Shiro's Shared Spotlight - A Torn roleplay journal

Hey everyone,

I've spent the last few days browsing the RP forums, and found that few people are interested in roleplaying in Torn's own universe and through the perspective of their own Torn characters. There are many dedicated attempts to remedy that, but many soon devolve into chaos, inactivity or off-topic chatting (of no fault of the topic starters). Torn's forums, they way there are, are not particulary suited to the more organized, branching topic, headline-using ways of the older play-by-post roleplay sites. And while that is not in my power to change, I have decided to make my own attempt to bring my favorite format to the table.

- Are you the type of person who has written the backstory or basic biography of their Torn character? Searched for the perfect portraits for them? Then get a little dishearetened as there is no one around to talk about them to? No one is curious or wants to get to know the fruits of your labor?
- Have you ever imagined small stories taking place in Torn, where your character is the protagonist or at least a main character, not just a tiny post lost in the chaos? Do you have fun seeing the OC graphics and imagining the characters doing those feats?
- Do you ever feel the itch to act out scenarios - be they heist adventures, slice of life events, even short, fated encounters - that let you explore different facets of your Torn persona?
- Would you like to have someone who is not just a number on your friends list, faction list or on the spouse field of your profile? Bouncing off your creative ideas in small, self-contained roleplay scenarios?
- Does the idea of people telling their own and others' stories by themselves and for themselves fun? Maybe designate a one of you as game master to steer you all along?
- Do you wish to be more involved in Torn- related roleplay and practice at least a couple of paragraphs worth of posts instead of one-liner ones?

If these apply to you, I'd be happy to hear from you! If you are an old hand at this, we could take these roleplay scenarios to this topic to start off, both with me or with other players, using the [Headlines] system  (see next post) to differentiate ongoing games between people at the same time, to let people play at their own pace and have a chance to go for long, long plays if they want to. If you have never heard of this system, but would like to try it or have questions about it, feel free to mail me. If you are shy, just started to roleplay and want practice or just not sure about you'd want your given roleplay to be seen publicly, I'd be happy to play two-person scenarios via mailing, too (mailing is actually great if only two people are playing!). Just hit me up, and we can get started on brainstorming a basic setup and going from there!


INDEX OF GAMES IN THE THREAD - can be used to read efficiently!

- Rebellious Optimism ......................................................................................................................................  1
 
A small, fated meeting between two idealists who have not yet given in to Torn City (Finished)

- The Boy Who Cried Wolf ................................................................................................................................  2
 
An unlikely duo of an old-fashioned go-getter and a socially averse cybercriminal team up to find a missing person. At first it's just a simple business agreement, but things change as the stakes rise. (Finished)

- A Warrior's Dowry ..........................................................................................................................................  12

The suavest of smugglers gets asked by the most polite of cybercriminals to retrieve a single package from the far east. Of course, the dangerous life of gamblers and criminals alike do not allow for a single drag and drop.... (Discontinued)

- Shadows Follow    ..........................................................................................................................................  13

A man hiding from his past finds himself in need of protection not the physical, but the cybernetic kind. His life now depends on the ability to trust a faceless ally, a digital ghost, to keep him safe from the assassins hungry for his life. (Ongoing)

Cheers,

Shiro
 

About the format:

To be perfectly honest, anyone who has ever played on a play-by-post forum will know it's nothing revolutionary. Just something that would help Torn roleplayers and I have not seen it being used here. The idea is that two (or more) people, by themselves or helmed by a storyteller (like a GM in tabletop) can play an ongoing game, even a campaign in Torn's universe, using their Torn characters (relatively) easily by headlining their posts, bringing a level of organization that lets them play at their own pace. This also lets them think about and compose their posts, bridge time zone differences, and let their inner creative writers shine. If you want to join people who are already playing, you can use their headline so they can see you are trying to join them. You can search for your headline between posts to easily find the game you are in. This way, many different people can use the same topic for games which are separated, take place in a different time or at a different place, but all in the Torn universe. The stuff that does not have the headline you are looking for is not relevant to you. Even if you forgot to add a headline, it's an easy thing to edit. 

How does all this differ from the other dozens and dozens of roleplay topics? Well, not much in the classical sense. It's more like a showcase of a different roleplaying format (which I love and would like to use here, too). It's not a premade campaign of one person who has to moderate it (no topic starter has the time, effort and authority to do that, unfortunately), just a place for me to roleplay at. I'm not setting up rules and such (not that I'd be able to) or tell people how to play; it's just a place for me to bring out any roleplay I'm having with others for easier access and maybe show an alternative to people who would like to use more complex and involved posts to set up more detailed and layered atmosphere during their time at Torn. Read something here you want to be a part of? Contact the players, join them. If you want to play like this with me or anyone else, you are welcome here. Show us your writing chops.

So, how does a post look like (for me, from me)? 

Like this:

[Headline] - this is the "title" of your game; it can be something witty, the time and location it takes place in, etc. You can even add stuff after your original headline, like "start" to mark the first post of the game, "ending" marking your closure of it. You can even list the names of those taking part or adding "private" so others can see that you do not want any more people to join.

 After the headline comes the text, the meat of your post. Preferably not just one or two lines, but something more involved, like a miniature novel. You can get creative here: small atmospheric descriptions, the description of your character, the way the look, the stuff they wear, their thoughts and actions. The main thing is, write something others can connect and react to. A person sitting on a park bench might not seem much, but still lets someone to walk over and start something from there. The only people telling the story are the ones in it. Everything is by you, for you. You can exchange ideas via chat or mail about what the other person is okay with, what concepts they have. While someone might want a wacky adventure just out of a caper flick, someone would like to try a deeper, short philosophical or emotional game. Or just talk and chill in character. Give story context to your stats. Play out any funny OC result you had with your faction, or meeting your future spouse if you wish. 

