The Tower is a sign of chaos and destruction brought by sudden change. This card follows immediately after the devil – Madam Tobin's Book of Tarot
Operation Menu: Phase Lunch D-1hour
After traveling for twenty minutes, the automated system chimed in, announcing that Market Street would be the upcoming stop. As the train's wheels screeched slowing down the car, Estelle remained seated, clutching her leather handbag. Her fingers tapped across the bag's handle, revealing a mix of excitement and nervousness.
As the other passengers exchanged glances and curious stares, Estelle finally stood up, seemingly unfazed by the attention she was drawing. She took a moment to straighten the subtle wrinkles in her carefully chosen dress, each movement deliberate and poised. She then adjusted the vibrant blue bandana tied to her belt, a touch of color contrasting her attire.
Estelle adjusted the position of the sapphire and gold-trimmed brooch pinned to her jacket, offering a subtle smile as she nodded in approval.
"It's important to present one's best self in every situation," she murmured.
While making her way down the cabin aisle, she passed an older gentleman, distinguished in his black overcoat, and topped with a hat that carried a strip of fine blue silk around it.
He tipped his hat to her and said, "Salutations, House Captain."
Estelle responded with a coy yet charming smile, acknowledging the gentleman's greeting with a slight curtsy.
When the train finally came to a stop, Estelle stepped out onto the bustling Market Street. The world around her transformed into a lively scene of the NPCs (non-playable characters) leisurely strolling along the avenue, all making way for her with a sense of admiration and curiosity. She moved with a certain aura of self-assuredness, catching the eye of bystanders who couldn't help but quizzical looks at the white-haired woman passing through their midst.
She cast a fleeting glance at the weathered street signs, their battered forms revealing the words 'N. Market Street' and 'E. Garden Avenue. The mere sight of those signposts unfurled a flood of memories, like scenes from the first season of a show vividly replaying in her mind. The recollection wasn't a distant echo but a living tableau, every moment etched with a blend of emotions that transcended mere pixels and illusions.
As her steps carried her forward, her thoughts seemed to tangle in the intricacies of the past. The debut season, a concoction of magic interwoven with the artistry of holography, had conjured forth rivers of simulated blood. Yet, the impact of those events remained as vibrant as the day they first unfolded, leaving an indelible mark that the passage of time struggled to fade.
With an almost tangible effort, Estelle wrenched her attention from the grip of recollection. The Market Street sprawled ahead, a bustling urban thoroughfare leading her onward. Her determined gait propelled her towards a monolithic skyscraper, its reflective glass exterior shimmering like a modern citadel merely a block away.
Upon reaching the plaza that sprawled before the monumental building, she halted anew. Her eyes lingered on the formidable steel-reinforced concrete barriers encircling the structure, a silent testament to the turbulent times. These barricades stood not just as physical constructs but as guardians of the memories, all bitter, that the edifice held within.
Vivid images surged through her mind, depicting the harrowing scenes of Red Team combatants being forcefully extracted from the very heart of the building. Kicking and screaming, they were wrenched from their hard-fought positions, the echoes of a relentless 23-day battle reverberating in her thoughts. The relentless siege seemed to etch itself into her memory, each day unfolding like a chapter in a tragic epic.
Yet, even in the aftermath of surrender, the horror continued. Those who had laid down their arms found themselves subjected to a fate more gruesome. The stark reality was that surrender did not ensure safety; instead, it marked the beginning of an even darker chapter. Torturous interrogations stripped away their dignity and last vestiges of hope. And as if this ordeal were not agonizing enough, a twisted spectacle unfolded at the plaza just before the towering edifice.
Bound by the hands of Team Blue, these surrendered souls were made to endure the torment of a public execution. The ground they had once fought to protect became a gruesome theater for their final moments. Teammates who had fought side by side could only watch helplessly as their comrades faced their grim destiny. The lifeblood of these fallen warriors stained the plaza's stone, and the haunting message was clear: defiance would be met with brutality, and even those still holed up within the skyscraper were made witnesses to the brutal consequences of resistance.
