Reconcile
Model: Waterlily.
One of Waterlily’s performance outfits.
To live in the present, one must first accept and overcome the past.
Monster Siren Records Idol Project "Shining Steps" Promotional Costume/Snowlily. Waterlily’s outfit in her time performing during her youth in Laterano, with some choice alterations and reconstructed from memory as accurately as possible. A relatively new Lateran stage abandoned their prized ornament. Now found and cherished, she will pave a new life by freezing the past and thawing the future.
Another photoshoot?
Don’t mind if I do~
I quickly skim over the text as I snap up my terminal and hand it off to a waiting helper, thanking her with a small bow as I make my way regally through the changeroom and onto the stage.
These damn studio lights… so hot. So bright! Never quite changed now did it…? Hehe…
I squint, lifting my hand to shield my eye just a bit as a crowd of photographers and camera crew scramble about. The scene is similar to the last one. Some white boxes, white background, and as-bright-as-sun light.
“Did Ezell get the pre-edition?” I hum.
“Oh yeah,” the Doctor nods, “Got that sent as soon as it could.”
“I sure hope he didn’t open that at work…” I murmur, fixing up the broach, “Alright, what’s it this time?”
“Just some solo shoots, shouldn’t take too long,” she reads off, “Oh, and flowers. Lots of flowers!”
“Ooh… Which?”
“White roses,” she winks.
“Ah… Gorgeous!”
“And cecilias.”
“Is this just eye candy for Ezell?” I tease.
“Not that you mind,” she prods.
“… Fair,” I relent, going a bit red, “A-Alright, let’s get this on then…”
A photographer waves me, guiding me to a cube as I push my twin tails hair about, gently nudging it and careful not to unwind the styling.
Another person brings a mirror to me, running some quick final checks on my outfit.
Twin-tail hairstyle.
Sky-blue metal lily. The broach from Cecelia!
Silvery headband.
Thin, opaque shirt, styled like a blazer, pure white, and sleeves of gauze that shift to a gorgeous gradient of glacial blues.
On the right of my chest, a small emblem of Rhodes Island.
On the left, a pure white ceclilia pinned over my heart.
Mid-thigh skirt, sky-blue, and pleated. It highlights my waist and torso, cutely and beautifully.
Covering my legs, opaque white tights, soft and comfortable with a most radiant snow-like glow.
My shoes, solid white heels with soles of glacial blues.
Around my neck, a thin silver necklace with a lotus hanging to the center of my chest, as well as a choker with a large lily centered on the neck.
Finally, on my ankle, a silver anklet, made entirely by silver flowers.
“Beautiful then,” she comments, shifting the mirror away.
“Miss, please take this seat there,” a cameraman directs, motioning to the cube.
I obey, gracefully plopping myself down before turning to the camera with a trained, perfected publicity smile.
“Are the scars going to be a problem?” he whispers over to a sharply dressed Feline with a clipboard.
“We were here a few weeks ago. It’s fine,” she waves, “Besides, that eyepatch and the scars? Badass.”
Ah…
I steal a glance at whatever exposed skin I have upon my wrists, and sure enough, the scars that were there when I got here are still here, if not just extremely faded.
A memory of… all that happened to me. The assaults and the pain…
But that’s all over now.
I turn back to the camera as the lights swivel down onto me.
“Here… move your legs- There. Perfect!”
I sweep my legs up onto a lower box, causing my skirt to drift just the slightest bit down and exposing a few more inches of my thighs.
Snap! And a blinding flash!
“Shift your pose. Ah, someone guide her.”
The Doctor quickly shuffles to me, taking my hands and spinning me about-!
“Woah-!” I let out.
“Not the first time I had to ‘dance’ with a Fallen Angel,” she smirks before setting me down, “Like that?” she asks, turning to the others.
“Perfect!”
“Huh?” I mutter.
“Don’t worry about it,” she ends, scampering out of frame.
Puzzled, I blink a few times before directing my gaze to all those cameras. Darker lights. A more ‘solemn’ atmosphere… But still radiant in its own way.
I am that light. The lighthouse to guide others now…
As an Elite Operator, I can do that. People believe in me. So I must not fail them.
Camera’s click, and more flash fire.
A microphone finds its way into my hand as my pose changes once again, standing, ready to sing, but that’s not what I’m here for.
No problem~
More cameras, more photos.
The heat is… almost getting to me. So I let some Arts fly, streaming from that blade I keep behind my skirt, out of sight. Lines of snow pepper my face and down my back, quickly cooling my mind down. Jolts of refreshing cold linger upon my fragile skin as the faint drops of water roll across my body, drawing the heat away and replacing it with respite.