Mind you, different people look for different scenarios and they have different ideas about what situation they are willing to roleplay. Some things might make some people uncomfortable. Or they just don't want their characters to get beaten/mugged/etc. in a roleplay scenario, others are fine with that, but have other quirks. Whatever you do, leave open avenues to your partner(s). The story builds as you interact with what the other(s) have written and weave new bits into it to move it forward. A player who is invincible, never fails at anything, leaves no ifs and no wiggle room for others to act would not work in any RPGs. We may have no dices and scripts here, but that's why compensate with common sense!

Once you have composed a shapely paragraph (or a few) where you acknowledge the other posts in the same game as you, interact with them, and just put enough new materiial into it to keep the ball rolling, you're set and ready to post. It doesn't have to be a lot of things: a post where somebody does 121574687 things to react to or none at all can both screw up the pacing. If you're done, get filled with anticipation of what your roleplaying partner(s) will do next. Many such scenarios are played by two people, back-to-back. In a larger groups, round robin style posting is the norm, where everyone gets a "turn" to act before it starts all over again.

(If you have any important things you just need to add out of character - so not as a part of the roleplay itself - you can do it like this at the end of your post, so everyone can see it separately).

[Rebellious Optimism]

Torn City's public benches are curious little sanctuaries of apathy and misery. Most days, they are merely temporary shelters to the homeless and the desperate, wayside rests in precise rows where chemically happy wretches sleep of their sweet delirium. At least today, though, one of them is taken by someone who is almost the poster child of normal: a young male, sitting cross-legged, balancing a heavy notebook on his knees. Seemingly oblivious to how out of place his peaceful demeanor seems here, he's busy stroking bold, poweful lines on the pale paper. Wind is almost non-existent except for a few playful gusts of breeze messing with his black hair and with the hood of his dark jacket. But he does not seem to mind; his long fingers smooth his canvas reflexively, seemingly wihtout thought. His eyes, steel gray and focused,singling out random strangers as he keeps working. Another stroke. An extra line. A string, pulled from the soul of the colorless waves of people, evoked and anchored to the picture forming as the fruit of his labours.

No one gives a second glance, no one gives a damn. This IS Torn city. People watching from the sidelines get no attention besides the sharp stares of a cutpurse or a pickpocket. Perhaps some disgusted glares from the well-off when they grace the masses with their presence outside of their fancy cars. But he does not seem to mind. He likes it this way. His backpack sits unnattended besides him on a spot of especially faded, ugly spot of puke green paint. Nothing important or particularly valuable is in it. At least, nothing that should be worth dying or getting injured over. In Torn, you don't give anyone a reason to be a target... at least not more than your mere presence already grinds someone's gears. Some first-ais supplies, a couple paint cans, his phone and fake IDs... the basic setup around here. The headphones hugging his slender neck might worth a pretty penny, but thankfully, most residents don't go for the cat-eared variant around here. And if they did, they would have to get his head ripped off first. Which just might happen. But against that, not much else one could have done anyway, right?

 A long sigh. Whatever is staring back from the pages, he does not like it. His nose is crunched, his forehead wrinkled in an almost childish way. Tearing it out, he throws it into a nearby trash can with elegant laziness. 

- Chase is going to flip, won't he?

He murmurs, mostly to himself, as he slowly reaches for the straps of the backpack. No inspiration here today. No inspiration anywhere today.

(Rebellious Optimism) 

She sat next to him. The one who was drawing. She didn't ask. She just sat. The puke green bench was just big enough for both of them. His backpack between them like a wall. She leaned over.

“That is good,” she said.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even twitch. Just kept drawing, his hand moving like it was on rails. Like the pencil knew more than he did.

She sat back. Looked ahead. Pretended like she wasn’t watching him from the corner of her eye.

She was so out of place here, in this city, that she wanted to connect. Needed to. Her voice sounded wrong here. Too soft. Too honest. Everything here echoed.

He was sitting cross-legged on the bench like he’d grown from it. Like he belonged. Or didn’t care if he didn’t.

She watched his fingers. Quick. Careful. Covered in smudges. He wasn’t drawing for attention. He was drawing because he’d disappear if he didn’t.

She tightened her coat. It wasn’t even cold, not really. But the kind of quiet he carried made her feel like shivering.

He didn’t run. That was good.

He didn’t pull a knife. Also good

[Rebellious Optimism]

Another deep breath. Ready to go, always moving, always running. It's hard to sit still anywhere in this place.... as long as you are not on the move, you just feel the soft patterns of a crosshair sighed on the nape of your neck, making every single hair stand on end. Tossing his backpack on his shoulders in a wide arc, it almost hits a young woman who somehow, somewhere down the line, sat down next to him. Like a soundless little wraith, a doe-eyed spectre shut out from some kind of afterlife like a puppy gets shut out of the house by mistake. Just like him.... at least how he used to be. They shouldn't be here, neither of them. This concrete-laced purgatory, however, beckons and sets root in hardened criminals and unfortunate bystanders alike. Roots that harden the shell, but many a time, eat the soul they have sprouted from. Maybe she did talk.... said hello, or asked about the weather, He did not hear. He was not accustomed to being talked to, not accustomed to being seen. Wanting to be seen is a bad habit that Torn beats out of anyone, just like the muggers do. But he is not one to give himself up so easily.

- Oh, dear.... I'm so sorry. I did not hit you, did I?

Small words, maybe just pleasantries, but he means them. Has to wonder if they reach her, if they take hold. If she takes hold of them. She seems lucid, eyes not clouded by the subtances used to take one's mind for a joyride, chased by their sluggish conscience. Just...so out of touch with everything around her.

-Are you okay?

His eyes are honest, as is his concern. It is easy to see that she's not in the best shape. Not visibly hurt, but the gutted resignation that just radiates from her is enough to make the spring breeze feel cold.

[Rebellious Optimism]

When he asked, "Oh, dear... I'm so sorry. I did not hit you, did I?"—swinging his backpack over his shoulder—she wanted to tell him everything.

Everything.

But how do you burden a stranger with what Torn so casually dishes out?

She was just happy he didn't attack. In this city, in this hell, people lost their humanity fast. Every movement, no matter how innocent, was met with suspicion. Ninety-nine point nine percent of the time, a simple hello came with blood on it.

