Shadows and Stardust: A Tale of Ambition & Quest for Recognition

Through patience one can persuade a suborn ruler, and the gentle tongue can break bone – General Lian Po

Operation Menu: Phase Lunch (D+9 hours)

Estelle's fingers tightened and then relaxed, while D.T. Jones continued with an unending statement on the intricacies of shift rotations and the implementation of randomized patrols. These topics, in Estelle's view, should have been covered in a matter of moments, particularly given her involvement in designing and testing the very systems being discussed.

"Did you understand?" inquired Jones, positioning herself squarely in Estelle's line of sight.

"Must I echo every syllable you utter?" Estelle retorted, her tone carrying a slight hint of annoyance.

Jones emitted an annoyed sigh, attempting to mold a smile onto her lips.

"Would you find it easier to give me a back brief once your primary assessment is completed?" asked Jones.

Under D.T.'s unwavering gaze, Estelle felt a bead of apprehension form. Her dark eyes dissected her every movement, leaving no room for error. The weight of her scrutiny was palpable; a wrong step could easily result in a suspension, putting her plans on hold.

Suppressing the sharp retort that danced at the tip of her tongue, Estelle silently coached herself to maintain a composed demeanor, regardless of the inner urge that beckoned her to unleash a cutting remark. As she imagined the scene of D.T. plummeting from the tower's highest floor, she clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms.

“Well?” asked D.T., who interrupted Estelle’s thoughts.

"Maybe a back brief is in order," Estelle mused, her hand deftly retrieving a notebook from the bag nestled at her side.

With a controlled flourish, she extracted a pencil and notebook, her fingers moving with the precision of a seasoned investigator. On the paper, a dog emerged, its jaws clamped around a bone, accompanied by a collection of other casual doodles that seemed to flow effortlessly from her pencil.

As her attention flitted between the idle creation and the world around her, Jones' gaze was drawn to the notebook.

"Keep in mind," D.T.'s voice cut in, its tone measured and observant like a seasoned detective's, "every conversation within the Tower is encrypted preventing it from entering the Akashic Record and reading like a book."

Her words hung in the air, but Estelle continued to doodle more.

"In the event that your notebook was to fall into the clutches of adversaries," Jones interjected, her voice growing sterner, "a mere Bookworm spell would open up the entirety of our security systems we have in place."

Meanwhile, at the rear of the breakroom, the trio of guards exchanged glances, their attention diverted momentarily from the conversation at hand to the ticking clock. As the hands of the clock moved inexorably forward, the older guardsman, his hairline receding, initiated their departure from the breakroom. With a simple grunt, he led the procession, rising from his chair first.

Estelle's fingers deftly maneuvered the pencil, spinning it around like a baton, as she said, "Bookworm's efficacy is confined to ink-based inscriptions."

Without so much as a parting glance in the direction of D.T. and Estelle, the guards vacated the room, the subdued cadence of their steps as they shuffled out the door.

"Of course," D.T.'s voice elevated in pitch. "But what if..."

"Under such circumstances," Estelle interjected, her tone cutting through like a blade, "one would inevitably stumble upon a meticulously embedded logic bomb within those pages."

A wry grin played upon D.T.'s lips as she responded, a hint of amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Typical traditionalist, always thinking they have conceivable scenario covered."

Estelle sniffed the air, but any attempt to discern any trace of Jones's presence was thwarted by the overpowering stench of cheap perfume and the veneer of a fabricated smile.

"Stereotyping, are we?" Estelle's inner voice mused, a hint of skepticism lacing her thoughts as her fist tightened once more.

She relaxed her hand and reduced the tension of her frustration coursing through her fingers.

The temptation to wipe the insincere smile from Jones's face flickered momentarily in Estelle's mind, a notion as fleeting as a passing breeze. Ultimately, she exercised restraint, recognizing the futility of such a reaction.

Yet, as if summoned from the depths of her subconscious, a tickle of recollection began to stir within her. Vivid fragments from her childhood emerged, like bubbles ascending from a hidden wellspring, each image etched with a clarity that contradicted the passage of time.

In her mind's eye, Estelle observed a younger version of herself, a mere girl, standing with a sense of vulnerability. The sting on the side of her face lingered a tactile memory that warned her against reaching up to soothe the discomfort, knowing all too well that her mother's wrath might manifest as another fiery mark mirrored on the opposite cheek.

Towering above her, her mother projected an imposing presence, her vivid blue eyes carrying both intensity and distance, while her long raven-black tresses flowed like a curtain behind her. The memory painted a vivid scene where Estelle, if she recollected correctly, had let loose a handful of thoughtless remarks directed at a particular group of people, a transgression that had unfurled her mother's swift response in the form of an open palm.

