Complications Arisen -- What's There to Do When Stepping on the Rebellion's Toes? (Char & Aiden)

Falidae city was beautiful this time of year. There was a crispness lingering in the air that made up for how thin it was from being this high up. With the sun as bright as it was, the glint of the city’s many waterfalls were visible from miles away. Its angular architecture—with its neatly tiled rooves, wooden bracing, simple brickwork, and minimalist (though slightly ornate in its dressing) charm—was offset by its meticulous planning and a generous amount of character thanks to its melting pot of denizens. It was a place shrouded by the perpetual mist of the clouds, yet what shadows draped over the city never seemed to stay for more than a minute. It always felt brilliant here.
      Char was in his element, and glad for it. Sure, it was frustrating to be on the job in such a gorgeous place, but he at least got to unwind at a quaint tea shop. It was a little place he had found a few blocks down from the inn that his bum-turned-secretary, Rhum had determined was within their assigned housing budget after taking more than a week to get quotes from every major site of lodging with a working phone-lacrima.
      He casually sipped his warm tea from the funny cat-themed porcelain cup he had been given. After his most recent mission, he was more than happy to take up the offer the Fiorian government had given him for paid-for travel and board. Even if he was less than thrilled about the politics of it all, he didn’t have it in him to deny how excited he had been at the prospect of leaving the country. Having so many charges to his name meant that he normally couldn’t get checked past the border.
      This rocks, but I wonder where— He froze as he locked eyes with one of the well-groomed cats the café had become famous for. Yoooooo!!! Char did everything in his power to keep himself still and calm. It was a thickset calico with chubby enough cheeks to make his eyes look closed from a distance. It sassily sashayed up to the foot of his table before hopping up. It was purring loudly, clearly expecting Char to pet it on the head. He cracked a wry smile and scratched it on the brow. The cat responded by leaning further into the caress.
      Not that this isn’t the best, but didn’t Gall say that my teammate should be showing up around here sometime… He flicked out his gold-rimmed pocket watch. It was half-past twelve. Now-ish…? Char adjusted his turtleneck with his other hand and started to scan the crowd.
      He could hardly discern what was going on outside of the usual hustle, bustle, and hubbub. Pedestrians in this district were typically all in groups, accompanied by what was clearly a native of the region—denoted by their cat-like features—their guide. It was by no sheer coincidence that Char had been placed in a popular touring location.
      But he did have an eye for certain tricks of the hand and, looking at the regulars running the block, he could tell that most of the petty thieves here were amateurs—credible non-threats to the peace. Sure, maybe every here-and-there was going to get pinched, but a jewel or two never hurt anyone, he figured. It was the scam artists that you had to watch out for in this region, it seemed.
      Lots of silver tongues. Gotta say—some of these kids got a good racket going on. Always nice to see something I can appreciate. Char felt like a cool detective, keeping both eyes peeled for trouble like this. Wait…!
      That’s when he spotted it: the grifters stationed along the road were going through the motions of packing up. This irked Char mainly because it was the middle of the day—they were closing up during prime business hours. And it wasn’t just one of them making this crucial mistake—no—it was all of them. Something was fishy.
      The cat he was still petting perked up and quickly hobbled off back inside—It looked like it was almost out of instinct. Char could feel his instincts acting up, too. Suddenly, he noticed another odd detail: each and every one of the blue-collars was headed in a single direction. He looked back at the café and then considered something. Then, his eyes lit up as he made up his mind.
      He got up, chugged his scalding hot tea (a mistake), and stiffed them on the bill. Char took off in the opposite way that the swindlers were going, electing to follow the flow of them to the source of the disruption.
      Sorry, new guy! I’m gonna check into this real quick… normally my gut’s not wrong with these. Though, I guess I shouldn’t be hoping I’m right… The conga line went on for multiple blocks—many cheats were fanning out from one spot. Word on the street is that something bad’s going to go down. That’s gotta be it—No way people around here are that committed to their tea breaks. They weren’t moving like this any of the days prior to now. Could this be that bomb threat?
      Finally, Char lined himself up with the wall of one of the buildings lining the block he was on and slammed the end of his staff into the ground. He braced as he exclaimed “Please, extend!” At his command, the enigmatic staff magically expanded, blasting him upwards as it pushed into the dirt. With that, he had vaulted himself onto the rooftops, retracting the staff curtly and continuing his march forward towards the disturbance.

