Fiat justitia, ruat caelum.

RP account for Grant Kendrell, Administrator of Cloudbank. (current status: slow to reply; blame my work schedule)

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The Blind Watchmaker [grantofthecamerata]

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Royce looks down as Grant shakes his hand with an expression of abject surprise, as if he hadn’t expected that to be the response given that he just invited it. His own hands are quite large, but long and delicate, and so Grant’s larger and stronger hand wraps around his with the same enfolding warmth as if he were a child.

 When Grant lets him go, Royce draws his hand up to his chest and cradles it with the other.

 ”Assistance?” he parrots, an echo that extends into a drawl. Aaaa-ssistance? “I am - fine. This one is fine. I’m Royce. Thaaaat’s - my name.”

 He taps his foot a couple of times, talking in circles. Nervous energy crackles off him, and it may be a surprise that shaking his hand didn’t give Grant an electrical shock.

 ”Why are you - talking to me?” he blurts after a moment’s pause.

[grantofthecamerata]

Grant furrows his brow at the words 'this one'. A phrase like that suggests a certain kind of worldview... or maybe just a certain view of one's self. Either way, it doesn't sit right with him in the slightest. This stranger--Royce, with his strange reactions and bird-boned hands--what's brought him here, of all places and all times?

But before he can ask anything, Royce beats him to the punch. Why is he talking to him? It's a good question, but one that can't exactly be answered honestly. There's no diplomatic way to admit curiosity at the odd behaviors of a stranger, or a desire to find and rectify whatever it is that's so visibly troubling him. All nerves, this Royce seems to be. Each tap of his foot against the cold walkway tiles echoes with this one, this one. In response, Grant can only sigh and give his best reassuring smile.

"Well, you seemed like you were looking for something," he replies, keeping his tone careful above all else. "Of course, if you just enjoy pacing in circles around Highrise, I won't judge. I figured I might as well ask."

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Nascence

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“I – thank you,” he manages, weakly, at Administrator Grant’s wave. More than a little embarrassed at his loss of control – how could he let his mind overtake him? Words are supposed to be his domain, his weapon and his armor. When was the last time this’d happened – weeks ago? But never, never in an interview, even an unofficial one such as this. He would’ve completely withdrawn if it hadn’t been for the Administrator’s next words.

Asher straightens up. His head tilt back and his eyes harden. “Know that I would not use this opportunity for my own benefit,” he says, all traces of worry washing away to a quiet, but firm conviction. I will find the truth of the matter, he’d said to his cat with the very same seriousness. Nevermind that he had been speaking to his cat, who had simply looked up at him and licked her paw. In this way, he continues on. It’s almost like a solemn vow. “You can count on my discretion.”

His terminal placed face-down on his lap, Asher tilts his head slightly to the side. Meeting outside the office? “I’d be happy to meet you,” he says, mentally flipping around his schedule, examining it on all sides. He wouldn’t have to interview other people anymore, not with the confirmation he has here, and scouring the archives are already part of his life. “My work hours are flexible. So, you can contact me if you’d like to meet at a – restaurant, or something. Administrator Hadrian.” He adds, remembering himself. And to whom, exactly, he’s speaking.

Asher’s glad that his dark skin hides his faint flush. Again, he’s getting ahead of himself. Far too reticent when time calls for speaking, and far too prone to anxious fits when it’s the most inopportune. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself in check.

[grantofthecamerata]

He can only watch the moment that Asher transforms. Or maybe transforms isn't the right word at all. It's as if his anxieties are lifted, leaving only the determination that's brought this man here. He couldn't have made it through a string of fruitless efforts, pursuing a history that nobody realizes has disappeared, without it grinding him down. And yet here he is still.

"You haven't shown me anything that would suggest otherwise, I assure you," Grant replies, unable--or unwilling--to hide his approving smile.

He very nearly corrects that formal address, a response of please, call me Grant at the tip of his tongue, but hesitates. It might be too flippant at the moment, considering what's at hand. Instead he just nods in agreement. "Where we could meet is something that can be arranged over private messages, at least. I know of a few places that would fit the bill--a little out of the way, for the most part, but quiet enough to hold a discussion." If those places aren't wiped from existence by a passing whim anytime soon, he thinks but doesn't say. His guest--and now his collaborator, it seems--clearly has enough piled on his shoulders without any extra bitterness.

