Monument
“Ready.”
“Right, let’s move.”
Aefanyl helps me up as I sling my gun onto my back, gazing around at this prison once again.
There are… fragments of memories spilling through. Torture. Compliance. Domineering.
“More facilities?”
“At this point, I wish to avoid combat,” I sigh, rubbing that wound as lines of dark blood soak my glove.
“Then let’s see if we can find documents.”
I sweep the prison area once again. The ground is shattered, broken, and beaten. The blood here is petrifying. Blackened, burned, and infected. Originium, metal, dust and mud. A single flickering light of white spills from the rear, painfully illuminating what strands of darkness it can.
A deafening blast tears the air apart a second later. Flicking my gun to the noise, Aefanyl quickly pushes my rifle down, pointing at the plume of Originium dust by a certain wall.
The place where that woman was impaled quickly ends up swallowed by a veil of dark dust as the powder drifts to and fro, ceaselessly swirling and piling along the ground.
“They burst…?”
“Depending on their infection level, yes. Considering the state of this prison… I can assume that they must’ve had terribly high concentrations of Originium, thus leading to an earlier detonation.”
“That woman we found in Dossoles…”
“Very little. She died from physical means and then began decaying.”
“I recall.”
“So that other man too will burst in the coming hours or minutes.”
“I see.”
And sure enough, a few moments of silence later, a deep shockwave permeates the ground and air.
“… I got lucky with that woman.”
“You did.”
“You didn’t tell me?”
“I knew it wouldn’t be of danger to you.”
“I understand,” I sigh.
Whispers lick my mind. They drill through my brain, lapping like dogs against every thought and reason. They threaten to bend me, betray me, all while the forsaken realization of truth comes inching closer together. But I cannot make a decision until I’ve met it with utmost certainty.
That’s… the only way I can confirm the past.
“How is history written? If only the victors live, then wouldn’t the annihilated have their lives lost for eternity?”
“In a way… yes. But the Sarkaz have long recorded their strife and struggles. Even if Kazdel has fallen thousands of times, there will always be survivors. Always people to tell their side of the story.”
“… In war, it doesn’t seem to matter who’s ultimately ‘right,’ morally or otherwise. It only depends on… whoever is left.”
“Precisely…”
Another corridor.
“Arena.”
“You wanted to avoid combat,” Aefanyl reminds.
“If there’s anything regarding data… it should be there. I do feel like the training area and enhancement area would be similar to the medical zone, but the arena…”
“We can check those first.”
“Right. Let’s be fast then.”
“We should. There’s no telling how far the corruption will go…”
Silence follows as we sprint. Crystals crack beneath our feet, air rushes between my hair, and the toxic air floods my ‘lungs.’
Aefanyl seems undisturbed. A shimmering veil of nearly invisible Arts filters the breath he drags in and every step of his.
“Here… A shooting range?” I murmur, “This is the enhancement area?”
Bashing open the door with force alone, long rows of empty metal with dangling machinery above fill my vision. There isn’t a single inch of this ground that isn’t barricades, isn’t broken, and isn’t decayed.
“A… gun?” Aefanyl points.
“Looks like it,” I return, prying a barrier from the range apart, “Hmm…”
I crouch and push my hand towards the gun laying dead on the ground. Inch by inch, my fingers twitch around it, almost as if resisted by something.
Voices start crowding my mind, nonsensical and the will of a thousand. They crawl, clawing at the folds within my skull, digging, striking, and stabbing their way through my very thoughts. Every line, converting, molding, blending and breaking. Yet my will remains still as my hand reaches further.
Almost.
… Until my fingers clench upon its grip.
A memory… bursts from it. A scream. The will of a thousand, washing over me like a tidal wave. It’s cold, like a spill of ice spreading its way down my neck, my back, and spine. Chilling… sensation. Not fear nor dread.
Something different… something not found within this world.
The hell that happened here… Or at least, a fragment of it. Eight hundred Sankta were here. They were lined up and trained.
They were trained with their patron guns… Endlessly. Until the steel turned hot. Until they peeled. Until they fell and bloody bruises were upon their shoulders.
I force my eyes apart, rising and staring at the gun.
A revolver with an ivory grip, silver barrel, and steel hammer. A chamber of six rounds. The muzzle… is endlessly smoking, split into a void at the top. But it isn’t burnt powder. Rather, it’s a mist of collapsing mist and darkness.
“Memory buried in this… weapon.”
“Was that something these templars are capable of?”
“It’s something I’m capable of. Projecting a memory with my Arts… but I was unaware someone could do it in a weapon. Perhaps you’re more adept with a secondary medium,” I suggest, handing him the weapon hilt first.
He nods and takes it, analyzing it before uttering a single word of some long lost language.
A second later, his eyes narrow, staring harshly at the gun and handing it back to me.
“What did you see?”
“… Disaster, hell, and purgatory. I’m sure we don’t need to find documents anymore. That gun… had all the memory we need.”
“Can I see it?”
He hesitates, flicking his eyes down the range and then to me. What is he thinking? What did he see?
“I would… advise against it.”
“Why?”
“It’s… a truth so… unbearable, I can hardly form the words to tell you.”
“… Let me see it. Let me see my own past,” I state, sharply staring at him, “Let me find what was lost to me. Let me reclaim what was forgotten, because it is mine.”
“Even if it hurts you?”
