Farewell to Cloudbank

Posted 06-28-67 by Amelia Garbur, Associate Editor ...To the west I see nothing, and to the east there is nothing, and so we wait, together, shoulder to shoulder. We will not leave our fair city under any circumstance. I suspect even the Process has figured that out by now. Farewell.

[dys-functioning-blog]

Succor

[dys-functioning-blog]

Olmarq was surprised; Facsimile was a big deal in Cloudbank. Honestly, he expected a swarm of suits around her at all times – to be a replacement, while an honor, seemed to be difficult considering the importance of the celebrity’s welfare.

“I – sure! Erm… I guess, if you want me to. It’s either this or just mope around in my house…”

He caught her hopeful stare with a hint of suspicion, like she was planning something. But the fact that she was a woman in need pushed him into validating his answer; he will help this woman.

Wiping his palms on his trousers, he considered what would happen should her managers discover her seemingly rebellious escapade. All he knew is that he had just pledged loyalty to Facsimile – he intended to keep his word.

“I… don’t suppose you have a name I could call you by? Unless – unless your real name is Facsimile.” He rubbed his elbow nervously, hoping he wasn’t treading in grounds he shouldn’t be. “I’m Olmarq, by the way.“

He decided he would not mention his previous status as star quarterfielder; should she not recognize him, it might make the whole process a little more less awkward.

Pausing mid-turn, he looked back at the singer with an inquisitive expression. “Where are we going, anyhow?”

[thelastofcloudbank]

“Oh, thank you!”

Facsimile beams. Her smile lights up her entire form, like plugging in a glass lamp. Her expression only falters slightly when the man asks her her name. She laughs it off however, waving one hand airily.

“Oh no, of course not! It’s my stage name. But you can call me… Milly, if you like.” she grins inwardly, suspicions correct. “Olmarq! Well, isn’t this an honour for me!”

She gives him a large and -surprisingly sincere- bow, turns in the opposite direction, then quickly turns back.

“Just a few groceries and such! Please wait here a moment, I’m going to go change!”

With a flash of silvery earrings and a whirl of indigo silk she’s gone. She’s away for about five minutes, and then the sound of running footsteps signals her reappearance.

She appears quite different in street clothes. Even with her extravagantly styled hair and extra makeup, the fuzzy purple sweater and long blue skirt give her quite a different look. She shoulders a brown canvas bag and smiles pleasantly at Olmarq.

“Well then, Mr. Olmarq. Thank you ever so much in advance for helping a poor songbird do her chores.”

And with that, she takes Olmarq’s arm and leads him off.

[thelastofcloudbank]

(facsimile before she cut and styled her hair for performances. from natural curls to hairsprayed ones)

[dys-functioning-blog]

Succor

[dys-functioning-blog]

He rubbed his arms, looking completely out of place. 

“Oh – I know that,” he said, eyeing the woman’s costume. “I was here earlier, but I, er.. I left early. I didn’t get to see who won.”

With a shock, he realized the woman he was talking to was Facsimile; only a small section of her costume had been removed since his saw her onstage. Not wanting to look like an imbecile, he kept quiet, planning to speak with a little more respect from that point on. 

Olmarq then realized his ignorance was due to the fact that he, at the time of the concert, was looking more at Red than Facsimile. He quickly stuffed his hands in his pockets to avoid partaking in one of his many nervous ticks. It was strange to see the infamous quarterfielder, renown for ferocity on the field, look almost pitiful in that moment. He was good at throwing spirals and smiling at the camera – he was not the most socially adept.

A moment later, however, and his usual edge of steel returned.

“Do you need anything? It – it looks like your managers left you in the dust here…”

Now that he mentioned it, it was true. Facsimile was sitting here, alone, unattended. She said herself the show ended only half an hour ago, yet here she was still partially in her costume. Frankly, Olmarq was worried they’d abandoned her on purpose.

He could only guess what the outcome of the battle was.