“A simple mind will stereotype because it can’t process anything beyond its limited compression. Individuals are much more complex,” her mother said. “It’s our duty to enlighten the uneducated by any means at our disposal.”

Estelle snapped out of her daydream; the tendrils of her thoughts unraveled as reality reasserted its hold. She needed time to develop a plan, but first, she would trade space for time. Estelle turned on her heels and headed towards the exit.

“Where do you think you are going?” asked D.T.

“The lady’s room,” Estelle said without looking back. “I require no assistance in that particular endeavor.”

“Don’t take too long, we need to SP* in five. Remember you still need to gear up we have a full shift to complete,” Jones said loudly.

Entering the brightly lit restroom, Estelle's footsteps carried her swiftly to a stall at the far end. She pushed the door shut behind her, the sound reverberating against the tiled walls. Alone in the confined space, she let herself sink onto the toilet seat and closed her eyes. She drew in a deliberate breath, the air feeling heavy in her chest.

In a deliberate effort to quell the tumultuous storm of thoughts inside her mind, Estelle focused on steadying her breathing. She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out the sterile restroom environment, and brought her hands up to her face, forming a makeshift barrier. Fingers pressed against her temples and cheeks, creating a physical boundary that mirrored her need for mental separation.

"Relax," she whispered to herself, the sound barely audible in the small space.

She inhaled slowly through her nose, the air cool and tinged with the scent of disinfectant, and exhaled through her mouth, expelling the tension that seemed to have knotted every muscle.

Inhale, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four.

Her inner monologue, a cascade of thoughts and worries, began to recede like the tide. A stray voice, like a distant echo, floated to the surface of her consciousness before drifting away.

"So, what if you left your bag and notes, let D.T. read them," it murmured, a fragmented idea that seemed to dissolve even before she could grasp it fully.

The concerns that had been gripping her mind, like thorny vines, began to loosen their hold. Worries about friends and obligations faded into the background as Estelle homed in on the rhythm of her breath. It was a practice she had learned over time, a lifeline in moments of overwhelming frustration.

A fleeting thought, like a wisp of smoke, teased the edges of her consciousness — something about the Wheels, a persistent topic that had been nagging at her. She chose not to engage with it, to let it drift away like the other passing notions.

As the last tendrils of her racing thoughts dissipated, leaving a calm canvas in her mind's eye, Estelle found herself immersed in a vision. It appeared like a mirage, a diamond that materialized out of the mental haze. Colors danced across its facets, a symphony of hues that pulsed and shifted, creating an ethereal display.

She gazed intently at the diamond. Her focus remained unbroken. With each breath, the colors synchronized and harmonized until they settled into a pure, radiant white. The vision held her captive, a moment of tranquility amidst the chaos.

“Annarr …” she whispered.

A point of darkness materialized at the heart of the diamond, a speck of obsidian against the backdrop of vibrant colors. With a peculiar fluidity, that speck began to stretch and elongate, morphing into a slender line that extended outward from the diamond's core. The line, now like a taut thread, assumed a purposeful trajectory, curving at a precise thirty-three-degree angle.

From this calculated starting point, the line embarked on a mesmerizing journey, as if it were an artist's brushstroke brought to life. It twisted and turned, a sinuous dance of angles and arcs that defied predictability. It wasn't content to remain static; instead, it exhibited an innate restlessness. The line bent and flexed, its movements becoming increasingly intricate.

The line's tempo accelerated as if the very fabric of the vision were pulsating with energy. It folded upon itself, creating an intricate lattice that seemed to hint at a hidden pattern only its creator could decipher.

The beauty of it lay in its complexity — a dynamic dance of lines that flirted with chaos yet adhered to an invisible set of rules. Despite its complexity, the line maintained a certain distance, never colliding in their intricate journey.

A crescendo of motion ensued, a flurry of calculated chaos that unfolded with a speed that defied the confines of the mind's eye. The lines, like silk ribbons caught in a tempest, swirled, and twisted, embodying a sense of controlled turbulence. Just as suddenly as it had begun, the intricate display came to an abrupt halt, freezing in place as if captured by an unseen hand.

Estelle's eyes remained fixed on the vivid display before her, a mixture of fascination and determination etched across her features. Her grin, like a secret shared between her and the vision, bloomed as she recognized the culmination of her efforts.

"Got it," she exclaimed, her voice tinged with triumph and satisfaction.

She jumped off the stall and turned on the tap, and after splashing water on her face she pulled a few locks of her hair from her tightly packed bun.

Estelle smeared her makeup and ran the eyeliner down the side of her face. To complete the look, she undone a button from her jacket. She turned and gave her reflection a few sad and wretched expressions. After deciding on which one to go with she adjusted her sapphire broach.

“Light, camera,” she said tapping the broach four times. “Action!”

***