[M - IC] The Center Will Not Hold [Hannelorian x Iwazuma]

[Hannelorian]

Rated M for Mature Themes, Violence, Gore, Sexual Situations etc...

---

In every revolution, there are winners and losers. Every dystopia is a utopia for somebody else. It just depends where you are. Are you in the class that benefits, or are you in the class that's not?

---

The small room was enveloped in darkness. In the stillness of the early hour, the air hung thick, heavy ever stagnant. The stench of the slum permeated every square inch of the space. There was no escape, the stench of a humanity that had been utterly abandoned by its creator. The room was cursed with reminder that this indeed was their reality. The sounds of labored breathing, of coughing, of pained groans. If it weren't so dire, it might almost be comical, the sounds joints made, bone grinding against bone after years of forced labor had worn them down to nothing. The sound of the ever present drip from the dilapidated ceiling, water always coming, coming, coming, drop after drop hanging on for dear life until burdened by the weight of itself, it would crash down, shattering against the cool stone floor. The soundtrack of oppression, of poverty. The soundtrack of those who had no hope remaining, save for a swift end to the misery that was their existence.

Breaking the sounds of eternal suffering, a radio crackled slowly, slowly growing in volume until the infernal anthem sounded, signaling a start to the day. For many, the day had long since started, for they lay in their bed roll, unable to sleep amidst the noise, amidst their own fear, if they were new to the depths of the Undarum. Others were so wrapt in their own mental or physical anguish that sleep always seemed impossible. Who hadn't seen a Publicas lose the last of their sanity? Sleep deprivation breaking the proverbial back of the camel. Running wild through the streets as though they were a beast unchained, finally liberated, only to be shot down.

In that small room bodies began to stir. "Someone shut that damned thing off!" a voice called. A voice, that attracted attention and garnered panic glances in the darkness, even if none could see. It wouldn't be worth it to reprimand the speaker, for to speak once more would be nothing but trouble. For the Publicas, there was no rule that prohibited them from communicating, but after a near century of being beaten down for such trivial things, few felt such a rule need be codified. Rising now, a girl moved forward without care. Every last inch of the small container was known to her, the position of every bed roll, she knew the source of every human sound. She knew the familiar scamper of rats feet as they made themselves scarce. Moving as though with purpose, she rested a hand on a shoulder, or an arm. Mother, Father, Sister, Brother. Though these titles remained only in her head. They were no longer their titles, they were no longer a family. They were mere co-habitants, they may as well be strangers to one another.

With an outstretched hand, a door was opened and light flooded the small chamber, catching and glimmering against the moisture that was slowly descending along the walls. Into the dull light of a common space emerged the young woman who had so tenderly reached out in that darkness. She was slender, too thin, really. She owed that to the general lack of food in the Undarum, and what she could give away she would. The tattered dressing gown, hanging off her shoulders, revealing hauntingly pale flesh. Chestnut hair resting on those same shoulders, the blue orbs that were her eyes darting about, adjusting to the light, catching sight of the doors on the opposite side, that when opened birthed the residents of the other dwelling units. There were no words, there were no smiles. There was nothing but the milling about of bodies. Bodies which would come to rest at the rows of long tables, the remaining few, the girl included gathering basic supplies for the morning "meal" if one could call it that.

Another melody came from the radio, this time heralding the working hours. It was the most unforgiving of the day. It was a notice that came at random intervals, designed to cause peak discomfort among the lowest of castes. Most days, it left only minutes for the consumption of their nutritional supplements. She cast her eyes upon her parents, her former parents, whatever they had become to her in the years of their hellish imprisonment, they didn't look back at her. She would collect her uniform, and don it with the utmost of care. Pale hands running along the shape of her own body, feeling every last scar, wincing as her fingertips came into contact with the freshest of bruises, still a delightfully deep shade of plum. There were no mirrors, for it mattered not what the Publicas looked like, for they were largely meant to go unseen. The uniform consisted of grey slacks, a grey undershirt and sweater, as the winter months were upon them, it wouldn't do well to have them dying in the streets from the cold. They wore shoes that had been worn day in and out held only together perhaps by the will of the fabric. An amusing thought. Cold fingers did her hair up into a regulation bun, one of precious few sanctioned hair styles for women of her position.

Once dressed the panic began, the Publicas streamed out of their dwellings into the narrow streets of the Mare. Dilapidated buildings all around them, streets filled to the brim with filth, the stench even worse out in the open air, which was surprising, to most who found themselves here for one reason or another. Each body grabbing their assigned grey coat as they made their way out, from here the march to the train platforms began. There was a singular train in the morning for all, regardless of when your work actually began. If one missed the train, the punishment would be severe and swift. With her head peered down to the ground she moved with the mass, not exactly in a rush, she knew she would make it. The commuter rail car itself was new. They piled in to each of the cars, forming four lines where they each stood, hands stretched upward, to hold onto a metal loop for stability. They were not to speak, not to move, simply balance themselves as they were hurdled down the tracks toward their destination. Stop Number 9, this was reserved for the use of the Publicas, it connected to a web of abandoned tunnels which in turn connected to the streets above. Right above their heads walked the Civitas and the Perfectas, without a care in the world or a wandering thought to way lay beneath their feet.