[thelastofcloudbank]

“Oh.” Facsimile’s expression of false-cheeriness faltered. Feeling it was a little disrespectful to sit above the stranger, she pushed off from the stage and landed lightly on stockinged feet. She’d abandoned her high-heels– they were a pain to wear for long periods. 

“Well, you missed quite the finale…” she tugged at her twinkling, transparent shawl self-consciously.

Facsimile eyed the man over curiously. His square jaw and athletic build seemed familiar, but she couldn’t quite place them. 

The singer’s face coloured slightly as the man inquired after her predicament. The truth was, she’d stayed behind purposefully. The area would be empty for the next two hours, and thats exactly what Facsimile had wanted. 

But suddenly the presence of the man tugged at her heart– Charlie hadn’t been able to make the concert; he was away on business and wouldn’t be back for weeks. Facsimile was suddenly ravenous for company, but not the company of friends– friends would ask what was wrong, they’d pity her and offer all sorts useless advice. She didn’t feel like speaking to any of them– only Charlie would really understand, anyway.

But in the company of a stranger, she could pretend to be unburdened for a while, and pretending was so close to the real thing if you weren’t surrounded by reminders.

But then, she couldn’t think of any reason for this man to stay, and she didn’t want to give him any false ideas. She fumbled for something to say, some excuse to retain his presence. She looked down at her dress; the bulky lower half was removed, exposing a generous portion of her legs. She flicked her gaze back up to the man, who’s identity finally fell into place. An idea struck her.

“I… A-actually, yes.” she paused to put on an anxious expression– it wasn’t hard, given her current emotional state. “You’re right– they did leave me here. I’ve been a bit worried about leaving, actually. I’ve got errands to run, but the make-up trailer is locked and I can’t straighten my curls– I’ll be recognized instantly, and I’m worried that something might– er– happen…”

She dropped her eyes back to the floor.

“If… If it isn’t too much trouble, would you accompany me on my errands? Just… you know, so I have someone to go with.”

Her eyes traveled to his face again, and she unconsciously crossed her white-gloved fingers behind her back.

[dys-functioning-blog]

Succor

         thelastofcloudbank / simandthedimbulbv2-0 ; rolled a 10 !       

Olmarq wandered the highest streets of Cloudbank; he had just attended yet another “song battle” between Fascimile and Red, Cloudbank’s most prestigious vocalists. He didn’t wait for the end. The concert hall was slowly retreating behind him as he made his way to nowhere in particular.

He walked because he could walk for quite a long time. Olmarq found a peace in being able to wander far longer than one would think – often, he could go hours mindlessly exploring the vast streets of Cloudbank.

Before he could notice, he had made a loop around the Bracket towers and back to the concert hall. The stage was empty, save for a woman sitting silently, her legs dangling off the edge.

“Er…”

He approached slowly and cautiously, not wanting to startle her. 

“Are – are you alright?”

[thelastofcloudbank]

Facsimile sat quietly at the edge of the stage, toes together, arms braced behind her, as if about to jump off. She didn’t, though. She simply sat and contemplated her lower extremities with a slightly lost expression.

She was obviously fresh from a show– a competition, to be exact. Her pinkish hair was all done up in voluminous spirals on either side of her head and her cheeks and lips were rouged.

She started a little as someone called out. She looked down with a slight bobbing of curls to see a brawny looking fellow with bright eyes and a cautious expression standing near the foot of the stage.

“Oh! Hello!” she gave a giggle in that false-cheery way that people do when they’re trying to cover something up. “I’m afraid you’ve missed the show, sir, it ended a half-hour ago.”

She didn’t answer his question.

[thelastofcloudbank]

(decided on this being Facsimile’s voice claim, at least for singing)

[thelastofcloudbank]

[thelastofcloudbank]

*there's a small box of chocolates and a water colour card it reads: to Darby, I've fallen in love with you and I'd like to know if you feel the same way. -Farrah p.s. I got you rose shaped chocolates because I thought you might like that*

Darby picks up the package from his doorstep and takes it inside.