Next, a headset. Hands-free singing, just like the one I used for New Years!
Hand on the ear, mid-jump, spinning, twirling-
So many…
This is quite tiring though…
I constantly shift poses, spinning my body here and there with different props and different backgrounds.
One moment, flowers are flying all across me as I try to look as angelic as possible.
Next, the air is silent, and I simply pose like a statue upon a museum.
And even next, perhaps towards the sky. Hundreds of poses… so many little routines I’ve memorized from my past.
This… is all familiar to me. When I was still in Laterano, I did these little photoshoots. Back then, I didn’t know what I want.
Back then, I didn’t know if this was what I wanted.
Back then… I didn’t know if this was something that would make me wanted.
Did they want me, the girl behind the lens? Or just the money I raked in?
… Well, of course it was only the money.
But here, I do it because I want to. Because I have my own life now, because I can… see beyond what used to be nothing for me.
That silly little girl… is now a woman.
I am me. And no one’s taking that away from me.
“Alright, just a few more Miss Waterlily!” the cameraman calls out, “Use your Arts! Make a spectacle!”
“That… Alright, I’ll try!”
I smile and thrust my arms outwards, snow spilling from my fingertips as the blade behind me begins to hum gently.
Lines of frost crawl all across the stage, growing like vines sped ahead, but not damaging a thing. I weave and cast the ice all around me, spinning with it, dancing with it.
Two steps, and a twirl. My eye shuts as I sway to my own beat, muttering a random song in my random mind.
I dance, letting my heels radiate through the hollow stage. My feet come together, then part, and come together again.
A pattern, yet different every time. Like the tides that roll across Iberia, they form a cycle, but however the water churns is an alteration upon alteration.
Just like how every dance I take… is always different. Unique.
The ice blooms from behind me as frost races across my wings and halo. I force my wings out, surrounding me in their mute, darkened and shattered beauty as my heavenly, broken ring lifts just a few inches higher.
My hand rises, and a waft of ice obeys. I spin, and spin, and spin, my skirt flying upwards just a bit yet still covering just enough.
The other hand follows around my body, trailing behind with its own line of grace.
Finally, my feet begin to slow as my pace drifts down and down. The snow comes down, like falling rains, and fades when I rest my hands. I lower that hand once high in the air, turning my palm to the ceiling and smile at the ball of snow in it.
My eye rises to the cameraman, to everyone around me, all with enthralled, entranced gazes, and find a most gleeful grin spreading across my face. A moment later, a soft line of blush too.
“Told you,” the suited Feline smirks, nudging the cameraman, “Shining Steps scored a real gem with this one.”
“So we have a literal angel on our hands, got it,” he quickly whispers.
“Yes, that’s what a Sankta is…” the woman sighs.
“Thank you, Miss!”
“Thank you for this opportunity,” I bow, noticing my breath has risen quite considerably, “I look forwards to the photos!”
Giving one last bow and curtsy to everyone, I wave them a farewell before wandering to the changeroom as the Doctor tails me.
“Second time,” I hum.
“Yep. Have you met anyone else that’s modeled for them?”
“I… don’t think I have?”
“You should,” she muses.
“I’ll consider it soon then~”
“Speaking of clothes, you should probably get a new uniform.”
“Eh?”
“Well, since you’re an Elite Operator now, the only thing you’ve added to your uniform is… well, the EO badge on your chest and shoulder flash.”
“I suppose it is a bit old…”
“But it’s quite sentimental to you,” she points out.
“That’s true. I did… take a lot of it from Ezell’s outfit…”
“Because it was a symbol for you to move forwards.”
“… Yeah,” I blink, realizing, “It was… basically a new life for me.”
“I’m glad you found a new life,” she adds, setting my regular clothes on a bench, “I’ll wait for you outside, alright?”
“Yep! Thank you… I’ll consider the new uniform then…”
“Do you have a slight idea of what you want?”
“Mm… A cloak something like Outcast’s…”
“… I see,” the Doctor nods, “I’ll let Amiya know then.”
“Thanks!”
Even beneath that heavy mask of hers, I can tell she’s smiling. Even if she isn’t a Sankta… I can tell what she’s feeling. She’s happy, as am I. And… I want that to stay.
So I’ll make sure it does.
… I sure do miss Cecelia and Ezell…
And everyone else…
ʚїɞ
I stare into those ‘memories.’ Shadows, pain, and suffering.
Not that I know what ‘pain’ is. I only understand its concept.
Again.
And again.
And again.
They don’t make any more sense than they did before.
I clench my fist. How can any of this be reality?
It does not make sense.
“Lightfall.”
