Half of the fun in adventuring is getting really lost, only to figure out where you are again.

It began as a way to kill time-- this place didn't look very big, from the outside, and Alma was set on learning the lay of the Sanctuary in one afternoon. But, apparently, there were underground levels. Obviously. Dimly-lit, cramped, tunnel-like passages that were wholly unoccupied by the usual hustling, bustling residents. The dark-haired beauty strolled along, bodachs swarming behind her as per the usual, hazel eyes sweeping up and down the hall with piqued curiosity.

Alma got the impression that she wasn't supposed to be there.

That just made it all the more exciting.

Her footsteps were quick and light upon the carpet, her lips thinned speculatively. She was under the Vehicle Bay, somewhere... maybe not directly under it, but that's the last well-lit, recognizable location. Now she was... god-knew-where.

Why on earth does a retired church-- a shelter for mutants-- have such a spiderweb of underground tunnels?

The dark-haired woman spied a door and jogged closer. She surveyed it skeptically, then tried the doorknob-- locked. She ran to the next door up the hall, trying the doorknob of that one as well. There had to be something great down here. The door opened without much protest, and Alma looked in.

In the poor lighting, she could make out the shape of cardboard boxes-- shelves upon shelves of them, punctuated occasionally by large Ziploc bags. A storage closet. Smaller bodachs pushed past her legs and into the closet, while Alma felt along the wall for a light switch.

There.

Her fingers found the switch, and she flicked it, suddenly lighting up the closet around her. Alma glanced about in wonder, and then... registered what she was seeing. Bags upon bags of pill containers from medical supply warehouses, IV's, and a lot of things that wouldn't be in your run-of-the-mill broom closet.

"Out, out, out!" Alma hissed at the bodachs, herding them out of the closet before slamming the door shut. Just her luck, they'd break something. Then whoever was in charge would know that she'd been snooping about. Alma sighed, turning her attention from the door to the room, ducking around a metal shelf to grab one of the baggies of pill containers.

She turned it over, surveying the pill description. Something already felt sketchy about this-- but when she saw a single, incriminating letter, her stomach flopped.

"M"

She was in a closet full of drugs.

"M**rda..." Alma breathed. She had to get out of there, and fast. She tossed the bag onto the shelf from whence it came, yanking the door open to leave.

On the other side of that door, there was now an invisible concrete wall. And on the other side of that invisible wall, there was a tall, slender, dark-haired man with an invisible dry erase board. The board had words written on it in red ink:

Excuse me, madam, but wtf r u doin?

Dorian had left the stash alone for fifteen minutes, and somebody already found it.

They’d just finished teleporting it all in, too. He had the key to lock the closet in his pocket, along with a freshly-written sign that said “DO NOT ENTER” and some tape to keep it on the door. Most of the Sanctuary residents were intelligent enough to take that kind of sign seriously.

Alma came to an abrupt halt, though not on her own fruition. Something stopped her. The man? No, he was too far back. A lank, tall man with long dark hair. Alma stepped back, surveying him with muted confusion. A sickness was rising in her throat.

She reached out towards what seemed to be an open doorway, her fingertips grazing a cool, flat, invisible concrete wall. Alma looked at the man again, finally making note of the words that were hovering in front of him. Alma read slowly.

>> Excuse me, madam-

Okay, Alma understood that.

>> -but wtf r u doin?

The English-learner paused. She only knew textbook-English. Not the colloquial text message garbage. Was that even technically English? Alma stared at the words in confusion, her face scrunching as she reread the second half of the sentence.

What is “wtf”? “R” and “U” made sense when read aloud, but the… “doin”? She read that word as one would pronounce “coin”. She’d never heard of “doin” before. She’d just tell him how it was, and do so truthfully. And hope he didn’t take it too wrongly.

"Perdon,” Alma stammered, “I don’t understand what that means… But, I—I, uh… um… N-no sabia que no p-po—I mean, I did not know that I was not supposed to be in here. It was just an adventure.”

The bodachs were appearing around Dorian, peering up at him, and then at their mistress, testing the invisible barrier. The larger ones were further up the hall, watching him, but slowly bobbing closer. They could sense their mistress’s subtle panic, but yet they couldn’t get to her.

“My English is not very good,” Alma said lamely, “It was by accident. The door was open.”

She could read the sign upon the door just fine, but so long as she was playing-up the “not very good at English” card, she’d let the man come to his own conclusions. She'd play off of whatever prejudices he had.

