ToGL8

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==Tales from the Golden Lion AUKatya’s Quest - Chapter 8==
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12/02/3051 / 07:35 AM - Antares, Contested World
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Harsh shadows appeared on my delicate features beneath harsh elevator lights. Another woman stared at me from the polished metal elevator doors. Her blonde hair was up, looking strangely luminous, neatly bunched in a warm red hat sitting atop a face with hidden scars and matte red lips. “I do not even look like myself.” 
I felt every curve of my 7.65mm Mak pistol, secure and hidden behind the large ornate leather belt circling the waist of my ‘cedar’ designer dress beneath a long ‘cream’ overcoat. A thin ‘brass’ scarf was loosely wrapped across my shoulders, “but I do look, like one of these supermodels Lydia spoke of. I wonder how everyone else will react.”
The elevator dinged; I lifted my bag before its doors opened to a lobby filled with off-duty Patrolmen. They stared at me, curious, as my boot’s heels clicked on the gleaming marble tiled floor. A graceful and ornate chandelier glowed above me as the white gloved doormen let me out. He paused and held out a hand, “Have a good day, Ma’am.”
“I shall.” The morning air was frosty, I belted the overcoat and stepped down the stairs to a confused expression on the man’s face. “What is up with him?”
My appearance was apparently so startling that the civilians passing by the hotel to the Town Hall looked at me with surprise. An older woman deviated from her course to bump into me, “puttana,” came under her breath. Fury rose within me, I looked back, fists clenched, but it rapidly quenched. 'They do not know who I am. Maybe I did something wrong?'
Outside the hotel’s parking arc was empty of its MRAPs, Patrolmen with rifles ready stood by monitoring a steady procession of civilians and small trucks traveling up the ramp. Few were going in the opposite direction this early in the morning.
Flurries danced in the wind as I approached the Patrol checkpoint. Or rather a ramshackle cordon constructed of tape and barriers taken from the Polizei Station on the corner and MRAPs parked lengthwise just behind them.
Bag check lines were long, leading out into ‘The Rhombus’ as the ]]spheroids]] called this square leading up to the Triad. There was no one on the return side from ‘The Green Zone’ except a lone soldier looking outward. 
Sloppy training. 
I could have driven the stiletto hidden within my boot into his throat before he acknowledged me, then turned his rifle on the truck’s gunner before he could depress the barrel.
He looked me over, “Identification please.”
A hollow pit formed in my stomach, I did not sweat and bleed so hard in Sibko to not be recognized, but I was not in uniform and did not know this man. Perhaps my disguise was too good. “Do you not recognize me?”
The Patrolmen leaned forward, one hand on his baton, attempting to intimidate me. Such a lack of training, but I suppose it was too much to expect such professionalism to them. “I do not know you. But I will; when you give me your papers.”
I kept my chin up, withdrew my wallet from this ‘purse,’ opened it, and shifted the remaining 6,000 kroner in ‘cash’ within to present my codex to him. He flushed and apologized, but the situation brought the eyes of waiting civilians to us. They gave me judgmental looks. As I walked through the gate, conspiratorial whispers began within cliques of civvies behind me.
This Rhombus is a bustling, noisy place. Trams, pedestrians, and trucks rounded its uneven sides heading toward other sectors of the city. A cacophony of noise echoed off the canyon wall and buildings that enclosed it. Tall offices of matte glass belonging to Nashan Diversified closed upon the square backlit by soft interior light. In the center a wireframe Rhombus creaked in the wind above it. Above that a Crimson Clan Daggerstar waved in the wind, and beneath that the Star Adder Banner fluttered with the flurries.
None of the signs made sense to me, even in standard. I opened the folded paper that Kyros had given me, three names typed out on it. On that ridiculous portable ‘typewriter,’ that he had taken as isorla from some old office in the Periphery, only finding out its operation in an ancient encyclopedia of technology. An amused chuckle came to my lips as I sat on a cold stone mantle beside the empty reflecting pool. 
Each character was off, low rez, blurry, compared to a laser printer. “Look at this he said. I have never seen such a thing, surely it must be precious.” There was nothing special about it, just wood, metal, messy ink, and some kind of correction solution all in a box, it was slower, less accurate, and prone to jamming. Junk not precious, but it was to him.
“Where are these people?” I sighed, looked at the transit and city map comparing the two. Our Enclaves were neatly organized but Alba followed the topography of its cliffside home, concentric arcs terminating where the forest began. That forest had however been pushed back by refugee populations living in tent cities that she had witnessed from the Anhur on her trip in.
Civilians passed before me, endless steps on the cobblestones, echoing off the man-made and natural canyon around us. The longer I lingered there the more people off the trams stared at me. Antares’ primary finally cleared the ridge line around 09:00 local according to the delicate watch on my wrist. 
“I cannot just start asking, Can I?” There was no way that I could, Alba has swollen to become a city of almost 2 million. 
Almost all Clan Enclaves were kept well under that number for security and health reasons. Kept just large enough to extract whatever resource or support whatever facility they were developed for. Expansion plans were developed beforehand by the Merchants and Scientists, but few exceeded even 100,000, and those were supporting Void manufacturing. Just this ‘small’ city was 20 times larger, for paper and water. The sheer magnitude of the Spheroid population we were responsible for began to sink into my mind. “There is no way we can accomplish REVIVAL, without COMSTAR.”
“Are you okay, Ma’am?” I snapped back. My eyelashes flecked with flurries, I blinked to clear them; then saw a teen boy, roughly late-Sibko, standing in front of me. COMSTAR’s logo behind him on their expansion’s darkened concrete husk behind him. “I am fine, just tired. This City is a bit overwhelming.”
He pointed to me speaking with concern, “Are you going to be warm enough with just this?”
‘Was I so seemingly helpless that a Sibko kid sought to tend to me, a Clan Warrior?’
“It is surprisingly warm.” I paused, reflexively pushed by coat together and evaluated his response. He relaxed slightly but still looked concerned, ‘for me?’ His jacket was maybe former military issue, perhaps his ‘father’s’ patched together with whatever bits of fabric he could manage to roughly stitch together.
“I just got it yesterday, from the department store.”
“I wish I had enough money to do that. Not much work to do for anyone though since the invasion.” He sat down beside me which caused some pedestrians to pause and stare at us, “I’m Gunther by the way.”
“Kate.” My mind raced with ideas. The first long exchange with someone that I did not fight in or besides in a Trial. “I am not from around here.”
“That is obvious. Your accent is different, Tikonov? Rasalhague? Your name probably isn’t even Kate, is it?”
‘How does he know?’
“It is not.”
“That’s fine though, I can’t judge people for doing what they can to survive. I’m sure you had to do a lot of things you weren’t proud of. Do you know anyone in town?”
An idea sparked, I unfolded the paper again, “Can you help me find them? I can pay you.”
Gunther looked at the names then toward me with some suspicion, “How much?”
“Will a thousand Kroner be enough?”
Sheer shock appeared on his face, “Sure.”
A smile appeared on mine, ‘Bargained well and done then.’
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