He sits down at his desk and opens the card. For a while, he remains looking at the card, before he shakes himself and puts it down.

He gets up, walks around in little circles, then sits down again, then picks up a pair of pruning sheers, then puts them down, then walks to the kitchen and walks back. All the while his face is split in a look of disbelieving joy.

The chocolates and watercolours are nice, but irrelevant. 

He pens a simple response right away. His flowers are ready. Delicate pink blossoms with scalloped edges. He wraps them up with a few oranges and puts his card into the bundle.

’Dearest Farrah, I feel the same, and I am overjoyed. These are yours, truly and wholly. Ever yours, Darby Forbishire’

He gives the package to a delivery boy and watches him go. He hopes to gods the boy won’t damage the Yon-Dahlias.

[thelastofcloudbank]

(apparently Darby's been threatening Royce according to this. I couldn't help myself)

[thelastofcloudbank]

Singularity

[ameliaovc]

"Got it." She’s still after them, it seems. Hopefully without reinforcements. They’ll be at an advantage there, at least. And Jack looks quick.

As they grow near the water Amelia glances down at her trembling hands. Even the sound of the waves, slowed down against the walls, sends a sick terror racing through her veins. She struggles to keep breathing and walking onward, though her body feels like it’s once more wading through deep water as it pours into her throat.

Hearing more footsteps at least takes her attention away from the water, and she turns to glance at the new copy. “What’s going—”

There’s no warning when Jack attacks the distant figure and William yanks the reporter along. With a startled sound Amelia begins to sprint forward with him. “If I see him, I’ll tell him what happened.” William’s story. Everyone’s story. If anyone can put that out, Wave can. If he’s even alive.

A different sort of white sits on the ground up ahead. Not the rich, glistening and multicolored white of the Processed city. Pale canvas tents in a huddle with black symbols on the sides, surrounded by rippling firewalls.

Her heart leaps into her throat. People. Here. Not from Cloudbank. Did they hear about the city’s fall, the Process? “William, look!” Even though there aren’t any humans walking about, Amelia’s willing to bet that the area is occupied.

[thelastofcloudbank]

William gives her a small, weary smile of thanks.

He turns to see the tents. People. Humans. Once, he would have fought tooth and nail to get through those firewalls and process the people inside. But those aren't his orders anymore. The default of defending the new User has set in, and the knowledge that others like her are so near strengthens him.

She will be protected. But he is needed elsewhere. 

"Åmé∫îå…" he rasps, slowing to a halt. "Î müst ∫éåve ¥oü µëre… †µé †®åπ§î§†ø® îs ¢∫øse, sø ¢∫øse, sø ¢∫øse, sø ¢∫øse… ßü† †µå† wømaπ wî∫∫ bë ¢øming ƒør ¥ou, åπ∂ sµe wî∫∫ 円åck †µe ø†µers †øø…"

He takes Amelia's hands and gives them a short, sharp squeeze, staring into her eyes.

"†µe ¶®øç駧 çaππø† bë s†øpped… çaππø† bë s†øpped, çaππø† bë s†øpped… ßüt ît ¢ån bë ∂îrec†ed. Gé† †µe †®åπ§î§†ø®. ßé¢øme †µe πew ܧé®. Måke C∫øü∂ßåπk… Måke C∫øü∂ßåπk…"

He trails off. He turns away from Amelia and heads back towards the place Jack had been.

He'll find the woman who had once been Leigha Seriphim and he will do his utmost to stop her getting closer to the tents, to Amelia and the Transistor. He won't fare well against the powerful woman, but his efforts won't be in vain. 

[thelastofcloudbank]

Singularity

[ameliaovc]

So there’s that. But apart from that Amelia doesn’t know any of the conditions. So why do they seem so certain?

However, they’re interrupted by the sound of another entity. With a gasp she turns in the direction of the footsteps and raises her hands. Part of her wants to fight if they mean harm, but Jack standing guard over her is a comfort.