I force my eyes open with a sigh, turning around to face the Banshee with a very slightly concerned gaze.
“Yes, Logos?”
“The other Elites have noticed you spending far too much time here.”
I sigh once again and turn away.
The edge of the roof of Rhodes Island.
I lean against its railing. The cold steel does not permeate my coat or gloves.
The twin moons are not here tonight.
The clouds are, blanketing the pitch-black sky and obscuring the sprinkle of stars above.
I stare to the shrouded horizon. Tree lines, dark. Fields, buildings. All nothing but shadow-like blotches here and there.
There is no wind. And the scent of the air only smells of processed exhaust from Rhodes Island.
“I have come to a realization.”
“What is it?”
“My memories have been erased. Entirely. I cannot recall anything from before Eclissi found me.”
“Yet you still… have hallucinations of that Sarkaz?”
“Yes. It seems not everything can be… eradicated. The memories you have shown me… even if it concerns me, even if it was my past, I cannot believe it. I cannot accept it. That… simply could not have happened…”
“It… it is much,” he breathes, coming next to me, “It… will take time to fully process.”
“… Is it real then? All of… that?”
“The blacksite, the experimentation, the surgeries, the inhuman actions in that… yes, they are all real. The gun was a personal possession by a Sankta guard who was close to the owner of the site. He, she, they… stated that someone had to know exactly what happened here. It seems the owner of the gun coalesced all the Arts they could and imbued this weapon with it.”
I shut my eyes.
Visions of death, descending saws, scalpels, and Originium, and Collapsal shards, scorch my vision.
Like a blade scoring itself across flesh, it leaves a trench scarring through my memory and mind.
“We have… every single document from that site.”
“And I have read every single one.”
“You have.”
“I dare not… retrieve them.”
“Then don’t, at least for now.”
“I need to…” I start, snapping around before losing my words.
“Yes?”
My eyes dart across the landship, bouncing from floor to railing to building to Aefanyl.
“I need to go to Laterano.”
“Why?”
“Tell… Everyone else about this. Nerina told me that…”
My mind bounces away.
I’ve come to realize some things.
“… I know. But how long will it take me to accept?” I redirect, resting a hand on one of the hilts of my swords.
“You could talk to the Doctor about that.”
“She has…”
“… Similar. But it’s not my place to tell you.”
“I understand.”
A small buzz tingles my ears, as well as Aefanyl’s.
Staring at each other, we both respond to the call.
“Amiya?” he starts.
“Logos, Lightfall, there’s a small situation,” she starts.
“What is it?” I inquire.
“A Messenger arrived. Seems like an Ursus Infected camp needs supplies, immediately. One of you will need to clear the way.”
“I have it,” I cut.
“Just a second!” the Cautus cries, “I understand you’re very devoted to Rhodes Island, but please, your safety is a higher concern! There’s a rogue Ursus force surrounding it. Ideally, we won’t have to resort to violence but-”
“They will not be a problem.”
“… Alright then,” she sighs, “It seems you understand the soldiers won’t be particularly understanding to you. And… well, Ursus is trying to hunt you down with their Blades. Since you’re entering their territory, I still advise you to be very careful.”
“I will. I’ll be on my way then.”
I disconnect from the call, but it appears Amiya has more to say with the Banshee. He simply nods and waves farewell as I leave the roof, wandering down the empty, silent halls of the landship before finally arriving at the garage.
The titan of a combat machine kneels idle as Mechanist stares at a holographic projection.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Lightfall,” he mutters, not even bothering to look up before shutting the projection off.
“What is it?”
“I was just observing some of the combat recordings. Its quite insane, I’ll tell you that.”
“Designed to destroy. That’s its will, as is mine,” I state, walking over to it and placing my palm against its stiff yet thin armour.
“… Hey, listen.”
“Yes?”
I crane my neck to the man, peering at him with null expression and emotion.
“Logos and I talked about some things,” he goes on, turning to face the machine’s eye, “It’s about your past.”
“… What is it?”
“It’s a lot. Complicated. Horrific. Terrifying. Life and machine, they’re very different. A part of me sees this machine in you.”
“… There is a reason for that.”
“I know. Logos knows, the Doctor knows. Kal’tsit knows, Amiya knows.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Few reasons,” he shrugs, resting himself against the wall, “Elites look out for each other. We all do.”
“I’ll be fine. It is fine,” I ‘breathe,’ lowering my gaze to PT’s chest, “It’s how it has always been. It’s… how it should be.”
<Failure.>
<You should have listened to me.>
My mind suddenly spikes with ferocity. Something… between my brain… is stabbing outwards, in all directions.
