Kaj's slightly hooded eyes, staring into the crowd behind a pane of bulletproof glass, were darker than they were just a month ago, his eyebrows now dusty, his crow's feet more pronounced. But he sits up sturdier, his shoulders broader, his posture incorruptible. Unlike his predecessor, who'd always used any of her security personel's spare Bic pens, blue or red or green or black or whatever color they were, he reached into his smoky black suit and pulled out his pen, a slim, stainless steel, refillable, click-operated ballpoint. He didn't go as far as to engrave his initials onto its pointed clip, for that would be pretentious. His gaze slowly dropped as his left arm moved towards the page and, in utter silence--while the frigid breeze ruffled his full head of hair and whistled around the contours of the stage on Freedom Square, in central Vankkavalta--laid ink above the dotted line at the bottom margin. Deliberately, he raised the pen before his eyes, clicked it shut, and set it beside the newly-signed constitution. The body of the pen rattled against the varnished pine, twirling with the blow of a piercing late October gust.
As he stood, the crowd began to cheer--not ferociously as sports fans do, but with an underlying tenseness to their celebration. He shuffled towards his right, meeting a podium with an array of microphones well insulated from the wind in the center of the stage; behind him, the Abovian Nordic Cross descended from one flagpole, as a deep blue banner, with a green stripe near its hoist and a rotated four-pointed star on its upper fly, rose adjacent. The billowing winds stretched the banner out so that no element was occluded by the conditions; the daylight made the use of spotlights to illuminate the top of the flagpole unnecessary. He, also, decided against tapping the microphone and playing the feedback for laughs, as his predecessor would have done. In fact, there were no smiles at all that day, as the still destroyed, taped-off facade of Ælunder Raadionyttispalvelu formed the backdrop for the occasion. He didn't even have a scripted speech on the podium before him, the first handful of words he'd say already memorized, the rest at the mercy of his improv talent.
He didn't, actually, know exactly what to say. Something about "ushering in a new era" for the Union to start, for sure, but he wanted to avoid at all costs the vice of curling oneself up into the bottomless spiral of calling for "unity", "peace", "understanding", or whatever. Not only was it weak and predictable, but it wasn't what he wanted--crucially, there wasn't enough evidence to back any claim he could want to make, at least not regarding the bombings, the disappearances, or the conveniently surfacing scandals.
For now, all he knew he had to do was to vow to be the president Kaisla Saari had promised she'd be the first place. Yes, that sounded like it'd work. He mustn't go off on a tangent, but he had to say it, how the freedom-loving, kind-spirited leader in Saari had been betrayed by the diplomacy, or lack thereof, of her dear Aboveland during her tenure, how her actions so fundamentally disagreed with her so-called principles. How her reckless wars in the name of "peace and stability" had put Aboveland in the position it now found itself in.
Surely with those kinds of words he'd build some semblance of a safety buffer.
Sami rests his back on the bench, closes his eyes, and lets his head fall back, swooning around as he lets the darkness disorient him. While the dizziness takes over, the soft violin intro plucks his soul out of the olympic village. Rafael, of the ice skating team, had recommended it to him, as it was the song he'd rather ambitiously chosen for his short program routine, though he hadn't realized he already knew the song quite well. He pretends the song is a far more colossal piece of music than it has any right to be; pop or not, its intro is immaculate, even if he rarely tells anyone he thinks as much, and its enough to momentarily transport him to his realm of hopes, of wishes, and of desires. Not quite letting himself soar in his fantasies, he relaxes his shoulders, and mouths its opening verses. He doesn't focus too strongly on the lyrics, more so on the imagery, both lyrical and literal, scenes of the official music video flashing in his head; he sighs, too, and then takes a deeper breath as the pre-chorus begins to build.
Clumsily, with his phone in his hands between his knees, he accidentally skips to the next song. Though he clicks his tongue in discontent, he doesn't go back; the next song darkens his mood, but it captivates him, and with its first lines he opens his eyes again and sits up straight, staring blankly at the plaza before him. On this one, he does focus on the lyrics; he's only heard it a handful of times, but the meaning isn't lost on him. He mouths this one, too, at first patiently and slowly, then picking up the pace as the song builds.
Hearing approaching footsteps, he glances to his right, and out of the dark exterior hallway of one of the olympic village buildings emerges Emi, smiling cheerfully, dressed in her thin blue winter coat, pin-less. The song continues, with Sami still mouthing the lyrics through a greeting grin as the pre-chorus begins with the bouncy imperativeness of a ride on horseback, when unexpectedly a taller frame looms from behind the approaching Nykipik. He's wearing a knit hat for once--just like his--instead of braving the elements to forgo using an accessory with the Abovian flag on it. His hands are thrust heavily in the pockets of his coat, the same as his, too, though with thicker padding--no, wait, he thinks as he frowns, that's not thicker padding, it's a thicker filling: broader shoulders, squarer torso, just slightly, not ridiculously, fuller arms, and a more pronounced back, and that's just above the waist. And as he approaches, his height appears more evident; he's just a few inches taller than him, so it's not such a huge difference, but it looks so much more imposing on him--which, sure, maybe it's the constantly mean face or thick, mysterious demeanor, but whatever it is, it's... there, for sure.
But his awe is cut short, as Emi arrives beside him and Kuldar, lagging behind just a little (despite his long legs) with an uncharacteristically kind gaze, does too. Mid chorus, he yanks off his earbuds, and snaps back into the moment.
"Hyy!" Emi says in her native Nykipik. "Ready to go?"
Sami chuckles, directing his reply specifically at her, avoiding any brush of his field of view with Kuldar, just in case. "Hell yeah, since"--he checks the time on his phone as he stands and stretches out his jogging pants--"like, fifteen minutes ago."
"Great!" exclaims Emi, bringing both her hands close to her face in excitement. "So... Clayquot Fort today?"
"I thought we were going to the NeXT Museum?"
Emi shakes her head. "Not today, Sami." She stops short of rolling her eyes, more so because of her need to mold the day trip to her activities. "I'm skating tomorrow, remember?"
Sami nods with a long hum of realization.
"Yeah," she reaffirms. "But we can go on Monday! We're all free then."
"Sure," replies Sami, but quickly frowns. "Wait, we all?"
Emi's mouth opens, as if she's forgotten to mention some important detail. "Oh," she begins, turning and stepping aside to reveal a hardly concealed, suddenly friendly looking Kuldar. "He decided he wanted to tag along, if that's okay."
What could Sami possibly say to that? No? Of course not!
"Of course!" he exclaims at Emi, trying a little hard to sound friendly and a little harder to sound composed, before turning to the taller Nykipik, his gaze aiming above his chin. "Hey," he shoots him, somewhat unintentionally coldly, which Kuldar returns the same.
A short silence ensues, Emi stuck in the middle of a soft staring contest, when she finally breaks the silence. "Well, follow me," she speaks, gleefully and proud of her sense of direction. "I've already memorized the metro network. It's not so hard!"
She takes the lead of the squad with a long forwards stride, leading the trio out of the complex to the street.
"Oh," she says, turning around and pacing backwards to not halt the walk. She also sticks a finger out before continuing. "I have to be back by four-ish"--she shakes her hand--"some last training prep to do."
"Sure," nods Sami. "Maybe I should hit the gym too."
"Me too," mutters Kuldar, in accented, but easily understandable, Abovian. "I'm not up for a few days, but--"
"Better to start early, hey," Sami interrupts, smirking. The two exchange a look; emotive and complex in Sami's eyes, cold but affirmative in Kuldar's. "Maybe I can give you some training tips?"