Then William Truser limps out and she heaves a sigh of relief. The cold and still air seems to thin out so she can breathe again, the pressure on her chest easing. He’s safe. Though hardly unharmed. That Processed woman must have done a number on him, though he’s escaped.

For now. Could she be following him?

Amelia picks up the pace a bit as she gives the newcomer a nod. “Is she still after you? After me?” It’s easy to remember how swiftly the pale figure moved through the air after her.

[thelastofcloudbank]

William's dull eyes continue swivelling as he moves.

"§†î∫∫ ¢ømîπg… Gø† bå¢k üp… ∏ëë∂ †ø gé† ¥øu †µere §åƒe…"

Their speed picks up and they move closer to Amelia. They're at the docks. Water ripples sluggishly into the quays, choked by the unsuccessful attempts to Process them. The water beyond is cool and green, just like it should be.

"Wë're g醆îng ¢∫øse," says Jack, "†µe øvérpåss îs jüs† åµéå∂…"

Then, once more, there are footsteps.

Another William appears far behind them, but not far enough. It calls out. Whatever it utters isn't any language they can understand.

"†µe ¢øp¥–" groans William.

Jack stops and stands his ground in front of the two of them. He bangs on his chest, releasing a yellow missile that streaks towards the other William.

"Î'∫∫ †åke µîm." says Jack, jaw set, eyes determined. "¥øü øπ∫y µave å ∫îtt∫e f宆µer †ø gø."

William nods, then grabs Amelia's hand and starts running. His steps are clumsy and uneven, but constant; he isn't going to stop until his legs give out from under him.

"Wµéπ ¥øu gé† †µere," he says, "Wµén ¥øu gé† †µere, îf ¥øu §ee Wå√e, îf ¥øu §ee Wå√e, îf ¥øu §ee Wå√e, †é∫∫ µîm, †é∫∫ µîm…"

[thelastofcloudbank]

Singularity

[ameliaovc]

That’s not too far, and she’s used to walking by now. So Amelia can focus her mind on the surroundings and the Processed man. “Everyone’s told me I’m supposed to be the new User. Is that some sort of requirement for the last person left?”

She adds, “I don’t know, I never really expected to build anything. Is there a way to bring people back? From the Process, or the dead? That would be my first order of business, if so.” As the reporter speaks she vaults over a white wall and grimaces. It’s been a while since her last found meal, and resources are just about gone.

"Would I be able to make food with it as well? Might as well talk about the basics."

[thelastofcloudbank]

"∏ø† πéçésari∫∫y. Büt å Ü§é® ¢åπ øπ∫y bë µümåπ. Åπ∂ ¥øu're †µe ∫ås† øπe, sø…"

He doesn't answer her second or third question. Perhaps he hasn't heard her, or maybe he simply doesn't know.

All of the sudden, the sound of a third set of footsteps reaches their ears.

Jack immediately jumps in front of Amelia, about to attack the incoming threat, but stops when he sees who it is.

William stumbles out of an alleyway looking quite the worse for wear. White ooze trickles out of his chest, his eyes are dull.

"Gøø∂, gøø∂, yøü åre såƒe, yøü åre såƒe, yøü åre såƒe…" he mutters, his voice buzzing harshly.

"Wî∫∫?" says Jack, looking shocked, "Wµåt µåppéned?"

"∏ø †îme… wë müst… gø qüick∫y…" he wheezes.

He falls into step beside both of them, eyes darting from side to side.

[thelastofcloudbank]

Facsimile's songs

(I wrote three songs for Facsimile before developing a block about them, but here they are. I thought she deserved something to sing. Each of them is sort of meant to correspond to one of Red's songs, and reference something in the plot of the game, as Red's do. They also simultaneously have their own story that comes from Facsimile's past. Feel free to ask about'em if you're interested /shrug/

Anyway, here they are! Hope you like'em.)