“Especially so. I cannot… continue to live in the past while serving the future.”
“… Then I understand. First, we must leave-”
Some screeching metal suddenly erupts at the end of the halls, like two gargantuan city walls tearing themselves apart. And in a way, that’s exactly what’s happening.
“Ready,” I declare, raising my rifle.
“As am I.”
The room ignites with light again as my mind switches to combat. In an instant, every inch of once-shrouded darkness becomes visible with utmost clarity. The rear of the room, stacked with oiled sands and debris as well as… some biological atrocities long dead, decayed, and crystalizing.
As seconds flow, the back peels away. Metal walls slide apart, screaming away as their metal forms tear the concrete beneath to powder. And in the pervading ignited darkness, two hovering pairs of blood-red eyes stare dead ahead. Oppressive armour. Pipes, tubing, and clouds of dark snow following their every step.
Legions of fur-coated soldiers march behind, diligently staring left, right, forwards.
“Two Blades and Ursus soldiers?” Aefanyl mutters, “Why?”
“I couldn’t answer you.”
“Let’s avoid them.”
“Ideal.”
I sublimate my form into a mist of smoke as the Banshee simply vanishes from reality with a stab of his pen.
The soldiers hastily fan about, heavy crossbows raised as others scamper to every corner, kicking down debris, smashing open others, and tearing the complex piece by piece.
“Are they looking for something…?” I ask.
“Not a clue.”
The two Emperor’s Blades however continue walking, unbothered, unwavering. And their gaze doesn’t shift. Boring right into my soul.
“… They seem to know that we’re here.”
“They might be sensing my energies…” I sigh, shifting my form to the right.
And sure enough their eyes trace my position, like cameras upon swivels.
“… Right,” I exhale, preparing to pounce.
The Blades unsheathe their blades with a hideous brandish as metals sing before crackling with violent, malevolent energy.
“Then so be it,” I say, “Down with your curtains.”
A burst of demonic shadow-threaded Arts abruptly detonate from my wings and fingers the instant I rematerialize, flinging in all directions before sharply turning, firing, and blasting towards the soldiers like missiles.
The humans struck shudder and convulse, descending into seizure and insanity as their inhuman cries claw at reality. Their hands tear against their own helmets all while they scream, ripping them off, tearing into their skin, scratching, digging with nails against flesh. Further, deeper as insanity replaces sanity.
Their faces replace themselves with bloodied, raw flesh before bone soon becomes visible, and at long last, their soul exiles them from this mortal coil, twisting out with a gasping sigh and final release.
In that span, I brandish my scythe of shadows and raise my eyes to the two remaining demons ahead.
“I can handle one. Are you sure you can handle the other?” Aefanyl raises, lifting his pen as rings of golden scripture encircle him.
“Yes. Beyond sure.”
“I trust you then. Commence combat.”
“Heard.”
I instantly fire three rounds towards one blade, only to be pitifully sliced into mist as he lunges with inhuman speed.
Holstering my gun, I raise my scythe across my chest, holding my ground as Arts swarm against me, forming a stiff shield in a blink of an eye. A millisecond later, his blade strikes, yet my posture holds.
The crumbling, cascading, crashing and grinding Arts fly across my face, my shield, yet my body doesn’t twitch, waver or flinch.
His eyes… no, more like windows into hell drill daggers through me, screaming something, whispering, chanting. I can hear his breath, strained, pained, and devoted.
Devoted, purposeful, and alive. Puppeteered, even.
“What are you, thing?” he breathes, “Why do you exist? What gave you that right?”
My eyes narrow just the slightest.
“Ursus still needs the Blades. Ursus still needs us alive. The emperor needs the will of Ursus!”
With every sentence, his blade digs deeper against mine. Forced, harsh, crackling sparks of violent energy flying in all directions.
“They told us… ‘It’ isn’t afraid to die. To kill,” he seethes, igniting his weapon further, “That was the purpose of these creations. To exist without fear, to destroy.”
I remain silent. There is a single order on my mind.
<Destory all demons. Purge them from the north.>
<Never look back. Never remember. Always forget.>
<Trust me. It is safer for you.>
… I do not want to forget.
I want to be more… than an object.
<No. You are a fashioned blade. You cannot exist among the tools of society.>
<You are the finest spear, the finest spear tip that will pierce the veil of darkness over Terra’s skies and north.>
<So follow what you were known to be.>
<Embrace it.>
<Because there is no other option.>
<No other way.>
<This is the only way.>
… I see.
“So… Who needs you?”
My brow furrows as I aggressively pull myself back with devilish speed. And in that burst, he staggers. A window opens, and I shoot through it.
My scythe swings, aimed right at his hand, cleaving against the blade’s hilt with a resonating clang and sending the weapon veering to the side, tumbling, twisting, and stabbing into the wall.
“… Rhodes Island,” I finally reply, setting my weapon down, “Leave me.”
“We’ve fought you,” he grunts, shaking his head sluggishly as Aefanyl sends the other Blade skyrocketing to the rear of the chamber, “Never figured out what made you so… human.”
“What drives you?” he starts, grabbing a void of Arts in his palm, “You’re dangerous. Violent. A Catastrophe in waiting. You have no purpose. An object meant to be erased. And there’s no greater threat… than power without purpose!” he screams, crushing his palm.
