*The Party* Sean earned a short, sharp nod of gratitude for her(?) reassuring verbal contribution. Cora definitely wanted to get to know them better once the fate of a city worth of survivors wasn't at stake. "If you want to confront him here with the fact the world hasn't ended yet, please drop me in cover first," she added, "My other Self isn't somewhere she can easily get safe without risking the other survivors in the interview room yet. I'd rather not test what happens when I die this soon. He, out of all of them, was most clearly competent and in charge, the Principal of his Troupe unless there's someone even more up the chain." A shudder rich with disgust and unease ran through the dancer's body at the memory; a shudder Abel felt with her still in his airborne grip. The merest whisper of a message ran through the link to Cora II. Be Careful, Be Ready. *The Ship* Cora II stiffened slightly as the emotionally tinged message hit her, straightening up mid-whisper with Alex. The other man paused in a recount of his own harrowing survival, an inherent question in his eyes. "Sorry. Your story reminded me that I haven't seen a working toilet for two weeks. Hoping this'll move forward before I need to ask about it. The rest of you good on that front?" she offered to the other survivors in the room, just a bit louder than required just in case they were being recorded. Spark off some kind of progression.

*The Ship* "Alex Thompson," he introduced himself, his voice carrying the weight of countless days spent in a world turned upside-down. The subtle tremor in his words spoke of fatigue, an undercurrent of resignation that resonated with those who had seen too much and hoped for too little. Coraline extended her hand further, a lifeline of normalcy in this sea of chaos. Her eyes searched his face, trying to place the familiarity that seemed to flicker on the edges of her memory. His gaze met hers, and something unspoken passed between them—a recognition steeped in mundane routine now tinged with nostalgia. "Do I know you?" Alex asked, a flicker of curiosity igniting his weary features. His brow furrowed slightly as he scrutinized her face, searching for a connection within the recesses of his mind. Cora II nodded slowly, mirroring his cautious exploration of shared history. "I think we've crossed paths before," she replied contemplatively, her voice threading through the silence with the comfort of a remembered song. Then, like a light breaking through shadowed clouds, Alex’s expression shifted—an epiphany dawning across his features as if he'd uncovered a forgotten truth hidden beneath layers of survival instinct. "The Starbucks at the Columbia Center," he declared, each word imbued with newfound certainty. "I see you there in the mornings sometimes; you're usually there later in the week." His smile broadened with this small triumph—a glimmer of victory snatched from insignificance. Cora II felt warmth bloom within her chest at this shared recollection—a fragment of their previous lives reclaiming its place amid the tumultuous present. "Yes," she acknowledged softly, savoring the momentary escape from their current predicament through this tapestry woven from past mundanities. Together they lingered in that fragile space between memory and reality until it was inevitable that reality would reassert itself once more. *Elsewhere on the Ship* “Now that is fucking odd.” The woman who spoke was in her late forties, sharp featured, and had a look of having seen way to much. “Yeah, what are the chances that two of these guinea pigs would know each other in a city this size.” The younger man who shared the small office with the woman, adjusted a control and the remote camera zoomed in on Cora nd Alex. “She is nice.” The older woman cut her eyes and shook her head. Stupid kids. *At the Party* As they kept their watchful eyes on the Docks from a safe distance, tension among the group thickened like the air before a thunderstorm. The overcast light cast long shadows that seemed to shift and pulse with life, and they knew all too well that any attempt to slip into the area would likely be spotted by the countless eyes lurking watching for intruders. The Docks were a place brimming with peril, where stealth was as valuable as a chest of gold, and even the smallest sound seemed to echo loudly against the stillness. In this charged atmosphere, a strange sensation swept over Able, Sean, and Rochelle simultaneously. It was as if an invisible hand guided their gazes toward a shadowy gap between two massive Freight Containers. Their instincts, sharpened by endless encounters with the unknown, screamed for attention. In that dim recess, something caught the light—a brief shimmer that flickered in their vision like a sunbeam glancing off metal wind chimes swaying on a far-off porch. For a brief, hypnotic moment, it was as if they could hear music; the soft, melodic tinkle that such chimes would make when stirred by a gentle breeze. The sound seemed to ripple through the air, an echo from a distant realm threading its way into their present reality. Yet, there were no chimes to be seen; only ominous shadows and the heavy atmosphere surrounded them. Emerging from those deep shadows was not a ghostly figure but a rugged-looking man. His presence radiated a sense of seasoned wisdom and hardened experience, his face etched with the lines of time and countless untold tales. His steps were measured and confident, commanding attention while offering a peculiar sense of calm amidst the oppressive air that clung like mist to every surface. The sight of him snapped them out of their brief trance—the realization dawning on them that this man was no figment of their imaginations or a trick of light. He was as real and tangible as the very ground beneath their feet. Each member of the group felt a subtle shift within, processing this unexpected encounter—an event that could either open new pathways or seal doors forever in a world where certainty was a rare and fleeting thing. Cora noticed that three of her companions were suddenly focused on something in the distance. She raised her binoculars to follow their gaze and spotted a man striding purposefully toward the dock, where the gleaming hull of the luxury liner loomed. The sun glinted off its polished metal as the man approached. Her breath caught in her throat as she recognized him. "That's the guy from the garage I... we saw," she whispered, her voice tinged with urgency.