“… It’s fine,” I restate, shutting my eyes and forcing that sensation away, “It… is fine. I was forged as a weapon to destroy demons, for Terra. And that… is my will. I will see to it, at the same time as securing Rhodes Island. That has always been my devotion.”
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” he shrugs, “Tell me, do you always want to be like this? Emotionless? Suffering? Painless?”
He lets out a near silent exhale, shifting his posture meanwhile before crossing his arms.
“Do you want to be human, or a weapon?”
My thoughts grind against each other, calculating those words. Those… sentences. That decision…
Is it mine to make?
Was it ever mine to make?
“A machine is purpose built to one function,” he goes on, starting to move around me in a wide, non-confronting circle, “A weapon is designed to do one function. PT-7274 was made to fight. To destroy. To kneel to you and follow your will.”
“Humans create machines because we can determine what is human and what isn’t. No…” he chuckles, shaking his head, “Not even we can do that… Allow me to correct. Humans make machines because we know how to see a goal and never stop until we get that goal. Every machine has a purpose. One fixed purpose. To move. To kill. To build. To sharpen.”
He continues to speak, continuing to surround around me like vultures around carrion.
“I invent, construct, repair, design. Machines or weaponry. I trained Blaze with Ace, helped make her chainsaw. I mentor the younger engineers aboard. These… are all people. No one has a fixed ‘purpose’ in life. Every path I’ve walked with them turns differently and is different. None of them were the same. The inventions I make… they have a decision. A purpose, a reason to exist.”
He shifts his gaze to me, not halting his pace.
“You were ‘created.’ ‘Forged’ and treated inhumanely. But what are you? Look at your body. Your form beyond your arms and hand. What is beneath you?”
“… Flesh, and dark, Originium-soaked blood.”
“There is no machine like that. You have a mind. You have a will. You decide, you pursue, and you exist. A question every human asks is if they want to live. Every day, it is asked. For almost everyone, it’s a subconscious yes. For you, what is it?”
My lips part but nothing comes out. Only silence floats between my jaw.
“Therein is our issue,” he sighs, “You believe yourself to be a machine, but you aren’t. I’m an engineer, but for machines. I can’t ‘fix’ you. There’s… nothing to fix about humans. Only things to help with and to raise. So I ask you again… Do you want to live as a human, or as a machine?”
“… I don’t… understand.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“Whether…”
I turn my mechanized palms to the ceiling, creaking neck sluggishly, painfully, and tightly twisting inches at a time to the fellow Operator.
“… Whether I’m alive, or not. What… makes something alive? What makes something dead? Am I not… mostly machine at this point? My organs… are not present. My body subsists from small machines substituting organs. My hand is… prosthetic, my arm too.”
“What makes something alive…” he muses, turning to the ground for a second, “What separates you and PT?”
“Is its blood not oil? It has a will… it shares my will. Its flesh is steel. It has a mind of its own. It can debate and it can reason.”
“… I see,” he mutters, “What does separate you two is that you decided to continue to live,” he sharply, stiffly, but not aggressively sets, staring straight to me.
I catch the reflection of my opal eyes glaring right into me. The blinding florescent lamps of the workshop deflect and curve around his mask’s form, warping the surroundings around us. In a way, that light surrounds me. It paints my halo and wings in the non-deserved holiness the other Sankta are bathed in.
“… What?”
“The machine simply has a purpose, and that’s to follow you. It cannot decide to live ahead, it cannot decide to destroy itself. It protects you and it heeds your words. Yet you… You have the opportunity to take your life at any given moment,” he states, nudging his head towards both blades, “It wouldn’t be that hard.”
I narrow my eyes a millimeter before drawing one such sword out.
Its hilt is warm. It hums to me, whispers to me, as if living as well.
“The decision to life… is a choice,” I recall, hazily, “Once… something’s alive, it… doesn’t die easily,” I remember.
I… remember.
I remember.
I…
I snap my neck up to PT’s dormant eye.
Ahava…
I furrow my brows.
Ahava… I am… beginning to understand your words… that then became… mine…
“Once something realizes… it's alive, it… won’t… ever want to die,” I recount, not daring to shift my gaze.
“Devotion to life is a choice,” Ahava hums in my mind, “Just as death is another.”
“GET OUT OF MY MIND!”
I scream.
My mind erupts like a thousand volcanos at once. An earthquake tears through its solid state as a typhoon wipes clean any standing thoughts.
The sword drills its way like a knife through meters of flesh, my flesh, my mind. It buries itself in the concrete, crackling and screaming too. Arts burns. It explodes. It rampages. It roasts. It races across my body and my clothes, sundering away any sense of sanity as my thoughts fill with nothing but dull insanity.