"If you need anything else, Mr. Kendrell, please feel free to ask," he says, only pausing a moment before he continues. "...That you showed up when you did is incredibly fortunate. You have my thanks." It doesn't even begin to express his gratefulness that he isn't alone in this, that steps can be taken to save the memories of the city he loves. But it's there, unspoken, and he hopes Asher understands.

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The Blind Watchmaker [grantofthecamerata]

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 Royce jolts like a startled deer when the door opens, and takes a few ungainly steps back before he realises that the man has stopped and - is speaking. Noticing that he is being watched, the ‘young man”s demeanour changes, like unpacking himself; he goes from a loose stance with his arms by his sides to one with his thin fingers over his mouth and the other arm folded to clasp the opposite elbow. Drumming his fingers against the fabric there - tap tap tap tap… 

 Alright? Well, none of his circuits suggest damage - unless - unless his circuits are so damaged all of a sudden that he wouldn’t even know he is damaged! Royce physically jolts, checks himself visually, and then calms. Nothing has come off or come open or anything of the sort. 

 ”I am - I am well. Should - I not be?” Royce replies. After a pause he adds, flatly, “…How are you?”

 A rapid analysis reveals this man as a face he has seen on Xander’s OVC terminal relay from time to time. Royce has no access of his own, and must peer and peek to obtain an understanding of the outside worlds, its numerous chaotic aspects. Walking through the eddies of mankind at his father’s feet tells him little of its nature, all in all.

 This man is Grant Kendrell. He is very powerful to humans. Royce understands that this has something to do with skill and what they call respect, a concept he has never had need of because he loves his father and humans like Xander do not respect machines.

 As a result, Royce can do the only thing he has seem the humans do - he steps forward carefully, once-twice-thrice there he is close, and extends a hand for Grant to shake. The wrong one.

[grantofthecamerata]

The stranger seems to close up--hand on his other arm, hand over his mouth--a practiced, defensive position. It seems almost like a way of balancing the defensive act when his eyes go even wider. Those eyes are even more noticeable with less distance, luminous and sharply observant in a way that recalls birds of prey, even after that gaze shifts from Grant to himself. The way he seems surprised at his own lack of apparent injury, however, is possibly the least predatory action Grant's ever seen. A little ridiculous, actually, in the same way that the man returns his question in a show of politeness.

"I'm fine, I was merely..." he manages before the hand that's thrust out towards him does something rather rare--catches him by surprise. He pauses for a second, considers telling him that it's generally the opposite hand that's used in a handshake. But if anyone more direly needs an offering of grace than this young man who's been wandering around Highrise, the word has yet to reach him.

"...Merely wondering if you needed assistance," Grant says as he accepts the wordless offer with a firm handshake--with the wrong one as well. The stranger's hand is cool and dry in his own. It must be colder out than he realized. "I don't suppose I could get your name?"

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"My love,perhaps a break from work would do us both good don't you think?" Came Asher's quiet voice from behind the mans chair. "You've been on duty for sixteen hours Grant. Even you need time to rest."

Stacks of paper, a glowing terminal, a wastebin full of trashed memos and unreadable scrawls. His interest in the mess trying to pass itself off as his workspace had been fading for a while, in tandem with the long-gone light outside. The sound of a certain familiar voice was more than enough to draw his attention in full. Not to say it wouldn't have under usual circumstances, of course.

"Cloudbank never sleeps. So to be fair, Administrators that never sleep is a concept that works in theory." He tilted his head up and back to look at his husband, a wry smile pulling at the corners of his eyes. "Although practice may be a different story."

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((sorry for the recent unannounced hiatus, but this blog is active once more! currently writing up some long-overdue responses, and i'll be sure to make a note on here if anything else crops up.))

[wethecamerata]

The Blind Watchmaker [grantofthecamerata]

Engines. These are the systems the cosmos burn by - one great crucible igniting one great mechanism, that repeats and encircles and folds down in on itself. Universe - galaxy - orbit - clock - heart - atom - waves, strings, enfold - universes. Royce cocks his head at the sound of the egg timer. He toys with the buzzing, ringing thing in his hands a few times before a larger hand takes it from him. The noise stops, and whatever mechanism that made such a very small thing so very loud is lost to Royce. “Will you put that damn thing away?” Xander snaps, and jerks with the timer in his hand as if he might toss it through the window. When he calms himself and sets it down, Royce’s curious hand hovers near it, but soon moves away.