“I will be quiet. No one will know.”

Dorian sighed. A 20-something who didn’t understand his abbreviations. He could already tell this conversation was going to make his writing hand sore. Without breaking eye contact with the girl, he tossed his invisible writing board down the hallway. As it clattered to the ground, he pantomimed pulling another board off of an invisible shelf and started writing on it.

Easy to say, hard to prove. I don’t know you. Your word isn’t good enough.

As he showed this to her, he seemed deep in thought. He only barely gave his captive enough time to read before he added something else: Do you live in the Sanctuary?

Dorian was already having a crappy day. Having to kill this girl would only make it crappier. He’d rather avoid that, if he could.

Alma watched, astonished, as the man began to write on air. He paid no heed to the shadowy denizens that were lingering about his feet, investigating the invisible barrier. The larger ones were shuffling closer, curious but phlegmatic.

He flashed another message at her, and Almas’ eyes flickered over the red writing. Now, he had abandoned the cryptic mess of letters for short but somewhat more understandable phrases. He then scribbled on an inquiry.

>> Do you live in the Sanctuary?

“Yes, I am staying here,” Alma answered honestly. She refused to call it “living”, though. “Living” was implicative of an intent to stick around, a more permanent living situation. “Living” meant getting comfortable and letting your guard down. Alma had done neither of those. But she had been there for a very long time, “Five months. About.”

She folded her arms casually, questions rising up in her mind. It wasn’t in her place to ask why a house for homeless mutants had such a stash, such a goldmine, like this in its basement. Why it had such an expansive basement, to boot. Lots of questions to ask, and… she peered at the quiet guy in a sidelong fashion… probably no answers. Why was he writing so much, anyways? Who was this guy?

“Alma Elizondo,” Alma said simply, “Solo mira, y lo verás. I live here. I just got very lost.”

Five months? Dang. How had he not noticed her running around before now? He knew he could get absorbed in his work sometimes, but young women with that level of attractiveness were just not common around the Sanctuary.

…Maybe he should verify that story with Lisa. Throwing his last words down the hallway, he held up his pointer finger, signaling for Alma to wait while he pulled out his phone and

that’s when he noticed them. Little black blobs with glowing white eyes, swarming all around them. He scrunched his eyebrows and stared at the creatures for a moment. Since they didn’t seem to be an immediate threat, he continued with his original plan: texting Lisa. Is there an alma elizondo living here?

While he waited for a response from Lisa, he pocketed the phone and grabbed another board to ask another question: Why are we being surrounded by shadow gnomes? He gestured towards the bodachs as he revealed his question.

And that’s when he noticed one of the big ones. He used one hand to hold up his dry erase board, and used his free hand to lean against an invisible wall between him and it.

Alma restrained the inclination to grin when the quiet guy finally noticed the bodachs milling about his feet. He’d pulled out his phone, started to click through it. Alma saw his expression shift when he spied the spectral swarm. His brows furrowed, he paused, but finished his text before jamming his phone back into his pocket. Out came the pen, out came the invisible board, and away his hand flew. Alma, all the while, looked like that cat that had swallowed canary?

>> Why are we being surrounded by shadow gnomes?

The guy glanced down the hall, saw something that Alma could not, and stuck his hand out flat. Alma craned her head, standing on one foot as if struggling to get a look, without avail. For now, answering inquiries about shadow gnomes.

“They are mine,” Alma chuckled, “And trying to come to me.”

Sadly, there was a giant invisible wall in their way. So instead, they settled for stumbling over Stretchs’ shoes, tugging at them, and just being general nuisances. Alma casually balanced her weight upon one foot, inclining her head to the side and keeping her arms folded. Her gaze flickered over the gangly guy, lips pursed. When their eyes met, she quirked a smile.

“If you let me out,” Alma mused, “Or when, I need your help to get back. I am still very lost.”

The least Alma could do was create conversation. Try and talk her way out of this mess. Make herself seem more sympathetic so that he didn’t off her or whatever. She could flirt, get him to pity her… any of those. She just had to figure out his angle.

She tilted her head the other way, her gaze never once leaving him.

“What’s your name?” she inquired lightly.

Dorian kicked at a few of the shadow-blobs, trying to get them away from his shoes. They were kind of annoying. Hopefully, they wouldn’t be capable of much else, and Alma wouldn’t mind his kicking them. He tried to return Alma’s smile, throwing his latest comments at one of the larger shadow blobs without even looking at it.

