#word vomit or vent writing i guess
The glittering city of Oasis shifts into view over the plane’s right wing, sunset’s sharpness slicing over top sleek spires.
Jamison peers outside in gripping wonderment. His nose presses against the window as he drinks in the landscape below: the sweeping desert soaked in watercolor pinks and reds, spines of rolling dunes sculpted out of old thumbprints brushed upon the earth, cragged mountaintops jutting up from prism-cut sands, the scattered winding snakebacks of highways, the violet mirrored face of the lake—all eclipsed by the pristine architecture that is the city proper.
It’s… beautiful, really.
He has traveled the world several times over (his purpose equals parts criminal heists and righteous war), but it feels somehow strange, he thinks, coming here after all this time. It was something he’d dreamt about a long, long time ago, something he never would have thought to pursue, not with his background, not with his record, not with any of what he was (because Junkers are for Junkertown and Junkertown alone), and yet here he is, miraculously, flying in on the deepening palette of a Sunday evening with five days’ worth of events ahead of him.
Thanks to her, of course.
All of this is.
The interior of the plane is plush, dim, private, and courtesy of her, too. Once she slugged that dodgy corporation in the gut, other agencies were far too eager to snatch her up. While he might not be keen on any of them, she definitely earns her crust, and he must admit (albeit reluctantly) that their accommodations are first rate. Hijacking aircrafts for plunder and getaways is a thing of the past now.
With a bottle of butterflies lodged under his lungs, Jamison peels himself away from the view and turns his attention down to his left hand. Grinning, he flexes his ring finger where a broad circlet of hard-light rests (orange and blue, melded like glass, as apt as one could ever be), and watches the sun’s last rays as they refract small spectrums of color between his knuckles.
It’s beautiful, too. More so than the city, if he’s honest.
“We are almost there. Are you nervous?”
At his left, Satya shifts idly in her seat. The brilliant sapphire of one of her cherished sarees waterfalls over her legs in delicate drapes. She eyes him from behind the pages of an architectural magazine, one that features her on its cover. The mischievous curve of her smile behind a stray lock of jet hair implies she’s been watching him fidget.
“Nah, not nervous,” he says. “Just rapt, is all. Really rapt. Got so much bursting about, half of me feels like taking a dive out the window.”
“Out the window? I certainly hope not. You won’t meet anyone at all if you decide to flatten yourself into a pancake.” She lays her magazine in her lap and angles her fingers into a design he can’t quite name. A hexagonal flash of blue signals the materialization of a small squared item in the flat of her prosthetic palm. “Here, priye. For the landing.”
He accepts it without a second thought and begins to run the pads of his fingers over its edges. “So, it all starts tomorrow, eh?”
“It does, yes, but by late afternoon. We will have the morning to have breakfast and explore the city. If you’re still interested, that is.”
“Oh, I’m more than interested. Can’t even imagine what this place’s got.” He affords another curious glance out the window. “Posh, from the looks of it. You’ve been here before, yeah?”
“A few times in my youth. Its architectural achievements were used as a learning experience for us at the Academy. Of course, pieces of the city have changed since then, but it was still an enjoyable trip nonetheless. I am especially fond of how they structured their highways. Traffic systems are such a nuisance when it comes to city planning, you know.”
He wouldn’t know, actually, as roads were merely a suggestion rather than a rule for the vast majority of his life, but he nods in tacit agreement anyway because if anyone were to know anything about traffic systems (or nuisances), it would be Satya.
The plane begins to rattle as it curves into a downward turn. Everything shakes: the notebook in his lap, the luggage stashed overhead, the cerulean crystal of her earrings. It plants a curl of trepidation in the thick of his throat, but he clamps his prosthetic fingers into the armrest and trails his thumb over the hard-light square and swallows it down.
As the tight twist of vertigo sets in, his focus strays to his left hand once more. The gleaming circlet catches his eye; it reminds him of impossible dreams, of diamond clusters and chips of shimmering glass, a world of color captured in a recherché shard of shaped reality. He lets the prisms dance, but the shiver bolting through his body does not go unnoticed.
Beside him, Satya reaches over to smooth her hand over his own. The square molds into his lifelines with her fingers folded upon his knuckles: I’m here.
Another glance out the window. Distant buildings zip past as well as the grand tower looming at the city’s apex. The lake below glistens in soft lilac hues, parted by the occasional boat coasting through calm waters. Everything beyond the windowpane looks so serene, and yet there is a latent twirl of tension coiling inside of him, crawling up his windpipe on prickling pins.
“There is no need to be nervous,” she says, her voice hewn into a soft, reassuring timbre. “Your talents are estimable, and far beyond what anyone here could ever hope for. Any of the Ministries would be lucky to have you. In fact, I think I’d like to see them squabble.”
“Yeah?” He grins and gives his ring finger an indicative flex. “Jamison Vaswani-Fawkes, Minister of Engineering. Has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”
She snickers, prosthetic hand brought by her chin. A circlet of her own graces one metal finger.
He swears her smile could put the works of the greatest architects to shame.
“A certain ring, indeed.”