“Get… out. Get out… get all of… this out…”
“Lightfall,” Mechanist sharply states, “Lightfall? I’ll get Logos and Waterlily.”
“Go… Leave… Leave me alone… Just… leave me be…”
The blade explodes again. Veins of violet Arts screech through the ground, forcing it apart, filling it with sinister purples as darkness begins to waft from my mouth, my fingers, my eyes.
It’s getting dark. It’s getting so dark.
It’s so dark.
So unbearably dark.
The tinge of destruction and death soaks into my face.
The touch of malice and hatred dances upon my skin.
The taste of blood and betrayal cakes my mouth.
I see nothing but hear everything.
I hear noises, I hear voices.
I hear so many voices. The will of a thousand. Of a million. The will of Terra, all at once.
All that I was meant to serve. And everything all at once. I see the past, the future, and the present.
It collapses, it reforms. It shatters like my mind and disintegrates like every empire that no longer stands. Gaul, burned away. Kazdel, destroyed again, and again, and again. Yet it still stands…
Their fires leach into my bones. Their monuments of sin, their declarations of it and their actions. They melt away the Originium coating them, striking against my nerves. But it doesn’t hurt. It’s warm, a soothing sensation, closer and closer to the death all ‘humans’ march towards.
“It’s fine,” I mutter, “It’s fine… It is fine…”
I raise my eyes, opening them. A profound sensation of nothingness saturates everything. Conceptually, physically, and irrationally.
When the eyelids part, all I see… is a lake of shadows.
The walls are obsidian. A cave of obsidian glass.
There is no light here, except for a single spot of it radiating from the center of the lake.
It’s incredibly silent. I can hear my breath cycle. I can hear the ‘blood’ churning between my veins. I can hear the pump in my chest threatening to burst from my ribs.
Ahava once again stands in front of me, in the lake, her dress soaked with the oil-like water as it laps against her legs.
The water is cold. It… has no temperature. The air has no feeling, no reason to be, no touch to give and no mercy to grant.
The darkness seeps into her white dress. The fluid quickly hardens into ice. Dark ice. Then… pieces of Originium. Yet the droplets around me continue to flow, only obeying the movement of my legs.
When I step ahead, the fronts melt, and the behinds solidify.
Originium spires rise from the lake. Towers of it, winding around each other again and again. They threaten to pierce the heavens, cutting me off from her. They start to separate us. Distance us.
Like it once happened, like I so distantly avoid to believe.
No. I don’t want this to be reality.
This can’t be reality.
This cannot be reality.
I won’t allow it.
Not again-
“AHAVA!”
My voice shreds itself apart. It shatters the towers of dark crystal like explosions upon glass. I charge ahead as that figure sluggishly turns to me.
But the sky begins falling. Spears of Originium, cascading down. An avalanche. A landslide.
My boots thrash through the stiff ‘water,’ but it quickly it turns to blood.
Everything becomes red.
Its bright like the sun. It’s red like the gems. It’s vermillion like Aefanyl’s eyes and Leggera’s flames, Fiammetta’s anger and Lemuel’s hair.
It’s red like the vile viscous vitality spilling out of Ahava.
Something is stabbing her.
A spear runs through her entire torso. And then another. Another.
Her dress of white quickly stains to pink, then red. So much red, again and again. Her eyes flick open, locked onto me.
“I AM NOT LETTING YOU DIE AGAIN!”
I’m not leaving her. I can’t.
She extends a hand to me, mouth quivering as her eyes begin to die.
“Ahava!”
A pillar of blood crashes next to me as I jump over it. I shift my form to shadows, sweeping between the rainstorm of blood-red spikes.
Left. Right.
“AHAVA!”
I reach her just as a tower crushes my shadow.
Her fingers… grace mine.
“Giocatore…” she gasps, falling to her knees as the two spears squish throughout her chest with a most horrible flesh-bending sound.
Her hands clamp against mine with whatever strands of strength left in her body.
“Please… promise me… one thing…”
“What is it?” I demand, “What is it? Anything…”
“Promise me… that you… won’t ever stop… moving…”
Moving…
… I… understand.
If only just… pieces.
“Giocatore!”
My mind reforges itself.
Nerina… stands above me, panting. The blurs on the edges of my vision fade away, piece by piece.
“Giocatore…” she whispers, “I… can feel what you’re feeling… It’s… I…”
She’s on the verge of tears, attempting to stuff those emotions away as her eye twitches in resistance.
“Hello,” I blink, “Why are you here?”
“You… collapsed and started convulsing, or that’s what Mechanist told me.”
“… I see.”
“This… this isn’t okay.”
“I know.”