I’m Dorian, he wrote on a new board. My mutation stops me from speaking, unless you know sign language.

While he was writing, his phone buzzed. He pulled it out, checked it, and pocketed it while Alma read his board. Then, grinning, he reached for an invisible doorknob on Alma’s invisible wall. The wall had changed to include a door, which he began to hold open for her. It sounded just as though he was opening a real door, complete with squeaky hinges. Dropping his words on the floor, he gestured for Alma to leave.

The smaller bodachs giggled as the quiet man tried to kick them out of the way, dodging his kicks for the most part. A few of the smaller ones received blows, but didn’t seem to slow down in the least. And, when the big ones were assaulted by an invisible, board-shaped projectile, it phased right through them. They weren’t interacting with anything, or attempting to do so, thus weren’t solid.

>> I’m Dorian. My mutation stops me from speaking, unless you know sign language.

Alma smiled apologetically and shook her head, and admitted, “Fluent Spanish and decent French, and enough English… no sign language though. Sorry, Dorian.”

Just then, Dorian’s phone hummed, and the mute fished into his pocket, and after surveying it, he reached forward towards the barrier and grabbed an invisible handle. As it slid open, the fake hinges creaked.

“Impressive mutation…” Alma said with a bow, her exaggerated accent faltering. She wasn’t eager to stick around, and turned to leave. But… being freed from the underground drugstore-broom closet, Alma was feeling slightly more audacious.

She turn back to look at the quiet guy, casually folding her arms as she did so.

“That’s an incredible amount of M to be housed under a shelter for homeless mutants,” Alma commented, “Quite silly, considering we’re all… mutants… don’t you think?”

Something was up. There had to be a good supplier to have that much stocked-up beneath the Sanctuary, which was implicative of illicit affairs. Too bad she wasn’t in-touch with her family… Alma would have to do all the grunt work in finding intel on her own. The little bodachs tripped over their mistress's feet, chasing each other about before becoming less dense (to Alma, and therefore invisible to Dorian). The bigger ones vanished as they strolled down the hall, and soon joined her as well.

There’s a saying about curiosity, and it has something to do with cats. Dorian raised an eyebrow at Alma, then turned to an invisible dry erase board behind him.

Protip: Don’t ask questions about organized crime.

Leaving those words floating in the air where Alma could see them, he turned his attention to the closet. Soon it was closed, locked, and adorned with a sign that read ‘DO NOT ENTER.’ Dorian looked Alma in the eyes and gestured towards the sign with a flourish. He looked down at his feet, getting ready to kick at another shadow gnome thing until he realized that they’d all disappeared.

He grabbed another invisible board.

I help people sell it. Good money. Helps get rid of mutant-hate. Don’t tell Lisa.

Of course, Lisa was in on M trade, too. She also knew that Dorian specifically told nosy residents not to tell her about things. A lot of those residents told Lisa all about those things.

Alma lifted her chin marginally as Dorian arched an eyebrow at her, and the message that hovered in front of her wasn’t unexpected.

>> Protip: Don’t ask questions about organized crime.

A normal person would have paled, would have dismissed themselves and quickly ducked away at the mention of organized crime. Alma wasn’t normal, however—she grew up with organized crime, and saw invisible things. Being as unusual as she was, the smallest of curls quirked at the right corner of her mouth. Drug-dealing. She wondered about their relationship with her family, but would have to find out with her own devices.

The mute man gestured pointedly at the “Do Not Enter” sign upon the door, and the girl bashfully rubbed her neck, glancing aside.

“So I am not very observant,” Alma murmured, fixing her hair.

Dorian pulled out another board, expanding upon his explanation.

>> I help people sell it. Good money. Helps get rid of mutant-hate. Don’t tell Lisa.

For someone who didn’t want her to ask questions, he was certainly giving Alma a lot of details. Details which the twenty-year-old took with a grain of salt. Information that was freely given was subject to… fabrication, twisting, improvisation. The only information that you could really trust is what was figured out on your own, or paid well for. The chances that he was telling her the truth? Very slim. That he was telling her everything? Impossible. It would be best for her to do some digging on her own.

“Consider your secret kept,” Alma replied, giving a calm smile, “The last thing I want is trouble. Particularly when this is the only place for me to go.”

She’d have to be more surreptitious. For now, she’d lay low and feign innocence, however. All Alma had was time, so she would have the luxury of waiting it out, to make sure people weren’t keeping an eye on her.