People attacked first—then maybe asked questions. Maybe.

She tried to relax. Body language was a second language in Torn. Walk funny, breathe wrong, and someone might pull a gun.

She managed a, "No harm done."
It came out softer than she intended. Fragile. But it was out.

He observed her. She could feel it—his eyes on her like scanners, not hungry, but alert. Evaluating. She knew the look. She had worn it herself. Torn had a way of carving it into you.

She was the walking dead, and it showed. Torn leaves its mark on everyone.

When he asked if she was okay, she slowly extended her hand. Her fingers were stiff from hesitation.

"I am Star-Lilly."

The name sounded strange here. Like a flower blooming in ash.

Making friends in this city could cost you a limb. But his drawings... they fascinated her. Or at least the pieces of them she could see.

Her smile came. Warm, but not too warm. Not Torn-warm. That would be a mistake.

She was in unfamiliar waters now. Extending a hand wasn’t the Torn way.

But maybe that’s exactly why she did it.

[Rebellious Optimism]

Tension envelops him, gently, but all-encompassing. Almost like a loving embrace from a lover or a long-lost relative, were it any pleasant. Might be the city's permeating feel of self - a sentient, cozy little corner of Purgatoty - showing all the tough love one's father forgot. Talking to people face-to-face is not his forte, a skill scratched out from his resume by experiences already dried, like the tears and blood fueling the ink on the pages. Still, if the girl in front of him managed to squeeze out an answer, no matter how wispy or weak it was, the least he could do was showing her the same courtesy.

- Are you sure?

She must be. He's sure she is. On the surface, the shell is intact, damn the ghost within. The spray paint cans in his bag would have made a bigger, more painful impact. However, she being safe from some old-fashioned blunt force trauma means little. She is hurt. She is hurting, the feeling is almost palpable... for someone who just might care. Someone like him, no matter how hard he tries to hate himself for it these days. 

Then it's his turn to be surprised, steel gray eyes blinking like a deer stuck in front of a headlight. Not that a simple heandshake is so extraordinary. Maybe in Torn it is. But the little wraith in front of him, too frail to even to utter proper words, manages to smile her fleeting little smile, to put a hesitant hand forward. She suddenly reminds him of a sapling seeking the sun, but not sensing it. Yes, she is more like a sapling than a wraith ... a drying, lightless, miserable little life. But not done, not trampled out of existence. Not yet. He's getting unusually poetic, even for himself. Maybe it's in the name, must be it.

-Star-Lilly, huh? Sounds great, Lilly. I hope just Lilly is fine. Tell me if it isn't.

He answers awkwardly, just spewing the words, buying time... but does not move at first. Touching others, even innocently, even momentarily is... a thought which causes him to feel sick these days. It should not be like this and he does not know where it stems from anymore. It just is. It works out well enough, usually. Not today, though. He bites his lips, unsure. Then with a deep breath, shakes hands with her without hesitation. To make sure her last vestiges of lukewarm hope do not go to waste. To anchor her here. It's like she would just vanish if not bound to the world of the living. His hand is warm, fingers graceful, reach cautious... but determined.

- A pleasure to meet you. Just call me Shiro.

It will have to do. It's not his real name, of course. He doubts anyone uses those around here. People go by handles, aliases. Even the words on their IDs are just fantasies, daydreams, sturdy masks keeping out the sad reality which festers beneath. Still, his face easily blooms into a lopsided smile. Being friendly, civilized - feeling civilized - is a welcome, if short, respite when out and about in Torn City.

- So, Lilly, w-

He starts to speak again, but notices familiar silouettes emerging from the corner of his eye. Three guys, average by height and size, but always loitering around here. No more than bullies, the lot of them, usually no danger to those who can fight or run fast enough. But a shaky girl like her and a skinny guy like him just scream for these types' attention. Were he alone, he would simply avoid or outrun them, but now, even his superficial connection to Lilly makes him feel responsible  for her well-being.

- ... excuse me for being so painfully blunt, but we should get out of here. I know a cozy café just two blocks away. Or maybe...

A childishly mischievous glint warms up his pale gaze. He gently pats his backpack, making the cans clink together .

-... you up for a little more excitement?

He asks with a small grin, head playfully tilted to one side. He does not want a confrontation with those people, but he does not force her to move frm it. She does not have to if she wishes not to. Maybe they will leave them alone, maybe not. He will not abandon her and he will not regret it. 

[Rebellious Optimism]

He was watching her—his grey eyes steady, unreadable. Like he was trying to decide if her hand would stay a hand… or twist into a serpent and strike.

Lilly wasn’t in the best shape. She knew what she looked like. Maybe he saw it too—the soul half-hollowed out, the fatigue etched deep under her skin. The bruises hidden beneath her jacket. The defeated stare she hadn’t been able to scrub out of her eyes for weeks.

She knew he saw something.
Artists saw everything and nothing all at once.

And in his eyes, she read it: I’ve seen the beauty… and the filth.
Not in equal measure. He was guarded, not in a offensive way. But like he thinks about actions and re-action. He made calculted choices. No one is born that way. Life makes you like that. 

When he finally took her hand, she let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. His touch was warm—almost too warm for Torn. Like a real person lived in there. Someone not completely eaten by the city.

“Shiro,” he said.

Short name. Catchy. Sharp like it had bite. 

He noticed them before she did—three lowlifes, creeping in the periphery, shadows in sneakers. But the moment his posture shifted, hers followed. Torn had trained her well. You watched reactions more than threats. Shiro tensed just enough to raise her senses.

They were lurking.

But then he turned to her, and the invite came. Simple. Sincere. A little café not far—or maybe something more exciting. The grin on his face was louder than his words. Mischief curled around it like smoke.

She heard it. The soft clink of spray cans in his backpack.

She stood slowly. Her eyes stayed on the three figures.

She wasn’t sure if Shiro would bolt. He was lean—built for escape. He could vanish like smoke if things went sideways.

