The Cipher Complex

Fibi looked up at the paper, sounding out each letter to try and form words; though, despite her trying, everything came out slurred and messy as she tried to chew her pancakes at the same time. She had arrived only minutes ago, grabbing a tray before sitting and stuffing her face with pancakes and eggs. Fibi tousled onto her back, reaching out her hands in front of her as she looked at it carefully; she took up about two seats sitting lying outstretched like that, yet she hardly noticed.

She began to mouth the words, before swishing the food to cheek to cheek- something was different; perhaps sweeter; cake-like or even thicker? Whatever it was, it caused Fibi to sit straight up, blood rushing from her head and back down to her body caused her to sway a little. Within an instant, the paper was completely forgotten as she began to stuff more pancakes and eggs into her mouth, not caring if they really mix up before they went into her mouth. Before she noticed who was sitting a table away from her, her cheeks where starting to resemble a squirrel; there Rowan sat, her mind seeming off in some distant place. Ah well, who doesn’t drift off here once and while.

Within a few seconds, Fibi had finished her breakfast, and her attention was instantly back on to the crumbled, sticky piece of paper, which was now coated in the slimy residue of syrup. Her legs lifted from the floor as she swung them outwards and back in, as if she was swinging on a swing; her arms shifted above her head as she once again, tried to mouth the word- sounding out each letter to try and form a word. “Ss-s-O-mmm-meh…” She thought for a while before the word hit her. “Some… some… some…” She rolled the around her tongue as she tried to figure out the others. “Somewhere,” She stated, biting her tongue to hold in her excitement.

After a few minutes of sitting there, she finally figure out what the little note said; it was quite interesting actually, and even her non-existent curiosity began to stir. It soon faded when she got distracted by the puddle of syrup that stayed on her tray. She poured the rest of the milk onto the syrup and began to make swirls in it with her finger; sure, she may look crazy from a distant on looker, but right now, she could care less- she was trying to make her flower. Well, something like it.

Fibi’s hands huddled over it, her finger dripping a little syrup back onto her tray. The flower uplifted up off of the tray and stood out of the syrup; it’s crooked and lopsided petals drooping and dripping with syrup. Poor flower. Her hand reached over towards it and she ‘plucked’ it out of the syrup, shoving it back into her tray, head first. It didn’t take long before her boredom caught up to her, and she reached over to the small glass of water towards her right and drizzled it down onto the flower before it dispersed.

A slight sigh escaped her lips; her brown eyes threaten to close as she began to hum a soft tune of one of Mozart’s songs. Her head sways as her finger hilts up, then down, and back up to the other side; her eyes opened as she watched those in front and around her.

After what seemed like hours, the dining room started to clear out. People began to return their trays, and shuffle out of the room to begin their days. Many went to study, to play games, to go on with their two dimensional lives like a machine. Others returned to their rooms to sleep. This was often what Marcus chose to do. He could lay down, close his eyes, and stop living for just a little bit. His room was his sanctuary; in it, he could be himself. The walls were covered in drawings, birds mostly, but also people. He was a terrible artist, so they would look rather pathetic compared to, say, someone who took a eighth grade art class. Still, they were his, and he was proud of them. His desk was covered in scratch paper and pencils. He wrote poetry too, though never love poetry. He just couldn't bring himself to do it.

Accompanying his "art" was a motley collection of other people's art. Books of poetry, novels, and books full of pictures of paintings, and their history. He liked reading novels the most and, of them, he primarily read romance. Not kid stuff, but young adult novels, and nothing with vampires or angels. He preferred good stories, about real life. In a way, it let him live different lives. His favorite author was John Green, and Marcus owned all of his books, or at least all of the ones that the library had. The books(mostly) followed the same general formula: awkward young adult is sort of going nowhere in life, meets spontaneous and fun and exciting and mysterious other young adult, falls in love, learns life lesson, and then deals with a tragedy. However, the books always ended on an uplifting note which was the part Marcus liked. Although he could never fit the description of a John Green protagonist, he certainly identified with them, and though Rowen Butler was certainly no Alaska Young or Augustus Waters, in Marcus' eyes, she definitely was. However, in those novels, the people have different problems. No one is a freak of nature mutant who can control fire, no one is trapped in a mysterious, creepy complex in the middle of the desert. Their problems were simple and mundane and, because it was fiction, the love interest always ended up with the hero, and everything was great(at least for a while). It made sense. It would be bad storytelling if nothing good happened to the characters.

