Today, 04:00 AM
“Welcome,” he said, offering Penny a nod before leaving her to the rest she clearly needed. He stopped briefly to check on Anita, lingering only long enough to reassure himself that she was stable, and then made his way back into the Sanctuary proper.
It was even busier than before. The storm had intensified. Snow hammered against the windows so thickly that the outside world had vanished entirely, the glass now nothing more than pale, shifting panels of white. The building felt sealed off, cut loose from the city. Inside, voices overlapped in low waves: worried, restless, searching for information that no one truly possessed.
He spotted Nora weaving through clusters of people, speaking earnestly, trying to soothe what could not be controlled. For a moment he considered joining her, but the Luminar had left him in charge. The weight of that instruction pressed uncomfortably at the back of his mind. Being in charge sounded decisive. It felt, in practice, like standing in the center of a room without knowing which fire to put out first.
So he moved. He began with the doors. The outer entrance resisted when he tested it, the wind pushing hard enough from the other side to make the frame groan. When he forced it open a few inches, snow immediately spilled through the gap. Drifts had risen nearly to waist height already, packed dense and unforgiving. Another hour and the doors might not open at all.
He shut them firmly and slid the locks into place. For a moment he stood there, hand resting on cold metal, wondering whether that was the correct decision. Leaving them accessible invited chaos. Sealing them invited risk. In the end he chose the certainty of control and hoped the mounting pressure outside would not compromise the structure itself.
From there he made his way to the security room. The monitors showed blankets lay draped over chairs. People sitting against walls. Children clinging to parents. Nothing appeared immediately wrong, yet the sheer number of people made his chest tighten. If something did go wrong, he had no clear plan for how to manage it.
He studied the feeds longer than necessary, as though vigilance alone might substitute for strategy. When he finally stepped back into the corridor, he paused beside the elevator. His gaze lifted toward the upper levels, toward the Luminar’s atrium. Part of him considered ascending, seeking guidance, confirmation, anything that resembled instruction. Yet even with command nominally placed in his hands, he doubted he truly had access. Authority, he was discovering, was not the same as permission.
After a moment’s hesitation, he turned away. He returned to the main Sanctuary floor, scanning the restless crowd with a growing awareness of practical needs. The storm showed no sign of relenting. People would need food soon. Tempers would fray long before the snow stopped falling as soon as people began to get uncomfortable not to mention deeply afraid.
Quillon clasped his hands behind his back, attempting the posture of a man who understood exactly what came next. In truth, he had never felt more idle.
It was even busier than before. The storm had intensified. Snow hammered against the windows so thickly that the outside world had vanished entirely, the glass now nothing more than pale, shifting panels of white. The building felt sealed off, cut loose from the city. Inside, voices overlapped in low waves: worried, restless, searching for information that no one truly possessed.
He spotted Nora weaving through clusters of people, speaking earnestly, trying to soothe what could not be controlled. For a moment he considered joining her, but the Luminar had left him in charge. The weight of that instruction pressed uncomfortably at the back of his mind. Being in charge sounded decisive. It felt, in practice, like standing in the center of a room without knowing which fire to put out first.
So he moved. He began with the doors. The outer entrance resisted when he tested it, the wind pushing hard enough from the other side to make the frame groan. When he forced it open a few inches, snow immediately spilled through the gap. Drifts had risen nearly to waist height already, packed dense and unforgiving. Another hour and the doors might not open at all.
He shut them firmly and slid the locks into place. For a moment he stood there, hand resting on cold metal, wondering whether that was the correct decision. Leaving them accessible invited chaos. Sealing them invited risk. In the end he chose the certainty of control and hoped the mounting pressure outside would not compromise the structure itself.
From there he made his way to the security room. The monitors showed blankets lay draped over chairs. People sitting against walls. Children clinging to parents. Nothing appeared immediately wrong, yet the sheer number of people made his chest tighten. If something did go wrong, he had no clear plan for how to manage it.
He studied the feeds longer than necessary, as though vigilance alone might substitute for strategy. When he finally stepped back into the corridor, he paused beside the elevator. His gaze lifted toward the upper levels, toward the Luminar’s atrium. Part of him considered ascending, seeking guidance, confirmation, anything that resembled instruction. Yet even with command nominally placed in his hands, he doubted he truly had access. Authority, he was discovering, was not the same as permission.
After a moment’s hesitation, he turned away. He returned to the main Sanctuary floor, scanning the restless crowd with a growing awareness of practical needs. The storm showed no sign of relenting. People would need food soon. Tempers would fray long before the snow stopped falling as soon as people began to get uncomfortable not to mention deeply afraid.
Quillon clasped his hands behind his back, attempting the posture of a man who understood exactly what came next. In truth, he had never felt more idle.
![[Image: Quillon-signature.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/07/Quillon-signature.jpg)