A bloom of blinding darkness explodes from his fist at once, swarming my vision with cascading flashes of… visions. They fly past me like a shower of glass shards, each a portal into a world that is or could have been.
I stare through them all, capturing, recording all that I can.
Rhodes Island burning.
Nerina decaying, dying, and gone.
Ezell smiling with Cecelia in tow.
Leggera burning upon a pyre’s crimson glow.
Lemuel carrying a most gargantuan apple pie.
Fiammetta covered in blood and rage.
Aefanyl standing over rivers upon rivers of bodies.
Rhodes Island thriving throughout Terra.
Then the sky. Its painted sparkles of white upon a tapestry of eternal darkness. Unmoving stairs, the sun, and the twin moons, cycling all around the world, over and over like an endless dance.
Death and life, fusing together.
Suddenly… a gargantuan ‘garden’ of flowers. Waterfalls. Rock. Grass. Towering pillars of metal-infused stone, more stone, and artificial mountains. Skies of pristine blue. Cloudless. And a single sun beaming golden purity upon me. In front of my view, a cliff. A sharp drop kilometers down.
Rampaging crystalline rivers, yet more flowers, yet more grass. Vines crawling upwards, sprawling, as far as any eye could see.
Flowers…
Lotuses. Cyclamens. And zinnias.
I stand upon that field now. This… garden of…
“Salvation,” a voice hums.
That voice… her voice.
I turn around.
And she sings.
The song of Babel. Of the Sarkaz. Of Kazdel.
A ballad, or a story. One of the two. Or both as one, creating something from nothing.
This… is familiar.
I… played this song once on a violin. And then Fiammetta appeared.
This I… remember.
But… how did I know what to play?
There she stands in knee-high grass. The wind is calm, yet present, sweeping her thick braid of ivory and… pink hair gently about.
An ivory tone… blended gently with the colour of… light reds.
Her dress of white touches the grass, spilling down, and ending just above her ankles.
A dark tilted square centers itself on her back, emblemed with a peculiar sigil of… an inverted crown of thorns, sundered by a broken spear, surrounded by butterflies.
On her shoulders, shrouds of metal, long scarred as her horns point upwards, curling slightly.
Her voice boils into sorrow. Despair. Defeat.
Hell, it’s fires and its biting cold, chewing at people battered, bashed, destroyed again, again, and again.
But just like fire… its embers burn onwards. So Kazdel rose, again and again, from ruins, again and again.
Her tune drifts. It sways on delicacy, an unsure future. The Sarkaz will live, but the path ahead is blurred. Fogged.
An airship careening through dense clouds, or a dreadnought demolishing the oceans. Neither will stop, halt or yield, until they are truly finished. Until they truly declare themselves so.
And so, her voice tapers as the song closes magnificently.
“… Why are you here?” she asks, turning to face me in a most regal fashion.
Her face… reminds me of the Doctor. Soft. Gentle. Parental. Twin eyes of opal diamonds gaze towards me, filled with concern as her hands sit neatly in her lap, fingers intertwined with each other. Her nails are painted an opaque obsidian as well.
Through the fluttering grasses, I see her shoes. A set of block heels, one inch tall, exposing a fair amount of her foot wearing some form of white legwear.
The sleeves remain ever white yet thicken and splay outwards. Her hands are… delicate. Small rings, one on each finger, pitch black and glossy, like opals.
… Are those words I even know? How they feel? That’s… what my mind pulls forth. Even if I don’t understand it.
“I don’t know.”
“What happened to you…?” she gasps, striding to me, “What… changed, Giocatore?”
… My name.
Then it… must be…
“I… know you… are important,” I force out, “But… I do not know why. My memory…”
“You’ve… forgotten?” she weakly asks, frowning, “No… You would never forget. I… know you.”
“Trust me… I do not know who you are.”
She shuts her eyes in an instant, harshly letting a shaky exhale before forcing her eyes back open.
“Then that’s alright. It’ll come back with time… I hope.”
“That’s… what I’ve been trying to do.”
“… You forgot? Everything?”
“Yes.”
“… I… You shouldn’t be here then,” she hastily declares, “There-No, you-you can’t be here. You still have too much to uncover, too much to know!”
“What?”
“You don’t want to die, do you?” she breathes, slowing herself, her breath, her pace.
“… If it’s for Rhodes Island, then I do not care.”
“At this moment, would you die? Would you want to?”
“… I don’t know.”
“If you were stuck here… would you want to?”
I spin my sights around to every stretch of land. It is gorgeous and untouched. Heavenly, even. But…
Everything back in reality. Rhodes Island. That dream. And Theresa’s will.
“… No,” I decide, turning back to her.
“There is your answer,” she smiles softly, “Your hair… You still cut it with my knife?”
“Your… knife?” I mutter, taking it out, “Yes, I do.”
“I’m glad…”
“Why?”
“You’ll… know with time. It’s time to go. There’s… something calling you. A Banshee and a machine.”
“… Right. Can I… at least have your name?”
“Of course… I am Ahava, but… this isn’t the first time we’ve met. So please... You must leave. It isn't your time to... cross that ferry."
She pressers her fingers together, emitting a blinding light of impossible magnitudes.
And in that instant, the garden collapses. Like a glass window shattering all at once, the world does around me. The ground disintegrates and I’m left tumbling through the air, powerless for once as my Arts refuse to obey me.
Something’s calling me. Something’s screaming at me.