"They know that the government hasn't completely collapsed," Sean countered, glancing back from where he was watching for any raiders around the corner of a broken home before planning their next path. He had concealed his vibrant vermillion hair with an olive cap, and had his rail rifle ready in case an observer went to sound an alarm or alert. "They saw the police and national guardsmen effecting the evacuation of the refugees." Full lips twisted into a frown. "And they... dealt with them while claiming the civilians, apparently." The coast looking clear, Sean took point and darted forward at a light jog that exceeded the speed of an Olympic sprinter, long strides swift, sure, and silent. His muted green coverall blended reasonably well in the blasted and broken landscape. Flanked by Zero and with Rochelle and Abel, carrying Cora, flying low in their wake, capable of overtaking them if needed, they made several hundred more yards before pausing to take stock of the surrounding, making sure they weren't being seen or followed, and deciding on the next part of their route. "I don't think they are planning on playing pirate either," he added. "The ships seem more like convenient resources. The cruise ship is intact and is somewhere to store the civilians that makes it harder for them to consider escape. The destoyer is a viable threat and provides weapons and security. But they aren't nuclear powered, and getting the right fuel at sea won't be as easy. On the other hand, they seemingly have power here, judging by the garage Cora II saw. Someone is thinking more than short term, and is either remarkably persuasive or has some other capability to get a group is such disparate individuals organized and working together." Sean peeked around another corner, looking for higher ground that could serve as posts for watchers. The watcher on the crane on Habor Island might be an issue. If he could get line of sight, from far enough away, he should be able to take him out without pinpointing his own location. "What they don't know is how quickly we're getting communications back up and running. "I think they have something else in mind. I really didn't like the mention of 'genetic stock'. Might be they are Mad Maxing in some ways. There are at least three Altered among them, four if the man isn't one of the three who took out the guardsmen. Zero is from around here and Cora has lived here for several years. I took out an Altered closer to Tacoma on my way to Shelly. Perhaps the largest piece of the Visitor to strike Earth hit here, and is causing a higher incidence of alterations. They might be trying to use that, believe it will be enough to hold off military." Sean looked over at Abel and considered what he was capable of, what he had seen his old friend do and what Abel had told him. "Or, if not hold them off, at least make them consider the ruins of Seattle not worth the effort and expense to reclaim them." He grunted. "Wish we had that antenna Sara was supposed to set up. We do need to figure out they long term plans, because I doubt they are simple or stupid, but I don't want Cora, other Cora, in their hands longer than necessary." He looked up at Cora where she was held to Abel's chest with his arms around her waist. "You might to have to make some difficult decisions on what you are willing to endure, if you don't want to be found out you are more than you seem. Be wary if they ask for blood or tissue samples, because that might be exactly what they are looking for."

"The problem with that approach is that They'd ask Cora how she knows that." Abel said quickly. If nothing else, the fact the citizens were being evacuated still to somewhere else should have been a clue that things hadn't gone to hell everywhere.

"Competent to a given value of the word," Rochelle said with some disdain. "Short term smart, long term stupid. What's the plan there? Grab some ships, press gang a crew, set out to sea and...dot dot dot profit? This isn't the Age of Sail. If they're looking to be pirates, they have...oh." She taps her bottom lip. "They might not know the world hasn't ended. They're trying to Mad Max it up." Roach laughed and rubbed her forehead. "Cora, maybe have your, uh...self...clue them in? Be interesting to see how they react to the dawning realization that they're not rebuilding civilization; they're just criminals in waaaaaay over their heads."

*The Party* "These people definitely fall into the category of competent but misguided," Coraline I commented softly, digesting the latest burst of input from her Self on the ship, having reported the location of the ships to the group as they sped along towards the water, giving the parking garage HQ a wide berth. Her ruminations were further complicated by the faint sting to her pride of having to be carried by Abel in order to keep up with the group. Not that she didn't appreciate it, but the fact it had to happen at all... Hmmmph. It was unfitting for her to complain really. "Okay. What's the plan now? They have me standing by with four other survivors for some kind of interview. We think." *The Ship* Coraline II took in a breath, much more in the present then her cityside counterpart. The inrush of oxygen gave her a bulwark against the tension, a little rational space to think of the pros in. One, they hadn't shot her yet. Two, she had gotten a shower and change of clothes of sorts out of the deal. Three, this room didn't look like a killing ground so she had at least a few minutes before it turned violent. She let her eyes wander the room, drinking in everything before looking to her left and extending one hand in reassuring welcome, "Name's Coraline Hess. Yours?"