It wasn't long then, a short walk for her to the home of her masters, the Perfectas family who she served beck and call. Entering the large home through alley ways and side doors. The woman found herself seated now, in something of a dark, makeshift mud room where she could hang her coat. Her designation emblazoned in the top right corner of the sweater for all to see "MJRN-870" or just "870" as she was less affectionately known. Sitting on a wooden bench she would have to place coverings over her threadbare shoes, mustn't dirty the floor. She sat in silence, not daring much else as footsteps came, she recognized the gait all too well. The Perfectas would not see her, would not speak to her to issue her commands, instead the Civitas who ran their house did. He was an unkind man, and with his entry she rose to attention, looking down at the floor, she waited then.

"You'll be needed late today, 870. Clean up after the party." The voice was not particularly cruel, nor was it particularly kind, and in that moment the young woman slipped, allowing a simple, sarcastic "great..." to escape her lips, and in that instant she realized what she had done. The strike to her side was quick, heavy, and knocked the air from her lungs, casting her down as if smote by God to her knees where she struggled to regain composure. She could hear the tip of the cane come to rest against the floor. Of course the old bastard had to carry a cane, while looking down she could feel her eyes roll, thankfully unseen. "Great indeed, 870. Let's go. Much to be done today." She rose to her feet and followed in silence. She would miss the evening train now.

[Iwazuma]

A deep sigh left the lips of the janitor as he dropped his mop into its bucket, watching the dirty brown water slosh about for a moment as he leaned against the mop's pole. He stared at the tile wall lifelessly for a moment. He was tired. Quite tired. He didn't know how late he'd stayed up last night, but he was certain dawn was beginning to peek over the border walls barely visible from the Mare when he'd finally shut his eyes. They didn't get to remain shut for particularly long. The radio that was issued to every household was just loud enough to rouse STNN-810 from his uncomfortable slumber. He preferred to sleep outside; while the winter months made things particularly rough, and he would occasionally brave returning to his 'family' rather than spend his time alone, he simply preferred the open space of the outdoors to the cramped, miserable quarters deemed his 'home'.

He never felt like he quite belonged with the other members that were part of the 'family' known as the STNN-unit. His hair was brown, while his brothers were both black-haired and his mother was blonde. He was different. And being different as a Publicas was tantamount to public execution. You had to blend in in Sauveterre as a Publicas. Standing out was a privilege of the Civitas, an expectation of the Perfectas. Compared to the rest of those who were supposed to be his blood relatives, he stood out like a sore thumb. Not a good look, at least to him. It was frustrating, and led to his distance from those he was only supposed to have a familiar relationship with anyways. To this point, nobody had corrected his decision to sleep outside, so 810 could only imagine it was acceptable. Who was it harming, anyways? The only one who could be hurt was himself, were he to freeze to death and his meager blanket and pillow not enough to guard against the elements.

His occupation, as Sauveterre liked to call it, was to clean up after a host of nearly 2,000 Civitas children five days a week. He was one of four janitors in the building, affectionately known as Sauveterre Preparatory Academy. Every day, he would file in and stick to the shadows as much as possible, cleaning messes when they happened. Whenever he was forced to appear in front of the public eye, he was to keep his face focused on the mess and nothing more. The children would often surround him, asking him demeaning questions, poking him, or insulting him. Some would find his designation and call him that. 810. 810. 810. He was not to respond. He could not speak to, touch, or otherwise interact with the children, regardless of their actions. Were he to do so, he would be reprimanded immediately and harshly. Which was a shame. There was nothing more that he wanted some days than to turn around and smack one of those self-centered brats across the face. Other days he wanted to crack a joke, show them he wasn't just some automaton who cleaned up the applesauce they clearly very deliberately threw at the wall so they could pick on their favorite janitor again.

On days the children were not assigned classes, he still had to come in to ensure the academy did not get dirty and dusty in the interim. Most of those days he would spend seeking out the unseen corners of the school, grabbing what sleep he could. His supervisor never came in on weekends, and dust very rarely accumulated in any meaningful manner that his mop could make a difference. Thus, he merely tried to sleep and acquaint himself with his coworkers. To this point, he'd figured out their designations were XEVF-770, GIGF-334, and LKMW-004. He'd not gotten them to speak much beyond insisting he stop talking to them. Always a deflator. Why were the Publicas so afraid of speaking? He knew he would often receive a slap upside the head if he spoke publicly, but why now, when nobody was looking? Were their spirits so battered?

"810."

810. What a name. He'd found a long time ago he hated it. So instead, he made his own. Etan. Pronounced quite similarly to the digits. Nobody outside of himself knew he'd given himself the moniker. He had never had a name of his own. As far back as he could remember, he was a Publicas, destined to be a number and nothing more. He had quickly grown sick of it, and thus invented this compromise. Anytime someone called him by just his number, Etan couldn't help but smirk, knowing they were respecting him in a way, despite them making an attempt to demean him, or simply address the nameless face they were forced to deal with.