You can build

You pick up a knife and watch the sun bounce off the blade it's the same old warm ball but the glare's a different shade

you pace round in ovals, watch your step you might trip cause the same song is playing but your favourite part skips

/and you can build, you can build, you can build it up again but it won't be the same as the way it was then you can build, you can build, you can build it up again but it won't be the same as the way it was then/

all the chairs and all the tables, they're right where they were taking up the same old spaces before the floor plans were blurred  

but the angles are off, in a way you can't quite name and you're searching and searching for who is to blame

/but you can build, you can build, you can build it up again but it won't be the same as the way it was then you can build, you can build, you can build it up again but it won't be the same as the way it was then/

at the end of your rope, you sink down to your knees surrounded by half-truths and sur-re-ali-ties

"If the closer I look the more problems I can't fix, then I'll lock the front gate and I'll head for the sticks."

/and you can build, you can build, you can build it up again but it won't be the same as the way it was then you can build, you can build, you can build it up again but it won't be the same as the way it was then

and you can build, you can build, you can build it up again but it won't be the same as the way it was then you can build, you can build, you can build it up again but you won't be the same as the way you were then/

Orbits

we met in town, the lights were bright I hadn't thought there would be stars out tonight We took a cab and sat down by the bay I didn't think things would end up this way

/Cause you're there, and I'm here, and we're no where near and I'm watchin' the skies for your message my dear

cause I'm lost and you're found and I'm safe and you're sound and we're both going round and round in orbits

I'm lost and you're found and I'm safe and you're sound and we're both going round and round in orbits/

we walked the streets, without a care we thought that time and destiny would be fair I held your hand, and felt it deep in my heart that somehow someday we'd be forced apart

/now you're there, and I'm here, and we're no where near and I'm beggin' the skies for your message my dear

cause I'm lost and you're found and I'm safe and you're sound and we're both going round and round in orbits

I'm lost and you're found and I'm safe and you're sound and we're both going round and round in orbits/

And now we're trapped on opposite sides our bodies forced apart by clamouring tides We circle round but we're doomed not to meet to bridge the gap is an impossible feat

/Cause you're there, and I'm here, and we're no where near and I'm watchin' the skies and I'm beggin' the skies I'm watchin' the skies for your message  my dear/

Straight to Their Hearts

You see what is missing, you see what they cannot see But nobody listens, your vision just cannot be You spiral in circles, dying just to be heard you need a confident, you need to just share your words

/And that's where you'll start, and that's where you'll begin straight to their hearts, right where they're stricken/

You build your own future, you calculate sunshine but nothing can suture, the wounds in your mind your castles are crumbling, your monuments meaningless you're weak and you're stumbling, to find a way out of this

/And that's where you'll start, and that's where you'll begin straight to their hearts, right where they're stricken

And now things are changing and now things are changing and now things are changing and now things unchanging/

Where did we come from? Where will we go? It's all so confusing, and you just want to know You struggle for answers, you're desperate for leads You cling to the records of old memories

/And that's where you'll start, and that's where you'll begin straight to their hearts, right where they're stricken/

You flit in the summer wind on butterfly's gauzy wings from flower to flower, to chat about funny things but inside you're pining, there's something that's not quite right there's something confining in flying free like a kite

/And that's where you'll start, and that's where you'll begin straight to their hearts, right where they're stricken

And now things are changing and now things are changing and now things are changing and now things unchanging/

[thelastofcloudbank]

Singularity

[ameliaovc]

She. Does that mean the User before her? The words are odd, the content odder, and Amelia can’t make sense of it. There seems to be plenty of history there—

Then she flinches as the Process grips her shoulders. Her eyes widen in a sudden panic, but before she can do more to react the pressure is gone and Facsimile is speaking directly to her once more. A voice…

A voice for them all. She remembers something.

After that the high note is less of a surprise, but Amelia, made wary by so long on her own, still twitches. It’s obviously a call for the new Process who speeds up to them. This is probably the Jack that Darby had mentioned. He at least seems more alert, so the erstwhile editor resolves to pick his brains when they’re on their way to the Transistor.