At any rate, today would be a day where Marcus did not return to his room to read or draw, but he instead headed for the library. Specifically, he was after poetry. The note was written like an excerpt from a poem, and if he suspected right, then finding the whole poem might give a little more insight to what it had meant. That seemed like a monumental undertaking, and it was, but what else would Marcus spend his time doing? Besides, being in the library meant being in the place that offered the best chance at running into Rowen. That thought crept into his head as he started down the halls, but he reminded himself that he had a real, actual reason for going, and that fantasies were just second.

“If anything, I’m sure someone picked it up. I’ll just have to make a new one. Do you— do you know how to weave bracelets?”
Fibi nodded her head, causing her curls to fly up once more; of course she made bracelets! Granted, she’d destroy them after five minutes, but she still made them. She could make them out of anything really; food, walls, floors, trays- etc. Sometimes, they were even edible; gross, but edible. Maybe Rowen wanted a new one after she lost her old one, though Fibi couldn’t sympathize or empathize with her, but she could try to make her a new one.

“Do you want to make some together?” She asked in an almost, abrupt tone. Her eyes were, once again, distracted by a pretty brunette that feathered by; she looked like a picture she saw in the library that was in a Renaissance Art book. The painting that was in the book was by Agnolo Bronzino; it was a woman who stared back at you with her dull, blue eyes with her stubby fingers over her chest. Her hair, just like the girl who walked by, her tray in her hands, was pinned up in tight, rolled back rolls that went to the back of her head. Fibi automatically thought of drawing her on her walls, but then remembered that her walls where already tight in space- not even a single line could be drawn without over-painting on another painting, which had been done a thousand times. Guess paper would do for now, or her blanket; she had to ask for paint, and could only get a few per month- boy, was she lucky that she did! Her paints were usually used up by the end of the month so replacing them just in time where convenient.

Then again, if Fibi had a specific color she knew she wouldn’t get in some time, she’d probably substitute the color with toothpaste or food, perhaps even some makeup. Without really knowing it, Fibi had ignored poor Rowen, wallowing in her own thoughts and practically blocking out whatever Rowen did or said. She looked down at the pretty girl, a slight smile pinching at her lips. “Later.” She said, meaning for the bracelet thing- if Fibi even remembered it herself, which the chance of that happening was probably fifty percent. Oh well. Before Fibi could think, she raised her hand up to Rowen’s face and waved a good bye; obviously bored with conversation at hand now- not that she had the intention of showing it. With that, she made her way out of the cafeteria, leaving her tray behind her on the table as she pranced and toddled back towards her room. Usually, after eating and playing with her food, Fibi would make her way back to her room, spending most of her time singing out loud, painting or drawing; this she did today. After turning down the hallways, and climbing up the latter, Fibi finally entered her room.

Her room had drawings and paintings sprawled all over the walls and the floors- even the ceilings had their fair share of paintings and drawings; while the floors themselves where completely covered in either paper, clothes or makeup. Stepping on something was necessary for even moving around in the small, tiny room. Her feet trudge against the floor, causing the stuff to build up and spill over the side of where her feet were. Empty paint bottles, squeezed to the point where they were inside-out, littered most of the corners of her room. Dirty paintbrushes stuck to the walls for an ‘added effect’ of some of her drawings and paintings. Once she was at a certain corner of her room, Fibi dropped to her knees and her hands where glued to the floor, searching around the pigs’ sty. Finally, after what seemed like five minutes, she pulled out a long, purple ribbon that came off of one of her shirts; she tied both ends of the ribbon and wrapped it around her hair like a pony-tail. Now it was time to get down to business- after she finds a marker…