"810."

Yeah, just like that...

"810! Get your face out of your mop and get to work!" Etan's eyes snapped open just in time to see a textbook flying in his face, sending him sprawling into the bathroom wall. Etan fell to the ground, but quickly scrambled to his feet. He hadn't realized he'd gone from daydreaming to simply being asleep.

"Y-yes sir, won't happen again!" Etan quickly apologized, which just as quickly earned him another swing of the book to his temple. Etan was alert this time and blocked the blow, which led to a harsh glare from his supervisor. Not that he expected any worse-his supervisor knew Etan was a good worker in spite of his propensity to talk far, far more than necessary.

"Don't say it, do it, 810. I shouldn't have to remind you." The gruff man, whose beard was nearly as long as his tie, turned around and walked out of the bathroom. Etan sighed. He could have a worse supervisor. He'd heard horror stories whispered of Perfectas who abused their Publicas servants for fun, Civitas who left scars and bruises far worse than books to the face. He had come out relatively lucky in that regard. Not, however, in the amount of work he had to do.

When the children filed out for the day at 4:30, Etan had to remain to clean up after them. He had to inspect every classroom in his quadrant and make sure every room was in perfect condition for the teachers and students the next day. This took a varying amount of time, depending on which classes had done what that day. The cafeteria was always the worst; even with the other janitors helping, it was often an hour-long job. When Etan finally was given clearance to leave for the day, the sun was often already dipping below the horizon. It was usually a fifty-fifty chance on whether Etan would make the evening train or be forced to wait for the night train.

As he glanced out the window after finishing a particularly sticky mess involving honey and shredded wheat, Etan sighed weakly, shaking his head. There was no chance he'd make the evening train this time. On the positive side, the night train was usually nearly deserted, saved only for those Publicas forced to work late hours that day. Even so, it meant he likely wouldn't get to get back to Mare until it was far too late. Oh well. I guess an hour in the tunnels won't be too awful tonight. Better than freezing outside in the cold.

[Hannelorian]

---

The Night Train

---

In the same dim mudroom, 870 sat on the wooden bench, pulling the shoe covers from her feet. A sigh was followed by a groan as her hands pressed into her sweater and against wounded flesh. Pain was not something to be afraid of. 870 was used to pain, it was more annoyance than anything else. Standing, 870 would take her coat into her hands and slip it on with the slightest of whimpers as the stretching and straining pulled at the same bruises over and over. Dull blue eyes traced along the wall until they came upon the clock. 11:38. Fuck she thought to herself.

Taking her bag into her hands, 870 slipped out the door she had entered through and into the darkness of the alley. On a good day darkness provided safety and comfort. No one would be looking for a Publicas, they simply disappeared at the conclusion of their day. No one wondered how they got home, or what their home was like. But today was not a good day. MJRN-870 paused, stopping dead in her tracks as she heard the sound of footsteps behind her.

"Isn't it past your curfew, Pub?" A voice called, but 870 did not turn around. The feeling of arms slipping beneath her own and wrapping around her. Looking down at the sleeves and hands appearing on her body she knew it was a Civitas. The Civitas were the worst in 870s mind. Needlessly cruel. The Perfectas could be, but they were so far removed from them that they seldom took notice of the Publicas. The feeling of warm breath against her neck, the smell of alcohol was overpowering and would normally have elicited a sigh, but 870 remained perfectly still and perfectly silent. With violent force she was thrust against the brick wall of the alley, a hand pressing her cheek forcefully into it, tearing through her porcelain flesh.

The hand was gone and it was clear she was meant to stay in position, the sound of clumsy hands fumbling with a belt. 870 closed her eyes and waited. But nothing came.

"Hey! Stop fucking around, we'll be late for the after party!" A different voice.

"Wouldn't have been any good anyway." The man said as he fixed his pants, turned around and walked away. 870 breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe it was a good day after all. Wiping blood away from her cheeks she now made the mad dash for Station 9, hoping, praying she hadn't missed the night train. Missing the night train was intolerable. Darting through the tunnels, like it was second nature. The nice thing about the tunnels was their warmth in the winter. All of the pipes that surrounded them kept things nice and toasty.

The clock in the center of the station read 11:54. Another sigh of relief, 870 hadn't missed it. The station was nearly deserted, only a handful of Publicas stood on the platform, a stark contrast to the morning hours where they were practically tripping over one another, pushing and fighting to get on and off the train in the fastest manner possible. Members of the Public Safety and Intelligence Commission were positioned along the edge of the platform, one on the spot that the doors of the train would be when it arrived in the station. Each Publicas who required use of the night train had to bring along the proper documentation which allowed them to do so. Slipping a thin hand into the pocket of her gray coat she withdrew her permission slip.