The man tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing with curiosity. "Soloist, hmm." He turned to Striker, his expression turning steely. "Ensure she is taken to the ship without harm or disturbance. Then deliver my message to Malcom." Without waiting for a response, he stepped back into the shadows. As if on cue, the garage buzzed back to life with the clatter of tools and distant chatter, none of the others seeming to notice the mysterious man's fleeting presence. Striker approached Nancy with a firm voice, laying out instructions and stern warnings. Before long, Cora found herself being ushered into a van by the same troops who had initially picked her up, minus the soldier who had been injured. She learned that the jittery man, aptly nicknamed Nervous Nelly, was actually named Joe, and his hands still trembled slightly as he moved. Inside the van, Cora sat alongside four other captives. One of them, a man with a familiar face, piqued her curiosity, though she couldn't quite remember where she had seen him before. These individuals, including the vaguely recognizable man, avoided eye contact and remained silent, their shoulders hunched and eyes downcast, as if the weight of their experiences had crushed their spirits. Yet, despite their apparent defeat, they were alive—survivors of the chaos that had swept through Seattle so swiftly. The van navigated its way through the eerily silent streets, where abandoned cars sat askew, their windows shattered and glistening shards of glass scattered across the pavement. Buildings loomed on either side, their facades marked by the chaos that had swept through, though the absence of widespread fire spared them from complete destruction. Still, the scene resembled the aftermath of a force ten hurricane, with debris strewn everywhere, signs twisted and bent, and the unsettling quiet amplifying the sense of desolation. The van crawled along the littered street, weaving around chunks of concrete and twisted metal. Tricky and his pals trailed behind, darting between the shadows of overturned trash bins and abandoned cars to stay hidden. Occasionally, Cora glimpsed Tricky's familiar silhouette—a flash of fur against the dull backdrop. His tail wagged briefly before he vanished again, and Cora sensed that he was intentionally revealing himself to let her know that they were still close by, watching over her. The van rattled along the battered road, taking about forty-five minutes to cover a distance that, before the impact, would have taken just ten or fifteen minutes. Finally, it reached the bridge leading to Harbor Island. The journey to the island's north end, where the drydocks and expansive piers sprawled, took only another ten minutes, thanks to the eerily empty roads. As they approached the docks, Cora peered through the grime-streaked window, seeing no signs of life until they arrived. The docks were a fortress of makeshift barricades and hastily erected fortifications. Armed men and women stood sentinel, their postures mirroring those she'd seen at the garage, their eyes scanning the horizon with a practiced vigilance. Near the towering center crane, a makeshift outpost bustled with activity, and when Cora craned her neck to look up, she spotted a lone figure perched at the crane's apex, a look-out silhouetted against the overcast sky. Two drydocks came into view, their contents starkly contrasting each other. One housed a massive navy ship, which had toppled from its supports and now leaned precariously against the dock's left side. Its superstructure bore the scars of the fall, a twisted mess of metal and wreckage. The inner drydock held a smaller vessel, though its type and condition were uncertain through the haze of debris. Out in the harbor, about five hundred feet away from the piers, another Navy ship lay anchored, its silhouette serene against the chaos. Yet, the true spectacle was the colossal cruise liner moored at the central pier. It loomed over the other vessels, a leviathan of steel and glass. Cora noted the gangways that stretched from the ship to the pier, guarded by vigilant sentries, their presence a testament to the ship's importance in this changed world. The van rumbled through a series of checkpoints, each manned by stern-faced guards, before finally coming to a halt at the bustling cruise ship pier. The door slid open, and Cora, along with the other captive survivors, was ushered out into the bright sunlight. They were led across the concrete expanse to a large, white tent set up at the far end of the dock. Inside, the air was thick with a sterile, metallic smell. Under the watchful eyes of uniformed personnel, they were ordered to strip down to nothing. A cold mist of decontaminant sprayed over their bare skin, leaving a chemical tang in the air, followed by a quick, lukewarm shower that felt more functional than cleansing. Shivering and exposed, they were handed crisp, white jumpsuits and plain tennis shoes, the fabric stiff and foreign against their skin. After that, a single guard escorted them to one of the gangways. He stopped and faced them, his expression a mix of authority and reassurance. "Alright, you’ve been through some pretty rough stuff," he began, his voice steady but tinged with empathy. "But you're still standing, and if you want to keep it that way, you’ll need to follow orders and do as you're told." The guard gestured towards the looming structure of the Crystal Star, its metallic surface gleaming under the dim light. "I’m going to take you inside," he continued, "to an auditorium where some folks will ask you questions. Think of it like a job interview. The more honest and useful you can be, the better your situation will become." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "You’ve made it this far," he said, his eyes reflecting a glimmer of hope. "The world as we knew it might have ended a few weeks ago, but this is the start of something new. Consider this your chance at a better life." The guard spoke kindly, his charisma evident in his reassuring tone, and notably, he carried no weapon. He guided them into the massive ship, their footsteps echoing through deserted corridors. They ascended several levels, the hum of machinery humming in the background, until they arrived at a medium-sized auditorium. The room's center was dominated by a cluster of foldable desks, each meticulously arranged with stacks of folders and file holders, their edges neatly aligned. The air was still, and the absence of others intensified the quiet. "Alright, take a seat. The investigators will be with you shortly," he instructed, gesturing toward the empty chairs. With that, he exited through the same door they had entered, the sound of the lock clicking into place echoing ominously. Cora felt a shiver run down her spine as it dawned on her that the five of them were completely alone.