——

The movement is simple. Royce walks past the picture of three people - a wild haired boy, a tall woman, a bleak-eyed man - as he would always, and this time he stands at the threshold of the door. Doors and keys always work the same way, do they not? Royce looks over his shoulder and steps outside. The action feels like breaking a membrane. Gears whirr in his chest with sudden alacrity, silent and seamless, and much like the fleeting pounding of a heart. He closes the door how he opened it - turning the handle - carefully. Down the stairs, no longer following in Xander’s wake like a little tow-boat, running his long fingers over the texture of the bannister. His imperfect skin tells him little but still it is cold, rough, metal, there. Out onto the street, and the floor textured with designs looks greasy and strangely pliant in the neon lights. Like an oilslick, dozens of shades spill across the tiles. Looking straight up, Royce can see green. Once Royce spent a week monitoring the skies and the state of things, hoping for omens. None came. Now he can only appreciate the far-off emerald for exactly what it is. Around him, some humans are awake. Highrise is never truly asleep. Somewhere he picks up faintly a pulse, the grinding of aggressive music for dancing or doing other human things to. It doesn’t rain, but a mist rolls in. Royce’s skin, cold like a snake’s, is damp with it. He runs his fingers over his own chin, both-handed, finding familiar things suddenly strange. Four times he walks past the same building in a slow loop. Each time, something new comes to his eyes in the gloom. Tall and glowering a place, but home, winking with living-lights like glints in eyes. Engines inside - machines and people. Their are made of flesh and bone and his of silicon and titanium and gold-plated alloys. But what is all that compared to stardust? Royce can only wander.

—-

And the next night, to the same spot. Will they be looking for him now? With what would they find him - a manhunt, or a lost-and-found? He isn’t tired or cold or hungry or anything at all, only looking. Three times, four. Making patterns like traces of the celestial spheres, or just coffee mug traces. Royce is thinking of everything he ever learned. Like some protocol has been turned on. I disobey… Who is in there, anyway? What flesh-machines do their human things up there, day after day? Royce squints into a window and thinks he sees a figure sitting. His fabrication processors aren’t up to the task of constructing a situation for that person. ‘Imagining’. No… Xander crafted Royce with the care of a bird-maker. His larynx alone is a work of austere art. “Good night. No, evening. Whoever it… is that you are,” he says very softly, to the idea of the person inside of his thoughts. Now he is free to do pointless things.

[grantofthecamerata]

This has to be the fourth time that young man has passed by.

It's not uncommon for a few people to be out and about in Highrise past midnight -- most of them graveyard-shift workers and drunken partiers meandering back to their homes, the two barely distinguishable from each other. Some nights, Grant stands by the front window of his apartment to watch the nightly procession. It's an idle habit, his people-watching, but there's something fascinating about watching the people of Cloudbank, his Cloudbank, going about their lives. All playing a part in something much greater than themselves. Tonight, though, one man in particular stands out from the others, by virtue of seemingly walking circuits around the neighborhood.

Each time he passes, Grant catches more details. The mess of black hair was the first thing to draw his eye when he initially passed by, though on the man's second lap he's more surprised to see the same wanderer twice. On his third, it's the way he's looking around as if he's never seen this section of town before, aimless, absorbed in something else. On his fourth, it's how the cool mist that permeates the air outside seems to not affect him at all.

He waits a little longer, curiosity piqued, but that lost soul doesn't pass by again. Hopefully figured out where he's going by now, Grant thinks to himself, and heads off to bed. The nightlife is for people who don't have work in the morning.

---

Grant doesn't stand by the window the next night. He's seated with a book instead, hair pulled out of its usual bun, the prospect of watching tonight's wanderers not as appealing. The day's been far too long. But his eyes flicker to the window for a moment, out of habit, and -- a figure is there at the window, looking inside.

He stills. A would-be intruder, in Highrise? Surely no one was foolish enough to even try. But the figure was just standing there, wide eyes just barely lit in the glow from inside, locks of untamed black hair -- and oh, he should have recognized sooner. The wanderer from yesterday. Is he lost again, or looking for something? Or he genuinely is that bad at planning a robbery, but in any case, sitting around isn't going to resolve anything.