The train arrived at 11:59 and it would depart at 12:01. There were never any exceptions, it was perhaps the most reliable thing in their world. When signaled 870 stood before the officer and handed him her slip. He eyed over it and glanced to her. "Something you would like to report MJRN-870?" She shook her head. "No sir." Her two word reply was sufficient, he smiled and waived her through onto the train car. It was a great irony, the Publicas retained the ability to report abuse. However it was a joke, it was seen as disloyal to report your superiors. If anything it only meant you would be hauled in before the commission and be interrogated, beaten or possibly killed. The only acceptable answer was no. Moving silently to the front of the car, 870 reached upward and wrapped her fingers around one of the metal loops, the first on in the row. There were never enough people on the train to warrant an enforcement of the four row rule that dominated the morning and evening trains.

One other figure boarded the same car, 870 cocked her head to the side. It was 810. The one who slept outside. Everyone knew of him, even if they didn't know him. No one spoke of his strange behaviors like sleeping outside or his penchant for chatter. What was his alpha designation? SGVI? No, that didn't seem right. 870 couldn't recall, but she did stand there silently, watching him from across the way.

[Iwazuma]

Nighttime in Sauveterre wasn't all bad. In the cover of darkness, a Publicas could pass for a Civitas if one didn't look particularly closely. For Etan, that was all he particularly needed. Exiting the education facility after sunset was a downer, but it was allayed somewhat by the ability to walk relatively unchallenged through the streets so long as he kept his head down. Women, he'd heard, fared less well, but few gave Etan a second glance as he wandered about, simply taking what tiny chance he had to admire the city proper for what it was. It was built on the bodies of the Publicas, much to the Civitas' ignorance-or pleasure, in some cases-but it was still beautiful in a way, in spite of the hundreds of thousands who'd suffered to make it so. It was...haunting. The specter of hardship still lingered over otherwise normal-looking homes and roads and businesses. How many knew? How many cared?

As Etan walked about the streets with a wistful sigh on his lips, he glanced up at the starlit sky. The same one he stared at while he willed himself to sleep in Mare. The one thing Civitas and Publicas truly had in common beyond being citizens of Sauveterre. It was a curious commonality. A world apart, yet mere dozens of feet separated them at any one time. How poignant and poetic. He wondered if they would ever manage to find a way to bridge the gap, or if the Publicas were destined to serve and nothing more. If the last twenty years of his life had meant anything, it was likely the latter. Unfortunate that nobody seemed to see the world the same way he did. If only he could find his way out...

"Isn't it past your curfew, Pub?" A drunken voice called out near him; Etan froze, but nobody approached him. Seemed he wasn't the only one who missed the evening train...though his luck was far better than theirs. He heard the sound of someone being thoughtlessly thrown against the alley wall a ways away from him; he was not about to turn and look. Bystanders ignored this sort of act, especially if it was against a Publicas. Many even encouraged such a public display. He could only sneak a peek out of the corner of his eye, lest he draw attention to himself. He couldn't see the unfortunate Publicas the Civitas had pinned against the wall, but based on his stance and the way he was fumbling at his belt, he could only assume it was a woman. Etan grit his teeth. Nobody deserved to be treated that way, regardless of their public standing. He couldn't physically intervene-any violent acts against a Civitas would be responded to with, at best, incarceration. At worst, execution-or worse.

But he could still improvise. Based on his garb, Etan deduced he was out in the alleys for merriment. Likely just left the bars...or a party. "Hey! Stop fucking around, we'll be late for the after party!" Etan called out, his voice echoing down the alleyway before he quickly turned his back to the two. He couldn't risk any further, or his identity might be discovered. He waited for a moment, then heard a grumble from the male as he fixed his pants. Perfect.

"Wouldn't have been any good anyway." That was all Etan needed to hear. He quickly hurried on his way, becoming aware that he'd spent a little too much time dawdling. While missing the evening train was a transgression forgiven by occupational obligation or 'correction', the night train was the final call. Even Civitas knew not to keep their Publicas servants overnight without express permission from the State. If you missed the night train, you were stranded until morning...when the State would find you and take you away until you provided sufficient reason-and payment in flesh-for your absence from both trains. Etan wasn't about to find out what that payment amounted to.

He arrived at Station 9 with plenty of time. 11:47. Etan sauntered into the terminal, a carefree smile on his face as he shook his head. He'd managed to do a good deed today. That was worth celebrating, though he failed to see how he could. Perhaps he would take the night off from his project and simply have a good night's sleep for once. He leaned against one of the walls of the terminal, waiting patiently for the train to arrive. The other Publicas who waited stood rigidly, robotically almost, as though the PSIC might launch at them from their positions on the platform at any minute. Once 11:59 rolled around, Etan straightened, looking a bit more like his brethren as the train came screeching into the terminal. Right on time, as always. He wondered who had the privilege of running the trains, and if they were held to such an exacting standard. He'd never seen a conductor in his life, but they'd never missed an arrival or departure. Perfect to the second.