She could run too, if she had to. But it would take effort. The last attack took more than her pearl necklace—it tore a chunk of muscle from her leg. He couldn’t see that. Couldn’t see the quiet limp hidden behind practiced steps.

Still, she didn’t flinch.

“I would like to see you in action with those,” she said, nodding to his pack.

A challenge. Or a promise. Maybe both.

Was Shiro the next Rembrandt? Picasso? Van Gogh?

She didn’t know. But she wanted to.

She’d been watching him for weeks now. Sitting on this very bench. Sketching. Breathing. Observing.

 She had to be sure he wasn’t a threat. In Torn, you approached wrong, you got a bullet.

But so far, no bullets.

Just an invitation that might be the beginning of something like an adventure.

Lilly smiled then—a real smile, her big brown eyes lit up and her face glow. One of those rare ones that still lived in Torn like stubborn flowers in cracked concrete. Sincere. Honest. Soft.

And maybe, just maybe, enough to grow something new.

[Rebellious Optimism]


- And see me you shall. Let's move.

He flashes a parting gaze to the scroundrels, faster than the wind. Making eye contact is a surefire way to get singled out even in a simple bad neighborhood, but Torn is in a league of its own in this regard. A whole city's worth of bad neighborhoods, packed tightly and lidded haphazardly, always ready to blow. Some parts are painted, some are gilded, but like a face of a broken harlot, some things just cannot be hidden. No matter how thick you lay on the lies.

The group has not noticed them yet, or merely found them uninteresting. Either way is fine for him, as long as they don't spare them a second glance or don't look him in the eye. "Your eyes are too defiant", he often heard back in his starter years. He was never what one might call especially gutsy. But those pair of grays earned him a fair share of extra beating and humiliation. Like those eyes dared his defilers to do more, hurt more, destroy more. But no matter what they sought to rip out from his stare - they never succeeded. And that made them try all that harder.

His steps are fast and light, the movements of a prey, though not a particulary vulnerable one. He might not be a fighter, but painting on rooftops, towers and high-looming billboards is as much an athletic and balancing act as an artistic one. He is not tall, broad or visibly muscled; but wiry and lean flesh tightens around his bony frame, every bit of it is regularly used close to snapping. He keeps checking behind and beside him. Until now, Lilly has shown no sign of injury, but that might just change as they are on the move. He is not a hundred percent sure about giving voice to his concerns, but in the end, he relents to his own conscience. As he always does.

- I do have some medical supplies with me.

Nothing complex, but still more than a simple first-aid kit. Going around the city carrying these might make a mugger steal it and leave one well alone. And if they don't... you can still patch yourself up if you have the skill. It's one of the first things everyone learns, and in his views, the one of the most important. The offer lingers in the air, as well as the implications subtly clinging to it: he finds no issue giving them to her, or if she needs it, using them on her. Alas, he will not push or pry - everyone should have the freedom to make decisions and stand by them. And the consequences. It's a small thing, seemingly insignificant... but the only one readily available to everyone nearly ground to dust on the hard concrete this place is built from. Whenever you are close to feeling you can't even lay a claim on yourself, there's the reminder: your decisions, and what comes from it, are yours. Be they happy, be they painful, no one can pry them from you. Not the thieves, not the muggers. Not even the killers.

- We can stop when we get there and can patch you up. We are not far now.

It is a white lie, albeit not a big one: their destination is not far, but the way there is twisted and full of turns through claustrophobic alleyways and narrow streets. Like a modern, horror- based rendition of the white rabbit's hole. Which makes him the white rabbit. Almost appropriate.

- How are you holding up?

They can stop, rest, wait. He has this day off, and as Exupérys Little Prince, he is responsible for which he has tamed. Or started to. Maybe. Soon, the roads get wider and their paving more intricate. They are closing in on the Residential District, but not quite there: these are ruins of sad things made by people too poor to grow roots here. Remnants of abodes devoid of life and claimed by time itself. These places are high-class enough for cops to avoid during the day, visible enough to paint something that grasps attention and garners exposition. He stops at a wall, a lonely little corpse of a family house. Nice and long, solid brickwork. Maybe that's why it's still standing, having the gall to mar the otherwise nearly idyllic landscape. 

- Some new money bought the place, but it will be a long time until they actually can start bulldozing and renovating. It's all ours.

His enthusiasm is palpable, coils around him like a smokey aura of colors and depths, ruffles his raven hair and smuggles new sparks in this steely gaze. The wall, of course, is already full of lazy and uninspired name dropping, but a canvas like that... it deserves better.

- But first, sit down. I don't mind if you do it yourself, but you really need to get your wounds looked at.

He heeds no argument. Like an imposing mother hen, looming, nagging, but also soft and caring. Still, his eyes are hard: he bears no suffering on his watch. 

- After that, we grab some paint and you can help me make this wall pop.

(Rebellious Optimism) 

As she followed Shiro, she noticed how fast he moved. Like every step was calculated. Like each corner, each alleyway, each shadow was a puzzle he’d already solved. He moved like someone who knew Torn—not just the map, but its moods, its monsters.

Lilly tried to match his pace, but despite her best efforts, she lagged behind. The wound in her leg throbbed—each step a pulse of fire. Still, she didn’t complain. How could she? She was too grateful just to be there, following someone who spoke in words instead of fists, knives, or demands.

He had offered her something rare: a lifeline.

“Got a med kit in my bag if you need it.”

She had hundreds of those. She knew how to stitch and wrap and numb the pain. But coming from him, the offer felt like hope.
Like someone saw her—not just the limp, not just the bruises—but the person trying to survive beneath it all.

His grey eyes were magnetic. Not warm, not cold—just aware. Like he carried stories in his gaze, ones she didn’t have names for yet. He was different. That’s what drew her in. He wasn’t built like a street fighter or a gym freak on too much Xanax. He didn’t need to be. His frame said he could move when he needed to.

Fast.

Quiet.

Efficient.

And still… he noticed her.

Her limp had worsened. The pain was climbing, wrapping itself around her knee and radiating up her thigh. Her brown eyes stung—not just from pain, but from something deeper. Shame maybe. Vulnerability. She didn’t want him to see her like this. In Torn, being weak was dangerous. Vulnerable meant disposable.