The buzzing yet strangely pretty voice follows after them as they walk onward. “So you’re Jack?” Amelia glances over curiously.

[thelastofcloudbank]

Jack trots along in front of Amelia.

"¥éaµ, †µa†'s më." he says. "Ά wøn'† bë ƒår πøw. †µe é∂ge øƒ Gø∫∂wå∫k's jüs† åbøu† å µå∫ƒ-µøu® øƒƒ."

He leads her across the blank landscape, occasionally helping Amelia through obstacles.

"§ø yøü're gøππå bë †µe πew ܧé®, µuµ?" he says, at length. "Î µøpe ¥øü måke p∫åns ƒør søme†hing πéåt. Î've πever büi∫t åny†hiπg beƒøre, †µøugh, bü† Î prømîse Î'∫∫ †ry ®éå∫ µård. Î prømise."

About a second and a half later he asks, as if unable to contain himself, "§ø, üµ… Åny î∂eås? ƒør s†üff? †ø büî∫∂?" 

He seems nervous and excited at the prospect. He turns his bright, ruby-red eyes to Amelia.

[thelastofcloudbank]

Singularity

[ameliaovc]

Even when Processed this being before her is quite a sight. Amelia thinks she recognizes her as one of the old performers from Cloudbank’s finest. Wasn’t her name Fac… Facsimile? At least she isn’t attacking.

The comment about the User though makes the associate editor frown. She doesn’t seem to hold the same views as the others. Or does this singer not see Amelia as being alive?

"My way is with the Transistor. I need to find it, somehow." One hand rises to run through short hair. "He said that you know where Jack is, and that he could help? Or do you know where it is?"

It’s worth a shot, at least. She looks willing to help. So Amelia also ventures, “What can you tell me about the User, anyways?”

[thelastofcloudbank]

"†®åπ§î§†ø®…" the woman's pupils contract.

Facsimile stays silent for a while, petals fluttering uneasily. Finally, she speaks.

"§µe îs ∂ångérøus… Åπ∂ sø åπgry… §µe ∫éft më å∫îve büt ît müs† µåve bëën å wårπiπg… Î πever wån†e∂ †ø ge† în µer wåy… Å∫wåys å∂mîred µer… Jüst å §†upî∂ må∂e-üp ¢øπtes†…"

She seems distressed.

"§µe kî∫∫é∂ †µe ƒîrst øƒ üs. Wë ƒøüπ∂ µer å† †he Emp†¥ §et… Å∫∫ brøkeπ… Å∫∫... brøkeπ… Å∫∫…"

Her eyes narrow with emotion and her voice crackles and buzzes harshly. She remembers the prone, sluggish figure in a pool of her own blood. She remembers watching the User from afar, sure at any moment that she would turn and finally put an end to her rival. But she hadn't. Facsimile wonders again and again why she had been spared.

"Ja¢k wî∫∫ †åke ¥øu †o µer, bü†…" she looks up at Amelia now, eyes wide and frightened. "Døn'†–– Døn'†…"

She grabs Amelia's shoulders, suddenly.

"Évery†µiπg îs brøkeπ îs brøke𠆵e Ü§é® îs brøkeπ µer vøice µer vøice µer––"

She lets go and falls back.

"¥øu… ¥øu wî∫∫ ƒîπ∂ µer vøice. ¥øu å∫wåys… Gåve üs å vøiçe… Åmé∫îå."

She backs up a bit, takes a deep breath, and lets off a high-pitched note which echoes loudly throughout the amphitheatre. 

A few moments later, there is the sound of running footsteps. A new Process, rather young, it seems, appears. He glances from Amelia to Facsimile.

"Wµére ∂i∂ sµe ¢øme ƒrøm?" he asks, obviously aware of what Facsimile is not.

"§µe müst ƒîπ∂ †µe †®åπ§î§†ø®. †åke µer †µere, Ja¢k."

Jack frowns a little before suddenly understanding.

"ص. †µe πew ܧé®." he nods at Amelia and turns. "©øme w më, mîss."