Fibi spent most of her morning drawing on her sheets; drawing the girl she saw in the cafeteria, drawing Rowen and once she got bored of drawing girls, she began drawing whale-like creatures that where deformed in the face. Sometimes she would sing out loud a soft tune, while other times she’d hum classical music while swinging her feet up in the air. Once she became bored of drawing on her sheets, she stood on her bed and slid her hands along the wall, bringing to life whatever touched her hands; she’d play with them, get bored and then destroyed them, sending them back to her walls until this afternoon after lunch. This all together took several hours, by the time she exited her tiny, messy room, breakfast was practically over. People where exiting the cafeteria and either heading towards their rooms or going somewhere else. Fibi twirled in the hallway, singing her song that probably was louder than it should’ve been; her voice carrying on through the halls, and instantly sending a message to the oncoming people. Most of the people avoided her, while others ignored her. She began to make her to the library, more and likely to rent out a book with lots of pictures in it so she could re-draw them on the mattress.

”Do you want to make some together?” Fibi asked, and Rowen had to bite back a grimace. She’d only wanted to know if she could show her; a yes or a no would have sufficed for an answer. But that wasn’t how people worked, she supposed. She had to pause a moment to formulate some form of a polite refusal, staring down at the wood grain as though it would somehow speed up her thinking processes. Rowen’s wings folded into her back, and she was lost in thought for a good handful of seconds before her attention drifted back to reality. When she opened her mouth to speak, however, she caught only a glimpse of bouncing curls down below as they disappeared into the throngs of people jolted up from their seats to leave the room. There the girl was, again, lost among the confusion of human nature. Rowen huffed to herself. She was hopeless, wasn’t she? She hadn’t even noticed her as she’d left.

Perhaps it was all for the better that she hadn’t spoken, though, as it seemed as though reality was where the dreams that laced her words went to die. Keeping them silent inside her would keep them alive, wouldn’t it? Because anything was true so long as she could delude herself into thinking it. Once the truth crushed her ability to lie to herself, it was all over. Anything was possible when she was left with a question unanswered. Maybe the girl had forgotten about her in that moment when she’d decided to leave. Maybe she wouldn’t remember having wanted to make bracelets. Even though Rowen told herself that it was decidedly true, she knew she couldn’t justify it if anything ever came to the contrary. For all she knew of Fibi, she was off to find string and would be back any moment— and Rowen didn’t want to stick around to let their exchange sputter some more before dying away. She had to crush it now. In a halfhearted effort to clear her mind as she moved on, she crowned her own clean plate with Fibi’s sticky masterpiece.

Drifting through the crowd, Rowen was careful to avoid any of the breakfast-time stragglers, lest they be too chatty for her tastes. The crowd at this time usually didn’t pose much of a problem; it was, for the most part, the late-sleeping loners who couldn’t be bothered to be knocked out of their early morning stupor for a pointless conversation. In terms of drifting among social groups with no real intentions of talking to any of their members, it was certainly one of Rowen’s favorites. They hardly even spared her a glance in her passing towards the tray-disposal window. It was a wide, squat hole in the wall, hardly big enough to squeeze through even if she spread her wings wide and flat and pressed them hard into her back. She didn’t plan on squeezing through, that morning, though she had tried it on occasion. There wasn’t much to see: after setting her tray on the black belts just inside the window, it snaked to the right and dropped unceremoniously into a bathtub-sized blue bin just out of view.

In the days before she had bothered to explore it, she had originally thought the room much bigger. The window itself was a good twelve feet long, set into the back wall of the cafeteria just next to the serving areas. In reality, it was hardly any larger than the portion of her room underneath the sleeping area, built to be maneuvered by no more than one or two people. The impermeable tile enclosure housing the plates and castoff food, which made the perfect hideaway for her more drug-addled brethren, narrowed into a slender hallway no more than two feet wide. It could fit the bin and perhaps a person, provided they could unlock the keypad set into the door handle at the end of the inset. Rowen had found no particular use for it, and, as far as she was aware, it led only to the sections of the semi-circle not already visible as part of the lunchroom: the dishwashing area and the kitchen store-rooms, both well-guarded to prevent, respectively, the unknown and food theft. Even Rowen’s thirst for knowledge had dulled over time to not care about what was behind that door— it was something she’d long since giving up on unlocking, and for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why she didn’t care; the question of why it didn’t bother her seemed to plague her more than unknown, which was a rarity she handled with some suspicion.