*The Party* "...And she stopped sending after sending me an image of a woman that has to be one of their leaders, one of the only ones not in a uniform who scared the shit out of the rest of them," Coraline I finished narrating to the group, concern written plainly on her face, "She'll get back to me when she doesn't need to concentrate anymore." Or at least that's what the dancer hoped, looking down at her open journal, page filling with a crude sketch of said woman and notes about streets passed and strength guessimates she and her Self had put together. Only the outcome of a game of rock-paper-scissors separated her from being in the most-deadly audition of her life right now. *The Garage* Why did she throw rock instead of scissors? She knew she threw paper when stressed. But she did. And here she was. "Coraline Hess, Soloist with the Pacific Northwest Company, Sir," she answered respectfully, years of high stakes auditions gripping her in disciplined stillness, gaze direct but not challenging. The 'girl' comment brought her back to so many sessions alone on stage fighting down any exterior signs of tiredness while her elders decided if all her hard work gave her a shot at the part she wanted or even a part at all.

And in short time Coraline, or rather a duplicate, copy, clone, no-one was really sure what to call them, was back alone being shadowed not by any of the humans in their group but by Tricky and a couple of the other dogs. The dogs were unseen but Cora II was not being all that stealthy. Oh she was being careful in an “I don’t have a clue sort of way”, and it wasn’t long before she ran afoul of a hunting party out looking for the dogs that had savaged the earlier patrol. As Coraline ventured further into the south part of the city , heading pretty much the same way she had been heading the first time, she couldn't shake off the feeling of being watched. Tricky and the other dogs kept close but out of sight, their presence offering a strange sense of comfort in the eerie silence that enveloped the area. The remnants of destroyed buildings loomed like silent sentinels, their skeletal frames a grim reminder of the devastation that had befallen the city. Every step forward through the broken cityscape felt less like progress and more like an expedition into a haunted, post-human wilderness. Every toppled streetlamp and shattered storefront gaped with the potential to conceal watchers, and while the instinctive paranoia gnawed at her nerves, Coraline forced herself to move with purpose. She’d split off from her origin-point half an hour ago, not expecting to last ten minutes before being picked up by a patrol. Her dogs—if she even counted Tricky and his mutts as “hers”—were uncannily good at staying hidden, but she could read the tension shivering through their bodies whenever they poked their noses up from cover. Someone was moving with intent nearby. She passed a rust-colored sedan buckled around a lamp post, graffiti scrawled in frantic black marker across its caved-in doors: “DEAD = FREE” and underneath, “NO GODS”. A chill ran over her skin that wasn’t entirely to do with the damp. She made a mental note to circle back later for anything useful still inside. The city’s new inhabitants seemed to have marked this area as contested ground. With one more careful step over a sidewalk fissure, the world snapped into focus on a staccato sound behind her: debris shifting in a calculated rhythm, crunching glass, a footfall suppressed but not enough. She froze mid-step, breath catching as she assessed—too late. From between two ruined apartment buildings spilled four figures clad in tactical gear; their uniforms were mismatched but every inch of them bristled with intent. Three had rifles raised, one lagged behind with hands pressed tight against bandaged ribs—a fresh wound poorly tended. All eyes locked on her. Coraline's heart jackhammered against her sternum as she raised both hands high above her head, fingers open and fluttering slightly in adrenaline-soaked surrender. In that first moment of contact neither side spoke; the threat radiated off them unmistakably. Their leader—a woman no older than Cora herself but with eyes flat and depthless—took point, sweeping Coraline from head to toe with practiced judgment. “On your knees,” barked the leader, voice low but clear enough to echo down the empty block. Coraline complied instantly, keeping movements slow enough not to trigger any hair-trigger reflexes among her would-be captors. The dogs kept out of sight; she could sense Tricky’s uncertainty in the way he hovered at the periphery of her awareness—a silent question whether he should intervene now or wait for a better opening. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” said another of the group—a man with a homemade tattoo ringing his throat like bruised barbed wire. That made Coraline want to laugh; if only they knew how cliché they looked and sounded. But just now was not the time for demonstrations or clever retorts. The fourth member had yet to speak but held his rifle steady and finger kissed against the trigger guard. None of them wore identifying insignia; this was not an official peacekeeping force or even an organized militia as far as she could tell, just desperate survivors playing at discipline because it meant survival in the new world order. “You alone?” asked Tattoo-Neck. “Yes,” said Coraline without hesitation. Not even true—not if you counted Tricky, or the other version of herself still hunkered behind concrete several blocks away—but tactical honesty seemed less suicidal than bluffing with people who looked like they’d shot more than one person dead this week alone. The leader motioned for Cora to stand again using only two fingers; apparently she’d passed some invisible test by obeying quickly and without sarcasm. The woman stepped closer until they were nearly chin-to-chin before searching Cora’s face for any sign of deceit or weakness. “Is this the woman?,” the leader asked with a slight glance over her shoulder. “We lost three people,” snapped Back-of-the-Pack guy (the wounded one), letting his pain color his voice; anger was easier than fear when you bled from your side every time you breathed in too sharp. He came forward and looked intently at Cora. For a moment silence vibrated between them all— then Wounded-Guy shook his head. “I’m not sure I didn’t get that close of a look before the dogs hit us. Jim would know, he saw her through he glasses.” Leader-Bitch actually turned and looked at Wounded-Guy with a sneer of disgust marring her face, “Then lets go ask fucking Jim. Take her pack,” She said to Wounded-Guy, “Tig, bind her hands and make sure she doesn’t have any weapons.” Tig, the man with the neck tattoo, slung his rifle with some skill and approached Cora and after giving her a much more thorough pat down than was necessary, bound her wrists with heavy duty plastic whip-ties. “What about the dogs?” asked the nervous guy. Leader-Bitch looked around, “There’s