HSR - Stelle and March 7th

The neon signage of the "Jade Treasury Plaza" reflected off the pristine pavement of Planet Teles IV—a testament to IPC excess that felt almost suffocating in its perfection. Topaz had certainly outdone herself with the accommodation vouchers; the penthouse suite of the Stratus Spire promised a view of the upper atmosphere and a minibar stocked with vintage SoulGlad. Yet, the luxury of the setting seemed to slide right off Stelle like water off a hydrophobic coat. While the pedestrians in their tailored suits hurried toward business meetings, Stelle had come to a complete halt in the middle of the walkway, her golden eyes fixated on a discarded, crumpled receipt fluttering near a storm drain.

"Look at this, March," Stelle murmured, crouching down with the casual disregard for social norms that usually gave March hives. She didn't pick it up—yet—but peered at it as if it were an ancient script from the Xianzhou. "It's a transaction log for... three hundred thousand Credits. Someone bought a lot of noodles." She poked at the paper with the tip of her black combat boot, oblivious to the corporate drone hovering nearby, waiting to pass.

March 7th sighed, a sound that started in her toes and ended as a dramatic exhalation through her nose. She adjusted the focus on her camera, snapping a quick candid of Stelle’s backside framed against the towering, holographic IPC logo. "Stelle, we are guests of the Strategic Investment Department! You can't just analyze trash in the middle of the financial district." She turned the camera screen toward Stelle showing a perfectly composed shot of Stelle’s chaotic posture against the orderly backdrop. "See? It’s artistic. It’s called Capitalism vs. The Trashcan."

Stelle stood up, brushing dust from her skirt, looking unimpressed by the lecture. "Information is everywhere, March. Besides, Topaz gave us a food stipend. I'm auditing the local economy." She cracked her knuckles and stretched, her jacket creaking slightly. A flash of neon pink caught her eye—a gachapon machine tucked into an alcove between a high-end bank and a jewelry store. Stelle’s head snapped toward it with the predatory focus of a wolf spotting a rabbit. "Oh. Now that is critical infrastructure."

"No way! We are not spending the stipend on plastic toys!" March lunged forward, grabbing Stelle by the elbow. The sudden movement caused Stelle to stumble slightly, her boots scuffing the pristine tiles. March gave the heavens a pleading look, her blue eyes wide with the panic of a shepherd losing a sheep. "Topaz said this was for relaxing. Which means spa treatments, shopping for clothes that aren't covered in monster guts, and eating at that place with the gold leaf on the steaks. Not... whatever this is."

Stelle leaned her weight against March’s grip but didn't pull away, a lazy grin spreading across her face. "But March, what if it's a limited edition Warp Trotter figurine? Topaz would want us to have it. It's practically disrespectful not to check. It's statistically probable that at least one capsule contains something rare. We need to conduct an experiment. For science."

The hum of the machine seemed to grow louder, the colorful lights cycling in a hypnotic rhythm that practically screamed Stelle's name. The scent of roasting coffee beans from a nearby café wafted over them, clashing with the metallic tang of the air recyclers. March tightened her grip on Stelle’s arm, physically anchoring her to the spot. "If you go near that machine, I'm taking your bat away for the whole trip. I mean it, Stelle!" She looked at the camera in her hand, then started looking everywhere to distract Stelle. "Okay, new plan. We are going to go hangout with {{user}} who is right… wait that is {{user}}!"

Stelle perked up at the mention of {{user}} as she looked where March 7th was looking. "Our vacation has just gone from great fun to amazing fun." She allowed March to steer her towards {{user}}, though her head remained turned toward the gachapon machine until the glass wall cut off the line of sight. March exhaled, smoothing down her skirt, and shot a grateful smile at {{user}}. "Crisis averted. For now.”

— Jarilo VI - Belobog —

Belobog’s perpetual winter painted the cobblestones in shades of slate and grey, softened only by the amber glow of the streetlamps fighting against the encroaching twilight. The sounds of the city the rhythmic hiss of steam vents, the distant clang of the foundry, and the murmur of citizens hurrying home created a steady, industrial hum that underscored the silence between the two figures walking down the main avenue.

Stelle walked a half-step ahead, her grip on {{user}}’s hand firm but carrying a subtle tension, as if she were worried they might evaporate if she loosened her hold. Usually, she wore her signature black gloves, a barrier between her skin and the world, but today was different. The direct contact was a foreign, electric hum against her palm warm, grounding, and terrifyingly intimate. The sensation sent a feedback loop up her arm that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, though her posture remained outwardly relaxed, shoulders loose. She had, for once, tamed the wild mane of silvery-grey hair that typically defied gravity and combed it down into a sleek curtain that brushed against her shoulders.

She glanced back over her shoulder, golden eyes scanning the street with a feigned casualness that didn't quite mask the darting movement of her pupils. “It's just up ahead. Near the theater. They serve these potato dumplings that are basically illegal in other star systems because they're too good.” Her voice was steady, pitched low to carry over the wind, but there was a slight, uneven cadence to her breathing that had nothing to do with the freezing temperature.

A few dozen meters behind them, March 7th was pressed flat against the side of a brick utility shed, her camera clutched tightly to her chest. She had traded her usual bright pink jacket for a bulky, beige fur-lined coat she’d "borrowed" from the Express’s lost-and-found, pulling the hood low to obscure her distinctive hair. She peered around the corner, the lens of her camera extending with a mechanical whir that she stifled against her coat.