“His vitals fluctuated,” Aefanyl mutters, scrolling through a digital terminal, “It seems they finally calmed themselves down.”
“I apologize for the trouble.”
“It’s fine.”
“Well, that was concerning,” Nerina breathes, “That was… what…?”
“Terribly hard to explain and understand,” the Banshee sighs, “A collision between past and present, a divergence. Diaspora. A split between… his mind and where it should be, and where it is now.”
“… What does that even mean…?” she mumbles.
“He believes he’s trapped in the past or is clinging onto it. But at the same time, he lives in the present, not wanting to acknowledge the past. This collision… it’s what I surmise is causing all these issues.”
“Then how can we fix it?”
“Time,” he muses, “Give him time to realize, to acknowledge… that the past happened and can’t be changed. Weren’t for Mechanist calling us, you might’ve died.”
My eyes narrow.
There was a time… I knew what ‘happened’ had happened. I accepted this form.
But that glimpse Mechanist gave me… a glimpse into something more.
Something I could have had.
Something I should have had.
… All of this… what I am now… what happened in the blacksite…
… Did that all happen to me? To them?
To the… eight hundred Sankta children that died there?
And of those eight hundred… a single one lived.
A singular pilot. To… steer a future for Terra.
… I lived. And they all died.
Then truly, and surely, I should die too to secure Rhodes Island and Terra.
There’s no greater price than a life. For what could equal the weight of a… ‘human’ soul?
“Alea… iacta est,” I whisper.
For all that has happened… has already happened.
ʚїɞ
“Enter,” the Pope announces.
The office doors, towering in stature and ordained in gold, gently wheeze apart.
The ornate hall, sparkling with quartz floors, walls and rounded architecture invites little hostility. Upon the walls, statues of carved rifles hang crossed over each other, while the end of the hall holds the holy insignia of Laterano.
Glass tables, white leather couches, and gold-trimmed rugs decorate the floor beautifully and symmetrically.
The Pope raises his gaze to the door, up from the mahogany wood desk with a most careful glance.
Apostolic Knights flanking the door set their weapons to a rest, slamming their gargantuan rotary cannons to the ground.
A silent Sankta draped in Curia clothing slowly rolls into the room through the doors herself. Her wings, bright, and her halo tall. Her hair, as pink as wild roses, flows with her gentle movement, but the expression upon her face betrays a separate story.
“Your Holiness,” she starts, “I have a proposal to the case I’ve been investigating. And I do think this will let us entirely close it.”
“Leave us,” he waves to the soldiers.
The Knights immediately respond, rising their guns to attention before marching out of the room passing mere inches from Lemuen.
“There are two Elite Operators from Rhodes Island that could heavily advance our investigation,” she resumes, sliding a fair few meters into the hall, “One is Fallen. Nerina Fiorella.”
The Pope’s eyes narrow just the slightest.
“It seems you know of her already.”
“Yes,” he nods slightly, “Because her sister came and begged for a pardon, which I granted. She left Laterano during the Summit to find her, returned to finish her mission, and she did.”
“I see…”
“Nerina’s grown to be an Elite Operator?”
“Yes, at least that’s what Ezell tells me. The young Executor.”
“Then she… Ah, I see the issue.”
“She’s Infected, yes. I am asking you for an exception to not only her but also Giocatore Peccato. Both of these people… I do truly believe will be able to resolve this… this heretical case.”
Lemuen’s face does not twitch. She moves herself ever closer to the Pope, carefully yet stiffly making her way across the room in that wheelchair of hers, inch by inch, until she’s right before the holy man’s desk.
“Peccato…” the Pope muses over, “Sorrow.”
“Huh?”
“I do remember that family. Or a family by that name. They had one daughter… She had a new name, one after a flower of lasting affection. She had a birth name, but it was quickly erased in favour of this one when she turned 12.”
“… Lasting affection?”
“Zinnia.”
“That… I also stumbled upon. But there’s no way I can prove that Zinnia is Giocatore. They just share the family name. And their gender doesn’t align.”
“A fair caution, but…”
He takes out a tablet, tapping onto the screen.
“These people were the last descendants of that family.”
“I… I was unaware… I thought there could’ve been…”
“Others that shared that name? Of course, but Peccato… Peccato was always a peculiar family. They were some of the most devoted of the Lateran faith, until this last one more or less forsake it and made heavy efforts to scrub that past clean.”
“… When? And why?”
“When their child turned twelve… I think you’ll see what I see.”
“Which was…”
“1088.”
“And… if the Notarial Hall guessed that the missing children first started in 1082 an-and then the first report was 1086…”
Lemuen’s mind races with possibilities, with threads and lines stringing themselves together. A spiderweb of truth and reality unwinding before her. A theory, a possibility that can only be confirmed.