He stands and sets his book carefully aside, heading to the front door. It slides open at a touch, and Grant leans out into the night air towards the man, who only seems more bewildered face to face.

"Excuse me," he says, "but are you alright?" The addition of 'you keep wandering past my home and I'm mildly concerned' is unsaid, but present in his voice.

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His fingers itch for his own terminal – unfortunately with the worn and well-loved state that comes with having a cat – but somehow Asher keeps his hands steady on the chair. The amount of leeway he’s been given! He didn’t expect this much to come out of his last-ditch request – not a second person to share in his discovery, much less the resources available to him, now.

Asher releases a muted breath when the tell-tale vibration of his terminal confirms the words the Administrator speaks. Nevermind that it could have been a message from the OVC, another editor, an intern. The OVC’s the last thing on his mind, at the moment. This is not some pop-article, meant to sway the public this way or that, nor was it covering shocking or beautiful events – this is Cloudbank’s plague.

But, the sheer amount of information in the Administration records – that staggers him. Even in the public archives, he had depended on the workers there to show him where everything is. If the Administration archives are as disorienting and messy as Administrator Grant suggests, he doesn’t have a chance. His Selection’s not Organization and Acquisition for a reason. He opens his hands palm-up, go ahead, they say. “I wouldn’t mind at all,” Asher replies, “That would be the best course of action – you know the records best. Better than me, in any case.”

He eventually gives in, and fishes out his own terminal. Scrolls down his planner, his notes. Sees the message waiting for him. Then – worries and what ifs run though his mind, and in his distraction, he lets them run free. “The OVC terminals are all recorded, aren’t they? Recorded and, well, processed, you could say. I’m not sure how secure our communications will be, if so. If this leaks out – what would happen? Mass panic. Or worse, indifference. Perhaps meeting like this, face to face, is more secure, passing along more sensitive information. But if people start noticing then – I’m sorry, I’m rambling.”

[grantofthecamerata]

Those words are all the go-ahead Grant needs. Delving into the records won't be pleasant, but the necessity of the situation is more than enough reason. This is no different than any other aspect of public service, after all--just that the stakes now are vastly higher. "Then I suppose that much is settled. I'd be glad to contribute."

He's about to stow his terminal away when Asher starts to voice his concerns, and he merely listens as the words seem to cascade out of him with the graceless rush that comes with honesty. It only holds his attention all the more.

"Again, no need to apologize," he says with a wave of his hand, "those are valuable points to consider." And they are, more so than he'd like to admit. This issue becoming public knowledge before something could be done about it would only handicap those efforts--mass panic or indifference, it'd end the same either way. And although by all considerations it's unlikely, the possibility is still there. Records of private messages were only meant to be accessed in criminal cases or emergencies, but... well. Archivists are only human, with all the human weaknesses that entails.

"Security is a definite concern, yes," he replies. "In that case, discussing the details of this in person would be safer. And if people notice even that?" He shrugs, just the slightest of movements. "Well, if they also notice you're not publishing any dubiously-gained exclusives, the concerns they might have about us being acquainted can be discouraged. Having some of these meetings outside the office should help that as well, if you're amenable to it."

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Asher leans back – altogether more composed than he had been in the past moments. The underlying tension in his voice recedes and he finds himself falling back to his professional mannerisms out of reflex. He’s even able to meet the Administrator’s eyes when the man peers up at him over the terminal – had he been too hasty, dropping in his personal line? But this was a personal matter, a personal matter to everyone. The glow casts shadows on the other man’s hands, which were not shaking, not even tense. Just like an Administrator such as he, to be so composed in the face of all this.

He gives a slight nod at Administrator Grant’s next words, a faint pride at the praise. “Yes – if so much has been lost already, then perhaps this revelation, too, would fade in time. It’s imperative to keep track, nowadays.”

“Archival access would be helpful in this endeavor, surely,” he says, “There’s bound to be inconsistencies in the records, even if this phenomenon is a recent development.”

Poll records. Policies – notes from previous administrators and historians, statements and such. Comparisons and cross-referencing, just like his day job – but more pressing. These are memories – all of Cloudbank’s memories – that’s at stake here. That they’ve already lost.