Liabilities didn’t get friends.

And she didn’t want to be the reason someone like Shiro got hurt.

She was petite—5'4", wiry, with black pixie-cut hair that made her look younger than she felt. Too young. Too breakable. In a place like Torn, that could be an invitation for predators. Limping only added to it. She could feel eyes on her from strangers as they passed, weighing her like meat.

But Shiro never once looked back with impatience.

When they finally stopped, it was suburban Torn. Faded brick walls. Trash bins. Silence thick as tar. Behind them stretched a wall begging for color—plain, cracked, desperate to be seen.

Shiro turned to her, his gaze steady. Like he knew what she was thinking.

“We’ll look at your wound first,” he said, “Then we make this wall pop.”

The word made her smile.

He spoke her language.

She sat down carefully, her breath catching as she rolled up her cargo pants. The wound in her left knee was ugly—deep, jagged, red with infection. The kind of pain that radiated heat. The kind of pain you learn to walk on in Torn, because stopping gets you killed.

She would trust him with this.

Her flesh wound.

Her bleeding soul—that was another story.

[Rebellious Optimism]

Of course he was alert. Not because he fears a hidden blade or hot lead piercing between his ribs. He just couldn't be sure that the next time he glanced back, the little ghost fettered to him would still be there. Should he care, even if she was nowhere to be seen at the next corner? Of course he would. That's what makes one even more cautious than before: all the glaring weak points their own stubborn grasp humanity paints on them. Would it be easier to let it go? For many, undoubtedly. To him? A death of himself, so thorough even a backstab could not compete.

At least they have reached their destination without any issue. One always has to be grateful for even the smallest mercies here and this was no different. Just a smallest sting of a guilty conscience, making Lilly walk that much without the proper aid. But treating someone in a dingy alley would have surely caused more harm. He could have offered more than this, but it would have been pointless. He remembers the feeling of being powerless, but proud. Finding the power in holding one's heead high, being intoxicated by it, the liberty of suffering with purpose. Of course, it cannot go on. One day, one of those will have to go. So many start off marrying their hurting with dignity only to throw one away to get rid of the other. He wonders where she will end up. He silently roots for her.

She is able to crack a smile once in a while, though. That's good. Sign of a ragged, but healthy heart. May it stay that way. Her wound is a whole different matter, however. At this point, it's hard to say what even caused it in the first place. 

- Oh, dear. Wires? Dogs?

No matter. Young flesh, however tortured, mends easily. The lack of treatment is a much bigger issue. Swollen, reddish skin surrounds the gash, which, while not life-threatening, must be very, very painful. He could stand there all say wondering how it came to be. But that's not helping. That's prying. He's here to mend her, not to cut her open. Figuratively. 

- Just a minute, I think I just have the....aha!

His face lights up as the he tears open the packaging of a pair of thin, white latex gloves pulled from his bag. He keeps them around to avoid having his hands smeared with paint, but they will come in handy. They are sterile and keep his skin from direct contact with the wound. He also produces some sharp smelling liquid and a fluffy, tufty piece of cotton.

- I know it's very cliche, but this will sting a bit.

Not a liar, he. He does not wet the wound with it, working consistently, starting from the edges of torn skin and brushing gently outwards. Musn't introduce new bacteria if one can help it. After that, he grabs a pad covered in a bluish, jelly-like substance.

- Antibiotics. You're not sensitive to it, I hope?

If she is, it must be left out. But he will not forget to mention some alternative. She will have to see a doctor if it doesn't get better. Yes, he will nag her about it. After applying the pad  - or leaving it out, as the case may be - he expertly dresses the wound, snugly, but not too tightly. His eyes narrowed, focused on the task, barely even blinking. He even starts humming, barely audible, but pleasant. Fingers made dextrous by arts do precise work with wounds, too. His teachers from the medical courses would weep with joy if they saw him right now. And that's not a hyperbole: Mrs. Jenkins definitely would.

- Try moving it a little. How is it?

Knees and legs, being joints and motoric, might feel stiff after bandaging. The glaze might also come off. Just to make sure.

- I applied some antiseptics, cleaned the wound too, as much as I was able. You might need some further antibiotics or cephalosporin and painkillers. But unfortunately, I none of those with me right now.

He deftly removes the gloves, grabs the pads and the packagings and throws them in a nearby trash can. For his part, this thing is done and over, not really worth mentioning. However, promising an artistic venture and seeing Lilly's wound puts him in a bit of a conundrum. He might talk their way out of a police inspection, but the girl is in no shape to climb the wall and run around on it. He lazily opens his packpack, showing her the cans: mostly blues, purples, greens and teals. The obligatory black and white, but no real warm colors. Except for a single can of peach pink, but he has something in mind for that, too.

- Still feel like helping out?

If Lilly feels like joining, he tosses her one of the dark blue cans and a painting mask. He has no spare, but he has a disposable one from the hospital, which would be fine too. He knows how to avoid the fumes. With no visible effort, he hauls himself on top of the wall with one hand, holding the same dark blue paint in the other. He's not much taller than the girl, topping at barely over 5'7", but he makes up for that with monkey-like agility.

- The first step: we cover the whole wall with dark blue. You gave me a nice idea.

He is back to his giddy artist self. It seems he already knows what he wants to create.

[Rebellious Optimism] 

Shiro attended to her wound like he had done it a hundred times before. His hands moved with precision—fast, focused, sure. Between dabs of antiseptic and gauze, he spoke in a low, steady voice. Small warnings. A soft, “This will sting,” or, “Are you allergic to this?”

The last time someone had been this attentive to her needs was... far from Torn. Far from the grit and grind of this city that had chewed her up and spat her out more times than she could count.

She wondered if Shiro knew just how much this simple act of kindness meant.

As he explained the plan—how the wall behind them would come alive with color—his eyes lit up. The grey softened, took on a sparkle. It was endearing. The way he already saw the picture in his head, like the wall was just waiting to be awakened.