Facsimile gives Amelia one last, tremulous glance, then returns to her small round stage.

She mounts it, falling back into her reclining position, and resumes her song from where she left off.

'Wµere ∂i∂ wë ¢øme ƒ®øm? Wµere wî∫∫ wë gø? Ά's å∫∫ sø ¢ønfüsing, åπ∂ ¥øu jüst wåπt †ø kπow… ¥øu s†®ugg∫e ƒør åπswe®s, ¥øu're ∂esperåte ƒør ∫éå∂s, ¥øu c∫îng †ø †µe ®e©ør∂s øf ø∫d mémøries…  

Åπ∂ †µåt's wµere ¥øu'∫∫ s†art. †µåt's wµere ¥øu'∫∫ begîπ, s†raigµt †ø †µéir µé宆s, ®îgµt wµere †µey're s†ri¢keπ...'

[thelastofcloudbank]

Singularity

[ameliaovc]

Despite herself Amelia’s almost enchanted at the peaceful sound. The lying woman—Process—seems to be at ease, and the song is certainly soothing. Her hands in fists inside her coat relax once more.

"I’m Amelia." Associate Editor of the OVC, she wants to say, but she bites it back and steps forward more until she’s a few yards away. Perhaps she’s being taken in, but this singer doesn’t seem to be harmful.

"I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but I need to find my way. And… Forbishire said you know someone who could help take me there," she murmurs. If this Transistor has such an effect on the Process, wouldn’t they all know of its location? Or are there conditions on them being aware of it? Whatever is happening, the sooner she can free these people from what happened to them, the better.

She tucks a bit of hair behind one ear and tries to stop staring at the Processed woman. A faint trace of amusement at herself flickers over her face.

[thelastofcloudbank]

The woman watches Amelia carefully as she approaches her, swaying slightly from side to side. She doesn't appear to touch the ground with her feet, or foot… it's hard to tell. There's a clear outline of two legs beneath her dress, though they seem to be stuck together, or else wrapped beneath a thick layer of cloth… or skin.

"Åmë∫îå. Førbîshîre…" she repeats quietly. Then she asks, "Wµére îs ¥øur wåy?"

She is standing directly in front of Amelia now, hands folded demurely in front of her. The petals of her gown flutter slightly.

"¥øu sµøu∫∂ bë cåreƒü∫." she murmurs. "†µe Ü§é® mîgh† sëë ¥øu ås å †µreå†. Wë åre å∫∫ sëën ås †µreå†s."

This Process is odd. She doesn't seem to realize Amelia is human, or the only remaining living person on this entire island. There is something of a cloud in her eyes– a faraway look that suggests she isn't really here, properly. But her expression is concerned and not hostile. If she is unstable, perhaps she isn't dangerous. 

[thelastofcloudbank]

Singularity

[ameliaovc]

The new User… whatever that means, it’s something the Processed denizens have repeatedly stated. As the sole surviving human, does that mean that she’s automatically a User? Amelia can’t see the meaning of it.

"The singer, close with Jack. At the amphitheater." Her first thought for the word ‘singer’ is Red, of course, but that couldn’t be. Amelia’s blood runs cold as she remembers certain odd comments on her very last articles. No, not her. Someone close with someone else named Jack. And she needs to be wary. That she can do, at least.

"Thanks, Darby. May you… find peace." With a nod she steps forward down the path, taking care not to ruin the cattails. Part of her wonders why she should bother, but the easy answer is her respect for the man Darby was. He’d deserve better than that.

The amphitheater is a short walk that’s filled with glances around to make sure she’s not being followed. Amelia wouldn’t mind William showing up again, but that would probably mean he’d be followed by the hostile woman. A woman’s voice, buzzing and skipping through notes, guides her to the entrance and inside.

[thelastofcloudbank]

The amphitheatre is a huge, white oblong building with no roof that sits slightly apart from the surrounding structures. A large part of the front wall has been Processed away, creating a sort of entrance. Cattails line the road leading to it, and little spires of Processed blocks jut out at irregular intervals.