“If you could, I would be grateful. And I would, of course, share anything I have uncovered.” Asher finally says, folding his hands on his lap, an imitation of what he had done before he even started talking. 

[grantofthecamerata]

The terminal is quickly back in Grant's hands, and he nods as a signal that he's still paying attention even as he types. "I already know of a few archives that'll have useful information--records of policy discussions, press conferences, the kind of things that would have more particular details to draw upon than the public archives."

A few more taps to the terminal screen are enough to pull up what he's looking for. From what he knows, they're not particularly difficult to get clearance for either, but a word from the Administration Center will make sure it happens sooner than it would otherwise. Perhaps name-dropping is a bit crude of a tactic, something more suited to when he was younger and a little more invested in climbing the societal ladder. But if there was ever a situation worth using his title for, it was this. Anything for Cloudbank.

Once last tap to the screen, and a message is sent to the newest contact in his terminal. He looks back up, meeting Asher's eyes once more. "Your personal line should have just received the archive codes you'll want to look for," he says, trace of a smile returning.

"However," he adds as he sets his terminal down, "being cleared for the Administration's records will take longer, not to mention the time needed to sort though them. Let's just say they aren't as well-maintained as they should be." It's only many years of practice that keeps him from scoffing at his own words; even that was putting it lightly. Keywords could locate some information in the files Cloudbank's administrators have hoarded over the decades, but delving right in without a narrow objective? Grant wouldn't wish that kind of task on anyone. There was also the matter of discretion--certainly someone would notice an OVC writer searching through, given permission for reasons unknown. But... "Researching them myself and sending you anything pertinent may help with that, if you don't mind sharing the load of investigation."

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He catches the sliding terminal before it falls off the edge – handling it with the care of a man whose entire living depended on such a thing. It very nearly does.

As his hand hovered over the projected keyboard, he pauses. His work contact details? No, no, that wouldn’t do. This wasn’t officially part of his job, and he’d be swarmed if some coworker caught a glimpse of who he would be corresponding with. Questions would be asked. Requests for interviews and urgings for him to simply use the man. Something he’s pretty sure Administrator Grant would not enjoy. Personal details, then – he enters his terminal line with quick, practiced strokes.

Asher sets it on the desk, hands miraculously not shaking. “Here,” he says, “My personal line. My office line is, not as private as I’d like it to be.”

He returns the Administrator’s smile with hesitance – this was an Administrator, after all. Speaking of sharing what they knew, Asher taps a finger on the arm of the chair. “Also. I – Ever since I became aware of this,” he starts, “I’ve been keeping a record of what I remember, and what I notice every day. On physical paper, actually. I know first-hand how terminals can fail to serve their purpose. Memories lost as easily as data.”

A fresh wave of determination washes over him. Asher can feel his beaten-down thirst for knowledge, for the truth raise its head at this unforeseen opportunity. “I’ve found it effective, in keeping track of every passing day.”

[grantofthecamerata]

Grant doesn't miss how his guest holds the terminal with a good deal more care than he usually does, neither does he miss how the terminal's glow catches the fading crescent marks pressed into the skin of his palm. Rather than comment, he just patiently waits for him to finish typing.

He takes the device back from where it sits, glancing between the line on the screen and the man to whom it belongs. He hadn't been anticipating a personal line, but perhaps he should've. This would be better handled as far away from the office as possible. Something of this nature--an Administrator admitting to memory problems, he could already hear the voices, perhaps it's time he left public work--should really stay under wraps until more evidence of the effect can be gathered. But a contact is a contact, so he nods and sets the terminal aside. "It's very much appreciated, thank you," he responds before letting him continue.

What Asher says makes all too much sense, really. It would do him well to take a similar approach. A journal couldn't be too difficult to obtain, nor would it be to take the time and record as much of Cloudbank's ever-changing face as possible. If the archives couldn't be trusted, then it only seemed fair for the task of recording the city's history should fall to him.

"That's a wise decision," Grant says, folding his hands once more. "I ought to follow in your footsteps with that. The idea of losing anything else... well, it's a troubling one, needless to say." He resists the instinct to sigh, or to let his shoulders drop. He hasn't resigned himself yet, not in the slightest.