Lilly giggled. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was him. Or maybe it was the craving for connection—any connection—that made her mind think, good still exists. 

For the first time in months, life felt... normal. Or at least, as close to normal as it could get in Torn.

Then he was up, spray can in hand, body moving with an artist’s rhythm. She watched him work—how meticulous he was, how each movement had purpose.

“When we’re done, we should take a photo,” she said, surprising herself. “You know... as a memory.”

He glanced at her and gave a crooked grin that made her smiled, almost grin like a kid who gor candy. 

Lilly reached for a can of blue, hesitated, then hit the nozzle. A soft hiss, and color bloomed. Soon they were immersed in a dance—layers of paint, shapes taking form, art born from ruin.

“Where you from?” The question slipped out before she could stop it. Torn wasn’t the kind of place where you asked personal things. But the moment hung, tender and open.

“I’m from South Africa,” she added quickly, as if offering a piece of herself to balance the question.

 “I’m a writer. Part-time. But I work at a law firm.”

She paused. Maybe she’d said too much. Asked too much. In Torn, silence was safer than stories. She should’ve known better.

But Shiro hadn’t pulled away. He hadn’t pulled a knife.

And that, in this city?

That was worth more than a million Private Islands. 

Connection was priceless.

[Rebellious Optimism]

Many souls enter Torn, all of them with their own goals, hopes and dreams. Some are macabre little dramas thankfully staying trapped in fractured minds. Others find their way to reality, shaping it forever, for good or ill. He had one when he arrived, different than the one he has now. But the change was for the better. 

Wanting to care, wanting to be halfway decent is not an achievement by virtue. In a bubble of prosperous households, cute white fences and safe little streets lined with just the most adorable cobblestones that makes the housewives squee, it's practically required. At least it's required to imitate it, serve a watered down emotion for the masses, stuffed with the comfortable certainty of never having to demonstrate it where it would cause just the slightest discomfort to oneself.

In Torn, it's a different matter altogether. It's boldness, rebellion of the most twisted kind, rose vines worn on bared skin - beautiful, velvety petals, perfumed scents trying to mask thorns digging into one's skin, siphoning blood with every single move taken. But isn't worth found in actions taken heedless of one's own safety? Strength harnessed from a proud, lifted head, even if the nose if bloodied, the eyes swollen or the lips cracked? There are hopeless romantics, wanting to die with dignity and integrity in a place where these hold weight and test convictions, not just simple sets of glass orbs on the branches of evergreens. He was such a one. For how long, he couldn't know. But he had no plans to give up just like that.

- Of course we will. Well, I kind of need to, anyway due to work. But I'll be glad to give a you a copy.

He stiffles a chuckle at Lilly's first foray into spraying paint. Like a puppy activating sprinklers. These moments are important, for they happen only once. A small slice of humanity, a little piece of childlike wonder never to happen the same way again. The question directed at him makes him raise a tentative eyebrow. It is unexpected in itself, to be sure, but coming from the silent, hesitant girl, it's more of a crowning monent of success than a simple observation. 

- Well... my mother was born in Pennsylvania, but travelled all over. My father is Japanese. I'm kind of from both.... or neither. In between.

His discomfort is light, but visible. He does not hesitate with the answer, it is the topic itself that puts him on the spot. A quick, reflective change is in order to yank things back on track. Steel gray eyes silently asking for understanding.

- Can't say that I have ever visited South Africa before. The only connection I can think of is working with king protea.

He adds with a small, embarassed laugh. Of course, there are the general geography lessons from school he remembers, but sharing those is pretty shallow, and would only result you being thought an annoying little know-it-all. 

- A writer and a lawyer, huh? It's an interesting combination.

It might sound like simple pleasantry formatted as an answer. But somehow Shiro has the talent, the ability to seem  (and be) earnest in his interactions with the world he finds himself in. A quality which might thought of as being endearing, but it puts a setious damper of ever being taken seriously. 

- How did you end up with this combination of professions?

He is interested. Free-flowing prose or poetic little plays of words rarely match the dry, factual texts and expressions required from an agent of the law, no matter their reputation in Torn. Also, he has a hard time imagining the shrinking violet-lily having the required abundance of confidence and lack of morals to excel at this kinf of job. Of course, judging a book by its cover is one surefire way to get a permanent residence at the local cemetery. It gives an interesting edge to the girl, a stroke of blood-red paint on a pencil sketch. 

The wall slowly, but surely gets covered in the color of a clear night. Asking for some different shades of blue from his partner in crime down there, he adds some depth to it, making it really feel like one stares into faraway space. Letting it dry a little, he again motions for his bag from the top of the wall.

- Would you kindly pass me one of the white ones? Also, there is a big brush in there, the kind used for painting rooms. Grab it and a can of white paint for yourself. You'll be making stars, Lilly.

He smiles playfully, following up with more precise intructions.

- Grab the brush, and spray it thoroughly with the white paint. It should drip a little.

Waiting patiently for the girl to finish, he starts with the outline of a moon crowning their so far lightless artwork.

- Got it? Great! Now, if you ever felt the need to just hit something, here's your time to shine. Strike it all out. Try it, it's quite therapeutic.

His tone is encouraging, lacking any judgemental edge. Striking with the brush in front of the wall - but not touching it - will leave small, pale splatters across the frame, reminscient of starts in the distance. The angle and force behind the strokes will also leave them randomised just the right way to seem natural. How many stars does Lilly wishes to adorn the sky with? How much frustration is she willing to work into something pretty? It's all hers to decide. 

[Rebellious Optimism]

Lilly looked at the outlines of the moon Shiro was working on. The wall was slowly transforming into a midnight scene—deep blues curling across the concrete like ocean waves under starlight.

She reached for a brush and a can of white spray paint. Stars, she thought. We need stars.

As she carefully added faint twinkles to the corner of the wall, she spoke casually, like she was just talking to the night.

“I do mostly research at the law firm. Very mundane. I don’t think people even know my name. My workspace is in a tiny room in the basement.”