plenty of the fucking mutts and they ain’t going anywhere.” They led Cora to the west which was the direction of the port, Cora II relayed this information to Cora Prime, and after another hour they came to of all things another Parking Garage. Cora estimated that they were at least a half mile of so to from The port and Harbor Island. This garage was more modern and spacious compared to the one where she had previously met the others. Its sleek, polished floors gleamed under the bright overhead lights, and the expansive space was filled with the faint hum of machinery. The walls were lined with neatly organized tools and equipment, reflecting the meticulousness of its design. It exuded an air of efficiency and innovation, a testament to its recent construction. It also wasn’t, or didn’t look like it was damaged during the Impact, in fact, as they made their way toward the large structure Cora II noticed that it stood out amid the general destruction around them. Cora Prime's heart raced as she kept up the mental connection with Cora II, relaying every detail and feeling the tension of the situation. Being led to another parking garage so close to the port raised alarms in her mind. The group of armed survivors had taken her captive, bound her hands, and now their intentions were unclear. As they entered the new garage, Cora took in her surroundings with a sharp eye. The dimly lit space was vast, with multiple levels and shadows that could conceal any number of dangers. She stayed alert, trying to glean any information that could help her navigate this precarious situation. The leader, still exuding an intimidating aura, marched ahead with purpose, flanked by Nervous-Nelly and Wounded-Guy. Tig lingered behind her, ensuring she didn't make any sudden moves or try to escape. The nervous man kept glancing back, eyeing Cora warily as if she were a ticking time bomb. The first level of the Garage was full of buses, school busses, city busses and even a few expensive Coach Style busses that celebrities favored. They went up a level where there were no vehicles of any sort but the parking area had become a sort of tent city which housed the troops. Troops, thought Cora because that is what they looked like. They were organized and even with mismatched uniforms Cora II observed the troop's makeshift camp with wary eyes, taking note of their organization and the varied uniforms that hinted at a motley crew of survivors turned soldiers. The tension in the air was palpable as she was led through the rows of tents, each one serving as a temporary shelter for the armed individuals that now held her captive. The leader's brisk pace and the stiff posture of her companions hinted at a disciplined structure within their group. Cora mind raced, trying to piece together their intentions and formulate a plan for escape or evasion. She kept her movements deliberate and her expression neutral, concealing the turmoil churning within her as she navigated this dangerous new terrain. As they reached a central area of the camp, the leader came to a halt and turned to face Cora with a calculating gaze. The tense silence hung heavy between them, each waiting for the other to make a move or speak first. Cora remained still under that woman’s gaze but then another woman came out of a tent this one immediately drew the eye. She stood at an average height, her frame exceptionally slender, which might allow her to blend into a crowd under normal circumstances. However, the way she adorned herself with elaborate attire and dramatic makeup transformed her into a figure impossible to ignore. She embodied a Goth fantasy brought to life, a vision that seemed to have stepped straight out of the shadowy realms of a Black Metal music video. Her hair, bleached to an icy white, spiked defiantly in every direction, creating a stark contrast against her intricately detailed black leather ensemble. The outfit clung to her like a second skin, adorned with silver chains and studs that glinted menacingly in the light, completing a look that was both mesmerizing and intimidating. She stormed past Leader-Bitch, stopping so close to Cora that their breaths mingled in the tense air. Her eyes locked onto Cora's with a fierce intensity, her black lips twisting into a malevolent grin. "Who is this?" she demanded, her gaze never wavering from Cora’s face. "We believe it’s the girl Jim was attempting to capture when the dogs attacked them. I was planning to confirm with him if she’s the one," Leader-Bitch replied, her voice faltering slightly. “Yeah...” she drawled, the word dripping with sarcasm and menace. “Too bad Jim won’t be identifying anyone anymore. Malcom was furious that he disobeyed orders.” Her gaze snapped back to Leader-Bitch, whose complexion had turned ghostly pale. “Remind me again, Nancy, what were your orders?” she hissed, each word a steel-tipped arrow. Leader-Bitch, now identified as Nancy, visibly swallowed before responding. "Our orders were to capture any potential threats and gather intel on their affiliations and capabilities," she replied, her voice wavering slightly under the scrutiny of the newcomer. The woman with the icy white hair chuckled, a sound that sent shivers down Cora's spine. "Oh Nancy, those are standing orders, you were sent out to hunt puppies not bitches. But what exactly did you find out so far, Nancy?" she inquired, her tone laced with a dangerous edge. Nancy hesitated for a moment before answering, "We are still in the process of interrogating her to determine her involvement and connections." The woman regarded Cora with a predatory glint in her eyes, taking a deliberate step closer to study her face intently. Cora could feel the weight of her gaze like a physical pressure, as if the woman was trying to unravel every secret hidden beneath her skin with just a look. After a tense moment of silence, the woman straightened up and turned to address the patrol only to be cut off before she could speak. “You will not find answers by tormenting her,” a calm voice interjected from the shadows. A figure emerged, their movements deliberate and their presence commanding. It was a man with a rugged appearance, his features weathered by hardship but his gaze sharp and unwavering. He exuded an air of authority that demanded attention, and the way he carried himself suggested years of experience in leading others. The woman with the icy white hair tensed at the interruption, Cora could read fear in the Goth woman’s body language, everyone else seemed to not even be aware of the newcomer. The man came up to Cora and the Goth, Cora, was now aware the no one in the entire Garge was moving or talking they all seemed frozen. “She looks to be of good genetic stock.” He said as he gazed appreciatively at Cora. “Take her to the ship. And Striker, when you see Malcom, tell him enough with the extreme discipline. He needs a functioning army, not a scared mewling mass of terrified children.” “What do they call you, girl?” he asked Cora. The Man