"Is there anything else I can do since you're here, Mr. Kendrell?" he asks. "Putting you in touch with anyone else likely wouldn't be helpful in this case, but I can see if there are private archives with further information."

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Even though he’d anticipated the answer – how many times has he heard it before? – there’s a stab of dismay at the man’s first words. But he’s not the only one feeling that way, Asher can hear the disappointment in his voice. He doesn’t blame the man – only serves to prove that even an Administrator could be shaken, no matter how unflappable they had seemed to be.

During the pause, Asher turns his eyes towards his clasped hands, distantly noting the faint imprints of his fingernails against his palms – he hadn’t even noticed. Too preoccupied with the issue at hand, he supposes. So Administrator Grant’s now aware of this issue. In his previous interviews and discussions, Asher had been able to divert attention away from these implications. He doubts that it would work against this man.

The only thing to do is to come clean – and who better than the man sitting in front of him? At the question, Asher looks up again, fixing his eyes on him.

“I’ve interviewed many people who should have been able to answer my questions,” Asher answers with a sigh, shoulders slumped. “My peers, my elders, supervisors, and such. And you would be correct in your assumption – none of them, not one, can’t come up with a solid memory of just Cloudbank, no places, details. Nothing. Even me.”

At Administrator Grant’s suggestion, though, he manages a weak smile. Such a weight off of his chest, finally being able to talk to someone about this – it’s been haunting him, dogging his steps like a second shadow. “I can’t say I’m sorry for bringing this matter to light, but – well. Thank you,” Asher says, with no small relief evident in his voice. “I just might take you up on your offer. Alone, I don’t think I’ll get too far, but if we – if it’s not a bother – share what we know about this, perhaps we’ll find some answers.”

[grantofthecamerata]

Grant watches the other man's shoulders drop, how his eyes flicker down to his hands and back up. Worry might as well be radiating off of him. And it was clear why, wasn't it? People were meant to have a past, a history, and it was clear now that it was something that Cloudbank lacked almost entirely. The city might just have that psychological effect -- its tyranny of the majority not just a stopper on innovation, but a thing with all too personal consequences for its citizens.

When everything changes...

If that was the case, maybe the only thing that could really be done is to pull the old system up by the roots and create a new one from scratch.

But those ideas could wait, Grant decides as he listens. Better to plan before rushing in. And at least for the moment, there's the clearly mutual relief of not dealing with this issue alone, and the chance to gather some of what's been lost. He straightens his back and smiles, just a little, in return. The tension he feels is starting to fade, a new determination taking its place.

"It's not a bother in the slightest," he replies, "and there's no need to apologize. I believe I'd like to rectify this as much as you do, Mr. Kendrell." He reaches for his terminal without looking, the screen lighting up under his touch, before he pushes it across the desk's smooth glass surface. "Is there a line where I can reach you? If we're going to share what we know, having a method to do so might help."

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The furrowed lines between the Administrator’s eyes does not reassure him at all. Not one bit. But he doesn’t let it affect him past a tightness in his jaw and a neutral frown. “Something from your personal past would be preferable, if I’m not overstepping my boundaries. Details, little details that you might remember about events and such?”

Asher thinks back to when he’d first started this endeavor – the hours of scrolling through the public archives after he’d come home from work. The talk he had on a whim, the elderly technician who had worked on his terminal more than once – he’d chalked the man’s forgetfulness to age and was happy to leave it at that. But then came an architect who had faithfully did her best to shape Cloudbank past her retirement age, and was tossed aside once a certain Royce Bracket made his debut - she couldn’t remember much either. Then, he’d think back as far as he could and – nothing, save vague facts and familiar faces. No recollections of the days leading up to his Selection, the application to join the OVC, not even when and where he’d gotten his cat. Unsettling couldn’t even begin to describe what he’s feeling.

Administrator Grant Hadrian – he’d thought, then. If anyone would know what’s going on, it would be him.

So Asher leans forward, all nervousness burning away with a sense of urgency. “Administrator, I believe that to make any progress, it is important to remind Cloudbank of her past. This is why I’ve done all of these interviews – so please, anything you can offer would be much appreciated.” Or nothing at all.