He presented his permission slip to the officer in front of him, who said nothing as he squinted at Etan's designation on his sweater. He'd built enough of a reputation that most PSIC officers knew not to speak with Etan, lest he reply and take up time he could be better spending getting on the train. It was, to them, a far better option to break protocol and say nothing to the strange Publicas than inquire if he had anything to report. He never did, but he always had something to talk about anyways. Thus, he received silence and gave it in turn. He lowered his eyes as he boarded the train, ignoring the metallic loops meant to help maintain balance. Instead, with the car so deserted, he leaned against the opposite wall, only reaching up to grab onto the closest silver handhold when the train started from the terminal.

Etan's eyes scanned the mostly empty car. In fact, entirely empty...save for one who'd been in position when he'd arrived. Politely and correctly gripping the metal ring the entire time, just as she was supposed to. Etan did in the morning, but on an abandoned night like tonight, he couldn't be bothered. He caught her blue eyes glancing at him, watching his movements like he were a strange animal she wasn't sure how to interact with. He noted a bit of smeared blood on her cheek; given the fact that she was on the night train, he could only imagine what hell her employer had put her through. She looked like she could use a comforting hand. Sadly, per Sauveterre rule, he couldn't even so much as offer her a pat on the back, lest someone see and quickly correct the interaction. However, nothing was outlawing him offering a kind word. "Hey." Etan's voice carried in the air as he raised a hand in greeting in her direction. "You get hit with a shitty shift too?" He asked curiously, doubting he'd get much of a response in turn. He never did.

[Hannelorian]

MJRN-870 cocked her head to the side as the man's voice carried across the car. He had eschewed the normal rules and remained pressed against one of the car walls. For a few moments she remained in silence. Her free hand raised into the air, she pressed her index finger to her lips. But when she took a single moment to think on it she recognized the voice. Had she never heard him before? Was she not listening? 870 allowed her hand to to come free from the metal loop and took several steps forward.

"You..." 870 looked around the car, the only source of illumination was a dim and flickering light overhead. "It was you with the after party comment." 810 had saved her, a complete stranger. Publicas seldom stepped in to assist other Publicas. "You didn't need to do that." These few words exchanged were more than 870 had said in a long time. In truth the act of kindness made her uncomfortable. It felt like there had to be a catch, some clause in an agreement that now indebted her to him. Or perhaps he intended to use her instead.

"Thank you." 870 bowed her head, a sign of subtle respect. Daring to go no closer, she raised her hand back up to grasp at the metal loop fearing she had already said too much. The sound of the train roaring along the tracks was somewhat reassuring. It would be another twenty or so minutes before they reached the Mare Undarum. At the end of the day, 870 had to exercise caution, she could not afford to give anything away, or to give him anything he could use to report her on.

Why was he so talkative? So chatty? "You aren't like the others." 870 said in a low, hushed tone of voice. Perhaps it was an attempt at human connection. Though they were not able to connect, they were not meant to connect or to form any meaningful relationships. That would encourage them to rise up. To understand the suffering of others. They were meant to be broken, ground to dust. "You talk too much." 870 did not look at him when she spoke, instead staring at the darkened tunnel that was outside of the windows.

[Iwazuma]

Etan hadn't expected anything from the woman he spoke to, and indeed, the first thing she did was move to shush him. Fair enough. Etan shifted his eyes back to the front, saying nothing for a moment as she seemed to lose herself in her own internal rhetoric. But when her voice reached the open air, he turned back to her, raising his eyebrows in surprise. The after party comment? That had been her? That explained the bloodstain, but more importantly, he hadn't expected to meet his unknown rescue so quickly-or at all. Her response was not thanks, but insistence that he didn't need to intervene like he had. Which was true-Publicas very rarely stood up for one another, lest that be seen as organization or unity, a trait that was very quick to be stamped out.

But that wasn't just it, was it? Etan hadn't acted for her specifically. He'd never seen her, though he could understand why a drunken Civitas might seek to take advantage of her. Despite the evident signs of her poverty and suffering, she still cut a fair figure and fairer face, easy for anyone to covet if they saw the opportunity. Etan himself tried to at least keep his hair presentable, though the light brown strands were often matted with sweat from the day in and day out, his hazel eyes the most striking feature on his face for the inquisitive look they often were perceived to carry. The light of individuality had yet to go out in his eyes, something Etan saw so many in the Publicas sect lacked. He was still himself.

The thanks came a moment later, a moment of respect that Etan blinked at. Silence loomed between the two, the only noise the sound of the train car clacking along the rails. There was plenty of time before their next stop, but Etan figured she wouldn't have much more to say. Understandable given the situations, but still a shame. He wished he had people to talk to. Experiences to share. Burdens to lessen together. He let a sigh out into the air as he turned, staring at the wall for a moment as he contemplated what he'd do that evening. There weren't that many hours before daybreak, and he'd be back to work the next day. Even so, he was getting close. He couldn't just take days off now.