As an individual with little want for others, Rowen had come to be well aware of her own tendencies. Among the most familiar was her curiosity: an unquenchable thing that flared up, much to her chagrin, in just over eighty percent of the least appropriate times. She had grown accustomed to having to feed her desire to know. An absence of her metaphorical mind-stomach’s growls was a refreshing silence, but it was an eerie one, regardless. It was curious that she wasn’t curious. Still, in following her lack of curiosity about the room, she set her plates down and moved on without event. Her footsteps were light and bounded up and down with an unrestrained energy seeping from her calloused soles. She’d eaten to fly that morning, and it was that she intended to do. Her bangles jingled with each step she took over polished wood and stone tile alike— though they made more noise on the latter, she noted. She silenced her footsteps in the hallway. They followed a path well-ingrained into her muscle memory, and she hardly needed to spare a glance around to know the turns. If she measured each step carefully enough, she could count: twenty-seven steps from the dining room, left, follow the wall for seventy-three. Right, then another forty straight forward. Turn right. Three steps. Left— she was passing the tiny washroom tucked away for those who needed it badly enough. Somehow, someone managed to find it and clean it, if only once a week. She’d never needed it; as it was located right outside the chapel, it was never far from the library, which housed its own— two, in fact, with one each for men and women.

Rowen took a sudden left and ducked through the open wooden door, arriving in a dimly-lit room made of stone and colored glass. The odd things carved into the wall proclaimed it a chapel, though she wasn’t completely sure what a chapel was. Everything she’d ever read had assumed she was already familiar with the concept; by result, she’d only ever learned that they housed weddings. Hardly any weddings had ever taken place in the Complex, so it made sense that the chapel, for the most part, served only to store an ever-growing community of dust bunnies communing under the benches. Even from the dictionary, she’d managed to glean nothing more than the fact that it was used to worship someone or other.

Statues of men nailed to posts loomed over the stone enclosure. Despite their strange imagery, they looked beautiful under the dappled color falling through the windows above. The men looked similar— perhaps they were brothers? Their smooth, somehow inhuman features gave away nothing of their story, only sitting in stony silence, expecting that she somehow already knew their story.

Above the brothers, however, posed her favorite image, by far: a winged man with yellow hair. His wings were white and unmottled by the black spots so prevalent on her own, and they hung at a funny angle, but she couldn’t help feeling some sort of kinship with the man despite his many oddities. As a ritual, it was always the open-air window above him Rowen perched on before taking off into the heat outside. Rowen gave a farewell glance to the dying brothers before turning her back to them, leaning forward, spreading her wings, and letting herself drop. Like a parachute, they caught the air and slowed her fall until she forced them down, up, then down again. Massive muscles for massive wings flexed and exerted their power to carry Rowen up, up higher until she was diving and catching the desert drift high above the chapel’s rather imposing, pointed roof. There was still higher a distance to climb before she would be able to land in a perch on the glass dome covering the library tower, and her spiralled trajectory soon carried her there. She spread her wings wide, coasting in on a practiced bout of residual energy left from flight. Rowen released her abdominals, holding her, in tandem with the wind, nearly parallel to the ground before tucking her knees to her chest.

One.
Rowen folded herself tighter. The glass dome, a fragile thing perplexingly strong in the desert sun, was hardly six meters away.

Two.
The dome neared. It was close enough for Rowen’s mind to switch to feet. At ten feet away, she released her arms from around her knees and spread her wings as wide as she could to catch the air and slow her down. Five feet, three feet.

Three.
Her feet pressed down into the glass, and Rowen had to catch herself from slamming face-first into the glass. She’d seen birds botch the landing all too many times. But she’d made it, and her face was fine, just as usual. The roof hadn’t cracked— it never had. Against the whipping breeze, she crawled over the roof until she found the single hinged panel and let it up before hopping down and in, drawing it shut on her way in. She folded her wings into her body and slipped through.

Finally— some peace among her books.

Brandon had seen the note among his morning meal. Of course he was a curious young man, and most definitely would read the note later, but now, it was time to get some calories into his body. The morning bustle began as the residents of the Complex came to get their breakfast. A couple even said hi to Brandon. He was, in no way, popular. At least, not as massively popular as Marcus. He had friends, and he talked to them daily, but he never had crowds of people doting over him. Which Brandon very much enjoyed. Companionship was a lovely thing, but talk about overdose. The king of the Complex's social circles must have the patience of a god.