[grantofthecamerata]

The man sitting across from him is far more tense than he was when he first arrived, Grant can tell. His words suggest... not impatience, not precisely. Although he wouldn't blame him if he was; any OVC reporter would be fuming knowing one of their own sat down with an Administrator and hadn't even gotten a single lead out of it. But even less will be gained, at least in this case, by obfuscation. With that he sighs heavily, folding his hands on his desk.

"I remember less than I should. Imagine, an Administrator who can't even keep track of his own city's history," he says, the note of disappointment creeping into his voice unbidden. "But in any case," he carries on, "whatever history I can give you with real accuracy would be interpersonal. Connected to my family, close friends, so on. Anything detailed about Cloudbank itself, though..."

He pauses for a long moment, turning it over in his mind. Asher Kendrell has been interviewing others, seeking out accounts of Cloudbank's past--not for idle amusement, either. And of all places, and especially of all times, he arrives at this office. To a man with a damaged memory, but one who has some newfound suspicions about its source.

"...You've interviewed others, then? I'd be willing to bet they've had similar problems in offering up an oral history." Grant looks back over his shoulder at the skyline looming heavy behind him, a shadow against the sky's faded green. "If that's the case, I'm afraid a single interview with any one person won't be much help to you," he continues, facing him once again. "But I could offer my help as an Administrator to you, if you'd like. I can see if there are any resources in our systems that will aid your research."

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Asher slides into the offered seat, not looking around the office. The wide-set window behind the desk has the man shoulder the proud Cloudbank skyline. Fitting, perhaps, for such a man so well-regarded as one Administrator Grant.

At the greeting, he straightens his shoulders, clasps his hands on his lap. “It is an honor, Administrator – but I don’t think that path’s right for me,” he says, then adds, “Nothing against the esteemed historians and archivists, of course. I have nothing but respect for them. It’s just –“

He cuts himself off. The interview, right. There’s just so many things he wants to know - needs to know, for his own sake. His research – the unsettling implications of it, haunts him. And each interview he’d had failed to quell his suspicions. Asher stays silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Then – now or never, Asher – he speaks.

“I don’t want to waste your time – so I’ll get to the point,” he says, “I’ve been talking to a lot of people when I’m not working, people who’ve held high-positions, people who’ve experienced Cloudbank longer than I can remember – and, I have to ask you, like I’ve asked them: how much do you remember from your past?”

[grantofthecamerata]

Grant simply listens, watching as his interviewer settles in. Eyes ahead, shoulders set, but with a hint of hesitance that strikes him as unusual. He'd seen the name before; Asher Kendrell is no novice reporter. But when he pauses--not to retrieve a pen or pad, but to think over his words--Grant sees someone thrown out of his element. It's a broad subject, after all, and the thought crosses his mind that perhaps the information this man is collecting is part of a personal project. He wouldn't be the only person with one of those, these days.

He takes that quiet moment to think back over the past year for anything of interest. When that brings nothing to mind out of the usual blur, he furrows his brow and thinks further. His relatives come to mind, and his fellow administrators, his few friends--but the events, their details, escape him. All he can grasp is the shadows of places long gone, things hidden in the ever-shifting tide that he should be able to remember but... doesn't.

Was it really that difficult for anyone in Cloudbank--even one of its leading Administrators--to examine so much as their own history?

Grant soon realizes that his guest is speaking again, and he looks back up solemnly, trying to ignore the sensation that something important has been taken from him. "I suppose that depends," he replies. "Are you looking for something biographical, or asking more in a general sense?" Either way, it seems, there may not be a satisfying answer.

[cameratacat-deactivated20210428]

Nascence

The sky’s a pale green today – it had beat out coral pink by a very slight margin. The weather for today is supposed to be a balmy day, low humidity, pleasant breezes and – no, no, he’s doing it again. Calling up minute details to distract himself from what’s at hand. Asher blinks, and rubs his eyes with the palm of his hands. Focus, Asher, focus.

He takes in a deep breath, then steps into the Administration Center lobby. The receptionist greets him with a perky grin, which he weakly imitates.

“Good afternoon,” she says, “do you have an appointment?”

“Yes I do,” he replies, “Mr. Asher Kendrell, from the OVC.”

She types a phrase into the screen in front of her. “Right inside, Mister Kendrell, and – ah – about your cat?”

“O-oh, right. I’ll just leave her here, I suppose?”

“If you could.”