A figure is visible through the entrance, lounging languidly in the centre of a round, raised platform. The closer one gets, the easier it is to tell that the figure is a woman clad in a long white dress divided into two petal-like skirts. A ruby eye glimmers at her throat.

She is singing something in a low, buzzing voice that still somehow holds a melody. The words are slightly hard to make out, as with all Processed speech, but it is fairly clear what she is saying, if one listens closely.

…Åπ∂ †µa†'s wµere ¥øu'∫∫ s†ar†, †µat's wµere ¥øu'∫∫ begîπ, s†raîgµt †ø †µeir µé宆s, ®îgh† wµere †µey're s†rî¢ken

Ån∂ πøw †µiπgs å®e çhåπgîng, ån∂ πøw †µiπgs å®e çhåπgîng, ån∂ πøw †µiπgs å®e çhåπgîng, ån∂ πøw †µiπgs ünçhåπgîng…

When the rest of the Process were there, drones would stop by every once in a while and listen to the singer. Creeps and Cluckers and Men and sometimes the occasional Jerk. But now they are gone, and the singer is alone.

…Wµere ∂i∂ wë cøme ƒrøm, wµere wî∫∫ wë gø––

The curls of hair on either side of her face twitch slightly as she moves her head. Her crimson eyes flick to Amelia as she approaches.

"Wµø's †µere..?"

Her speaking voice is surprisingly soft and timid.

[thelastofcloudbank]

Singularity

[ameliaovc]

Though she’s turned away the associate editor can’t help but lower her head, taking a shaky breath. “I’m not… I don’t think I’m headed that way. I don’t know? William Truser, or what’s left of him, was going to guide me to something called the Transistor so I could put it in the Cradle.” Just thinking about Meryl puts a miserable little lump in her throat and a burning tightness in her chest. How could Meryl talk about the reason for her death? She never deserved to be the one to survive.

In any case, there’s little she knows about this powerful tool, this Transistor, but if it helps them get back to somewhere they can rest, Amelia’s willing to do what it takes.

Even if it means she dies. There’s not much left.

"Another Processed lady tried to attack me and we got separated as he was fighting her off. Do you know where the Transistor is?"

[thelastofcloudbank]

"ŵ"

Darby nods, patting a slightly-too-large cattail so that it shrinks a little to fit in with the rest of them.

"†µe †®åπ§î§†ø®… ¥øü're †µe πëw ܧé®, †µen?" he chuckles. "Fuππy… †µåt måkes seπse… sø mücµ seπse…" 

He straightens up to his full height.

"¥es, søme øƒ üs åre üπs†ab∫e, üπs†ab∫e søme†îmes…"

He looks mournful momentarily. When the living were still among them they were all so savage… now that they're alone, they seem to have equalized, found some sort of middle ground. Neither human nor Process.

"Î ∂øn'† kπøw †µe wåy, m¥se∫ƒ, büt Ja¢k wî∫∫. Hë kπows wµere évery†µîng îs. Fîndîng Ja¢k, †µoügµ… †µa† wî∫∫ bë å prøb∫em, µe πever s†åys s†i∫∫, πever s†åys s†i∫∫…"

The erstwhile gardener looks out across the blank, white expanse.

"ßüt sµe mîgh†. Tµe sîπger. §µe's ¢∫ose wî†h Ja¢k. §µe'∫∫ bë å† †µe åmphea†re, pérƒørmîπg πøw. Heå∂ ∂øwn †µere…" he points down one of the nondescript streets, "†µen ∫îs†en. ¥øu'∫∫ ƒîn∂ µer. Büt… Bë ¢åu†îøüs. §µe måy bë… üπs†ab∫e, §µe måy bë üπs†ab∫e, gøø∂ ∫uck, gøø∂ ∫uck gøø∂, ∫uck…"

Darby seems to drift away now, mentally and physically. He walks soundlessly away on black feet, brushing the cattails as he goes.