Roach considered that, nodding. "Pretty solid idea, if you can communicate between yourselves. I was thinking I'd go invisible and fly ahead of the others...but there's more that can go wrong with that plan. One mutant that has biological radar, or bat vocal cords, and I'd be in an awkward position."

Zero taking out his(?) definitely-compensating-for-something gun prompted the dancer to refocus on the conversation at hand as it verged into something out of a counter terrorism movie. Not eager to get into any form of being shot at, a frown danced across her lips chased by the grim reality someone had to do something about this messed up scenario. And, by chance of her changes, one of those someones could be her. Hmmm. "Even *if* we're sure their base is Harbor Island, it would be best to know where they're keeping the refugees and why, however insane the reason to cut them off from the rest of the world may be. Hopefully find out who is calling the shots. Any troupe is only as great as its Principal is, however, good its Soloists are. If this group is collecting refugees, they can collect... me. Or a me long enough to pinpoint you in the right direction if they don't kill me on sight. Maybe even do some good if they leave me alone with the refugees." An uncertain smile flickered across Coraline's features as she realized something, looking apologetically at Zero, "Oh. Right. I can talk among my Selves when I split, mind to mind, an echo bouncing back up to where the river forks kind of thing. Look, I spent the first week since this happened hiking out of a forest mostly by myself. Nature metaphors came easier than most." Coraline's tone was ever-so-slightly defensive on that last bit.

Zero looked over at Sean and Abel, "You must run in the wrong circles. I think not getting shot at is a good idea. While we're finding out exactly where they're based, one point I'd like to check is if they have a patrol route and schedule. Did you notice if those guys had radios?" They shrugged, "I'll most likely be outranged by anything big, I can close quick and use my Final Authority." Carefully, Zero reached around his waist, and slowly pulled a massive pistol from a holster on his back. It had been hidden under the long coat. They held up an IMI Desert Eagle in .50AE. "Meet Final Authority. It's very loud, however. At least the big gun can be fired from a long distance. If I need to use this, they'll know we're there. We might be able to find a zodiac if we look. We can just pull the engine aboard, and he can drag us." They nodded their head to indicate Abel.

"Then let's start tracking these guys and see if they are actually lairing on Harbor Island and the Destroyers, as seems likely," Sean suggested with a nod towards the exit of the parking garage. "We can finalize our infiltration plans when we get closer and determine our destination." He offered Abel a wry grin. "An inflatable or other small watercraft might not to an available option." He tapped the modified Barrett M82 on his shoulder. "And while the empowered individuals are likely the most dangerous, let's not get cocky and think we only have to worry about people like us." It was an affirmation that he had to remind himself of at times. "Destroyers have armories. A .50 Cal is still a .50 Cal, and I would prefer not to get shot by an HMG fixed to a pintle mount."