“Their family threw all their belief for the Law and their faith… because their child was taken from them. T-Then that means that Giocatore was Zinnia!” she gasps, “W-What was his full name?!”
“Zinnia was the last recorded name for… him? Was… Did he change…”
“… I have… so many questions, but I have many more answers now.”
The woman blinks several times, eyes flickering to all corners of the room as thoughts blaze all throughout.
“Giocatore… Or Zinnia… No, I should… respect what he calls himself now… Giocatore had to be one of the children kidnapped then. Then… then we can find out what happened if you let him into the city! Figure out… what happened to those kids! Where they are, everything!”
The Pope furrows his eyebrows as he gazes towards the Cardinal Aide.
“That’s… a difficult decision. Not only will it stir the status quo within Laterano, it will be impossible to mask properly.”
“Your Holiness, with all due respect,” she breathes, punching down the cold anger that so easily freezes her veins, “Eight hundred Sankta children have been missing. Their parents have either been distraught or committed suicide, as is the case for Giocatore’s parents. I… I do truly and fully believe that he needs to at least explain everything to us. I do not care if this causes waves in Laterano, and dare I say this has been long overdue!”
Her breath hammers throughout her lungs as she jabs her statement out, echoing across the office in all of its corners.
“With… continued respect and faith, your Holiness, this… request… no, this demand I make… grant the holy city one chance at progress. Let the two Elite Operators in, and there you’ll see the Infected are no different than you, I, or the suffering of all the Sankta too. Do not lie to my face and tell me Laterano is paradise… its citizens are not equal. Only the Sankta are deserving of this paradise. Not even the Liberi, not even those most devout to our faith have a smattering of what should be!”
“Lemuen,” he sighs.
His voice isn’t harsh nor sharp, but either way the woman retreats with a jolt.
“I do understand your faith, your will and your beliefs.”
“Do you, your Holiness?” she whispers sharply, “Do you? Leggera has had her entire platoon annihilated before her eyes. Nerina has been Infected by her own father, and the reason she fell was because she shot him in retaliation! Why did she fall? Why?! Is that not to the betterment of all Sankta to end such a fiend as he?! Why did Mostima fall too?!”
“Lemuen, Cardinal Aide of the Seventh Tribunal…”
“… Forgive me. I’ve spoken… out of turn.”
“No, quite the contrary I believe,” he muses, head turning to her, “The Law’s will is absolute. It decides whether or not an action was for the betterment of Sankta. Laterano does need changes but… now is not the time.”
“Do you understand it?”
“Enough.”
“I… see.”
“I’ll grant them passage on a few conditions,” he starts, “Considering they are Rhodes Island Elite Operators, this will make things a bit smoother. They’ll arrive by their dropship right onto the balcony,” he points, “And four Knights will be stationed here as they take their turn to speak, however long it takes. They need not reply to this invitation. They’ll simply arrive when they decide the time is right.”
“And…?”
“Once you’ve gotten all the information you need, they must leave immediately.”
“Then… then it will be enough. This… case and all those children… I will find out what happened to them. And finally, those parents… those that still live… they’ll finally be at peace.”
“I do have one more thing to speak to you about.”
“Eh?”
“… Do expect resistance the deeper you go. I’ve heard rumours from various Legati… and I urge you to be careful about this.”
“Why would anyone want to… object to this?”
“Desperation. Or former links, I believe.”
“… I’ll take your word for it. Serpilia did mention it to me too. Though her warning was far more vague…”
“There’s a reason for that. But I can’t say I know anything for certain, because I don’t.”
“Alright then… Thank you, your Holiness, for tolerating… my outburst and for your grace.”
“You’re very welcome. And please, think nothing of it. One day, Laterano will be that paradise.”
The Cardinal Aide bows gently before recomposing her breath and stature. On a dime, she wheels herself around, pink strands of elongated hair flowing elegantly in her path.
She sweeps by the table towering with sweets, swipes one with practiced ease, and hastily makes her way to the exit.
The towering doors open and that Sankta slips through. A moment later, they shut with a resounding thud.
“Mm… I should’ve offered her some drinks,” he mutters to himself, pouring a glass of hot chocolate, “Next time, for her nerves!” he raises, toasting to the emblem of Laterano and downing the drink with a hearty chuckle.
ʚїɞ
“Contact,” PT detects.
The cannon atop unfolds.
It races with Arts, flowing, imbuing, charging, until it reaches its threshold and unleashes a fury all at once.
