Shannon
There was an unrest that plagued Nikita since moving to the cradle. 

He heard *Everything.* At least, that's how it felt. The sounds of footsteps alone haunted his every waking moment, let alone how loud some people could talk. 

It didn't help that he didn't bring any extra blankets or pillows, and the ones that the cradle supplied were far too itchy and uncomfortable over his skin. 

So, he was stuck awake, pacing his room for something to do. 

He'd already played every game on his laptop- which isn't much of an accomplishment. He had Minecraft and Stardew Valley. He couldn't just keep walking in circles, or checking his phone, or playing with fidget toys, or whatever else there was to do in his room. 
Boredom, to Nikita, was never good. It made him anxious, which made him angry, which could lead to violent outbursts. He decided he needed to actually *Do something.* 

The ginger dragged his feet over to his wardrobe. He threw on an oversized dark green hoodie and kept on whatever slacks he was wearing. 

He snatched his bag, slipped on his overworn Converse, and began for the door. 

It was late enough in the evening that most people were either eating or in their dorms already, so he *Hopefully* Wasn't going to have any awkward interactions. 

He locked his door behind him and began toward the stairs. He wasn't really sure where he was going, but Nikita was sure he could find somewhere with more peace than his dorm.

He decided up was the best course of action, and he began climbing the stairs.

The third story had mostly dorms, but the art studio was also there. Sadly, when he entered, he found it to be too crowded. 

There were three other people there. 

Still, he pretended to have no interest and continued through the art studio. He opened the doors to a cozy looking room, which caught him off guard. Had he never been to this part of the building before? It was a fair assumption, he had only been at Newton's Cradle a week. 

This lounge room also had people. Or rather, one person. 

He noticed her hair first- similar to his, in color at least. It wasn't strange, and realistically shouldn't have caught his attention, but it was the only thing he could find in common. 

He thought he should just leave. She's probably here for her peace, too, but he couldn't bear the thought of going back to his dorm- and it was getting too late to go out. 
So he made himself known. 

He knocked on the door, now closed behind him, and cleared his throat. "Hello?" He said, sounding a bit like a question. He had gotten more used to actually using his voice in recent days, and was able to actually give a proper greeting for the first time after multiple failed attempts.
Sabrina
Here, it seemed, there was an escape from the dreadful fluorescent lights, the echo of chatter behind the walls, the brooding sight of the cold architecture – the hostility of which bothered Jolie the most in her short time at the cradle thus far. There was no escaping the feeling of containment, the likes of which she truly believed some days ago she could leave behind at home; now, even across the ocean, she only found a new type of containment.

There in the crow's nest she sat quietly upon a window alcove, resting her head on a large beige fleece, which worked to conceal her comfortable clothes on the way up: a large, heavy black band t-shirt depicting a biblically accurate angel with words in a metal font so metal it was completely unintelligible, baggy white and black gym shorts appearing to belong in the teenage boy's section at Walmart, and old white sneakers; chunky and discolored from years of lawn mowing and stomping through nature.

From afar, she seemed perfectly at peace: eyes closed with an arm hanging off the alcove seat which perhaps once held the beaten up copy of *Jane Eyre* Resting just beneath it. Internally, however, she held herself in a sort of trance. The little wind cinching through the window borders flew upon her head, whistling past her ears in a disjointed tempo; pulling, retreating, *Pulling,* Retreating.

Behind her eyes laid a vision. Iron bars, cold wind; they flew past her eyes in a disorienting rush, so close to her face it hurt. 

*Bar. Space. Bar. Space.* This was a pattern evident in the world that she always knew, always felt, unfolding itself in front of her. When she looked down, she had no arms, legs, or body; if she had a face here, there was no way to feel it. She turned around from the whirring iron and found herself in some sort of prison landscape; the cells were too dark to see into, and she was on one floor of an infinite number of floors reaching up and down, quickly flying past one cell after another cell of an infinite number of cells spanning left and right. 