Estelle's gaze settled on the towering skyscraper, its steel, and mirrored glass facade seeming to puncture the very heavens. In a rebellious gesture, she extended a defiant middle finger toward the imposing structure, a silent expression of her disdain.
Her thoughts shifted to a pivotal memory: the Ganzfeld Generator, captured later, had played a sinister role in the resurrection of fallen Red Team combatants. The notion of life being breathed back into those who had met a violent end was a haunting concept she couldn't easily shake off.
Amid the turmoil, a strategy born of frustration emerged among the Blue Team Captains. Faced with the disconcerting revival of the once-deceased, they began issuing orders that defied the essence of humanity. The Red Team combatants, who had previously clashed valiantly within the skyscraper's walls, now faced a new fate: to be forcibly thrown from the towering structure.
The logic behind this grisly tactic was rooted in the belief that the trauma of the fall would shatter the fragile morale of the resurrected troops. The hope was to break them before they could regain their bearings, to prove that even in death's shadow, despair awaited. It was a decision born of desperation, a gruesome ploy in the ongoing battle for dominance.
Estelle's attempts to galvanize the other team captains toward a more strategic approach, one involving the use of a paralytic nerve toxin against the Red Team, were met with resistance and ultimately rejected.
With a deliberate sigh, she closed her eyes, seeking solace in the darkness behind her lids. Slowly, she let her focus intensify like a lens adjusting to sharpen an image. Her mind became a canvas upon which she skillfully brushed away the mental clutter, each stroke of her mental brush a gentle but determined sweep.
As she navigated this internal landscape, the vivid images, and resonating sounds of the past, which had been playing on a loop within her mind, began to recede. They withdrew from the forefront of her consciousness, like tides retreating from a storm-stricken shore. The echo of battle cries and the weight of memories gradually lost their grip, allowing her thoughts to find a renewed clarity, and the turbulence of her mind began to settle.
A low-sounding ding rang in her right ear, she tried to ignore it, but the message tone rang again.
Opening her hand with the flick of her fingers a screen opened and the message stated: YOUR LATE!!1!
She scanned for the name of the sender.
"Captain D.T. Jones," Estelle's voice carried an icy edge, "perhaps you should channel the same energy you put into annoying me toward improving your grammar."
Estelle casually flicked her finger, swiftly erasing the unwanted message from her mental screen. A barrage of subsequent messages followed suit, and it was then that she firmly resolved to quell the disturbance, promptly blocking any incoming communication attempts from this D.T. Jones character.
The rhythmic swish of double-glass doors caught her attention, heralding her passage as she stepped into the lobby. In a synchronized response to her arrival, two figures clad in black tactical gear and deep blue uniforms advanced toward her. One of which was taller and had brown hair. Another guard was stationed beside a metal detector at the entrance, while the other occupied a seat beside an X-ray machine.
The taller guard who approached, his square jaw relaxing, offered a casual wave in her direction. However, her attention fixated on the bronze name tape that bore the name "NATE."
"Team Captain Thornewood, a pleasure as always," Nate greeted her with a lopsided smile. "Kindly place your belongings in the plastic bin, if you would."
Estelle's gaze remained fixed on Nate for a moment, a wry smile tugging at her lips.
"Must we endure this ritual yet again?" she inquired; a knowing look exchanged between them. "We both recognize the inevitable outcome will end in my favor."
Her fingers found purchase on the handle of her trench dagger; her grip was subtle yet suggestive. A faint shake of her head conveyed her response: a resolute refusal.
Her calculating gaze swept over the guards, dissecting their stances and movements with a discerning eye. Each nuance was meticulously examined as her mind sketched out a mental hierarchy, determining the sequence of potential targets should circumstances escalate into violence.
"I'm merely executing orders, Team Captain," Nate offered his advance halting in front of her.