Something is here, tying me to this mortal realm-
“Pilot,” PT abruptly cuts.
Thrusters cry around me. I’m in its grasp, staring at its eye as it stares down into me. Powder’s falling from the skies. Darkness pervades me, encroaching on the edges of my eyes.
<Augmented Sankta, P8-621, Main System Warning.>
<Recovery Mode interrupted. Risk of death: raised.>
“Why are you here?” I state, “I ordered you to stay outside.”
“Because we must leave, immediately.”
“Good, he’s awakened,” Aefanyl raises, “Though that might be more alarming considering his state… The facility is crumbling due to that Blade’s actions. We’ve worked our way through most of it.”
“Put me down.”
“No,” PT rejects, “You are missing a limb.”
“Ah.”
“Several, actually,” Aefanyl grunts, bashing a beast with some Arts, “There. A gap. The facility is falling atop us.”
“A throw is optimal,” PT calculates, “I will not have the speed to make it through.”
“What?” I gasp.
“Projectile mass: 60 kilograms. Wind speed: null,” it continues, halting in an instant and sticking its arm into the sky, pointing, “Range… about 150 meters. Pilot,” it states, turning its eye to me as its arm turns to a fist.
“Trust me.”
Flight overcomes my body as I soar into the heavens, flying past falling debris, metal, monsters, and dust. Everything strikes my face as the clouds coalesce and the edge, higher and higher as Aefanyl and PT rise beside me, slower and a fair distance behind.
PT smashes through the rain of ruin with a shot from its cannon and a slash of the sword as the Banshee closely follows its path before wrangling himself upon the machine.
I simply find myself… soaring. In betrayal of all laws of nature, I drift upon the airs and skies, unbelievably weightless and powerless.
Until finally that limit is broken and my body crashes onto the cracking, caked dried ground, coated with Originium.
Aefanyl lands beside me as PT drifts across the ground, skidding and turning to the collapsing facility. Everything atop soon finds itself falling into the crater as deafening explosions, shredding metal and collapsing stone endlessly fills the air.
“I decree, therefore, I correct. Collapse and hell, extinguished, face to doom, despair, and void,” Aefanyl scribes.
He slashes the air, filling it with rings and rings of intertwining sparkling text until at the last word of his utterance, he stabs the rings, shooting forth a beam of unfettered light straight into the crater. It curves down, as if following a separate will, diving and spiraling until a few moments later, a soft detonation announces its report to us.
“… Cleansed,” he gasps, staggering just a bit, “Let’s return to Rhodes Island now,” he insists, lifting me, “You’re missing an entire arm and your left hand,” he continues, “When that Blade unleashed the blast, your arms raised in defense but it seems your Arts weren’t quite enough.”
“It’s fine,” I shrug, “I feel no pain.”
“You are bleeding immensely,” he strains, “I’ve temporarily managed to halt the flow of fluid, but your body is weak. I can tell by your monitor and your halo. Its shuddering.”
“… Alright then. PT.”
“Yes pilot?”
“You disobeyed orders.”
“After a conversation with Raidian, I’ve determined that your safety is my utmost priority. Because without a pilot, I will not have any other orders to fulfill.”
“Your mission is to follow my will.”
“And without you, there is no will to follow. That was what my creator instructed to me. To defend you to my last spark.”
“Was her name Ahava?”
“… Yes. Pilot, that information…”
“There’s truth I must know. Logos, what did you see?”
“First you need to be sent to Rhodes Island. Then I’ll show you.”
“Alright.”
“Pilot, I have the swords from the Blades.”
“I’ll take them. Maybe they’ll understand I have a purpose… or am trying to find one.”
ʚїɞ
“… What the fuck?”
The Doctor stares at the dark Sankta looking straight up at her.
“Hello, Doctor.”
“Hi. No, what the fuck?” she gasps, sighing and throwing herself down into a chair, “Warfarin?”
“By all accounts, you should be dead,” she shrugs, “Yet you are. Truly an enigma, but that’s the good part. You’re alive. What day is it… Mm, end of February. The 28th.”
“I can tell.”
“Kal’tsit?”
“Most certainly his condition is alarming,” she states, “The information Logos recovered from that gun has been recorded into appropriate files. The entire document is about 150 pages.”
“Good lord,” she blinks, “Any thoughts on it?”
“It explains why he’s alive among many other things. And atrocities. I advise you to read it in your own time, alone, or with trusted personnel. Censored versions will be available for the highest of the Medical Department. The rest is to be classified, only opened by you, I, and Amiya.”
“Understood.”
“The only Operators permitted to that document is Lightfall himself, Logos, and Waterlily to the censored edition.”
“Waterlily can read the full thing.”
“She knows?”
“She does.”
The Feline’s eyes shrink to slits as she sighs, “Highest clearance.”
“Of course.”
“Warfarin,” Kal’tsit calls, “You may leave.”
“Right then,” she nods, swiftly departing.
“Lightfall,” she turns, “Are you entirely sure you want to see your past and everything within it?”
“I must.”
“Then by all means… There. I’ve sent you the documents as well as Logos’ reconstruction with his Arts for better processing.”
“Thank you.”
The Sankta shuts his eyes, perhaps injecting the data stream straight into his mind or playing those reconstructions within what functioning mind is left.
His eyelids twitch with discomfort. Face, twisting here and there. A scowl. Gnashing teeth.