Said cat lets out a meow when he detaches her from his shoulders, claws tangling in his scarf. He soothes her with a murmur and a scratch behind her ears. “Be good, alright?”

He takes in a deep breath again, shoulders feeling far too light. Calm, calm.

And Asher steps into the Administrator’s office. “Ah, Administrator, I’m Asher Kendrell, from the OVC? I have a few questions for you – unofficial questions, if you wouldn’t mind indulging my curiosity.”

[grantofthecamerata]

His terminal is getting cluttered again. Building plans to be allocated, reports on the city's inner workings to review, unread messages, read but pointedly ignored messages. All in little tabs at the margins of his screen, endlessly building up. On most days, Grant would easily be sifting through the mess, but today...

He glances toward one wide window, but even if the damned things could open, it wouldn't do him any good. It's stifling in here, but it's not the weather's fault.

His mind still buzzes with the memory of his and Royce's conversation this past week. That single idea, one that he may never have considered until Royce said it, was heavy with new possibilities, almost tangibly so. What if the administration work he did now would soon become unnecessary? What would happen if a new system were to be set in place? If just one idea could shift his outlook so completely -- what could a fully-realized plan do?

The quiet beep of a new message pulls Grant out of his thoughts, for now. A note from the receptionist's desk: Mr. Kendrell from the OVC here for his appointment.

Yes, the interview.

Not many administrators sat down for interviews, even if they were requested. Why should they? The purpose of the job is to stay out of the way, quietly keep things running as they should. But this one stood out. There'd been something in the request about looking for first-hand accounts of Cloudbank's history, for one thing, which was unusual enough to catch his eye right away. What OVC reporter would be writing about events farther past than a week ago? They were part of Cloudbank, and Cloudbank was always changing. Never stopping to look at the past, always shifting to the passing thoughts of its people.

...That's exactly -- exactly the thing, Grant. When everything changes... nothing changes.

In any case, it was too timely a request to say no. And now here he is. An OVC writer looking for accounts of the past, facing an Administrator whose mind, at the moment, is anywhere but. He shakes his head and sighs, shutting his terminal off entirely before the door slides open.

He offers a genial nod as his interviewer enters, gesturing towards the seat across from his desk. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kendrell. You did mention in your initial correspondence about the nature of your questions. Considering being a historian rather than an OVC writer, are you?"

[grantofthecamerata]

[proxer] hel̕l̷ǫ he̵l͝lo hèl̴lo͝ y͢ou ͟calle̶d f͞or̨ ͞us͟ ͟we a̵re h͠er̴e ̨we ̢ar͡e h͡ere̡ ̢t͘ak̶e͡ car̶e ͞of͠ us Gr͢ant ́Ke̷nd͡r̵el͝l͢ ̀ţake car͝e

It seems this new system is experiencing a few... glitches. Perhaps this channel needed to be beta-tested for a little longer.

Speaking of, I need to give a certain Mr. Bracket a call soon. This particular issue may be more his specialty than mine.

[grantofthecamerata]

MAN. I have certain things to discuss with you. Concerning /my/ Man. My Man, you understand? I've always been there for him and I do not appreciate being locked out of his room, thank you very much. /And/ not to mention the /screaming/ that you make him do - are you hurting him? I swear as time goes on I can barely listen to the noise! Why do you make him scream, cause him pain? Be sure to heed my warning, human MAN. Or i will scratch you.

...I will admit, when I opened this channel I wasn't expecting to receive queries from cats. Technology can facilitate incredible things, it seems.

Believe me, though, I've earned enough scratches already. A few more won't do much.

[grantofthecamerata]

"HERE'S A COMMENT FOR YOU: YOU'RE AN ASSHOLE."

Thank you for your… well, let’s just call it feedback. We will be sure to put that deft and insightful perspective to good use in our efforts to keep Cloudbank running smoothly.

[grantofthecamerata]

Introductions.

In our tradition of maintaining the people of Cloudbank's right to have a say in their city's governance, the administration is always working to ensure that all our citizens' voices are heard. We hope these newest resources, while a good more direct than previous endeavors, will more easily facilitate the voices that make Cloudbank what it is. After all, without its people, what is this city but so much metal and circuitry? What is it, truly, without someone to shape it?

I am Administrator Grant Kendrell, and I am here to take your questions and comments directly.

(now open for rp and asks!)