Abel shrugged. "The stealth approach works fine for me, though, I'll volunteer to chuck rebar at them as hard as I can to get their attention as a distraction as well if that's something we need." "Working on the stealth plan, I can "fly" through the water, though nowhere close to the speed I can through the air. I can tow a small inflatable with all of you in it quietly, if needed."

"We're not helicopters or airplanes," Roach replied to Sean. "We don't have to fly at speed to stay in the air. We can hug the ground, come in directly over the water. Faster and quieter than boats, and no more conspicuous. Unless Sara HAS to light up like that when she flies, in which case...we'll use your plan." "Regardless, the destroyers' weapons isn't the most dangerous thing on that island." She waved a hand. "Deck guns aren't made to track things as small and fast as us, and those antimissile defenses use radar that we're practically invisible to. Again, because we're tiny, and not made of metal, and irregularly shaped." She shook her head. "The dangerous thing is those mutants. The head-rippy one in particular. So we need to be fast, and we need to be sneaky."

"Flying could be a tad conspicuous," Sean countered, his eyes lingering on Gash. He'd been a hint nonplussed that the dog had ignored his overtures, but it got him considering if the dogs could... smell what capabilities they had. Evidently Roach had what they were looking for. It would suggest how the pack had survived despite evidence of other dangerous Altered in the area. "If catching sight of Abel or you in the air is what led them to the garage, they'll have eyes on the skies. And make us easier targets for any shipborne armaments. On the other hand, the bulk of the island might have saved at least one of the bridges from the impact. If so, they'll be watched for sure, but will still provide us an avenue of infiltration. Coming from the South is definitely the way to go, though, as you said. It'll provide us the most options, regardless if we choose to go by land, sea, or air." Sean crouched down by the map, arms folded across his knees, studying the contours of the island. "Looks like the island survived Skyfall better than I would have expected. The impact had sent waves up the Sound heavy enough to swamp over Victoria." A faint frown crossed his lips at the thought of his most recent home. "Though the Destroyers could likely survive the waves, if they haven't been washed aground, I doubt they'll be seaworthy even if they can get out of dry-dock. Admittedly, there is a good chance it isn't dry anymore." He nodded at Roach as he stood back up. "But it, they, can certainly serve as an armed and fortified base of operations. We don't know how many there are, but to use a Navy Destroyer to any degree, I'd wager on at least some of them being military or former military." Trapping a smaller chunk of concrete under his boot, he rolled it close to the map, then pressed down on it and scraped, using it as an improvised piece of chalk to mark out a powdery white pound sign as he met Gash's unwavering eyes. "Do you know their numbers too? Otherwise, we'll learn more going after the stragglers than what we can here."

"Well, plenty of resources there to get set up with," Rochelle grumped. "And plenty of boats to raid the mainland with. We can't rule out the idea that they've got at least one destroyer working. Maybe just its guns at least. Depends on where they were in the refitting, and if any of them were military." She took a breath and searched her memories of Google Maps and Wikipedia. Not perfect, but there were tidbits. Half glimpsed words on maps while scrolling around, exploring electronically after moving to Seattle with her mom. It felt like a long time ago now. "Vigor Shipyards are on the north side...we should come in from the south. And...now's when we could use Sara, because I think flying across is the way to go here."

Everyone edged closer, their curiosity piqued, as Roach, guided by Gash, etched a drawing into the parking lot with the ghostly piece of rebar. The metal scraped against the concrete floor, producing a sharp, grating sound that echoed through the silent garage like an ancient language being spoken aloud. As the lines grew and intersected, a rough sketch emerged—a map of streets and buildings, crafted from a dog's perspective yet clear enough for human comprehension. Coraline watched as Rochelle meticulously followed Gash's instructions, and a wave of admiration washed over her for the dogs' remarkable intelligence and their unique way of communicating. As she examined the impromptu map, the familiar layout of Harbor Island became evident to her. A heavy sense of realization settled on her shoulders, understanding the implications of this revelation. The Navy frequently used those docks, and Navy ships were often stationed there. Taking a moment to calm her racing thoughts, Coraline turned toward the gathering crowd. "Harbor Island," she began, her voice steady but laced with concern. "That's where they might be holding the refugees. But that's far from a good thing." Zero frowned, their expression mirroring the gravity of the situation. "No, it is not," they agreed, shaking their head. "I transported a shipment of supplies there about a month ago. Two of the Dry Dock Slips were occupied by Navy Destroyers undergoing refit."

Rochelle somewhat pointedly doesn't say anything when Abel suggests that she do what she just did. Rather she concentrates on the chunk of concrete in her hand and opens her mind. As she takes 'hold' of it, feels that odd mental feedback she feels when she's using her power on something, there's another feeling too. Another hand on the wheel, so to speak. She opens an eye to look at the dog in front of her. "That you? Okay, I think I get it." Her hand drifts down and presses the rebar stuck into that chunk against the smooth concrete floor...then she closes her eyes again and starts moving her hand in a sort of aimless motion, a little like someone using a Ouija board.