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TWC: 946/4000

A man in a khaki trench coat with torn-up ends stepped forward out from the safety of the police barrier. He hid his appraising eyes underneath his weathered cowboy hat. “Howdy…” He listlessly fished a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket, broke the seal, then lit up. “Name’s Gall Wierny.” His whole mien was cold, demonstrated by his stiff, cautious movements and well-traveled attire. “Guessin’ you're one Aiden Ainsley? I’m with the Fiorian sheriff’s office.”
    He gestured to the gold star-shaped badge that adorned one of his lapels. Its gaudy surface bore a distinct crest, one that, if you were to inspect closer, also displayed an identification number.
         He couldn’t be more than 30. “I’m the one who put your partner’s name in the hat for this mission. That’d be Char. We’ve been workin’ on casework together lately.” He smiled a little. “So, don’t worry, I ain’t been spyin’ on you.” His expression quickly shifted back to one of tension. He took another step out of the barrier before a hand was put on his shoulder from behind. A few words were whispered into his ear. “Relax, this guy’s here to help.” Gall responded honestly to the person. They said something else, Gall rolled his eyes, and he dumped his cig. “Think I’ll manage without your ‘protection.’ Just want to give our bangtail here—” He pointed to you, “—his ace-high rundown. He’s our mage of rank for this division.”
         He started towards you again, but then that same hand caught him rather haphazardly, almost knocking Gall off his center of balance.
         “What?” There’s more whispering into his ear by what you identify as a non-Fiorian officer. Gall, looking annoyed, gently pushed him back to his brothers in arms. “Git! I ain’t fixing to fire so much as a single measly shot at these tenderfoots until your guy gives the word.”
        Gall finally made it to within two paces of your radiance, seemingly undaunted—almost unimpressed. He cleared his throat a little. “While we were made to expect it, local policy is that you can’t just go actin’ on these things so suddenly—least, that’s how it is for us cops. It would look ‘specially bad for me to can these heifers. So, the chief’s got all badged hands boiling coffee at these here choke points for this square. You might be aware of the fact that that’s where you mages come in.
         “This place was one of Falidae’s most important markets, but that was before the rebels took the 1st Gozomuro Bank hostage.” Gall pointed to a beautiful pale green building with foundations constructed of cobblestone. It certainly had the air of an older property. “From there, they managed to position themselves quickly enough and well enough to force us back into blocking off the streets. The good news is that they’ve not come after us, but they do have a few people posted on the rooftops and, of course…”
         He looked to the center of the square; a beautiful fountain, whose water had been shut off. Two horned men, each looking a little more suited to a laboratory environment sat crouched over a beeping box which had two flasks of some multi-colored liquid strapped to its sides. They were flanked on all sides by three bar-tough-looking individuals—each with different and distinct animal-like features. These rebels—two men and one woman—stood in ill-fitting leather armor, studded blackjacks dangling from their beltloops. Their eyes were laden with wary.

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TWC: 2436/4000

“So, we’re in a standoff and we’re watchin’ them plant the bomb. They know we can’t open fire even if we really want to.” He rasps. “Plus, they set that thing off early and it caves the bank—who do you think gets the short end of the stick? Yup, the hostages.” There’s a peak that almost breaks his smooth Southern drawl. It’s clear he’s a little torn over the matter. “So, I think it would be best if we just coordinated some—”
         It seems like you spotted it before Gall, if only out of the corner of your eye—some tan object the size of a small kid flying towards the fountain. One of the rebels notices it, too, but doesn’t have enough time to react, as what you just barely figure out is a sack of flour is pierced by a thin beam of white light. Quickly, the bag’s contents scatter outward, covering the square’s center in a mist.
         Cries of surprise erupt from each of the barriers while one of the rebels—the girl—yells out for everyone to stay on their guard and calls for them to reaffirm their positions.
Movement on one of the rooftops of the second tallest building of the square—the one sitting across from the bank—catches your attention. It was from that direction that the bag and beam came from, actually. You see a young man in a gray turtleneck and metal shoulder pads sprinting parallel to the lip of the roof. His jet-black hair is blown back almost like a lion’s mane. His expression  (from what you can tell with the distance) seems to be dripping with a casual concern.
         The mystery lad stops short and faces the square. He doesn’t even take a second to survey the situation as he yanks a strange-looking staff from a harness fastened to his armor. It’s clearly no mere stick—it seems to be made of some odd alloy, which you catch on to because of the way it refracts light. It’s almost like it’s made from a mix of different oils. Its head is mandible-like in shape, for lack of a better term, and the transition between it and the body of the staff is a mass of little cuboid particles—each rotating around a mote of sea blue light.
         He visibly grins as he takes a dive—feet-first—from the top of the building. He deftly spins the staff as he falls, sticking it under the pit of his arm with its end pointing at the wall.
         “Please, extend!” The lad’s voice is appealing as he issues the command. At it, the back of the staff draws those cubes from the transition into itself, increasing its length exponentially. It fires out, redirecting his momentum completely as it slams into the building and continues to grow. In an instant, the lad is sent flying straight into the settling cloud of flour.
         “Char!? What in tarnation!?” Gall looks like he just barely stops himself from heading in.
         You hear the heavy sound of a boot hitting a cheek and one of the rebels comes flying out of the smokescreen with the lad—who you assume to be Char—in kicking position. His staff quickly retracts as the now-unconscious rebel hits the ground with a thud. Char rapidly flips into a tuck and roll, tumbling across the ground.
         “Fuck, fuck, fuck! I should’ve done the fucking pole-twist thing!!!” He scrambles to his feet, his limbs scraped and bloodied from him having hit the pavement with two stories-worth of speed. Still throttling his weapon, he charges right back into the fray.
         Another of the Joyan rebels—the other man—emerges from the flour completely caked. He stands his ground, waving his hands in a circular motion. You pick up on a burst of magic as glowing green sigils surround him.
         Then, with a baleful look at the approaching Char, he screams, “Right here!” You see him lift his hands up and begin to slam them down towards the ground.

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TWC: 3096/4000