She glanced at Shiro. He looked… happy. Focused. Content. Like this was his sanctuary—marking the forgotten walls of Torn with bursts of rebellion and beauty.

Maybe it was the flower shop job, she thought—the way he seemed to understand colors, how they needed each other to come alive.

Shiro was different. Torn hadn’t dimmed him. Not yet.

At one point, he mentioned the King Protea—the national flower of South Africa. That made her smile.

A memory bloomed—unexpected, vivid.

Her grandfather. An artist. Oil was his medium. He could paint anything: landscapes, portraits, abstract explosions of color, and even the modern madness people pretended to understand.

He used to say, “Lilla,”—his nickname for her—“if flowers had a face, yours would be the Protea. A queen.”

Her breath caught. She quickly looked away and wiped a tear with the back of her hand.

Tears were weakness in Torn. You don’t wear your heart on your sleeve here—you bury it. Deep. Beneath bravado, foul language, and fake intentions.

She sat down, knees pulled to her chest, and closed her eyes.

Not from the painting. She wasn’t tired because of the spray cans or the memory. 

She was exhausted from surviving.

From always looking over her shoulder.

Eyes in the back of your head were a myth, and even if you had them, they’d never catch everything.

Strange how Shiro’s energy made her feel she could rest. Just for a few moments.

[Rebellious Optimism]

- I do not know if it sounds safe or awful.

Probably both. He smiles a lopsided smile, visualising working from a small cube of concrete. Well, he doesn't need to strain his imagination: when doing the IT side of his thing, he shuts himself in, sometimes for days before braving the sun again. But she is different. She has little control of her cravings: warmth, humanity, genuine bonds, not being confined alone and forgotten... while also longing for the kind of cold, hard safety that lives in shaded, enclosed spaces. Still having the spark of trying to connect to others. Although it is being dimmed, it will never go out. For one such as Lilly, living in this moment, in this state, in this time is both a blessing and ardous torture. Time and her will may temper it to strength or make it a burden to hard to bear, no way around that.

He sees her hesitation from the corner of his eye. A moment of weakness, reminiscence bursting forth from the smallest of nostalgic gestures and familiar memories. Breath forced out of already empty lungs, painful stings behind tired eyes. He does not follow her, not yet. The want to comfort her is impulsive, rash: even in her frailty, this young woman carries herself with pride, an assurance, a need prove she's a survivor. She needs that confirmation, her few moments of solitude where she can decide if she wants to talk. To be talked to with kind words, to be touched by the smallest of encouraging graze of friendliness. Shiro will give her such a time.

After finishing the elegant crescent amidst the vast blue, he sprays and rubs a faint, greyish white halo of light around it, then hops down from the wall with a small thud. He grabs two cans, each a different green, and paints fast, brushy lines of grassy fields on the bottom. They are short and just a tad uneven, just as if made by a paintbrush on a canvas. Finishing that, he grabs one of the darker and paler pinks. While not a perfect recreation from memory, soon, blooming buds of king protea adorn the lower parts of the wall. Some are small, some are way bigger: one of them is a little pinker, the other almost deathly pale. But there they are, each a single, completed, radiant blossom. Only after they are done does he sits besides Lilly. Close, shoulders almost touching, but not quite. He's relaxed, cross-legged, completely unaware of a white smear accross the bridge of his nose.

- I always liked the idea of a night garden. 

He starts slowly, glancing next to him him to see if she's listening. He does not expect anything more, just a pair of attentive ears. It almost feels like he's just talking to himself, into nothing, just making sure he can still hear his own voice.

- Plants need sunlight, everyone knows that. They get no sun, they die, simple as that. So no one in their right mind would grow them in shadows. But this is just the thing: there are many flowers which just go on when it is taken away from them. Even better: some simply bloom better during the night. One would think no such grace exists in a place without the light of the day. But that's just the beauty in it, that simple impossibility. These little, delicate things persist in the dead of night, undeterred. Like they are saying: screw the sun, I'm going to live, no matter what. And they do, wonderfully. I think it's powerful. Inspiring.

Then he fells silent, having little doubt Lilly would understand what he's saying. The mural needs a few finishing touches, more flowers, a little shading. But taking a break won't hurt either of them. Enjoying five minutes of peace in Torn while it lasts.

[Rebellious Optimism]

Lilly listened attentively as Shiro spoke about sunlight—how plants need it to bloom, to flourish, to stretch into their full glory.

He was right. Flowers do need light.

She reached into the back pocket of her cargo pants and pulled out her phone. A few taps, and a picture glowed on the screen.

She nudged Shiro gently, holding the phone out to him.

“The moonflower blooms at night,” she said with a soft smile. “Just like the night garden on this wall.”

Lilly stood, eyes scanning the art behind him. It was more than graffiti—it was a story. Emotion. A kind of soft rebellion. He wasn’t just spraying paint; he was whispering truth across concrete.

He was intelligent—not loud, not crude like others she’d met in Torn. There was poetry in the way he chose to express himself.

If you really looked—if you listened—you’d find a person shaped by hardship, yes, but also by empathy and a deep understanding of human nature.

Torn had left rough edges on him. But it hadn’t broken him. Not in the way it broke most people.

His difference was his superpower. Not brute strength, not intimidation—but the courage to paint night gardens instead of profanity. The boldness to offer beauty in a place designed to erase it.

“We should finish this,” she said after a moment, holding her hand out to help him up. “Take a photo. I should be going soon—can’t be out too late. Not safe.”

Her hand hovered there, open. Not just for balance—but as a gesture of trust.

A gesture of saying we can have many more adventures together. 

[Rebellious Optimism]

-Hmm?

He blinks a few times-absent mindedly as the cooly lit picture enters his field of vision. Scrutinizing it, he nods enthusiastically.

-Yes, yes it does. It would fit nicely in this garden, too.

Appreciating the idea, he starts rummaging through his backpack, picking out cans that roughly match the color on Lilly's picture, and putting away the rest. Also, the empty ones. One might vandalize the suburbian border without a care, but damned he'll be if caught littering. Few things are as vulgar as leaving one's thrash lying around. He'd swore there was another light blue one around there... scratching the side of his head, puzzled, he leaves a thin stripe of white in his raven hair, a stroke of winter, a sign of his old soul.

