life in New Amsterdam without too much trouble?

[wangxian]

[ he had caught glimpses of markus in the days prior, had heard of the casual exchanges of assistance. for, like him, lan wangji had assistance from the same source. shoulder to shoulder, comments and suggestions traded (less on his part), details added where they were sketched out (more from lan wangji), he'd too heard of markus's participation. and even if it had taken time to get it to witness his creation, he had. and in that way too, he had learned a little more about him. ]

Mn, [ he hums. it is a confirmation, as much as it is an acceptance without accepting. modesty within his sect is stressed. and yet, the praise is balanced just as most is. it is politely held, in the downward flit of lashes, the inclination of his head in degrees both sure and absent. his mouth does not bow like markus's, but there is something in the light of his eyes that seems a touch warmer than before. ]

As is yours, [ he says, words neat and even and to the point. and yet, the recognition is in more the subtleties than it is upon the tongue. in most things, lan wangji is serious. and more so, in all things he is honest. so, even if he cannot say that his adjustment to new amsterdam has been peaceable, he can speak around it. he need not give what is not asked. ] I heard some about it.

[ but, he pauses. he pauses, as if thinking of how to phrase the next part. it is not long, though long enough to notice. ] Adjustment is constant. [ that's true. but, the impression is more that he means overall. learning never ceases. ] Still, our living here and its experiences are less new.

[ that's one way to put it. for himself, there are still many curious things. but, that's what late night reading sessions have been for. ]

V & NOH-VARR;

[verselet]

[So, about that curiosity that keeps guiding him through the city, checking out a myriad of locations? After tonight, V thinks he’s going to have to nip that inclination in the bud.

The nightlife scene was never his scene, unless it involved a quiet room to while away the hours of his own choosing. But here he stands, on the dance floor of a popular club that flashes with light and hammers the bass tones of a track into the ears of patrons below, and he could not be more filled to the brim with Regret. He can barely hear himself speak. At least five very enthusiastic and very drunk individuals have stopped him for a dance, or remarked on the cane as part of the “outfit”, oh, do you need it to walk? Can you still dance?

He isn’t the dancing sort. (He can be, but he stubbornly won’t be.) And after fending them off, crossing the dance floor because it’s the quickest route from point A to point B (the exit), fate is quick to bring about one more tragedy before he’s allowed to leave — knocking straight into the shoulders of someone, spilling their drink across both his shirt front and theirs.

On a normal day, V is conscientious enough to let loose an apology. Today, it might have to be pried out of him with more effort, his lips thinning.]

…At least there’s more where that came from.

[The drink, he means.]

okay now that I can (literally) breathe again...

[transuniversal]

[ It's hardly the worst thing that's ever happened to Noh in a club. Talk to him sometime about the singles mixer/rave on Alpha Centauri sometime, when a very drunk Shi'ar threw up on his pants. Like getting bombed by a seagull the size of a human. This is only alcohol. And only a shirt. ]

Of course. I can always get another.

[ Maybe the other guy meant the drink, but Noh's already reaching to strip himself of sodden fabric. Where's that shirt gonna go? Who knows. Who cares? Certainly not Noh-Varr. ]

It was my bad. I should have been paying more attention.

[ It's a little stilted; probably purposely, given that it's slang 500 years out of date. ]

MARKUS & KARA;

[saviorexe]

Kara, it’s Markus. If you have some free time today, I’d like to meet with you, just to see how you’re doing. Swing by the westernmost section of the Bloem District in a couple of hours, if you can.

[He provides a more specific location on a map for her, because the city is very large, with the tendency to swallow you alive if you don’t know where you’re going.

She’ll find him at one of the overarching walkways, vines netted across its sides in a stark green. He’s leaning on a railing, overlooking a section of a neighborhood below, where lines of flowers curve along paths and alleyways, clumped together like colorful sea foam. When she approaches, he scoots over so she can stand next to him.]

This is one of the nicer parts of the city.

[Not necessarily well-to-do or affluent, though there are living complexes here that would fit the definition. But Markus means it, quite obviously, from an aesthetic perspective, the nature working in-tandem with the architecture to create a pocket of balance between the two.]

[hadtolose]

[ Though messages appearing in her vision hadn't been unfamiliar to her, Markus's is still a surprise. A welcome one, however. The thoughtfulness brings some much needed warmth to her chest. ]

Yeah, I'd like that. Thank you. I'll see you there.

[ The city indeed does threaten to swallow her when she finally sets out. Its sprawl can't compare to Detroit, even if that city had felt like an endless maze when she was trying to escape it. The bustle of people doesn't help, either, each one a hard to avoid, potential threat. She feels like a small rowboat caught in the middle of the sea.

But she thankfully makes it to him eventually, her still head constantly turning, looking for problems and invisible enemies as she comes near. Once she's by him, only then does her heart finally begin to calm. She looks better than when she first arrived, though still somewhat gaunt and in an outfit lacking finesse. Her hair has also lost some of the neatness it once held when it was synthetic, brushed together with the imprecision of someone not used to it.

Kara steps up to the railing, resting her clasped hands on it, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. ]

It's scary. But beautiful, in its own way.

[ She glances over, smiling a bit. ] It's nice to see you again. How are you?