The two look unto him with pity but show much less.
In a fair few minutes, years of past recounted. Pain, suffering, inhuman, experimentation, monster.
Eternity felt. Time dilated. The hourglass of the world set onto its side, all for him to see.
He marches alone through streams of shadow and forlorn memory.
Within a terrible blacksite engineered for a purpose.
To turn human to weapon, against the demons of highest order.
The walls shimmer, people exist and cease to.
Horrific cries. Pleading to higher orders. Begging.
Children scream, children die.
Metallic arms descend upon unwilling.
Those living torched to fight.
To survive.
Those that lived face one last Pilot.
One last driver to the times ahead.
The demons they fight.
Not the Sarkaz, the Teekaz, the ‘demons’ Terra calls them.
But of higher dimensional order, those who disobey reality and laws humanity so desperately cling to.
He sees truth at last. He sees all that he has forgotten, but halts to accept it.
His mind won’t let him.
Simply, he believes, it’s too unreal. Too forsaken. Too scarring and painful.
But he looks down on his chest and sees the Originium node within.
He raises his fist and notices the Arts.
He recounts his organs, or lack thereof.
He sees all the signs.
But he denies it.
Simply, it cannot be.
Simply, it’s a fate too scarring.
Simply, it would’ve been better to forget.
He sees and finds, determines, deduces… that the road to hell is paved with noble intentions.
He forces his vision into reality again, staring daggers into the ceiling before sitting up and clenching his prosthetic fist.
“… I see,” he breathes, “I… am a monument to all… their sins…”
ʚїɞ
Sipping a coffee, Ezell slides himself by a desk, flicking on a computer as Lemuen glides along with her wheelchair, handing out donuts to various staff members.
Lemuel bursts through the door, raising a platter of jellied sweets as Leggera rolls her eye and stares out the window.
Mostima and Fiammetta sit at a desk, slamming their faces in over the same clues again and again with nothing to show for it.
“This is pissing me off,” Fiammetta grumbles, faceplanting into the desk.
“Awh, aren’t you a little pissed off chicken~”
“Shut the fuck up Mostima…”
“Heh~”
“Ezell, watchya doin~?” Lemuel hums.
“Mm… Oh good lord-”
“Woah! I-Is that-?!”
“That’s- That’s Nerina,” he stutters, going red as his eyes widen.
And sure enough, it is Nerina draped in that outfit she wore on stage during New Years upon a magazine column.
Radiant, snow white, with a most alluring yet innocent gaze, slapped on the cover of Rhodes Island Fashion, posing upon a simplistic white cube with one leg over the other, leaning against the wall.
Her body seems slightly elongated if only by her position alone as her hair spills gently across her shoulders, down to her waist. Her broken wings and halo only serve as great contrast, spread wide and high, proud even.
“I was unaware Rhodes Island has a fashion column…” he mutters.
“Didn’t you get one for Coral Coast?!”
“… You’re right.”
“What’s this one?”
“Shining Steps,” Ezell reads, “Goodness… she’s… gorgeous…”
“Pft, we’re at work! Stop fawning over your girlfriend!”
“You’re right,” he nervously chuckles, closing the image, “That is… living in my mind rent free now.”
“Says you,” Lemuen teases, “Leggera~”
“Mm?” she hums, swinging over while flicking her hair and staring at Lemuel.
“O-Oh my God…” she blushes, staring at the ground, “S-So pretty…”
“Look at this bitch,” Fiammetta chuckles, “Damn.”
“When are you getting laid?” Mostima pokes.
“Do you want to find out?” she flatly delivers.
“W-What?”
“Do you?”
“Well…”
“What, is there a shared history I missed?” Lemuel blinks.
Lemuen, Fiammetta and Mostima exchange looks of subtle acknowledgement before blissfully ignoring the question.
“Oh come on!” she grumbles, “Hiding everything from me…”
“God…” Ezell gasps, burying his face in his hands, “Nerina- Ah goodness…”
“You…” Lemuen mutters, “Pretty women, I get it. I mean I had Fiammetta and Mostima with me for a good while~”
The two addressees flick their eyes in an instant, the Liberi, deadpan. The Sankta, smug.
“… Fair point sis,” Lemuel chuckles, “Oh Leggera~”
“Yes?”
“Come here!” she laughs, leaping and wrapping her into a nuzzling hug.
“Aghn-!”
The two collapse into a couch as Lemuel flattens the other, tightly embracing her.
“H… Help…” she lets out.
“No,” Fiammetta scoffs, “You reap what you sow.”
“What?!”
“You heard me.”
“You suck as a teacher.”
“Oh really?”
“… Damn you.”
A moment later, the door once again finds itself bashed open as two Sankta wave over.
“Ria~ Hello~” Lemuen sings.
A light blue short haired Sankta smiles.
“Lemuen, good to see you. Can you believe it? Another field mission?” she sighs.
“It’s work,” she shrugs, “Everyone, that is Serpilia of the Lateran Curia, Sixth Tribunal,” she announces, “Chief Engineer. A friend on a good day… and a co-worker on any other.”
“You suck,” she chuckles.
“Now now, we’re here to deliver a message,” the other Sankta sets, “Ezell, how have you been?”
“Richele,” he blinks, “It’s been… a fair while.”
“Ha! Yes,” he nods.
Black hair, thick halo, planar wings.