Another statement entered the air between them. Not like the others. Etan tilted his head in curiosity. Not many would make an observation of him like that. Especially vocally. Many had simply noted his differences and said no more. But to hear it voiced...it left a smile on his lips. And then even more. He talked too much? Etan let a soft laugh out, shaking his head with a combination of relief and mirth. "I feel like everyone doesn't talk enough. We have a voice and we're not banned from using it." He glanced back to her, catching sight of the alphas on her sweater. MJRN-870. He'd remember it, if only for respect for the woman he'd saved.

Silence for another moment as Etan contemplated what to say next. It wasn't often someone acknowledged him, let alone exchanged words. "Nobody deserves to be treated like that. I don't care if it's a Perfectas or a Civvy, they don't have the right." Etan spoke calmly, keeping his eyes trained on 870 with a curious glance, wondering just what she was thinking about. The man who'd assaulted her? Himself? The situation they found themselves in? Etan took deep breaths, simply enjoying the ability to communicate for a fleeting moment. They had no reason to be silenced...he just wished more people saw that.

[Hannelorian]

870 did not smile, nor did she move much from her position as 810 responded to her. He was clear about his thoughts, intentions and motivations, something that was rare amongst the Publicas. Most simply sought to survive, but had no notion to better their own existence. At the same time, however, it was incredibly dangerous. She contemplated the fact that he should have known the rules and the reasons behind them. Even if they were rules that went unwritten. "Do you know why we don't talk? Why they encourage us to remain silent?"

Her voice was low, and notably, 870 did not look at 810 directly. "The first reason is obvious, the State does not want us to share our experiences, to recognize the collective truth of our perception. Knowledge is power. It's a fair concern." Turning her head slightly to look at him now, there was a kind of hollowness to her eyes, her face was gaunt. It retained a haunting beauty but reflect the reality of her nature, her personal situation. She would give up food rather than eat it. "But that is only one side of the question. Why do you think we oblige and do not speak?"

Lowering her hand from the metal loop, her hands folded behind her back, her body perfectly still despite the motion of the train. "When we speak we draw attention to ourselves, and attention leads to questions. Shall I demonstrate?" She was not cruel, she was simply direct. "Why do you sleep outside?" There wasn't a lot that got past 870, it was like her job to know these things. "Most days, you sleep outdoors, even in the harsh winter months. What exactly is wrong with your accommodations?"

MJRN took a significant step forward, drawing herself closer to 810. "Differences in our behavior trigger unwanted attention. It leads to questions and from questions come discoveries." She shrugged her shoulders and sighed softly. "So when someone accuses me of stealing, I blame it on the talkative one, the one who sleeps outdoors, the one whose unnatural behavior would lend credibility to the mere suggestion that you might be a thief, or whatever else I can dream up." Another step forward, and another until MJRN-870 was inches away from him. A finger rising up and poking at him square in the center of his chest.

A subtle smirk crossed her face as she looked up at him. "But since we're talking if no one deserves this kind of treatment what will you do about it..." Her eyes drew downward to read his designation "SSTN-810?" She asked softly.

[Iwazuma]

Etan was quiet for a moment, figuring the conversation had come to an end, but something he said seemed to either strike a nerve or otherwise resonate with 870. Why nobody else talked? Well, beyond the fact that the government didn't want it, what else was there? Sure, knowledge was power, but was that necessarily a bad thing? Possibly. People in power tended to wish to remain as such. Keep the public uninformed, and they would build a statue in the Overlord's honor. If anything, that had happened on more than one occasion in Sauveterre's history. But now that he had her full attention, Etan folded his arms, studying her face a little more carefully. There was emptiness in her eyes, yes, but her voice had not yet drowned itself in subservience, in despair, he felt. Curious, given how she was advocating for that same subservience right then.

Her speak of attention brought a smile to Etan's lips. So, she was someone who paid attention to the unusual. Her interrogation of his behavior only led to a shrug from Etan. "I'm claustrophobic. If I can avoid sleeping in a space not large enough to even stretch out on the floor, I'd rather do that. Besides, in the summer it's actually pretty nice if you find a spot not covered in flies and rats." This was in itself a challenge, but Etan had spent more than a few peaceful nights out in the open, with nothing but a threadbare bedsheet and a dirty, lumpy mattress to his name. A few Publicas had tried to steal his mattress in the past; a few Publicas now had broken noses and knew better. As for his preference, while he wasn't lying to 870, he damn well wasn't giving her every reason, either. There were plenty of reasons to eschew his rather squalid conditions, but he only needed to share the one.

