Notes:

+ Camerata/Rebil headcanons! This fic takes place during the disappearances.

+ This story fits in-between my other Transistor fics, "preprocess()" and "start()." The first isn't a requirement to this one. This story contains SPOILERS for the second. (If that matters. I mean I guess we all kinda know where this is going)

+ Anyway, I have to be real with you, the pacing of this whole thing is kinda weird. I blame it on the fact that it's a little more "wish-fulfillment" than the other fics in this series, in the sense that I really just focused more on my enjoyment of writing and exploring Sybil's character, rather than telling something totally coherent or elegant.

+ And with all that being said...if you take the time to read, I hope you enjoy :)

Chapter 1: Declined

(5-years-ago)

A woman was glaring up at the banner across the venue entrance. She mouthed the words written on it with messy paint.

Traverson's Finest.

And then she rubbed her forehead.

Was this actually happening?

"Sybil!" someone called, and she lifted her glare to a man walking out of the venue: West Ableton. Civil Planning, Politics.

"Why," demanded, "doesn't this banner say what I told you to put on it?"

"Um — what?" He blinked and glanced up at it. "Doesn't it?"

"No. It does not. This," Sybil said, slowly, "is a reception for up-and-coming Civil Planners. Shouldn't it say so on your own banner?"

"Well, hello to you too," he said dryly. "Glad you could make it."

"Glad I could too," she muttered, walking past him. "Especially since the venue was changed three times."

Rather than fight to keep her recommended location every time a highway or park or bridge had encroached, West had simply uprooted and dumped the event into the nearest available building, regardless of in-progress preparations. Or plans. Or capacity limitations.

He followed her with a thin smile. "Well, you know how these things go."

"And you know how they should go."

She ignored whatever jibe he had for her, ignored him as he trailed after her. West had asked her to put the event together for him as a favor from one old classmate to another — not that her pride as an Organizer and Supervisor would have allowed her to decline him. But she'd rather be in the Country than socialize with him more than was necessary.

Fortunately, there were many others here, including old classmates and their associated partners and children. Sybil initiated her usual process of greetings and introductions, and the moment West got caught up in peripheral conversation, she broke away to examine the student projects in peace.

Cloudbank was expanding, and the students in the crowded hall — "Traverson's finest!" — were going to be the first to iterate on its landscape. Each student had tables with samples of their work: detailed sketches, elaborate models, vibrant dioramas. There were apartments chiseled into cliffsides, complexes curled around creeks, promenades circuited around fountains of every shape and splash.

Sybil walked through, delight replacing her foul mood with every step. Everything was so — amazing. She introduced herself warmly to every creator, saving names and pronouns into her terminal. Gayle Amaatz, Civil Planning and Writing, whose bridge struts were made of words that fluttered across their tenses with the breeze. Nia Terrace, Civil Planning and Horticulture, who whose garden-walled plazas waxed and waned with the seasons.

Sybil tugged at her hair, twining it so tightly around her finger that the top digit turned red. It was infuriating that, given Cloudbank's vagaries, none of these projects would ever last longer than a month. And that was if any of them managed to gather the votes to be built at all.

We're working on it, she reminded herself. Deep breath.

Deep breath, she told herself again as she heard West's heavy footsteps catching up to her.

"Hello," Sybil said, looking firmly at Nia and extending her hand. "I'm Sybil."

"Sybil?" Nia gasped. Her hand reached toward Sybil's, trembled a bit in her grip. "Sybil Reisz? But — but how — you came here in person?"

"Connections," West said proudly. "We used to go to school together."

"Not that I wouldn't have come to see Traverson's finest myself," Sybil told her warmly. Though, thankfully, there was just one project left. Sybil scanned it, appraised it. Then she feigned checking her terminal.

"Well, I've got to go," Sybil said apologetically. "It was nice to meet you."

"W-wait," Nia said, "Sybil — Miss Sybil — there's there's one more here." She pointed back at the project Sybil had looked over, and Sybil held back a sigh and returned to it. The person standing with it stiffened, shoulders bunching, as Sybil scrutinized their work.

It was a sort of...amphitheater? And around it were…boxes? Of some kind? The three Civil Planners stared as her eyes narrowed in thought. Finally, the creator — a woman, said the tag on her table — shoved her red hair behind one ear and cleared her throat.

"What are you searching for?"

Sybil glanced up. She tilted her head, grasping for the right words.

"Fantastic Civil Planning is…a joy," she said, picking up the amphitheater and smiling at it faintly. "It's a joy to look at. It's a joy to be in. When you're there, it's like…like someone has thought of you, of everything you need, of everything you never knew you wanted. And then they made it, just for you. It's a gift.

"Those thoughts, those emotions, that raw talent…" She set the amphitheater down. "I don't see any of that here."

The woman paled.

"H-hey!" Nia shouted. "What the — y-you — where do you get off saying things like that? What do you know about Civil Planning, anyway?!"

"That's Sybil for you!" West laughed, and Sybil reddened. "Don't worry, your work is just fine."

"Correct," Sybil snapped at him. "Just fine. And nothing else." She turned back to the woman, who straightened under Sybil's gaze. Her eyes were set in an impressive glare, prepared to fight even as Nia grabbed her hand.

"Not worth it," Nia hissed.

"She's right," Sybil said, "it's not." She pointed at the amphitheater, at the seats and stage, all lumps and angles that didn't quite meet: clumsy, ugly, heartless. A travesty.

"Think about it," Sybil continued, leaning toward her. "Think hard. Think about if you had a whole city to yourself, if you could do anything you wanted. If anything was possible, if you had no limits…what would you do?"

The woman opened her mouth.

And then shut it.

"You don't need to answer her," Nia said, gripping the woman's hand and drawing closer.

"Right again," Sybil said, smiling humorlessly. "Don't give me an answer if you don't have one."

She smoothed out her skirt, arranged her hair. "Excuse me," she said, nodding to the three of them, and left.