“Do you have a second? Oh my, who’s that?” he notes, pointing at Ezell’s monitor.
“A-ah, nothing…” he quickly waves, shutting the computer off only to see Richele’s eyebrow raising.
“His girlfriend,” Lemuen taunts.
“You got quite busy in three years,” he laughs.
“Well…”
“Life happens,” he waves.
“That is true… Anyways! Yes, I do have a moment. What is it?”
“Ah, please follow me.”
“Right then.”
Ezell rises in an instant, calming his heart before waving the rest goodbye and exiting the office.
“Your girlfriend?” he teases.
“Sir…” he sighs playfully.
“As a mentor, it’s my responsibility.”
“Hah… I see,” he chuckles.
“Anyways, how’s Rhodes Island?”
“Nice, actually. Yes, I met her there.”
Ezell silently prays that he didn’t see her shattered wings and darkened halo.
“What’s on your gun…?”
“Oh, an Arts device fashioned as a gladius,” he explains, lifting his shotgun.
Upon its underbarrel, what was once Leggera’s blade has been handed to her sister, which then handed to him. A short gladius of fine steel and weathered leather grip, bolted in hasty but rigid fashion.
“From who?”
“Her,” he blushes, “It’s great. She’s taught me a little ice Arts too.”
“Fascinating… Never doubted you. How’s Cecelia?”
“Doing great!”
“That’s good. Very good. I’ve been there a few times. It’s nice, really. Breath of fresh air… But nothing quite is like Laterano.”
“True,” he nods along, “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Oh, nothing much. But more of a precaution.”
“A… precaution?”
“That case you’re all digging into… it’s twenty years cold, no?”
“That’s correct.”
“… I’d stop.”
“Huh? Why?”
“Ezell, trust me on this one,” he sighs, breath steadying but words tightening, “There’s a reason it’s been dead for 20 years.”
“… I’ll… consider it. But… that’s eight hundred children. I can’t imagine if Cecelia was taken from me.”
“I understand… It’s up to you to follow the warning though.”
“Right, right…”
“Good luck anyways,” he ends, tapping the young Executor once on the shoulder, “Just don’t get too wrapped up in other people’s lives!”
“… I’ll…”
His words halt in his throat as his mentor waves and rounds a corner.
Alone, he stands facing the light through a window, staring off into the holy city.
His fist clenches softly as he raises it to his chest.
“…. No, I can’t do that,” he sighs, “I can’t… abandon the promises I’ve made and the people I cherish. I won’t, and I never will. Nerina… I will… make you smile as long as I can. And Cecelia…”
He shuts his eyes, fixing his hair back so that both his eyelids are shone upon by the sun.
He draws in a heavy, deep breath, then letting it all go with the stress along his shoulders.
His eyes fling open, shimmering gemstones of violet delicately and powerfully refracting and focusing the sun that spills forth.
It dances across his jacket, shirt, tie, pants, vest, his hair, porcelain skin and delicate gloves and fingers. In all its holiness, it drapes the angel in its blessing.
His wings and halo shine bright and eternal, only tapering to slight darkness at its ends as the halo’s fragments dance just the slightest bit.
“I will find your father. Across Terra, in Kazdel… Against all of Laterano’s will if I have to. A Sankta meddling with the demons… So-called demons… Then so be it,” he sets, tightening that fist.
“I won’t fail.”
ʚїɞ
“Two?” Mechanist mutters.
“Two,” I nod, setting the blades on the table in front of him.
“Goodness, you and Logos…”
“Are you going to the canteen later today?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Expect a show.”
“And by show do you mean…” Closure wanders off, “Juggling eggs?”
“Maybe.”
“Logos… You insane man… Now there’s two!”
“How’s your arm?” Feist asks.
“Fine. Hand’s fine. Calibrating takes a little while, but I’m familiar enough with it,” I state, flicking my rifle around before throwing it onto my back, “Leggera had a damaged arm. When I see her again, perhaps I’ll ask her some things.”
Those images, visions… no, reality haunts my mind.
I push it away. I have to.
<I was right.>
I sigh.
<Augmented Sankta, P8-621, Emotion Recorded.>
<Regret.>
I grab the hilt of one sword as Arts rush all over it, humming with dull energy.
“Woah!” Closure jumps, “Careful…”
“It’s fine.”
I lift the weapon, feeling it radiate before shutting my Arts off and lowering it.
“How does it feel?” Feist asks, cranking his neck.
“Light, but heavy at the same time. As if air had a burden. Almost like a soul.”
“… Huh.”
“I do also believe if I carry them the Emperor’s Blades may stop harassing me.”
“They’re hunting you down?!” Closure screeches.
“To a degree, yes.”
“What the hell did you do?” Mechanist breathes, tossing me a blade sheath.
As I snatch it out of the air, I turn to him with a response.
“The sin of existence.”
Silence shatters the air as I fasten the sheath around my thighs, then slide the two blades into their rightful places.
“I’ll explain when I believe the occurrences. For the time being, I live in my own land of ignorance.”
“Suit yourself. Just don’t die,” Mechanist shrugs.
“I won’t.”
ʚїɞ
Aefanyl crashes through the canteen’s doors, this time in the air, having been thrown in by Giocatore. He soars, horizontal, posing by resting his head on a hand and the rest of his body elongated. The Banshee drifts for a few seconds in the air as several Operators stare on in awe, shock and amusement.