- All right, just a second. Aha, there you are!

He proudly lifts the cans, like a dog who finally dug up something important. That is when he notices Lilly's oustretched hand, offered so naturally and in such a casual manner. As any normal person would. In a normal place, in peaceful times. A small resolution, a promise, a wish to stand and help others do the same. He takes it gladly, with a smile. One that easily reaches his eyes, sprinkling new shades of steely gray in his gaze.

- Let's do it.

Another nod, a small and sharp one. He tosses one of the cans to the girl. She can start on one side, he on the other. It's not important if it's not museum art quality or differs due to being made by two people. It will make the picture richer, more layered, interesting. An unconventional contract of their meeting. Proof it happened. That they happened, lived, existed. Having finished, he lets out a sigh that he seemed to be keeping in for a while now.

-It's almost sad that I have to add a slogan and logo on it. Well, just a little one on the edge....

Caught up in the moment, he managed to forget for a moment that he needs this artwork for a job, a PR move for both the flower shop he works at, and also for the graffiti crew he hangs out with. He takes a painstakingly meticulous approach to place it, not to spoil anything they have created.

- Now for the pictures.

His smile saddens a little. He is happy to make a photo of it, of course, but painfully aware how much a keepsake is needed. This wall might be repainted, capped by someone wanting to do better or willing to do worse. Maybe bulldozed, broken down. Whatever happens to it, the only (semi) permanent mark rests in their memory and in a folder of their phones. Taking a few shots, he waves his phone towards Lilly.

-Want to trade numbers? I promise not to stalk you.

He chuckles good-naturedly. Not the most appropriate joke in Torn, but if you are not willing to find levity in your situation here, you are doomed either way. He doesn't mind if the girl refuses, he will not force her. But it would be good to hear from her one of these days.

Lilly and Shiro worked in silence on the finishing touches of the midnight garden. Stars danced across the wall, flowers bloomed under a painted moon, and color kissed every inch of what had once been just another forgotten slab of concrete.

When he stepped back and added his name to the corner—small, discreet, but proud—she smiled. This afternoon hadn’t been productive by the world’s usual standards, but in Torn, joy was a rare currency. And today, she felt rich. Not just because of the mural, but because of Shiro.

He snapped a few pictures with his phone, careful angles, a close-up of the moonflower, even one with her laughing. 

“I’ll walk past this wall someday and think, I made a friend here.” she said 

That kind of memory couldn’t be erased. It wasn’t painted—it was printed in the heart with invisible ink.

To her surprise, Shiro held out his phone. “Can I get your number?”

She blinked, then smiled wider. “Sure.”

She stepped closer, gently took the phone, and typed her number in. As she handed it back, she noticed a streak of white paint across the bridge of his nose. Without thinking, she reached out and wiped it with her thumb.

“You had a little zebra stripe,” she teased with a soft giggle.

For a moment, Torn faded. And all that remained was a boy, a girl, and a garden blooming in the dark.

[Rebellious Optimism - Ending]


He gracefully steps back and lets Lilly bask in the emotions clinging onto the bricks just as much as the paint does. The open skies carry the fumes far, far away, leaving only the vivid impressions of a few peaceful, happy moments. His pictures are from a different angle, a little distant, more professional at first. He needs evidence to both his bosses, and including those personal touches on them are not only unnecessary, but downright dangerous. But after that, he succumbs to giddiness, a more innocent and childilke sense of achievement. Is this his best work? Probably not. But it is special, unique. It was made not just by his skillful hand, but by a slowly forming and hopefully far-reaching bond, a seal pressed on harmonious, synconized feelings. The shots showing the garden? They are pretty, but the ones showing joyful, unrestrained laughter of a would-be-friend? Those cannot be measured by money or riches, not even blood. Those are commonplace here. This small, conserved moment of levity? Rarer than any gem resting beneath the scorched earth.

- Right.

He sighs a small sigh, comtemplating, airy. The small smile creeps up his lips again, slowly but surely.

- It's a fair trade. I have these - he motions to the pictures taken, with Lilly on some of them - and you can remember me anytime you see my tag around town. Most people won't know who made them. But you will. It's kind of like a secret, which is only yours. I'm grateful to you.

There are actually many of them around the town, but no especially fond memories are painted into them. At least not like this one, not to the ones who might see them each day on the way to work or to commit a crime under them. Every time the girl lays eyes on any of those, it will remake him, trace and etch his contours into reality were apathy might have already made them fade. A small part of his existence lies with her now, called to life each time she cares to recall him. 

- Just a second....

He saves the number, then gives it a ring. That would make Lilly have his number too. A strenous connection, but it's there. It's calming, makes one feel more secure simply by being there. Being busy with his phone, he does not notice being touched at first. His first reflex is to shudder, but he supresses it. It does not always have to be the way it is on any other day. He's sure she feels the same way. Tomorrow, they'll both go on with their Torn lives, watching over both shoulders and doing their best to carve out the right of taking another breath. But today does not have to be that day. It won't.

- Oops! 

He giggles, still high on positive emotions, with frayed nerves tickled by something pleasant, stimulated by a momentary haze of contentment. But it has to go, time has to move ever forward, as it always does. For him, for her. The value of this day lies in its lonely quality, in the fact it has never happened before, and only has a small chance to happen again. But small chances are better then nothing. They can be exchanged with reality, if one is tenacious enough. And tenacity is something both of them seem to have an ample supply of. He goes for his things silently, checking his watch, packing up. It is almost sundown.

- Hey, Lilly.

He turns around halfway, already wearing his backpack, full of all the reminders of today's adventures. His eyes are calm, resolute, glinting with the strength of the steel that colours them.

-It is not the last time we'll meet. I'm sure of it.

The meaning hidden in those indirect words, the binding power of a promise, no a guarantee: he will live to see that day. And so will she.



(Thank you for the fantastic game!)