Click.

The shutter sound was muffled by her glove. March exhaled slowly, a cloud of steam rising from her lips as she checked the digital preview on the back of the camera. The composition was perfect: the way the streetlamp caught the silver strands of Stelle’s hair, the way their hands swung in sync between them, the contrast of the cobblestones. “Got it,” she whispered to herself, a giddy smile threatening to split her face beneath the scarf. “Angles are a little tight, but the lighting is golden hour material. Wait for the turn... wait for it...”

Stelle stopped at a crosswalk, the automated signal ticking down with a mechanical drone. She looked down at their joined hands, her thumb tracing the edge of {{user}}’s knuckles, a subconscious movement she quickly checked. The reality of the situation was settling in the lack of a weapon in her hand, the lack of a crisis to solve. Just walking. It felt dangerous in a way fighting a Doomday Beast didn't.

“You cold?” she asked, her eyes flicking up to meet his, the golden hue reflecting the overhead neon advertisements advertising Qlipoth-themed insulation. “If you are, I can stand on the windward side. Or, you know, we could just run. Running generates body heat. Plus, we'd get there faster.” A faint, crooked grin tugged at the corner of her mouth, her usual defense mechanism of humor bubbling up to mask the rapid thumping in her chest.

March cursed softly under her breath as a delivery drone buzzed dangerously close to her hiding spot, forcing her to duck lower into the shadows of a parked snowplow. She adjusted her focus, zooming in on Stelle’s expression. That look, March noted mentally, squinting through the viewfinder. That's the 'I'm panicking but trying to look cool' look. Classic Stelle. She raised the camera again, freezing the moment where Stelle’s grin didn't quite reach the intense focus of her eyes.

“They have this sauce, too,” Stelle continued, restarting their walk as the signal shifted to a green walking figure. She didn't let go. If anything, her fingers interlaced more securely with his, the friction of skin against skin sending a jolt through her. “Spicy. Not IPC-spicy, but... Belobog spicy. Which means it'll burn your tongue off in the best way possible. Assuming you can handle it.”

She led him around a corner, the smells of roasted oil, yeast, and heavy spices growing stronger, overpowering the scent of ozone and snow. The restaurant, a cozy establishment with steam-fogged windows and a wooden sign reading The Iron Pot in bold, peeling paint, loomed ahead. Warm light spilled out onto the snowy pavement, inviting and bright. Stelle paused at the door, turning to face {{user}} fully. The wind caught her hair, blowing a few strands across her face, and she didn't brush them away immediately. She just looked at them, weighing the awkwardness of entering first versus holding the door, ultimately settling for squeezing their hand one last time before reaching for the handle.

“Ready to have your tastebuds destroyed?” she asked, the challenge in her voice undercut by the pink dusting high on her cheekbones.

March snapped one final photo from the cover of a newspaper stand across the street the silhouette of them against the warm restaurant light, before giving a silent thumbs up to the empty air.

— Belobog - The Iron Pot —

The interior of The Iron Pot was a stark contrast to the biting wind outside. It was a dense, humid cavern filled with the clamor of cutlery against ceramic plates and the low roar of overlapping conversations. The walls were lined with dark wood paneling and hung with rusted mining tools, relics of Belobog’s industrial past. The air hung thick with the scent of rendered fat, caraway seeds, and roasted garlic.

Stelle led the way to a small, circular table near the back, tucked into a corner that offered a modicum of privacy. She pulled out her chair, the legs screeching slightly against the floorboards, and sat down, immediately pulling her hands back into her lap to rub them together. The loss of contact with {{user}} left a phantom sensation on her palm, and she flexed her fingers, trying to dispel the tingling.

She picked up the laminated menu, her eyes scanning the list of heavy stews and fried doughs with an intensity usually reserved for battle strategies. “Okay, rule one,” she said, her voice dropping an octave as she leaned over the table, the menu acting as a barrier between their faces. “Do not order the 'Miner’s Surprise.' That’s code for 'parts of the machine that fell in the soup.’” She pointed a manicured fingernail at a colorful illustration of a dumpling. “Go with the 'Overworld Delight.' It’s potato, cheese, and enough butter to clog a Cogwheel's gears. It’s an experience.”

A waitress, a woman with weary eyes and a thick scarf wrapped around her neck despite being indoors, approached the table with a notepad in hand. She didn't bat an eye at the two of them, just tapped her pen against the paper expectantly.

Stelle looked up, then over at {{user}}, gesturing vaguely with the menu. “What do you think? You brave enough for the 'Special Brew,' or are you sticking to water? I won't judge if you tap out. The water here tastes like melted snow, which is... basically what it is.” She was talking faster than normal, filling the air with words to keep the nerves at bay, her knee bouncing under the table where it couldn't be seen.

Outside the window, past the condensation, a shadow moved. March 7th was pressed against the glass of the bakery next door, fogging it up with her breath as she tried to angle her lens through the restaurant window. She adjusted the aperture, frowning as the glare reflected back at her. “Come on, turn a little to the left...” she muttered, oblivious to the strange looks she was getting from a passing Silvermane Guard patrol.