A second later, he slams onto a waiting table to the cheers of everyone, all while he sits there with a most deadpan face.
He spots Mudrock bashfully clapping in the back before swiveling his eyes over, focusing with a distant gaze as a soaring glass of alcohol crosses the room, once again from the door, thrown by some colluding dark-winged Sankta.
“To the Sarkaz…” he raises, snatching that glass, “To the will of Rhodes Island, Theresa, the Doctor. To Rhodes Island,” he nods, downing it.
“Rhodes Island!” the rest screech.
“And to that one Sarkaz in the back, with eyes of ruby and a sledgehammer against heathens,” he smirks ever so slightly, nudging his cup at her with the slightest movement before sipping the rest.
The crowd runs wild with murmurs as gazes flick around here and there as the Sarkaz in question turns bright red, at least upon the face.
“Logos,” Giocatore calls, “Catch.”
A blitz of a fruit zips at inhuman speeds as his eyes lock and head turns. Splayed on the table, he identifies the projectile.
Fruit.
Species… apple.
Speed…450 meters per second.
Projectile mass… 85 grams.
Deduction… bullet-speed fruit.
He nods, shutting his eyes, and without even moving muscles but his tongue and lips, a single blade of Arts zips at the speed of light, turning into a flurry of a thousand cuts, and mincing the fruit into nothing but juice…
… Which ends up in a small bubble of Arts, then zipping on out of the room to Giocatore’s delight, consuming such a nice snack.
More cheers. More cries. More chants.
A second later, the Sankta comes drifting through the room, spinning around on an office stool at blistering speeds, coming just inches from the wall to the crowd’s shock. Alarms of impact and collision fill the air, but their worries are all for naught.
At least for the pilot, that is.
The chair suddenly is all it is; an empty stool sailing at Mach 10, crashing into the canteen wall at such a speed that leaves a thick impact in the metal wall as the Sankta atop it snaps his fingers and vanishes in an instant.
The puff of darkness that constitutes Giocatore floats to the ceiling, then plummets onto the ground, slithering between the ankles of many Operators and sending sensations of odd chills all throughout their bodies.
Only then does the mist begin to condense at the rear of the room in some empty spot between all the tables, garnering the attention of everyone as his form reassembles. Clothes, boots, coat, emblems, then head, face, gun, weaponry, eyes, and at last, wings and halos, all rematerialize from thin air.
The man fixes his tie and thrusts a blade into the air, like a king would addressing his people, all while the crowd screams with immense fervor.
“A monument…” he whispers, “A monument to humanity’s truth, a monument to a landship of lesser sin, a monument upon the hell of Terra… Rhodes Island.”
The cheers do not end, much like the will of every soul aboard.
ʚїɞ
“Leggera’s birthday is coming soon,” Fiammetta notes as she pushes Lemuen’s wheelchair along the empty halls of the hospital.
“Oh is it now?”
“Yep, March 3rd.”
“Mm… It’s already midnight. So in two days?”
“If you wanna be technical, sure,” the Liberi shrugs.
“You’ve been stressed a bit.”
“Yeah, just a bit.”
The silent tile-lined floors and white-plastered halls deflect the cool grey moonlight, bounding across with whatever dim illumination it may. In a few rooms, the tiniest amount of warm light pours from beneath the doors while others shut lights down for the night.
“Just a bit~?” Lemuen hums.
“Bit more than a bit.”
“Awh, that’s unfortunate.”
“Yeah. It’s fine though. Ezell and Cecelia dragged me over the weekend. Got some ice cream. Looked around…”
“Mostima wheeled me around. She shoved me down an incline and let go!”
“W-what?!”
“Hah… Oh that was fun…”
“I’m gonna bash her head in…”
“You say that all the time, have you ever followed through?”
“Yes,” Fiammetta bluntly delivers, “Several, actually.”
“What, cause of all those nicknames she gives you?”
“Don’t remind me…”
“She gave you a new one this New Years I heard~”
“… Lemuen.”
“Fluffy buns~”
“I’m going to demolish Mostima.”
“I look forwards to it!”
“Hmph. Tell me, what are the odds that an Infected Fallen Sankta can make her way into the city?”
“Uh…” Lemuen trails off, “Infected are banished.”
“I know.”
“Might have to talk to His Holiness about that one…”
“I understand.”
“Ah, let’s take a turn here.”
“Alright.”
Fiammetta gently swings the chair around a corner, leading the two down a corridor of many paintings and floor-to-wall plants. They drape this end of the hospital as the moons now hang beyond the glass, almost as if they were a painting too.
“What, is it about Nerina?”
“How… the hell…?”
“I’ve known you long enough,” she giggles, “You’re quite protective of her.”
“… True.”
“Ahh… Well, if she wants to enter the city… Yeah, might be a whole lot of hoops to jump through.”
“Can it just be for Leggera’s birthday?”
“I don’t know, but I can ask.”
“Giocatore too… Is also Infected. But he could be the key to this whole case.”
“Then I think I can propose something…” she muses, “Could you bring me to the window please?”
“Sure.”
She shuffles the wheelchair right up to the glass, as far as it allows and careful of Lemuen’s legs as the Sankta locks the wheels in place. Fiammetta carefully works her way around, standing next to her and staring off to the moons.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“The city or the moons?”