“I do not suppose you could walk with me?” Alma inquired, her brow stitching, “I got very lost, do not know which way to go… I would hate to walk into the wrong room again.”

Dorian very much considered his secret kept. He grinned reassuringly.

There were people on the Order payroll who could intrude on people’s thoughts. He’d make sure they knew her name and her face, and to keep a mind’s eye out for her. They’d let him know about any funny business ahead of time. Not that there was a lot of risk involved, here; even if Alma here went straight to the police, they wouldn’t be able to do much with her testimony after Lisa forged the right paperwork and paid off the right therapists to make her look like a paranoid schizophrenic, and there wouldn’t be any M in the Sanctuary later that day, much less in the forseeable future.

After wiping out his last two comments with an invisible eraser, Dorian gestured for Alma to follow him. He was pretty sure he knew how to get back to the foyer from there. While he was at it, the mute angled his invisible board so Alma could see him write.

How does a cutie like you end up living in the Sanctuary?

The mime erased the words and gestured to the dark-haired young woman. Alma smiled as she was ushered forward, tucking her thumbs in her pocket.

“Oi,” she said at the invisible, shadowy denizens that were frolicking behind them. She murmured a strand of Spanish that equated to, “Follow me or get left behind,” as she meandered off with Dorian, and glanced ahead. That was the only warning she was going to give them.

Her mute friend scrawled a message out to her, and Alma’s hazel-eyed gaze flickered over his writing.

The smallest of smiles touched her lips.

>> How does a cutie like you end up living in the Sanctuary?

Flirting without saying a word—that was definitely a first. Alma looked at Dorian through her lashes, a lilt touching her tone as she answered.

“Well,” her voice trailed on the first word, as if she were weighing what she was about to say carefully, “Like everyone else does, I suppose. People hear that I’m not human, and there’s a big fuss. So I left, fast. Somehow get to the city, and a little bird leads me here. So, here I am now.”

A little bird, named Kaitlyn. But Alma wouldn’t peg the responsibility for bringing such a nosey woman in on her. How could she have known who Alma was?

“You?” Alma reflected the question, “How did you get here, and how long has it been?”

Dorian ran through a mental list of bird-related mutants living at the Sanctuary, trying to judge which one of them would have invited Alma there five months ago. He figured that, if he asked around, one of the bird mutants would be able to verify that they told Alma about the place, and that she wasn’t likely to be doing anything too sketchy. Unless Alma was using that turn of phrase un-ironically.

‘~ 1 year ago,’ he wrote. The mute had the art of walking while writing down to a fine science. ‘Spent my savings on activism in Romania when they passed their registration laws. Got tortured in a foreign prison. Came back to NY, couldn’t make ends meet with miming or writing and didn’t want to move in with my sister.’

Dorian handed the invisible board to Alma, to do with as she pleased, then grabbed another one out of thin air as they rounded a corner. One of the fluorescent lights was dimmer than the rest, flickering erratically and buzzing at an irritatingly high volume. They were getting close to a stairwell, which was behind the door labeled ‘stairs.’

Alma read the message that the mute scrawled onto the board. Though his gaze was pointed forward, and focused on where he was walking, his hand flew over the whiteboard. This was at the expense of some tidiness in the penmanship, but it was still legible enough. The translation, however, was an entirely different matter. He wrote that he’d been there for a year, spent his savings on… something, somewhere, after their registration laws had passed. Registration. Alma knew that word very well. Though Canada had dodged a registration of its own, the Registration Act in the United States was well-known by its neighbor. As he was a mutant… he probably was not there in support of the Registration.

Because of this soliloquy, Alma had to skim forward—the words “tortured” and “prison” leapt up at her glaringly. So, he was regarded as a criminal for what he did, and mistreated because of it. Later, he returned to New York, and came to the Sanctuary because…. “miming” (whatever that was) and writing weren’t working, and his sister was not an option.

“I have an older sister,” Alma said placidly, cracking a grin, “I can understand that sentiment.”

Though in a way, his statement was revealing. Was he in the trade because of the money? A lot of dealers got wrapped-up in the drug market because of how lucrative it was… that’s why her family partook in parts of it. The cash. Though, none of her direct relatives were “dealers”. That was too public. Most were suppliers, if the drug trade was the poison that they picked.

“You are also a writer?” she reiterated, “What do you write? A little bit of everything?”