That being said, as she drew close to him, Etan only raised an eyebrow in response. Unwanted attention...if anything, his behavior tended to lose him attention. Nobody ever congregated around him, never wished to associate with the odd Publicas who broke the norm. He supposed everyone was aware of him, though. A different kind of attention, a more sinister one. Though her example of accusations and blame merely led him to chuckle. "I see, so you're the type to steal and pin the blame on someone else." Etan did not flinch as she poked him in the chest, standing his ground as he looked her in the eye. "And when they conduct their investigation and it turns up naught...who will they turn to? The man who behaves oddly but otherwise has a clean record, or the finger-pointer?" Etan inquired in return. "You act like I don't know I've been looked into before." He had felt the eyes of the government on his back more than once. He knew the feeling, seeing moving shadows in the distance, worrying that perhaps they might 'find' disorderly conduct that ended in his arrest and disappearance. The worst idea about that was that nobody would care. Not a soul would mind if Etan vanished and never returned. The idea brought a shiver to his spine.

"As they say, the squeaky wheel gets the grease." He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. "But what if everyone were squeaky? Who would they grease?" He tossed the question out into the air. "I understand your point of view. I stick out like a sore thumb. But maybe everyone ought to stop worrying quite so much and stick out a little more. If they stamp us all out, they only usher their own demise. Even you ought to know that. Without us Publicas, Sauveterre collapses." Etan reached out a finger, pressing it on 870's designation, drawing attention to it as she read his own and challenged him in kind. What would he do about the mistreatment everyone suffered day in and day out...?

Etan's eyes went to the ceiling of the train car. "...does it get tiring for you, MJRN-870?" Etan did not immediately answer the question as he leaned against the car's wall. "Being nameless. Being without an identity. Being treated like a number." Etan sighed. "Personally? I hate it. Can't stand it. It rips the individuality away from the person." He spoke his tangent quietly, shaking his head. He wouldn't share his solution to that, merely putting the thought out to see what her response might be. "As for what I do? What I can." It was a noncommittal answer. "I'm just one person. One compliant, model member of the Publicas caste. I would never violate a law or cause a disturbance." Etan looked 870 in the eye again, his hazel burning with a determined light behind it. "But that doesn't mean I'll sit idly by and watch a Civvy have his way with someone when I can do something about it, either. I'm just one man, but I'm not powerless, either."

[Hannelorian]

"Do you think me a thief?" 870 asked, once more her head cocked to the side like a curious puppy. The loose strands of hair that had fallen from her neat bun tilting downward toward her shoulders. "Or worse yet, a liar?" The smirk on her face remained as she asked questions that truly required no answer. "What if they did search, what would they find in your little, dark, damp room?" 870 was typically, not one for confrontation but here they had a moment alone, truly alone where she could for once, show a trace of her personality, the part of her that only a trusted few had ever seen. "Claustrophobic." MJRN-870 nodded her head, still standing perhaps too close for comfort.

870 simply watched as 810 spoke, listening to his words, or perhaps to his excuses. "It's a nice idea. If everyone were squeaky." Her words dripped with a kind of veracity, she was genuine in response. "But convincing hundreds of thousands to start speaking requires more than the actions of one. And once you start talking about that... well that is treason isn't it? Punishable by death, or worse... exile?"

No one within Sauveterre actually knew if the Vulgaris were real. At least, not amongst the Civitas or the Publicas ranks. It was, for the moment, little more than a threat. They were a rumor. When people disappeared, could they have been cast out? It was a possibility, but death always seemed so much more convenient. An easier way to dispose of one's enemies and ensure they would never be back. "They don't need to stamp us all out. They only need threaten it. And on occasion prove it." 870 sighed, her feet shoulder width apart, steadying herself against the rocking. "Three years ago. The riot. A hundred or so Publicas emerging from the Mare, spilling onto the Civitas clean streets... All dead. Gunned down before an enthralled public. Cheers for their blood." 870 swallowed hard. Even then she had known the plan would fail, she argued against it, refused to participate, and it turned out just as she thought it would.

"A little thing like that keeps a Publicas fairly compliant." Folding her arms before her she stopped to think for a moment. "SSTN-810." The letters and numbers fell gracefully from her tongue. "I am not nameless, nor do I lack an identity. I remember my name, my life. I don't need recognition from another to know who I am." MJRN-870 did not bring herself to actively recall her name, though she knew it in the recesses of her mind to think of it would be too painful, too devastating, but it was a tool she still held in her arsenal.

The train began to slow down as it lurched slowly into the terminus at the Mare Undarum. "You're walking a dangerous path, 810. You're going to reach a point where you cannot turn back." 870 smiled and nodded politely. "I do not believe you are ready yet. But when you are." 870 did not use the words resistance or rebellion, or even revolution. She left her words to hang in the air, for 810 to understand for himself who she was. What she was. "You didn't need to save me, no one asked you to do that. You could have made a different choice. It's not like I haven't been raped before. Used. That's not atypical for a Publicas like me. How you use your power... well that's the interesting part."

As the train finally came to a stop, 870 took one last glance at 810, and leaning up she placed a gentle kiss on his cheek before pulling herself away, her hands moving immediately into her pockets for warmth as she exited the car and began the walk home. The same groans in the dark. The same cries. Every night was the same. The damp, dark misery was overwhelming. It wouldn't take more than a few moments to undress and slip into her old bedroll on the floor beside what had once been her family. There in the dark she closed her eyes and let sleep take her.