“Both, I’d say.”
The statue of a great Sankta in white quartz glistens with the remainders of light, holding a rifle with wide wings and a tall halo.
“You know, I don’t care much about if people are Infected or not.”
“Oh, really?”
“Well, when all my friends are running off to Rhodes Island, is it that surprising?” she chuckles, turning to face her friend.
“That’s a fair point.”
“One day I’d like to visit, but Curia work has me bogged down.”
“Ever heard of a vacation?” Fiammetta jabs with a half smile.
“Rich, coming from you,” Lemuen grunts, shaking her head.
“I’ll have you know I’ve been on two recently.”
“Oh wow! Looks like that landship finally did something for that thick skull of yours!”
“C’mon…”
“And Mostima!”
“That’s true. I think she’s doing just a bit better now too. Still no progress on that mission of hers.”
“Eh, it was given from His Holiness. I doubt it’ll unravel itself any time soon.”
“That’s fair. I’m willing to wait… Also to know what happened exactly in those damn ruins. Ten years ago.”
“… Still never gonna let that off, are you…”
“No, never,” she exhales, “I’ll never understand your Sankta hivemind magic.”
“Unfortunately, no. Sankta are blessed. Laterano is blessed… and it creates perhaps the closest thing to paradise we have, if only for a single race.”
“You’re sounding like Andoain.”
“Ah, am I?” she smiles, “His ideals are… nice. His methods I… wouldn’t agree with much. Considering Eclissi and the Salvezza…”
“Tell me about it…”
“They’re gone now, right?”
“Yes, absolutely. I don’t know where Andoain is but… that’s the least of my concerns.”
“Right, right.”
“Lemuen.”
“Yes?”
“I just want you to know, the next time I see him, he’s going to be nothing but a pile of ash and bone.”
“Extreme, but I understand,” she sighs.
“Lemuen, look at yourself!” Fiammetta hisses, “Paralyzed!”
“I’ve been getting better,” she swats.
“Mostima fell! Do you know how much that… Right. Listen to me… Giocatore, when we were training, he used his Arts on me.”
“Huh?”
“I asked him to. Not to hold back. But he still did, and good thing he did, because when he hit me with those Arts, I saw that day, but I saw what I dreaded the most. I saw you die. I saw Mostima die. I saw your blood spill between my fingers as Mostima sunk beneath waves of blood.”
The phoenix shuts her eyes as her shoulders rise and fall in a limp cycle, like the tides of time or simply the tides of a beach.
“Your body slipped between my hands. No matter what I did, I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t save her.”
Fiammetta’s eyes finally open, only to find Lemuen gazing towards her with slight concern.
“You… were dead. Your body was cold. Andoain killed you. Andoain killed Mostima. And he was going to kill me if it weren’t for Giocatore dragging me out of that hell.”
“What… do I even say?”
“Nothing,” she breathlessly lets out, “It was a nightmare. A hallucination, really. That’s how his Arts work. They’re a sort of mental corruption where he draws what a person fears or dreads the most and shows them to you.”
“It wasn’t real.”
“I know. You’re here. And that’s why… Even if you forgive him, even if Mostima forgives him, even if all of Laterano forgives him…”
Her words choke themselves in her throat, threatening to burst into flames.
“I… will not.”
“I understand,” Lemuen whispers, “Don’t worry about us though.”
“I don’t. I’m just scared when and if you two die.”
“Mostima feels the same.”
“I know. A few times… well I was badly injured,” she shrugs, “Got impaled through the gut. Still lived.”
“Goodness!”
“Yeah, yeah… So did Leggera. She almost died. Carried her, patched her up most I could. I was seeing that… vision all over again. But that time wasn’t a dream. She almost died. I’ll tell you my heart dropped when I felt her grip loosen and her body going limp in my arms. Yet even with all that happening and all that I fear… I’ve never had someone I care about die. And she’s had her entire squad torn from her.”
“Right…”
“You wanted to talk to her about that when we first met.”
“Correct… Mostima guessed that too.”
“Lemuel’s as dumb as a box of rocks,” Fiammetta scoffs, “Whatever, she also knows. When I saw Mostima fallen, and you limp in her arms… I had nothing but guilt and fury in my mind. Even now… I feel it. And it’s nothing to what Leggera’s felt or what Nerina’s been through.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t feel those things,” she gently advises, unlocking her wheelchair and turning to the Liberi, “And by the way Leggera acts, I’d say she’s quite a fair bit better now. Thanks to you, actually,” she grins.
“Yeah, that’s true.”
“Might I say you’ve gotten better too~ Let yourself be part of someone’s life. Part of Leggera’s life, actually.”
“… Hm.”
“And Nerina, if I’d hazard a guess.”
“You’ll see if that’s true.”
“I do hope I do~”
“She’s quite… She’s very kind.”
“So I’ve heard!”
“Mhm. You’ll love her, I think.”
“Well, I mean, if Ezell picked her up, there’s no doubt.”
“Hah, you’re right about that,” Fiammetta chuckles, looking back over the city.
“Thanks for pushing me about as always,” Lemuen gratefully hums, “I’ll write something to His Holiness tomorrow morning then. Well, later this morning.”
“Mhm. Thanks, also.”
“Of course! Get to sleep, alright?”
“You sure you can make it back to your room?”
“Yeah yeah~”
“Right. See you.”
“Goodnight~!”