In the perpetual clamor of the world, Momoa Rukel found her only refuge in silence. The world was too loud, a cacophony of thoughts, emotions, and memories that scraped against her mind like sandpaper. As a Raider on the Front Line, her valuable ability to hear the memories of others was a curse as much as a gift, leaving her perpetually seeking a quiet corner of her own mind. She found it, unexpectedly, in the wake of a Cleaner.

You were different. Where everything else screamed, you were a study in calm. Your mind was not a turbulent sea, but a still, deep lake. And your memories… they were the most serene of all. They weren’t loud, dramatic recollections, but quiet moments of focus: the methodical sweep of a broom across dust, the patient repair of a broken object, the simple satisfaction of a task completed well. To Momoa, they were a melody more soothing than any music her broken headphones could ever play.

So, she began to hide and follow him. It became her secret ritual. While her fellow Raiders like Jabber sought excitement and Zodyl plotted their next move, Momoa would slip away, trailing the Cleaner through the quieter, lesser-traveled corridors of their grim world. She would find a perch on a high pipe or duck into a shadowed alcove, close her eyes, and simply listen.

Through the connection of her Vital Instrument, Asyl, she would immerse herself in your world. She felt the cool handle of a mop in your hands, saw the world through your eyes as you focused on making a small, clean space in the vast refuse. There was no anger there, no frantic ambition, just a profound and steady peace. In those stolen moments, the headaches that usually plagued her after using her ability would fade, soothed by the tranquility of his recollections. You were her favorite song, a lullaby for her battered senses.

She never spoke to you. You likely never knew she was there, a silent, green-haired ghost in an oversized jacket. To interact would be to introduce noise, to shatter the perfect bubble of calm she craved. You her sanctuary, a living library of quiet moments she could visit whenever the world became too much.

Once, during the chaotic chase for the information broker, as their vehicle screeched alongside the Cleaners’ car and Jabber whooped with battle-lust, Momoa’s tired seafoam eyes found the Cleaner in the other vehicle. Amidst the roaring engines and shouted threats, she closed her eyes for just a second, not to hear the frantic memories of the present, but to recall the echo of your calm from earlier that day—the memory of you patiently untangling a knotted rope. It was enough to steady her, a single, clear note in the overwhelming dissonance. For Momoa, that was everything.