[Iwazuma]

Etan was not one to back down when affronted, and 870's questions were ones that seemed almost accusatory. She even went so far as to suggest paraphernalia in his own quarters. Etan merely shrugged. "Probably not much. I'm not in there terribly often beyond listening to the Broadcast. As a good Publicas does. Most of my possessions are outside." Etan answered matter-of-factly, ignoring the fact that he more or less didn't have any possessions. Beyond his mattress and what few clothes he had, there was little he could distinctly call his own. Which was how it was supposed to be. Publicas were not usually afforded personal possessions. They could only have what the state issued them. They were not meant to be individuals, after all-they were just a part of the whole, a cog that could be interchanged at will.

For at least a moment, Etan thought he'd caught a genuine moment from 870. She seemed to agree with his thought that perhaps everyone ought to speak, ought to say something. Though she had a point. Convincing the Publicas at large was a task well beyond that of any one person. Though the next point had him musing. Treason. Treason to simply encourage that which was not written law. It was stupid. The government could call just about anything high treason if they wished it. Whether it be a simple disturbance in the city or an armed uprising, if the government deemed you a problem, there was nothing you could do to survive. Almost certain doom, whether by firing squad or the harsh impossibility of being forced to exist outside Sauveterre for the rest of your rapidly shortening days.

At least that's what they want you to think...

Etan sighed as 870 reminded him of the riot. He remembered that movement well. He'd just exited his shift when Publicas had flooded the streets, only to be met with the cold, uncaring end of a squad of rifles. He'd been spared by virtue of being three streets over, and had done all he could to simply walk away and refuse to engage himself. The Civitas cheered the demise of the downtrodden. Truly monsters. Etan could never advocate bloodshed, regardless of who it was for. It'd taken most of his strength just to feign apathy, and he'd only made it to the terminal just in time before the streets were closed off to Publicas entirely. It was a dark day for those in Mare who'd lost their living mates, what was once their family. But they were just as quickly replaced.

"A hundred isn't enough." Etan shook his head. "Change isn't going to happen to just a few loose pieces. The entire system has to break." He didn't know if that was possible. So many of the Publicas had their spirits broken beyond repair. He didn't know if anything would convince them to fight. To speak. But he furrowed his brow as 870 spoke of a name she remembered, an identity she had. "Must be nice." Etan looked away. So 870 was one of the demoted Civitas, then. Publicas were not given names when they were born, at least not publicly. If she knew her name, she likely wasn't born into poverty. Which meant that someone in her family had done something reprehensible. Perhaps it had even been herself. "Not me. I was born with this number, allegedly." Etan still wasn't sure of that fact. Sauveterre had gone to lengths to convince him, but the numbers just didn't add up. "So I made my own name."

What 870 said next left Etan looked back at her, confusion writ on his brow. A dangerous path? A point of no return? What did she mean by that? The question of whether or not he was 'ready' was just as confusing. Ready for what? Just what was she going on about? Etan closed his eyes a moment. Was she speaking of revolt? Her willingness to even discuss the riots was leading him down a path of logic that perhaps they'd meant something more to her than simply the deaths of her fellow Publicas. But he wouldn't know without asking, and the screeching of the train's brakes indicated their time was short. He wasn't dumb enough to ask her with the PSIC possibly listening on the other side. He was chatty, but not a secret-spiller. Instead, he only flinched as 870 closed the distance between them, leaving a kiss on his cheek. He only stared in confusion as she exited the car, lifting a hand to touch the spot she'd kissed as she walked off into the darkness. Only when the doors slowly began to slide closed did he react, dashing through them just before it was too late. The train sped off behind him, leaving him standing on the terminal alone, only an uncaring officer keeping him from being completely on his own.

The walk home was not long, but it was quite damp, as Mare always tended to be. He was used to it by now; finding a dry anything was a challenge unique to the district, and one most people failed on a day to day basis. He took his time walking through the gloom, his head down as his mind raced. This MJRN-870 was quite the mysterious woman. She'd given him much to think about. Was she one of the alleged 'resistance'? Or was she someone who still hadn't quite lost her spirit? He couldn't be sure, nor could he know if he'd ever see her again. Perhaps he was thinking too much.

He arrived at the apartment that was assigned to be his living quarters and scoffed. It was damp, but the cold was helping to chill that dampness just a bit. A perfect combination for suffering. Etan wasn't particularly dissuaded. He walked behind the building, spying the makeshift shelter he'd made for himself. It was just his lumpy mattress and threadbare blanket tucked into a nook behind the apartment, a discarded dumpster lid acting both as a rainwater collector as well as a bit of shelter from the elements. He sighed as he sat down on the mattress, looking up at the cloud-covered black sky. The night had been...fascinating. It was certainly more than his usual day. He'd found someone to speak to. Even if it was just the once, it was enough. Enough to make him think perhaps not everything was lost. Those optimistic thoughts carried him as he laid down, covering himself in the blanket he'd been using for the last decade and willing himself to sleep.