"General Wilhelm Keitel, 1945," Estelle retorted with an arched brow.
Nate's motion stilled, and his retreat was evident in the subtle shift of his stance. His hands opened, palms facing her in an unspoken gesture of pacification, proving his lack of immediate threat.
"Is there a problem Officer Nate?" A resonant female voice chimed from the vicinity of the elevator.
Estelle's attention shifted, her gaze locking onto a woman in her twenties. The mocha hue of her skin was complemented by the attire she wore: a combination of black tactical gear and a button-down shirt. Emblazoned in crisp white lettering across her body armor was the name 'D.T. JONES'. A blue bandana draped around her neck, while a cascade of coins, each bearing distinctive insignias of different gangs, dangled from a ribbon attached to her belt.
The edges of these coins glinted yellow and gold. Each of the coins contained logos of gangs belonging to the Red and Gold teams. Only one or two of the gang symbols she recognized.
"No, Captain Jones," Nate responded evenly. "I was simply explaining to Team Captain Thornewood of the Tower's regulations, which mandate the removal of all weaponry before entry."
D.T. Jones' voice carried a note of skepticism, "Does she believe herself exempt from these rules?"
Nate's gaze shifted toward D.T. Jones, his expression conveying a hint of urgency.
"It's not that, Captain Jones," he explained, pivoting slightly to address Estelle more discreetly.
"Please," his voice was hushed, a plea meant only for her ears.
With a composed stride, Estelle moved past Nate and proceeded through the metal detector. The machine's-colored bar shifted abruptly to a vivid red hue, accompanied by a resounding beep that echoed through the air. Undeterred, she pressed on, advancing toward Jones, whose guards responded by placing their hands atop their holstered weapons.
"I categorically decline to subject myself to any form of inspection, surrender of my equipment, or any action that might jeopardize my security," Estelle declared with unwavering resolve.
Her voice carried an air of unyielding determination. "Should my stipulations encounter the slightest compromise, I would be more than willing to effect my departure from these premises."
Her words hung in the air, a declaration of her unassailable principles and a stern reminder of her unwavering commitment to her safety. Jones stared at Estelle who refused to look away. Then Jones's lips twitched.
"We can make exceptions Officer Nate, please make a note of this in the log as well as Team Captain was fifteen minutes late," Jones said.
Estelle noted the time on her readout was: 06:55:73:56 / D-00:45:56:33
Her gaze bore into Jones, her expression unyielding as Jones continued, "When engaged in official assignments for the Council, adherence to protocol mandates arrival 15 minutes ahead. Officers, what happens when you aren't 15 minutes early?"
In unison, the officers replied, "You're late."
"Then may I suggest," Estelle retorted icily, her tone frigid, "that in subsequent instances, the Council explicitly specifies the accurate arrival time. I am, after all, not a mathematician."
Her words sliced through the tension, her sharp rebuttal a clear assertion of her stance. Nate and his fellow officers suppressed their laughter, attempting to mask their amusement.
"Are you aware that you're addressing a superior officer?" Jones inquired, her stance asserting authority as her hands landed on her hips and her shoulders squared toward Estelle.
Estelle's response carried an air of nonchalance, her voice dismissive.
"Superior? I don't acknowledge anyone as superior within Battle City," she asserted. "Regarding higher rank, as captain of the guard and house captain, we hold equivalent status."
Estelle reached into her leather bag and pulled out a brown paper bag. Opening it up, intentionally making as much noise as possible, pulled out a grape and popped it into her mouth.
"Oh, how terribly impolite of me," she remarked casually. "Does anyone care for a grape?"
As she spoke, she chewed on a large purple, then nonchalantly spat the seeds onto the floor.
Jones swiftly seized the bag, scrutinized its contents, and disposed of it in a nearby trash can. She pivoted and directed herself toward the elevators.
"Follow me, let's get this tour over with," Jones said.
Estelle trailed behind; a faint hint of a smile appeared on her lips.
***