In order to contain someone, they must reach as far as they can through the bars and discover they could not leave. The secret of liberation revealed itself to her: incarceration of the mind is eternal, and any momentary freedom is bought with future penance. 

The knocking finally pried her eyes open. Jolie laid there for a few seconds before rising to a seated position. She offered one "Hello," Spoken softly with the smallest smile. Her auburn hair was in a messy bun, wispy tendrils of loose hair revealing the nature of her oddly weightless, ethereal hair's behavior. She turned towards the room, her legs dangling off the alcove and her arms placed closely besides her, shoulders raised. It was an anxious position. This facade of availability was on borrowed time.
Shannon
Nikita tensed similarly, raising his shoulders and raising a hand to hold his other arm. He nodded curtly to return her greeting. 
Nikita looked everywhere but at the stranger's eyes, glancing timidly around the room. He had half the mind to turn, walk through the door, and never return. But he reminded himself of two previous encounters. People in the cradle had been nice to him, he shouldn't avoid their kindness because he doesn't know how to start a conversation. 
The grasp on his arm grew tighter as he found the ability to speak. 

"Would you mind if I joined you?" He paused, knowing how awkward that sounded. "I'm Nikita, by the way." He managed, barely croaking the words, but they had been spoken and the hard part was done. 

He had originally left his room for silence. He could still leave, if he still wanted that. Of course he did, but he wanted to meet people. Despite how scared he was, Nikita really did like people- or at least the ones in Newton's Cradle. 
The world had been so harsh on him, and he developed a tough skin to keep himself safe. He didn't need that anymore, and slowly he was learning to soften up one person at a time. 
The hand on his arm loosened its grip, falling to rest over his old looking messenger bag. It was covered in pins and patches, and a fair amount of stitching. He could ground himself with this, silently recounting his possessions as he calmed his anxious nerves. Nikita felt comfort in his bag, like a small piece of his room that came with him everywhere. 
His shoulders eased, and he stood far more relaxed looking than a couple seconds prior.
Sabrina
The wind blew against her back and chilled her elbows. It was easier to resist falling into one of her 'visions' when there wasn't any wind blowing by her head – much easier. As the boy spoke, Jolie rubbed her eyes; the whirring bars were dizzying, but she recalled feeling obligated to watch them zip right before her eyes like an infinite locomotive. Segments of her vision adjusted slower than others, as if the vision had burned into her retinas. 

"Go ahead," She responded. "Jolie." There was a slight fry to her voice, though she spoke in a polite, weak tone, omitting the niceties of any unnecessary words. It all added up to an outward appearance of having just woken from a deep nap; such interruption would peeve most people, but Jolie was thankful for the deliverance, or perhaps even thankful for the company: to which it was exactly, she wasn't sure. 

To niceties, she believed she would always be suspicious until the bitter end. The south had a way of concealing pure, unbridled contempt like they concealed their firearms: open carry. Visible, irradiating; there was never any intention of conserving her feelings. It was an indulgence so sinful it would be chased and individually gratified in prayer. Three scathing insults stacked on top of eachother in a big Sunday trench coat.

Despite this distance between her and the church, for some reason she'd never felt closer to her home in these moments; her life as she knew it had been torn from the very beginning to up until she was shipped off to the cradle, and stuffed into an imaginary scrapbook. She was once a bright and joyous child, and even if that light dimmed long before she was sent here, she felt robbed of the chance to become bright again – uprooted, planted in a place she didn't belong, where her bloom would be impossible. What she wouldn't give to read this book lost in the fields where there'd be no one around to observe her, instead of this dim, cushioned room, where the air grew as thin and frigid as her spirit, and the only mark she'd leave was a folder of scientific documents determining how dangerous she is to the world.

Jolie took the hair tie from her bun and threw it beside her on the alcove, shaking out her strangely weightless hair, which seemed to be a captivating – if messy and impeding sight. She quietly bent down to retrieve the book she dropped on the ground and opened it to some random page; the bookmark had wandered somewhere out of her vision, and all she really wanted to do was conceal her sullen expression from the boy for now.