"Probably suggesting that you take the rebar." Abel suggested, "it does make a pretty decent weapon, though it won't take being used too much if you have crazy physical strength." He spoke from experience on this, and shrugged. That wasn't a feat he'd have expected a dog be able to really do, certainly not in the past.

Roach, a little curious to see where this was going, touched the chunk of concrete to her forehead.

Before anyone else could comment, the larger of the two dogs—an imposing mastiff with a brindled coat marred by several fresh scars—rose heavily to his feet and approached. He circled Zero first, the deep brown of his eyes showing neither fear nor aggression, but rather the cool appraisal of an animal that had ruled these streets since human order collapsed. His nostrils flared just once as he took in Zero's scent, then flicked a glance—uncannily intelligent—up at their face before moving on to Sean. Sean crouched slightly, extending a hand palm-up in greeting, but the dog ignored the gesture, veering sideways to stand in front of Abel with an almost military precision. Abel tensed, one hand brushing his holster unconsciously before catching himself and letting it fall away. The mastiff offered him only a brief inspection before moving along, nose tilted up as if appraising not just body or posture but something subtler—a person's history written in sweat and pheromones. He stopped in front of Rochelle last, sitting on his powerful haunches and staring at her with a fixed focus that seemed to unsettle even this uncanny group. For several seconds they regarded each other; something silent passed between them that nobody else could parse from their vantage point at the edge of this standoff. The second dog— Tricky— who had been lying by Cora was nudging her knee insistently, looked between her and the mastiff as though urging her to pay close attention. Suddenly, as if some unspoken test had been satisfied, the big mastiff turned sharply away from Rochelle and trotted toward a chunked-out mass of debris near the low wall of the parking garage. He pawed at it with deliberate force until a loose piece—a small wedge of concrete embedded with rebar—broke free from its moorings. Carrying it delicately in his formidable jaws, he returned to Rochelle and dropped it at her feet with a heavy clunk that echoed off the empty pillars. The entire tableau seemed ceremonial: the group frozen mid-discussion around Zero's information dump; Tricky panting softly at Coraline's thigh while she stared at the chunk of concrete as if it were an oracle's token; Gash (for you could see now that holy terror would be named nothing less) waiting expectantly for someone to interpret this offering. Rochelle met Gash's gaze again—his head cocked just so—and knelt slowly, picking up the small chunk of broken concrete and rebar . She turned it over in her hands twice before glancing at each person in turn, then spoke: "I think he's trying to tell us something," Rochelle said quietly. Suddenly Gash reared up and placed both fore paws on her shoulders and gently tapped her forehead with his snout. Then he tapped the slab in the same manner, before dropping to the ground again

Zero smiled warmly, "I don't think much can freak me out. Even before, I was hard to faze. Now, with the way things have gone?" They laughed. "Let's just say that now, I cover a lot more ground than I used to. Anyway, since you're the recon element, welcome to Seattle. The Biggest Crater in the Pacific Northwest." Zero shrugged, showing a slight smirk. "What method of communication are you using to stay in touch with command? Radio's been filled with static, when you could get sound." They think for a bit, "There are a few stadiums in the city. I haven't checked to see if the structures are there, but their parking lots probably are, which are huge. They could easily be fortified with the rubble, too. If there are others like you taking control of refugees, we need to stop them. I'll help you find 'em. After that, we can figure out what to do."

"I used to live here, but that was pre-Armageddon," Roach added. "I don't know what's still standing. Hopefully, Zero, you can fill us in on the current situation."

"I don't think Zero is one to freak out, are you?" Sean commented, lips twitching at Coraline's demonstration. Calculating the tensile strength of the rebar and the effort Coraline had exerted, Sean estimated they were of similar strength. He hoped it wouldn't dampen Coraline's spirit to find out they had only a miniscule fraction of Abel and Sara raw strength. There wasn't something he could pinpoint on the androgynous newcomer, but there was something to their composure and their body heat distribution that suggested they were another Altered individual. "You see, we aren't waiting for them to come back. We're going to them. We are the recon force." The tallest person there was as unbelievably gorgeous as Coraline Hess, but fair where she was dark, with an almost obtrusively fit and feminine figure, yet carried himself with a self-assured, masculine swagger. He hadn't started at Zero's arrival, simply gave his oversized rifle an idle touch as he regarded them with the most striking and vivid turquoise eyes Zero had ever seen, seemingly measuring him to the millimeter and milligram, taking in their sidearm without evident concern. "Sean Cassidy," the ruby-haired Amazon said, offering a hand to shake before catching the others with his eyes. "How about we start tracking them down so they have less time to regroup. If our Seattle residents have ideas of where they may be holing up, we can make plans for engagement along the way. These assholes don't seem like a particular threat, but there are certainly some still in Seattle who are." Sean was somewhat annoyed with how cavalier Roach was about Sara's absence, so wanted to get this started. He wasn't precisely concerned for Sara's safety, but if she wasn't in trouble, why hadn't she contacted them yet?