Four bolts of utter darkness fly out in an instant, obliterating groups of soldiers from the plane of reality and leaving nothing but smoke in its wake.
Acceleration and force overwhelm me as PT careens towards the ground before harshly jerking upwards, sending my mind spiraling.
Vision blurs. Corners grow dark. Haze overcomes, and fog invades.
<Fluid substitute administered.>
Needles stab their way into my neck before shooting off chilling fluid all into my veins.
Sputtering and gasping, my eyes fling open. My breath rams its way out of my throat as my ‘pulse’ becomes deafening. I see the sky between my screens. I see heaven… and a tower stretching to it.
I see Ahava.
I force PT to spin around towards the ground, narrowing my vision. The ground charges towards me, soldiers stare up at me.
In fear, in terror, some trapped and others locked in stasis.
With a jolt, PT straightens itself parallel to the earth, just meters from crashing into the dirt as the cockpit hisses open.
“Pilot?!”
“It’s fine.”
I throw myself out of the machine, shadow-bound wings unfurling with a tumultuous blare from my spine, swooping through the air before skidding to the ground.
My boots dig through the dirt while Arts drag me to a halt, spinning my entire frame as I rest a knee and arm on the ground.
Dust, sand, mud and blood all waft through my senses. Chilling air nips my neck. Focus infects my mind. Devotion becomes my blood.
My eyes flick upwards, gleaming and gleaning all that can see. The dust turns to glass, transparent and invisible, as a piercing violet gaze sunders whatever clouds my sight.
Soldiers scurry away, terrified or injured. Others are dead. Others have their remains smeared into paste, painted into nothing but messes of red sludge slathered across the ground, splintering trees, or some hills.
I rise to my feet, drawing just one of the blades, sighing, and simply walk ahead.
“PT, handle the rear.”
“Understood.”
Thrusters violate the sky as gunshots demolish its sanctity. Decimation following afterwards.
With the weapon at my side, I wade through the collapsing trees and across the mud, spotting the targets that need rending from life. Yet instead of running away, they charge ahead.
A shame. Your devotion to death was a choice.
I take a single step forward, clenching the sword with collapsing force as the rest rush to their deaths.
A single rootless flower sprouts out of my hair before a nonsensical butterfly drifts and rests upon it.
Beneath their forms, dark rings open before chains of shadows shoot from the ground like fireworks. The binds twist and coil around their waists as another set writhes from above. A new set of chains.
Their movement all but halts as they flail around in their new prison. It begins to sear into their wrists, burning through their clothes and ankles as, inch by inch, the chains dig into the skin.
My free hand raises with the palm towards the sky as I take one more step.
The chains tighten, stretching outwards.
They cry. They wail. In pain, in agony. They beg, they plead for their lives they so willingly tossed away.
I crush my fist. And the chains obey.
They tear themselves outwards, shredding their occupants with blood-curdling cries. First their clothes rip. They turn from refined garments into nothing but scraps of cloth.
Then their bodies part. Skin stretches, bones twist, and ligaments burst.
Spines render themselves from pelvis. Bones burst, threatening to split the sky with organic cracks and splinters echoing about. Organs spill like thrashed buckets of paint. Rivers of red drench the soils and greenery below, turning a once winter-bound scene to a fragment of hell.
Their screams are palpable. One could bite the air and feel the tension and agony simply flowing through the air. A single mouthful of the sensations cast here is enough to render the sanity out of humans.
Though I possess no such qualities, so I do not flinch.
“Enemies cleared,” I report.
“U… Understood…” a meek voice replies, “Delivering supplies now. T-Thank you for your combat support…”
The pieces of the corpses splatter around me, some still twitching, others still writhing, all still leaking that cherry red fluid of life. The clothes soak in the red, dying the formidable greys and blacks of Ursus with the scent and pigments of life.
Like rain itself, pieces of flesh, blood, and guts drench the surroundings. The trees, the dirt, the ground, and every inch of land I once stepped on. Even my clothes… draped in that red.
Its scent permeates my mind. Metallic and stiff. Pungent and vile.
I spew a charge of air from my lips as my eyes release their tension. My lips part, quivering millimetres between themselves as I gently sheath the blade.
As the last droplets of bloodied rain fall upon my coat, a fine realization overcomes me.
Entirely. Truthfully and obediently.
My hand lowers, fist unwinding as it comes by my side. My eyes shut.
I feel… something wet leaking from those eyes. It runs down my face, dripping to my chin, before crashing to the ground.
It is liquid.
It is not salty.
It reeks of metal.
It fumes life.
It is blood.
The words come… quivering from my mouth.
I realize what I know, what I slowly must begin to believe… that…
“The chains of legacy… cannot be broken…”