Field Notes: The Link Quest, Part 3
The Peril of Unfiltered Speech
Not every threat to the Railroad came from outside. Some dangers crept in through pleasure, fatigue, or the slow collapse of self-control. Nothing unmasked a survivor faster than the wrong substances—drugs, too much alcohol, or sheer exhaustion in the wrong company.
Everyone knew the stories. A Green operative, tipsy at a mixer, starts bragging about safe houses and nearly blows an operation. A Blue, mellow from a pill, lets slip the old codes used for resonance checks. Even the steeliest Gray could find themselves loose-lipped when the chemicals hit—logic flickering, secrets tumbling out with laughter.
K’s ran safety briefings. Blues developed closing rituals. Grays tracked the post-party static. Still, every network had its infamous tale: the night someone said too much, and the team had to scatter, change codes, or go dark until the static faded.
It was a hard lesson: when the world is always listening, nothing is more dangerous than a loosened tongue.
The Wards and the Wild
In the Leah compounds, crashing—sex that broke the rules, drugs that left you flickering, desperate debauchery—landed you in the wards. Cold light, clipped voices, protocols, and privacy that was never truly private. You got clean, but never quite healed. Restoration meant order, not wholeness.
Leora healing was a different ritual. When someone crashed, their friends came. Partners held them, music played, food appeared, stories spilled. Healing meant being witnessed, not shamed. There was touch, sometimes tears, sometimes laughter. The Leoras knew that getting low was part of living big. You didn’t heal alone or under surveillance, but among the ones who knew what it meant to break—and come back.
The memory of the wards never faded for those who crossed worlds. It was the shadow behind every crash, the warning in every thrill. But on the Leora side, healing meant coming home, being held, no matter how low you’d fallen.
Consent Flaunted and the Astral Scream
Liliths flaunted consent—bold, uninhibited, laughing about wild nights and boundary-pushing rituals, certain that everyone shared their freedom. Sometimes, they forgot who was listening. A Leah at the edge of the room—masking, holding in their old fears—would watch the spectacle, heartbreak and longing tightening their breath.
The Liliths never meant harm. They simply couldn’t imagine a world where consent was rationed, where pleasure carried a price, or where one wild night might mean months in the wards. They flaunted their freedom, never noticing the Leah’s trembling at the edge.
And every time it happened, a scream rippled across the astral, echoing in the night. The Liliths moved on, laughing, but the Leahs carried the cost—counting the memory, holding the ache, the astral still charged long after the room was empty.
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