After taking a few bites of pancake and egg, Brandon removed a small orange bottle of pills from his pant's pocket. The pills were his medication. Brandon never liked to take the pills, because he knew what they did. The doctors say that Brandon's ability allows him to access around 35 percent of his brain, but that extra percentage is only good for using his ability. It can't retain knowledge, and doesn't get much exercise. The doctors also tell him that if his brain usage was 50 percent, the horrible side-effects would stop. But the meds wouldn't let that happen. They stopped Brandon from accidentally killing himself. Alas, it was his price to pay for his power, and he bared it bravely. Popping two small white pills in his mouth, Brandon takes a gulp of water and forces the medication down. It only takes a few minutes before he can feel his mind dull, just a little, but still noticeable.

Two tables over, Fibi sat, playing in the day's breakfast. The girl always managed to fascinate Brandon. Her eccentricities made her so interesting. And her ability to animate her makeshift creations was just as remarkable, even if the girl did brutally destroy them shortly after their birth. Brandon usually watched her make a mess on her plate most days, as it served to brighten his morning often. Although, he never talked to her. One of these days, he would. Fibi sat up from her art session to read from a small piece of paper. She wasn't being very subtle about it, so Brandon could see that it looked like the slip of paper he'd found. Though, he couldn't hear what Fibi said, as the chatter in the dining room was much too loud.

Rowen eventually came down from her balcony to talk to Fibi. Brandon never really took notice of her, probably because she was trying to keep it that way. All he knew was her name, and that she had very cool wings. The winged girl came over to Fibi, and shortly after, Fibi went straight under the table and began looking for something. An audible thump sounded from the area, and Brandon suppressed a chuckle when she got up, seemingly unfazed. He also followed her gaze to the area over the railing, where Marcus was dumping this week's admirer.

Not caring too much for the drama, Brandon finished his breakfast and sent his tray through the window at the back of the cafeteria. He made his way out into the hall, before the after-meal rush could sweep him through the halls. His destination was the library, to do some research on psychology.

Now, Brandon steps through the halls, rubber soles thumping lightly on the wood floor, heading towards the depository of knowledge. On his way, he passes the chapel. Brandon never understood the concept of religion, a concept which he gleaned from his research. All he knows is that the hope of life after death and the thought of a creator gave people purpose; purpose defines one's outlook on life, therefore, their own psychology. Shaking his head, Brandon passes through the double doors of the library, and heads off to the back, where he could read in peace. Once he sits down in a chair, Brandon pulls the note out, and gives it a read.

Somewhere,
a desert rose blooms

A note so cryptic and poetic it hurt. Sighing, Brandon grabs a stack of books. This little line would be a tough one to crack, but a satisfying challenge none the less. Although, when did they start giving out riddles at meals?

It took Fibi a while before she reached the library, taking back way hallways as she pranced and twirled around in the dim-lighted area. She had founded these hallways when she was just a child, taking her now lost friend down here to play hide and go seek with her drawn-to-life creations. The walls had faded stick figures that looked to be various years old; yet, it still had that unique touch that could be found in most of Fibi’s creations. She hummed a tune out loud with her arms spread out away from her body; turning towards a door and going through it, she made her way to the library.

The moment she had entered the library, she was instantly hushed; from the sounds of her loud and accented voice fading down to a calm whisper and the way she instantly lowered her hands to a walking gait once more, it was apparent that the hushes where not as nice as they could’ve been. It didn’t matter though, since Fibi instantly took up singing out loud once more once she had entered the art area of the library; her own world engulfing her once more.
“Un loup hurlera, seul, un loup hurlera, seul, au grand dam du loup solitaire, elle doit hurler seul.” She sang, her small voice carrying the French words out past the shelves of books she was looking at. Her slim, long fingers peered out of her sweat jacket, pulling out a small book with Italian written a crossed it. Fibi flipped through the pictures, holding it up in the air as she twirled around in the certain area, chasing people away from her or out of her way.

(Sorry for the short and crappy post; I was kind of brain-dead for this rp. >0<; )